Mackie's initial problem was his early connection with Cheryl's family. In his early twenties he'd played in the same tennis group as her father, Harry Blunt. Then, for several months before Harry seriously entered the contest, he'd courted Cheryl's mother, Evelyn. As Mackie had learned over the years, personal associations could seriously complicate a barrister's task. And the charge against Cheryl was murder!
His commercial genius had enabled Harry Blunt to amass considerable wealth. But, unspoiled by this, Cheryl negotiated the dreaded teens serenely and grew into a modest, almost shy, slender young woman. Though not beautiful, her features were pleasing: fair wavy hair framing a roundish face, pale skin, lightly freckled upturned nose, and dimples. The special attraction: remarkably luminous grey eyes, eyes that bespoke gentleness, warmth and compassion.
Cheryl had wed James Pottinger fourteen years before her trial. Earlier, James had been a star intercollegiate athlete and inspiring team captain. With his natural athleticism, black curly hair and lively features, it was no surprise he was a constant target for young women - and occasionally was tempted. Later, working in the world of business, his flair for bold and innovative corporate decisions led him onto the Board of prestigious companies. So, to outsiders, the marriage seemed like a fairytale: a captivating young couple, always photographing delightfully at the City's main social events; a stunning house and garden; and two vivacious off-spring. But, as is common, they never saw the whole picture.
Mackie had the advantage of coming into the case with a sketchy outline of Cheryl's background. But it was imperative that he probe deeply for any skerrick of information that might aid her defence. Naturally, this called for Cheryl's full cooperation. And here the problems began. Barney Croft and the barrister spent long sessions in the prison's bare, gloomy interview room desperately trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. Clad in drab prison garb, Cheryl would sit impassively throughout - face deathly pale, eyes listless - seemingly unable, or unwilling, to play her role in the vital fact gathering.
At the end of yet another frustrating visit, as the prison gate slammed behind the pair, Barney snapped: 'Doesn't the stupid woman realise we're on her side?' But he was an astute lawyer, and quickly conceded his criticism was too harsh: Cheryl was not deliberately setting out to hinder. The death of her man had so overwhelmed her that the murder charge seemed of little significance.
Despite minimal help from Cheryl, by interviewing her friends, relatives and other witnesses her legal team slowly collected missing pieces. Then came the committal proceedings in the Magistrate's Court where the prosecution presented its witnesses and Mackie was able to cross-examine. What emerged served only to highlight the difficulties confronting the defence.
In her statements to the police Cheryl had admitted she knew about each of her husband's affairs. Feminine intuition, she suggested. Though devastated, she had not intervened. Instead, with remarkable patience, she waited for each affair to run its course. Our love was strong. I knew James would always return to me. And Cheryl never sought to avenge these infidelities - though several eager suitors always awaited her on the sidelines. And each time James began to shower her with attention and affection, she knew another romance had run its course.
But the affair with Rosa Cortez was different - in duration and intensity. With mounting agitation, Cheryl noted all the telltale signs: James began arriving home increasingly late from his many company meetings. He slept poorly, yet arose early. He ate quickly, and nervously, but consumed little. And he carefully avoided physical contact with Cheryl - whether in the kitchen, lounge or bed. She told Mackie, as though awarding James a tick for good conduct, her husband was no hypocrite. And he could not feign affection for Cheryl while his thoughts and feelings were centred on another. Yet neither of them would speak about the obvious. Before long their conversations were almost staccato.
On his final morning, after another restless night for both, James was up early. He worked in his study for almost two hours before leaving for the office. He had packed a small overnight bag. 'There's an urgent meeting of the Hodgson company out of town tonight. If it ends late, I'll stay at the local hotel.' A perfunctory farewell and he drove off in his Jaguar, through the spacious manicured gardens and into the luxuriant tree-lined street, his thoughts far away.
By then Cheryl was in deep depression. Her naturally radiant face was starkly gaunt. The long sleepless nights kept dragging into meaningless, meandering days. Facial ticks had surfaced. Though she continued the motherly and household tasks, she was in a trance-like state, with her mind focused on the one grim issue - this time, was she losing her husband forever?
Shortly after James drove off that morning, Cheryl went to the study to tidy up. She paused to admire the writing bureau, a wedding gift from a doting grandfather. As she ran fingers over the silky timber she noted the top drawer of the bureau, always kept locked by James, was ajar. She opened it. And there was the letter he must have been penning that morning. Slowly and fearfully, she read:
I know I said on Monday night our affair had to end- it was too powerful, too all-consuming. And I could no longer bear watching Cheryl slowly disintegrate. What right, I asked myself, did I have to our exquisite, unimaginable joy if the price was Cheryl's destruction? In short, my cruelty towards a loyal, loving wife and mother had to end.
