Read Online The Crimson Rooms by Katharine McMahon - Free Book Online
Authors: Katharine McMahon
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stealing a loaf of bread. The court went very still when I said in a voice that sounded surprisingly confident but unquestionably feminine: “I appear for Mrs. Marchant, Your Worship.”
There was a murmur of surprise and I was aware that the court doors had creaked open to admit another observer. The clerk’s myopic eyes crinkled into an unconvincing smile. “So, you are Miss Gifford and you represent the defendant. Are we now ready for a plea to be taken, Miss Gifford?”
“Not yet,” I said. “The case is a complex one, as you are probably aware, because it involves Mrs. Marchant’s own child. Might my client be seated?”
The magistrate, a trim, precisely spoken individual with very white teeth, gave me a long stare. “Remind me again in what capacity you are appearing in court, Miss er . . .”
“My name is Miss Gifford. I am Mrs. Marchant’s legal representative.”
“Working for which firm?”
“Breen and Balcombe.”
“Ah, Breen. Now all becomes clear. And where is Mr. Breen today?”
“Is this relevant, Your Worship? I am here to represent . . .”
“Are you qualified , Miss, er . . .”
The clerk jumped up and held a whispered conversation with the magistrate. There followed a guffaw of laughter, raised eyebrows, then a deep sigh from the bench. “Well, madam lawyer, do proceed and tell us on what grounds you are asking for an adjournment.”
“As I’ve said, this is not a straightforward case, Your Worship. The defendant is accused of taking her own child. I am asking for one week’s adjournment so that all the facts can be made known to the defense.”
“And what will you do with all these facts, when they are known?”
“They may affect the plea, Your Worship.”
“I see. Or is it that Mr. Breen, who clearly believes this court is so lowly that it can be used as the playground in which ladies may conduct a flirtation with the law, is just a little too busy to appear before us in person today, so is adopting one of his notorious stalling tactics?”
“Your Worship, this is an unusual case. There is no question that my client attempted to take her baby but her motives, her understanding of what she was doing, must be fully explored before we can enter a plea.”
Another whispered conversation ensued. “Very well,” said the magistrate as if humoring a spoiled child, “I’ll adjourn the case for one week, after which pleas will be taken. I presume, Miss Gifford, you don’t intend asking for bail today because I warn you that you’d be wasting your time.”
By now the palms of my hands were ice-cold, my forehead hot. The audience in the public gallery was tittering. “With respect, Your Worship . . .”
“No, with respect to you, Miss Gifford, I have given you quite enough of my time. There is no question of bail. You tell your Mr. Breen that if he wants bail for his clients, he should come to court himself.”
“Your Worship, you cannot refuse bail on the grounds that you don’t approve of the person representing the defendant. That is unlawful, should . . .”
The clerk rose to his feet and said smoothly: “Your Worship, police bail was refused on the grounds that the woman, in her desperate state, was likely to attempt to take the child again.”
“Quite so. I’ll remand the prisoner in custody for . . .”
“At least let me speak for my client,” I cried.
“When have I ever been able to prevent a woman from speaking, if she has a mind to?” asked the magistrate, quirking an eyebrow at the spectators in the public gallery, who roared with laughter.
“I should like it to be put on the court record that my client was not given a fair hearing today, but that comments prejudicial to her case were made in open court such as: I presume you’re not asking for bail because you’d be wasting your time . . .”
There was now silence in the courtroom as the magistrate twiddled his thumbs. I glanced at Leah Marchant, who had thrown back her head and was
There was a murmur of surprise and I was aware that the court doors had creaked open to admit another observer. The clerk’s myopic eyes crinkled into an unconvincing smile. “So, you are Miss Gifford and you represent the defendant. Are we now ready for a plea to be taken, Miss Gifford?”
“Not yet,” I said. “The case is a complex one, as you are probably aware, because it involves Mrs. Marchant’s own child. Might my client be seated?”
The magistrate, a trim, precisely spoken individual with very white teeth, gave me a long stare. “Remind me again in what capacity you are appearing in court, Miss er . . .”
“My name is Miss Gifford. I am Mrs. Marchant’s legal representative.”
“Working for which firm?”
“Breen and Balcombe.”
“Ah, Breen. Now all becomes clear. And where is Mr. Breen today?”
“Is this relevant, Your Worship? I am here to represent . . .”
“Are you qualified , Miss, er . . .”
The clerk jumped up and held a whispered conversation with the magistrate. There followed a guffaw of laughter, raised eyebrows, then a deep sigh from the bench. “Well, madam lawyer, do proceed and tell us on what grounds you are asking for an adjournment.”
“As I’ve said, this is not a straightforward case, Your Worship. The defendant is accused of taking her own child. I am asking for one week’s adjournment so that all the facts can be made known to the defense.”
“And what will you do with all these facts, when they are known?”
“They may affect the plea, Your Worship.”
“I see. Or is it that Mr. Breen, who clearly believes this court is so lowly that it can be used as the playground in which ladies may conduct a flirtation with the law, is just a little too busy to appear before us in person today, so is adopting one of his notorious stalling tactics?”
“Your Worship, this is an unusual case. There is no question that my client attempted to take her baby but her motives, her understanding of what she was doing, must be fully explored before we can enter a plea.”
Another whispered conversation ensued. “Very well,” said the magistrate as if humoring a spoiled child, “I’ll adjourn the case for one week, after which pleas will be taken. I presume, Miss Gifford, you don’t intend asking for bail today because I warn you that you’d be wasting your time.”
By now the palms of my hands were ice-cold, my forehead hot. The audience in the public gallery was tittering. “With respect, Your Worship . . .”
“No, with respect to you, Miss Gifford, I have given you quite enough of my time. There is no question of bail. You tell your Mr. Breen that if he wants bail for his clients, he should come to court himself.”
“Your Worship, you cannot refuse bail on the grounds that you don’t approve of the person representing the defendant. That is unlawful, should . . .”
The clerk rose to his feet and said smoothly: “Your Worship, police bail was refused on the grounds that the woman, in her desperate state, was likely to attempt to take the child again.”
“Quite so. I’ll remand the prisoner in custody for . . .”
“At least let me speak for my client,” I cried.
“When have I ever been able to prevent a woman from speaking, if she has a mind to?” asked the magistrate, quirking an eyebrow at the spectators in the public gallery, who roared with laughter.
“I should like it to be put on the court record that my client was not given a fair hearing today, but that comments prejudicial to her case were made in open court such as: I presume you’re not asking for bail because you’d be wasting your time . . .”
There was now silence in the courtroom as the magistrate twiddled his thumbs. I glanced at Leah Marchant, who had thrown back her head and was
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