Silks by Dick Francis, Felix Francis

adjourned the case for sixteen days. We would reassemble for sentencing two weeks on Friday at ten.
    I was pleased. Any victory is good, but one where the defendants change their plea is particularly gratifying as it means that, even though I would never know if I had actually persuaded the jury of their guilt, the defendants themselves were convinced that I had. So, now believing they had no chance of acquittal, they had jumped before they were pushed. And best of all, it also meant that I had two clear weeks that I had expected to spend at Blackfriars Crown Court now available for other things. And that was rare. Trials tended to overrun, not finish early. It felt like the end of term at school.
    Arthur had not been around when I had arrived back from court but he was in the clerks’ room when I went through from the conference room and back to my desk.
    ‘Arthur,’ I said. ‘You might expect a call from a Mr Bruce Lygon. He’s a solicitor in Newbury. He’s acting for Steve Mitchell.’
    ‘The jockey?’ Arthur asked.
    ‘One and the same,’ I said. ‘Apparently Mr Mitchell wants me as his counsel.’
    ‘I’m sure we can find him a silk,’ said Arthur. He wasn’t being discourteous, just realistic.
    ‘That’s what I told Mr Lygon,’ I said.
    Arthur nodded and made a note. ‘I’ll be ready when he calls.’
    ‘Thanks,’ I said, and went on through to my room.
    I called Bruce Lygon. He had left a message after the magistrates’ hearing but I needed him to do more.
    ‘Bruce,’ I said when he answered. ‘I want to visit the crime scene. Can you fix it with the police?’ The lawyers for the accused were entitled to have access to the scene but at the discretion of the police, and not prior to the collection of forensic evidence.
    ‘With or without me?’ he asked.
    ‘As you like,’ I said. ‘But as soon as possible, please.’
    ‘Does this mean you will act for him?’ he asked.
    ‘No, it doesn’t,’ I said. ‘Not yet. It might help me make up my mind.’
    ‘But only his representatives have access,’ he said.
    I knew. ‘If you don’t tell the police,’ I said, ‘then they will never know.’
    ‘Right,’ he said slowly. I felt that he was confused. He was not the only one.
    ‘And can you arrange an interview for me with Mitchell at Bullingdon?’
    ‘But you’re not…’ he tailed off. ‘I suppose it might be possible,’ he said finally.
    ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow would be great.’
    ‘Right,’ he said again. ‘I’ll get back to you then.’
    Bruce had been a lucky choice. He was so keen to be representing his celebrity client that he seemed happy to overlook a few departures from proper procedure, to bend the rules just a little. I decided not to tell Arthur what was going on. He wouldn’t have been the least bit flexible.
    Steve Mitchell was very agitated when I met him at noon the following day at Bullingdon Prison. I currently didn’t own a car as I found it an unnecessary expense, especially with the congestion charge and the ever-rising cost of parking in London. However, I probably spent at least half of what I saved on hiring cars from the Hertz office on Fulham Palace Road. This time they had provided me with a bronze-coloured Ford Mondeo that had easily swallowed up the fifty or so miles to Oxfordshire.
    ‘God, Perry,’ Steve said as he came into the stark prison interview room reserved for lawyers to meet with their clients. ‘Get me out of this bloody place.’
    ‘I’ll try,’ I said, not wishing to dash his hopes too quickly.
    He marched round the room. ‘I didn’t bloody do it,’ he said. ‘I swear to you I never did it.’
    ‘Just sit down,’ I said. Reluctantly, he ceased his pacing and sat on a grey steel stool beside the grey steel table and I sat on a similar stool opposite him. These functional items, along with two more identical stools, were securely fastened with bolts to the bare grey concrete floor. The room was about eight foot square