But, my darling, I'd driven just a short distance before realising I couldn't stop seeing and loving the woman who has permeated my soul, become part of my very being. Besides, how could I cope with the stresses of my work unless I knew that, within hours, we could hold each other again?
Yes, Cheryl told herself, James must have run out of time to complete the letter. But how confused he must have been - leaving the drawer unlocked! She sank slowly into a leather armchair. Though the letter merely confirmed her suspicions, now the tears cascaded. It was an age before she arose, dried her face and placed the letter on top of the bureau. Next day James would see it. Finally, she must confront him.
It was school holidays and the children were spending a few days with her parents. During the afternoon Cheryl had to take the family Doberman to the veterinary clinic. The vet decided to keep him overnight for further observation. So, that evening Cheryl was totally alone in the house.
Her account was that she retired to the marital bed upstairs at about eleven p.m. She forced herself to read a magazine. Then, just before midnight, all the house lights went out. An electrical fault, she told herself. When she finally drifted into sleep, she felt certain James was staying in the country.
At about 2.45 a.m. a sound at the front door awoke her. This time, no Doberman to warn of the presence of a stranger. Instinctively, she grasped the heavy iron bar standing beside her bed - the security bolster James had provided for the many nights he had business meetings - and hurried to the top of the staircase. Then further sounds, as though someone was forcing the lock, before the massive oak door creaked open. Vaguely outlined by streaks of moonlight, a bent figure slowly and silently crept up the carpeted stairs to the landing. Cheryl martialled every scrap of strength -and then struck with the bar. She felt the sickening contact with flesh and bone. Just one brief sigh and the body fell to the floor.
Cheryl ran back to the bedroom, snatched the torch from the bedside table and shone it on the body - of James. His skull was slashed open and blood was streaming. Pausing only for dressing gown and slippers, she hurried to the neighbours' house screaming, I've killed my husband. I've killed him. Thereafter she descended into deep shock. For several days would say nothing more - to family, friends, police or lawyers.
At the Magistrate's preliminary hearing the Prosecution had established that the company meeting ended just after midnight. James elected to return to the city, a drive of about an hour and a half. But first he visited his lover. As Mackie studied Rosa in the witness box, he could understand why she had captivated James. She was truly fascinating. Long black hair, full red lips, olive skin, dark sombre eyes -in every respect a stark contrast with Cheryl's fairness.
As a mournful Rosa gave evidence she drew the attention of all. The moment James arrived at her apartment, she told the court, he said that all day his thoughts had centred on two issues: his intense love for Rosa; and the tragic changes being etched in his wife. During the solitude of the drive back from the country, he'd finally resolved to end his selfish conduct. At this point in her testimony Rosa turned to Cheryl - who, for the first time, seemed to show a modicum of interest in the proceedings. Their eyes met briefly. A flicker of emotion crossed Rosa's face. Was it anger? Mackie wondered. Hatred? Disgust? Pity? Then she turned back to the magistrate to complete her account:
'James said his decision had to be final. We hugged each other and wept - like heart-broken kids. And then we made love. It was so tender, so special. James said this was the memory we could cherish through the dreary years ahead. It was nearly 2.30 a.m. when he slowly drove off. And that ... that was the end.'
Other evidence established that James must have stopped to unlatch the massive wrought-iron gate guarding his gravel driveway. And then parked the Jaguar near the front door. Without any house light to aid him, it was reasonable to infer that he fumbled with his front door keys. Then, presumably unwilling to disturb Cheryl by calling to her, he slowly and quietly mounted the stairs - to his death.
In the study the police had found the unfinished letter - their obvious motive. Besides, they argued, surely the headlights of the Jaguar would have awoken Cheryl? Or the sound of tyres on the driveway? Or the closing of the car door? Or the footsteps on the gravel? And why hadn't she taken her torch and shone it down the stairs towards the front door - to make sure this wasn't her husband, and not an intruder? And why hadn't she called out? The list of pertinent questions continued to grow. So few people were surprised when the police charged Cheryl with murder. Or that at the end of the committal proceedings, after hearing only the Crown's witnesses, the magistrate committed her to stand trial.
Another intriguing matter was the electrical failure. The fuse box was hidden from view in a wall cupboard inside the garage. But the forensic experts agreed this was not the typical case of a fuse wire simply "blowing." There was a clean break in the metal. The strong probability - human intervention. And who, apart from Cheryl, had access to the garage that day? Yet there was not a single fingerprint on the fuse box, the fuse or the wire.
