Babyface

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Are you calling me a liar now?’ Shelly’s cheeks were flushed. She turned towards me hopelessly.

I rose to my feet. ‘My client is giving, or attempting to give, a description of a conversation that took place in the absence of Mr Frodsham’s client. The panel will remember that it was Mrs Dean’s evidence which began the process which led to the arrest of staff members who had abused their position of power over vulnerable young people. Mr Frodsham is not representing those men. Mr Wyatt was never charged with any offence. The tone of the cross-examination is oppressive and, more than that, it’s completely unnecessary.’

‘What are you asking me to do?’ drawled Henry Curston.

I wanted to say ‘Tell this pompous bastard to shut up and sit down,’ but I thought that line of argument might not go down too well. ‘My client is not attempting to prove, or disprove anything in this case. She is assisting the inquiry. Courtesy, and a more reasonable approach to cross-examination, might prevent an already distressing experience for her becoming more so.’

‘So what are you asking me to do?’

‘Perhaps you could ask Mr Frodsham to stop treating my client as if she had done something wrong. She is no more nor less than someone who as a child was systematically abused over a two-year period.’

‘Giving evidence, Miss Richmond?’ he asked with a ghost of a smile.

‘You already have her written statement,’ I said. ‘I am saying nothing that is not written there.’

‘Robust cross-examination is one of the pillars upon which our legal system is built,’ Curston said complacently, pressing the tips of the fingers of both hands together. ‘How else is Mr Frodsham to deal with the issues, except through cross-examination?’

‘In the Family Division we have a rather different approach,’ I said. Curston was a criminal practitioner. ‘Where matters of children are under discussion we tend towards the inquisitorial approach,’ I went on, ‘and politeness and respect are always held in high esteem. And let us not forget that those care workers, of whom Mike and Tim were only two, pleaded guilty to some twenty-nine charges.’ I took a deep breath. I was furious.

Curston said nothing.

I wanted to sit down. ‘So perhaps the simplest thing, sir, is for you to rule, firstly on whether my objection to Mr Frodsham’s style of cross-examination is valid and secondly, if you are with me, to rule that Mr Frodsham should frame his questions in a less combative way.’ I was telling him what to do.

‘I am against you, Miss Richmond,’ Curston said. ‘But, Mr Frodsham, it never does to forget the need for chivalry.’

‘I’m not asking for chivalry!’ I was almost shouting. ‘My client wants someone, possibly you sir, to provide answers to the important questions, like how it happened and what can be done to ensure that lessons are learned. Perhaps Mr Frodsham’s client doesn’t want that. That is a matter for him. But what my client doesn’t want is chivalry, she can open doors for herself.’

Oh God, oh God.

A flush moved across Curston’s face. If he had thought twice he probably wouldn’t have used the word. But then, no one was thinking twice.

‘Miss Richmond, I say to you – and to all the representatives if that is at all necessary – you are not in front of a jury. I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour at the inquiry. Miss Richmond, I will not warn you again.’

As I sat down Adam was already breathing congratulations in my ear. ‘That was great!’ he said. He really was young.

Frodsham had one more question for Shelly. ‘And when you left the home you became a prostitute?’

The colour drained from her face.

I was on my feet again. ‘That is not relevant, except perhaps as an example of the damage done by the abuse my client suffered. I assume Mr Frodsham asked that question on instructions from his client, Mr Wyatt. I simply say again, it’s not relevant.’

Henry Curston shuffled his papers. ‘If you hadn’t been so quick off the mark, Miss Richmond, I was about to say the same thing myself.’

It was the afternoon tea break and Adam and I left the inquiry room. Catherine Delahaye approached us with a sheaf of paper. She gave me a sheet and Adam a sheet. It was a timetable for the inquiry. It looked rather similar to mine, except she had set out the days the witnesses would be attending and her time estimate was longer. At this rate I would be here till Christmas.

‘By the way,’ she said, looking across the lobby, ‘Mr Frodsham would like to know which of your clients will be giving evidence.’

‘I bet he would.’

She hesitated, but when I said no more she moved on to speak to the other advocates.

