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He went back to the transcript and studied it further. Very few of York’s decisions were in favor of the defense. Had Juniver been so often wrong? Had he been so desperate that he’d been grasping at straws that would not bear the weight of his argument?
Or was Camborne simply the better lawyer? The fact that he was actually wrong could not have been known then.
Rathbone reached the end and went back to the beginning again. By that time it was midnight—the clock on the mantelshelf struck the hour. He ignored it. He made notes of every single one of York’s decisions, and slowly a pattern emerged. York had favored the prosecution, and then favored them again to avoid reversing the earlier decision, compounding the error.
Singly, each decision was just about acceptable. Only when viewed cumulatively, and apart from the emotion of the case, did they amount to prejudice.
He finally put the papers away and went to bed at just after two in the morning. He was determined to go to visit Alan Juniver the following morning, regardless of the fact that it was Saturday. They had no time to spare.
JUNIVER WAS STARTLED TO see him. He was sitting in his home glancing at the morning newspapers before preparing to go out for the day with his fiancée’s family.
“I’m sorry,” Rathbone said. “I wouldn’t call now if any other time would do. In fact I am concerned that I may already be too late.”
Juniver looked worried. “It will not be viewed well if I don’t turn up on time,” he said anxiously. “Mr. Barrymore is already of the opinion that I am not the best choice his daughter could make.”
Rathbone smiled ruefully. “I am not in a position to argue that particular case,” he admitted. “If she wishes you at her beck and call for social occasions she might do better with a banker, or a stockbroker in the City. Of course she might then be bored to death, but one has to pick and choose which virtues or advantages one counts most important.” The moment he had said it he could have bitten the words back, but it was too late. Apologizing might only make it worse.
“I suppose it is better he find out now.” Juniver pulled his mouth into a tight line. “I assume this is about the Beshara case? You must normally have something better to do on a fine summer Saturday.”
“I’m sorry,” Rathbone said again. “We resume the trial on Monday, and I don’t know how to stretch it out much further. If I were in Pryor’s place, I’d close as soon as possible, while emotions are high and there’s still reasonable doubt. We’ve no motive yet. It’s a mess …”
“What do you want from me? I didn’t get Beshara off.”
Only in that moment did Rathbone perceive how deeply that still wounded Juniver. It was not his own failure that hurt—no lawyer always won—it was the fact that he now knew his client had been innocent, and was already dead, however long he might or might not have lived otherwise. It was not advisable to use that guilt against Juniver, but done well, it would be effective, and Rathbone dared not lose.
He put his leather attaché case on the floor. “I have the trial transcripts here. I spent a good deal of the night going over them several times. I would like very much to go over them again with you, because there are instances that trouble me. I would like your recollection, in case I am reading errors into them that, had I been present, I would realize were not as they seem.”
Juniver frowned. “I was overruled a lot, but I was pretty desperate, and I knew it. I thought the man was guilty.”
“I think everyone did,” Rathbone conceded.
“You didn’t?”
“I was out of the country. I didn’t have an opinion at all. I’m sorry about your day, but a great deal hangs in the balance. It’s the devil of a lot more than simply proving Sabri guilty.”
“I know. Excuse me while I send a message that I cannot come.”
“Of course. Juniver … I’m sorry!”
Juniver smiled. “I’d do the same … I hope.”
A few minutes later he was back again. They went through the entire transcript, Rathbone making notes where York’s judgments could have gone either way. Some of them were above question, some he had ruled for Juniver anyway, but precious few.
With increasin
g anxiety, Rathbone asked Juniver about each ruling that was against him. He had him look at the transcript and see if it was absolutely accurate, and if he could to recall anything more about the circumstances.
Juniver’s memory was excellent. Very often he could recite what his objection had been and, word for word, what York had ruled. He also remembered the objections Camborne had made, and almost all of them had been upheld.
“There’s a pattern,” Rathbone said finally, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “Taken one by one they all seem reasonable, except the last two. But put together, and including your memory of small remarks not noted, expressions and silences, it amounts to bias, at the very least.”
“It’s only my memory,” Juniver pointed out unhappily. “And when I look at it now, honestly, I didn’t fight as hard as I could have, or would have if I hadn’t believed Beshara was guilty. I’m not proud of that.”
“None of us is proud of our losses,” Rathbone said gently. “Whatever the reason.”
Juniver’s face was pale. “The reason was that I didn’t fight with everything I could think of. I believed he deserved it. He was a nasty man and I disliked him from the beginning. I couldn’t get the vision of those people in the water out of my mind, even though I didn’t see it myself …”
“I imagine the jurors couldn’t either,” Rathbone agreed. “And Beshara may have been involved, on the periphery. The law is the question, and what pressures were brought to bear.” He smiled, but his eyes did not waver from Juniver’s, and it was the younger man who lowered his gaze first.