So, the Crown case was simple. Consumed by jealousy for months, and then further inflamed by the discovery of the unfinished letter, Cheryl devised her plan: if James returned late that night she would kill him. What an opportunity! Children and dog absent; house lights cunningly rendered inactive; and, finally, the brilliant excuse of protecting herself from an assumed home invader.
In many previous trials Mackie had faced bleak scenarios, only to have vital missing facts gradually emerge until, finally, the Crown case was badly dented, even destroyed. So, in the "difficult" cases, he had long ceased trying to decide the question of guilt or innocence. Leave that to the jury. But with Cheryl there was one uniquely complicating factor - her continued lack of interest in the trial and its likely consequences. Never before had he battled so hard for answers from an indifferent accused.
The trial ran for nine long days in No. 1 Criminal Court. For most of that time Cheryl sat in the dock apparently unmoved by the forensic theatre being enacted around her - as though a detached observer at a stranger's trial. Mackie continually asked himself, What the hell is she thinking? Despite the rigours of incarceration, remnants of her former pleasing features still surfaced - sharply reminding Mackie of the woman he'd keenly courted all those decades before. By now there was a strangely mystical appearance to Cheryl. He envisaged a painting by an early Master.
The charge of murder - and the family's social prominence - ensured a packed courtroom for the whole trial. Others queued outside awaiting a seat. Rosa gave her evidence on the first day, and thereafter sat at the rear. Each day she dressed in black, with either a maroon or lavender scarf across her shoulders. Rarely did her dark eyes stray from the accused - the killer of the love of her life.
The Crown case produced no surprises, each witness giving similar evidence to that at the committal hearing. Mackie worked incessantly, day and night. He kept berating himself for accepting the brief, with his family connection. At times, under the intense pressure, he feared he might not stay the course. He prepared masses of notes for cross-examination of the key witnesses, hoping to sew a little doubt here, highlight a minor inconsistency there. But it was hard going. Occasionally he'd turn to the detached figure in the dock, as though seeking inspiration. But nothing.
The Crown Prosecutor, Michael Shaw QC, was dapper and confident. He was rightly regarded as the best cross-examiner in the land. While he prided himself on the simplicity of language, his supreme skill lay in the brilliant phrasing and intonation. As an expert at tearing away the facade of humbuggery and falsehood, he generally succeeded in his aim: to lay before his jury the naked truth.
Other than character evidence, Cheryl was the only witness Mackie called for the defence. As he meticulously led her through her evidence-in-chief, all his worst fears were realised. For God's sake, woman, he groaned inwardly, your insipid answers will tell the jurors only one thing - guilt. And just wait until Shaw the Destroyer has his go!
When Michael Shaw began his cross-examination, he instantly created theatrical magic. He shuffled the papers on the bar table into tidy heaps, cleaned his pince-nez, cleared his throat and flashed a conspiratorial smile at the jury. There was an eerie silence, an acceptance that this was high noon. Each juror now arched forward, determined not to miss a single word. Shaw methodically turned to each critical issue in the case, highlighting the weaknesses of the defence's contentions and the strength of the Crown's. But it was all a huge anti-climax, a one-sided battle. Cheryl's heart was not in the contest. She readily agreed there were many improbabilities in her story. She meekly made damaging concessions. Mackie found himself constantly muttering, 'Oh God!'
Before long, it was evident Shaw's usual enthusiasm was fading. The search for the jugular was no longer desirable - just as the cat finally loses interest in a mouse immobilised by fear. But, as the consummate professional, he persisted. Then he came to the topic he considered most critical - the one he would hammer home in his final address to the jury.
First, to create added tension, he slowly eyed the jurors one by one. Next he faced the accused. With penetrating voice, he slowly and deliberately moved in for the kill. 'Madam, after you realised your husband was dead you had the presence of mind to don dressing-gown and slippers before making your way to your neighbours. Both neighbours have testified that when you reached their house you said, I've killed my husband. I've killed him. - And, may I remind you, at no time have you denied using those precise words. - So, I'm forced to ask, why didn't you tell them something like: "My God, there's been a terrible mistake! There was darkness. The house lights weren't working. I thought this was an intruder, so I struck out in self-defence. I was sure it wasn't James" ... Why none of these things?
'Take all the time you want, madam,' he purred, 'and when you are ready please give the Court your answer.'
The silence throbbed. The ticking of the ancient courtroom clock was deafening. Every person focused on the accused. After what seemed an age, her cheeks grew colour. She took a deep breath, drew back her shoulders and grasped the top of the witness box.
'Sir,' she answered, 'there are crucial matters you obviously don't understand. I have only ever loved one man. I have no words to describe the depth of this love. James was the centre of my universe - the meaning for my existence. Of course, his various affairs deeply wounded me. How could it be otherwise? But I was always able to forgive, because that is the nature of true love. So, when I found that James was dead - killed by my own hand - although a cruel and bizarre mistake, my whole world collapsed. In my despair, I didn't pause to weigh up my words. Nor to consider how lawyers might scrutinise them months later in a criminal court.'
