Free Silks by Dick Francis, Felix Francis Page B

is a bit of celebrity factor.’ Under English law the granting of bail was a basic right for all accused and there had to be a goodreason for refusing it. In this case the reason given might be that the ferociousness of the attack provided reasonable grounds to believe that the accused might do it again, or that, owing to the seriousness of the charge, he might abscond. Either way, I would bet my year’s pay that Steve Mitchell would find himself locked up on remand the following day.
    ‘Mr Mitchell is very insistent that you should defend him,’ Bruce Lygon went on.
    How ironic, I thought. Did Steve also want me to lose?
    ‘I’m only a junior,’ I said. ‘Someone of Steve Mitchell’s standing would expect a silk.’
    ‘He seems determined that it should be you,’ he replied.
    But even if I had wanted to lead the defence, the trial judge would be likely to ask some telling questions about how I intended to strengthen the defence team, especially at the front. It would be a coded recommendation to get a QC to lead.
    The best I might expect was to be appointed as a silk’s junior in the case. As such I might be responsible for doing most of the work. But I would get little of the credit for obtaining an acquittal, while shouldering most of the blame if our client were convicted. Such was the life of a junior.
    What was I even thinking about? I told myself. I could not act in this case. The law wouldn’t let me.
    Do as you are told.
    Next time, I’ll smash your head.
    I’ll cut your balls right off.
    Someone will get badly hurt.
    Oh hell. What do I do?
    ‘Are you still there?’ Bruce asked.
    ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I was thinking.’
    ‘I’ll contact your clerk in due course, then, I’ve got the number,’ he said.
    ‘Fine,’ I replied. Was I mad? ‘But Bruce,’ I went on. ‘Will you call me tomorrow and tell me what happens. And where Mitchell is sent. I’d like to go and talk with him.’
    ‘OK,’ he said, slowly. ‘I suppose that will be all right.’ I could tell from his tone that he didn’t like it.
    What a cheek, I thought. It had been me that had given him his celebrity client and now he was becoming protective of his position.
    ‘Look, Bruce,’ I said. ‘I’m not trying to steal your client, whom, you might recall, I gave you in the first place. But I need to speak to Steve Mitchell and may need to do so more than once. If he chooses, and I have no intention of convincing him otherwise, you can act for him throughout, including at trial. All I ask of you is that you engage a brief from my chambers, whether it be me or not. Is that fair?’
    ‘Oh, absolutely,’ he replied, backtracking a little. Perhaps he too had suddenly worked out that Steve Mitchell was my friend and would, on my say-so, drop Mr Bruce Lygon quicker than a red-hot coal. Bruce needed me, not vice versa.
    ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Then you will call me?’
    ‘You bet,’ he said. ‘Straight after the hearing.’
    ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Now go and enjoy your dinner. Say happy birthday to your wife.’
    ‘I will,’ he said. ‘I will.’
    As expected, Steve Mitchell was remanded in custody at the brief hearing at Newbury magistrates’ court at ten the following morning. According to the report on the lunchtime news, hehad spoken only to confirm his name and address. No plea had been entered, and none asked for. The report concluded with the fact that Mitchell had been remanded to Bullingdon Prison, near Bicester, to appear again at Oxford Crown Court in seven days’ time.
    I was watching the TV in one of the conference rooms in chambers. My conspiracy-to-defraud trial had ended abruptly and unexpectedly when the court had resumed at ten thirty that morning. Accepting the inevitable, the brothers had changed their pleas to guilty in the hope and expectation of getting a lesser sentence. The judge, caught slightly unawares, and having promptly thanked and dismissed the jury, ordered reports on the two men and then