Harry stiffened in his seat. Ross straightened in his.
‘We are, therefore, almost there, in terms of putting forward a strong defence case for the barrister to present. But – and I have to stress that this is your choice, not mine – there does appear to be another option open to us. One that would avoid a court case.’
He paused, checking that he had their attention. He had.
‘We had a meeting with the CPS yesterday, at their request. While we were there an interesting line of discussion opened up, which I want to walk you through. The prosecution has come back with an offer that could take all the evidence out of the public domain and negate the need for a trial.’ Dom leant forward. ‘They have asked me to ask you to consider the nature of your plea.’
‘Meaning?’ Dom asked.
Ross held up his hand to still Dom’s impatience. ‘They’re willing to discuss the option of the charge being reduced to “careless driving”.’
‘And that’s good news because…’
‘Because “careless driving” carries reduced penalties. Or, to put it another way, there’s an increased chance that we might be able to minimise any custodial sentence. And there is a less stigma. “Careless” implies more error of judgement; “dangerous” speaks for itself.’
‘Why would they offer a lesser charge, after all the effort that’s gone into pinning this on Harry?’
‘Well, the honest answer to that is cost, and to obviate the need for a trial. Trials are expensive, and the system is backed up. The other argument is that it reduces the trauma and stress for the victims’ families.’
Dom winced at the use of the word ‘victims’.
Ross went on, ‘But here’s the rub – the offer is contingent on Harry entering a guilty plea.’ He stopped talking. Glanced from Dom to Harry. As expected, it was Dom who responded.
‘So Harry gets dumped with the responsibility. After all this…’ He pushed the file away angrily, ‘after all this effort to prove that he’s not to blame, you’re advocating that we fold and he puts his hands up?’
‘I’m not advocating it. I’m presenting you with the option. There’s a gamble with any trial. We are ready and able to present our case as clearly and forcefully as possible, but there are no guarantees. A guilty plea removes the element of uncertainty. And, as I said, it avoids the trauma and cost of a court case. It can be in everyone’s interests. Hence them offering it.’
‘But Harry will serve time and he’ll have a criminal record.’
‘A custodial sentence, yes – that’s unavoidable because of the alcohol, the severity of the injuries incurred and Jess Beaumont’s death. A criminal record is also unavoidable.’
Dom squared his shoulders. ‘I say we fight it. Harry has his whole life ahead of him. Prison, a record: it will screw it all up. No. That’s not happening to my son.’
Ross nodded in acknowledgement, but not necessarily agreement, then switched his attention to Harry. ‘What are your thoughts, Harry?’ Everyone else looked at him as well.
Harry ran his hand over his face. ‘So you’re saying that if I plead guilty, there’s no court case?’
‘Correct. The court moves straight to a sentencing hearing.’
‘And neither of the videos would be shown at that?’
‘No. Not in open court.’
‘And Tish and Jake and Mo, they wouldn’t have to give evidence at this sentencing thing?’
‘No. They will be asked to submit impact statements, and they’ll be able to present these at the hearing, if they so wish, but they’ll not be asked to give witness testimony.’
‘And I wouldn’t have to stand up and say what happened?’
‘You’ll need to confirm who you are and enter your plea formally. Whether you want to say anything “in mitigation” is up to you.’
‘Look, wait a minute,’ Dom started flustering.
Harry stared at the file on the table. They all waited. ‘In that case…I’ll plead guilty.’
As Dom imploded with indignation, and Ross responded with cool professionalism, Harry sat stoically amidst the storm. A decision had been made. Whether it would be in everyone’s interests, including his own, remained to be seen.
Chapter 43
FRAN WAS in the park, watching the drifts of cherry blossom. She went there often. It was the only place she found any respite. The compulsion to keep moving and doing was getting worse; day and night her brain whirled and raced, but never tired enough to let her sleep. Only in the park was she able to switch off. It was a relief do nothing except sit and let the hard screw of grief that propelled her through each day ease a little. Droplets of other people’s lives fell on her as she sat under the trees, swaddled in her sorrow. She observed the older couples going about their daily routines, and the young mums with their children killing time. She smiled at the sprightly progress of the old folk and the make-believe games of the families. As she sat, unobserved, she caught snippets of conversations: humour, patience, kindness and imagination – a world of caring that was lost to her.
Occasionally she was recognised. Reactions varied: some people pretended not to have seen her and took a different route across the park; others smiled and came to sit beside her. The ‘sitters’ invariably asked how things were going. Meaning well, but wanting a reassurance she couldn’t give. Their sympathy always forced her to move on. She became adept at creating fake appointments and pressing commitments. She’d walk away, take a turn round the neighbourhood until she was confident they’d gone, then she’d return to her bench.
Today the park was busy, the nice weather drawing people out, so there were plenty of other lives to watch and ponder. The burr of her phone in her bag broke her reverie. She thought about not answering it, but knew it would be Marcus, concerned about her whereabouts. He worried. But it wasn’t Marcus; it was Joe, their police liaison officer. The peaceful sadness that she’d been lost in evaporated.
He explained. She listened. He ended the call with a promise to ‘keep them posted’. Such a casual phrase.
Outrage flooded through her bloodstream.
‘Careless driving!’
It was an insult.
Careless was dropping a glass, or dinging someone’s car door in a supermarket car park. Careless was doing something through lack of attention, a lapse in good judgement, a mistake. It was something small and inconsequential. Harry had not made a mistake! He’d got drunk, climbed behind the wheel of his boy-racer car – bought for him by his indulgent father – driven too fast, lost control, crashed and killed their daughter.
Fran stood up and set off walking, fast steps, blood pumping, anger brewing inside her. There was to be no trial. It would be ‘unnecessary’. Joe had actually had the temerity to suggest this might be ‘better’ for everyone in the long run. ‘Less painful.’ He obviously knew nothing about pain, about its capacity to mutate and bloom, bruise, cut and nag in turn. No trial. Less cost. A quicker resolution. ‘Better all round.’ It was not better. It was an affront to Jess. Her death was huge and of consequence. It needed to be recognised, and prosecuted as such.