The courtroom was hushed, almost shocked, by this unexpected passion. Even the judge stopped writing to study the accused. 'Thank God,' Mackie muttered. 'At last, you're in with a chance, young lady.' Even Michael Shaw QC was strangely pensive until, acutely aware of the dramatic effect his silence might have upon the jury, he quickly moved to end his cross-examination.
Then came the final addresses to the jury. First Mackie listened in awe to Shaw's masterly summation. Surely he must have convinced the jury? Despite all Mackie's experience, when he faced the jury he felt nervous, strangely inadequate. He had worked long hours preparing for this moment - carefully weighing up every word, every proposed inflection. He was convinced Cheryl's fate depended on his final performance. But could he deliver? Tugging at his heavy gown, and feeling the sweat run down his back, he turned to those who would decide:
'Ladies and gentleman, it is my duty to remind each of you of the momentous task you are about to undertake - I suggest, the most onerous decision you will make in your lifetime. Because the fate of this woman rests entirely in your hands.' He paused to point at the lonely figure in the dock. 'She comes before you with an unblemished record - and you have heard impressive evidence from seven character witnesses. I beg you to give full weight to this when you retire to consider your verdict. And you must never forget the heavy burden on the Crown to satisfy you beyond reasonable doubt of each and every element of ... '
Then he tackled each critical issue - highlighting any fallibility, inconsistency or improbability in the prosecution evidence. After four hours on his feet, he finally sat down, exhausted and sweating profusely. 'Too bloody old for this caper,' he mumbled. But he had given it his best shot. As he addressed, he had looked intently at each juror. Often this gave a clue. An involuntary nod of assent - or a tightening of facial muscles, indicating rejection. But in this case, not the slightest inkling from any.
Mr Justice Charlick was an unfortunate appointment for this trial. A former Crown Prosecutor, he found it difficult to discard the old role. He often intervened at inappropriate moments and disrupted the flow of trials. But his devastating power lay in summing-up to juries. His duty was to rule on questions of law and impartially outline the prosecution and defence cases. Yet he managed to exert considerable influence on his jurors - not so much through the actual words as the intonations, raised eyebrows, sneers and other facial expressions. Sadly, a barrister's careful reading of the transcript afterwards rarely found grounds for appeal.
In Cheryl's trial, he was up to all the worst tricks. By the end of his summing-up, no one present could doubt he considered this a case of cold-blooded, premeditated murder - and that the jury should promptly perform its duty and convict. Mackie had to sit through this performance, writhing furiously, yet powerless to effectively intervene.
The jury retired. For Mackie, the waiting was generally the worst part of a trial. It left too much time for reflection. As usual, he castigated himself for the questions not asked, the arguments not put to the jury. And, as usual, the critic in him was unduly harsh. And then, the self-flagellation over, he finally began to ponder the vital question: Guilt or innocence? He had plenty of time - because the jury was out for eight hours. But this was one of the rare occasions when, even at the end of the trial, he remained uncertain.
Five times the jury returned to the courtroom, seeking further directions from the judge on questions of law or to have specific passages of evidence read yet again. The judge's irritation was palpable. Were they that thick? But Mackie knew this delay provided a glimmer of hope.
Finally the jurors reached a verdict. They filed back into court, strained and weary. All but one looked directly at the accused in the dock - an encouraging occurrence, in Mackie's experience. Then the foreman, his shaky voice suggesting continuing uncertainty, stood to announce: Not guilty. Unable to hide his disgust, Mr Justice Charlick let his pen drop noisily to the desk.
Cheryl was released from the dock and elated family and friends quickly flocked to her. But she remained impassive. Mackie turned to locate Rosa and found her standing patiently near the door, waiting for the crowd to clear. She too appeared impassive - as though a decision of mere mortals would not disrupt her silent vigil for her beloved.
After the usual family thanks and farewells, Mackie trudged back to his barrister's chambers, exhausted. And all the way, he agonised: was this a case of justice done or justice denied? To suspect that one's skills may have set a murderer free does not bring tranquillity.
Shortly after the trial Cheryl sold the mansion and put the children into boarding school. Then she and the Doberman moved to the family's quaint country cottage. Despite all their efforts, Cheryl continued to shun the company of friends and family. On the first anniversary of her husband's death, she took herself to a quiet, shady glade beside the stream that ran gently through the property. There she shot herself. The note beside her body read:
What point is there in continuing? Life has been devoid of all meaning ever since I killed the love of my life.