His chauffeur dropped him outside the Old Bailey, where he found himself surrounded by a pack of journalists and photographers who had been wondering if he’d even turn up, as he clearly could afford to sacrifice a million pounds to remain a free man. He swaggered towards them, giving the photographers more than enough time to take as many snaps as they wanted, which only convinced the reporters he must be confident he would be leaving in the same car he’d arrived in.
Court number one at the Old Bailey was packed long before Mr Justice Baverstock entered his workplace at ten o’clock that morning. He bowed to the packed courtroom and took his seat in the centre of the raised podium. On the Crown’s bench, Sir Julian was making sure that the pages of his opening statement were numbered and in order. Grace had already double-checked, and they were.
Booth Watson was slumped at the other end of the bench, a yellow pad resting on his knee, pen already poised in case Sir Julian made even the slightest error. His junior, Mr Andrews, sat attentively by his side, waiting to pick up any titbits his leader might have missed.
Miles Faulkner stood in the dock, dressed once again in a Savile Row suit and sporting an Old Harrovian tie. He smiled at the seven men and five women as they filed into the jury box, but only one of them glanced in his direction.
The judge waited for the jury to be sworn in, and once he was satisfied that everyone was settled he nodded to the clerk of the court, who rose and read out the two indictments on the charge sheet, before looking up at the defendant and asking portentously, ‘How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty,’ declared Faulkner on both counts, sounding amazed that anyone might doubt his word.
‘You may be seated,’ said the clerk.
Once Faulkner had taken his place, Mr Justice Baverstock turned his attention to the Crown’s leader. ‘Are you ready to deliver your opening statement, Sir Julian?’ he asked.
‘I am indeed, m’lud.’ He rose from his place, and tugged at the lapels of his long black gown before firmly gripping the sides of the stand on which his statement rested.
‘M’lud,’ he began, ‘I represent the Crown in this case, while my learned friend, Mr Booth Watson QC, appears on behalf of the defence.’ The two men reluctantly exchanged perfunctory bows. ‘There are two counts on the indictment, My Lord, that relate to the possession and supply of an illegal substance, in this case, cocaine. On the evening of Saturday, May the seventeenth this year, the defendant was found to be in possession of a large quantity of the drug while hosting a dinner party for nine other guests. But it is not only what took place at the dinner party that night that will be of interest to the jury. Of even more significance is what happened before Mr Faulkner’s first guest arrived.’ He looked up to see that the jury were hanging on his every word.
‘A few minutes after seven that evening, a man arrived at Mr Faulkner’s home to keep an appointment he had made some days before. On arrival, that man, Mr Adrian Heath, was escorted through to the defendant’s study in order to conduct a business transaction. He provided Mr Faulkner with twelve grams of cocaine in exchange for eight hundred pounds in cash. The price was above the going rate, but Mr Faulkner was a customer who demanded only the best. In this case, 92.5 per cent pure, as an expert witness will later testify.
‘Once the deal was closed and Mr Heath had been paid – and we will produce the cash as evidence – he drove back to London, from where he was immediately taken, in the highest secrecy, to a safe house, because Mr Faulkner was unaware that Adrian Heath was a police informant.’
Booth Watson made his first note – agent provocateur.
‘Later that evening,’ continued Sir Julian, ‘the police raided Mr Faulkner’s home in the country and despite a desperate attempt to hide the evidence, thanks to an outstanding piece of police work by a young detective sergeant, the drugs were discovered inside a statue –’ he paused – ‘a statue of Mr Faulkner himself.’
One or two members of the jury couldn’t resist a smirk.
‘The Crown,’ Sir Julian continued, ‘will not only produce the twelve grams of cocaine, and the eight hundred pounds Mr Faulkner paid to the dealer, but Mr Heath himself will confirm the role he played on this occasion. And as if that were not enough to condemn this man,’ he said, pointing to the defendant, ‘the Crown will also call two expert witnesses, namely Superintendent Lamont, the head of the elite drugs squad at Scotland Yard . . .’
Booth Watson made a second note, Why not Warwick?
‘. . . and Dr Ruth Lewis, an eminent member of the government’s Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs.’ Looking sombre, Sir Julian turned to face the jury and said finally, ‘The Crown is confident, members of the jury, that after you have heard all the evidence in this case, you will find there is only one possible verdict, namely that the defendant, Miles Faulkner, is guilty on both counts.’
Faulkner looked more closely at the jury as Sir Julian resumed his seat. They were all staring at the Crown’s representative, and had they been asked to deliver a verdict there and then, the expression on their faces rather suggested Faulkner would have been hanged, drawn and quartered before dawn. Booth Watson had warned him the worst moment of a trial