The clients had gathered in a loose group protecting Shelly. She was smoking. I moved towards her purposefully, trying to convey a sense of achievement I did not feel. Shelly hadn’t asked, or even expected, to be treated so badly. I had to reassure her, and the others who were due to give evidence, that going through a horrible time in the witness box had served some purpose. ‘You were good,’ I said to her. ‘You were clearly telling it exactly like it happened.’ I noticed Wyatt hovering on the edge of the group, with a caring smile fixed to his lips. ‘Get rid of him,’ I said to Adam, from the corner of my mouth.

Adam ushered Wyatt away. I went on, ‘For some reason you put the wind up Frodsham. I think we’re making some good points.’

‘Yeah, that last one were a killer.’

‘That was irrelevant. You were the first witness, Frodsham was just trying impress his little personality on the proceedings, to worry you. It reflected worse on him.’

‘I probably had him too,’ she said. She took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘He probably wants his fifteen quid back.’

Frodsham’s plan, if that’s what it was, had worked. Leanne Scott and Janine Telford who were to give their evidence after the break, looked grey and anxious. I asked Adam to make sure everyone had a biscuit so we would all have the necessary blood sugar levels for the next session and I left the room, saying I had to make a phonecall.

Earlier in the morning, wandering round the building, I had found a set of telephone kiosks in the basement that no one seemed to use. I stood in the phone booth now, staring at the wall. It was important not to get things out of perspective, I told myself. Being an advocate was my job, getting shouted at was my job. But protecting the clients was also my job and I hadn’t done that very well just now. I simply hadn’t seen it coming. But it wasn’t my fault, I told myself sensibly, Frodsham wasn’t playing by the rules. What were the rules? Perhaps I’d made up my own rules and everyone else was working to a completely different set. No, Frodsham was out of order. I was sure of it.

After the break Leanne and Janine told their stories. They too had been regularly ‘punished’ for minor misdemeanours at the home. The advocate to the inquiry asked them clinical questions about the systematic nature of the abuse, the days of the week, the time of day. The women held their heads high, occasionally looking over at me, and I tried to offer support without moving a muscle of my face. Wyatt’s name was not mentioned and Frodsham’s cross-examination was desultory.

We were adjourned until ten thirty on Monday, because Henry Curston had a case in the Court of Appeal. I could see my youth disappearing while I staggered through this inquiry in Birmingham.

Leanne and Janine mingled with the others in the foyer, pleased not to have been attacked in the witness chair, but a little disappointed they hadn’t had the chance to shout at Frodsham. Perhaps I was wrong about Frodsham. The three women who had given evidence walked towards the stairs, sharing their feelings. After they had gone a few steps, I could hear them laughing.

I went to my phone booths in the basement and rang chambers. ‘So you’ve started then?’ Gavin said.

‘Yes, but we’re not sitting tomorrow. In fact, I think we’re unlikely to go straight through. From the timetable, it looks as if we’re going to be jumping about with days here and there, to fit in with everybody’s other commitments.’

‘You’d better fax the timetable to me,’ Gavin said, ‘or bring it into chambers.’

‘Only if you promise not to book anything else in for me.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘If you’re sure.’

‘Have I got any messages?’ I asked.

‘I’ll hand you to Jenna.’

‘Hello.’ Jenna’s pleasant voice was happy and enthusiastic. She had just been promoted to junior junior clerk. ‘You’ve got one message. Oh, it’s from Iotha.’ She was surprised that it was from another member of chambers. ‘Can you ring her? I don’t know what that’s about.’

‘Is there anything in my pigeon-hole?’ I asked. ‘Like a cheque?’

She went away to look and I passed a few hopeful seconds dreaming of what I would do if she found a massive cheque there. Or even a small cheque. I could buy a new suit for work. I could pay my mortgage.

‘No cheques, I’m afraid, but you have got a memo, well, it’s an invitation really, well it’s a memo.’

‘What is it?’ I said, ‘I’m on a payphone.’ I put money into the box.

‘This is from Iotha, too.’ Iotha was a young practitioner who did crime and family, and who had taken over three cases of mine which were coming to court during my time out of town. ‘This is probably what her telephone message was about. She’s having a garden party,’ Jenna said.