A Prisoner of Birth Read Free Page A

looking at the card the usher held up in front of him. Mr. Pearson smiled at his principal witness, before glancing down at the questions he had spent the past month preparing.
    "Is your name Spencer Craig?"
    "Yes, sir," he replied.
    "And do you reside at forty-three Hambledon Terrace, London SW3?"
    "I do, sir."
    "And what is your profession?" asked Mr. Pearson, as if he didn't know.
    "I am a barrister at law."
    "And your chosen field?"
    "Criminal justice."
    "So you are well acquainted with the crime of murder?"
    "Unfortunately I am, sir."
    "I should now like to take you back to the evening of September eighteenth, last year, when you and a group of friends were enjoying a drink at the Dunlop Arms in Hambledon Terrace. Perhaps you could take us through exactly what happened that night."
    "My friends and I were celebrating Gerald's thirtieth birthday—"
    "Gerald?" interrupted Pearson.
    "Gerald Payne," said Craig. "He's an old friend from my days at Cambridge. We were spending a convivial evening together, enjoying a bottle of wine."
    Alex Redmayne made a note—he needed to know how many bottles.
    Danny wanted to ask what the word "convivial" meant.
    "But sadly it didn't end up being a convivial evening," prompted Pearson.
    "Far from it," replied Craig, still not even glancing in Danny's direction.
    "Please tell the court what happened next," said Pearson, looking down at his notes.
    Craig turned to face the jury for the first time. "We were, as I said, enjoying a glass of wine in celebration of Gerald's birthday, when I became aware of raised voices. I turned and saw a man, who was seated at a table in the far corner of the room with a young lady."
    "Do you see that man in the courtroom now?" asked Pearson.
    "Yes," replied Craig, pointing in the direction of the dock.
    "What happened next?"
    "He immediately jumped up," continued Craig, "and began shouting and jabbing his finger at another man, who remained seated. I heard one of them say: 'If you think I'm gonna call you guv when you take over from my old man, you can forget it.' The young lady was trying to calm him down. I was about to turn back to my friends—after all, the quarrel was nothing to do with me—when the defendant shouted, 'Then why don't we go outside and sort it out?' I assumed they were joking, but then the man who had spoken the words grabbed a knife from the end of the bar—"
    "Let me stop you there, Mr. Craig. You saw the defendant pick up a knife from the bar?" asked Pearson.
    "Yes, I did."
    "And then what happened?"
    "He marched off in the direction of the back door, which surprised me."
    "Why did it surprise you?"
    "Because the Dunlop Arms is my local, and I had never seen the man before."
    "I'm not sure I'm following you, Mr. Craig," said Pearson, who was following his every word.
    "The rear exit is out of sight if you're sitting in that corner of the room, but he seemed to know exactly where he was going."
    "Ah, I understand," said Pearson. "Please continue."
    "A moment later the other man got up and chased after the defendant, with the young lady following close behind. I wouldn't have given the matter another thought, but moments later we all heard a scream."
    "A scream?" repeated Pearson. "What kind of scream?"
    "A high-pitched, woman's scream," replied Craig.
    "And what did you do?"
    "I immediately left my friends and ran into the alley in case the woman was in any danger."
    "And was she?"
    "No, sir. She was screaming at the defendant, begging him to stop."
    "Stop what?" asked Pearson.
    "Attacking the other man."
    "They were fighting?"
    "Yes, sir. The man I'd earlier seen jabbing a finger and shouting now had the other chap pinned up against the wall, with his forearm pressed against his throat." Craig turned to the jury and raised his left arm to demonstrate the position.
    "And was Mr. Wilson trying to defend himself?" asked Pearson.
    "As best he could, but the defendant was thrusting a knife into the man's chest, again and again."
    "What