‘I’m sure Miss Baker can explain,’ said Mrs Patel. ‘She has been taking detailed notes, offering helpful suggestions. I may consider some slight compromise with my ex-husband, brute though he is.’
‘Great. Thanks, Natasha.’
‘No worries, Mel. And I had a call from Andy. He said he couldn’t get through to you. Unfortunately, the solicitor can’t make it this morning.’
‘I see. Lucky you were here, then. Mrs Patel, I’m sorry to say that we’ll need to go through the same material again.’
‘But I’ve already told your assistant everything.’
‘I’m afraid there’s no other way, Mrs Patel. Miss Baker is not authorised to address the court or negotiate with the other side.’ As she spoke, she caught her pupil’s eye and remembered that this was Natasha’s second six and so in theory she was authorised to address the court and negotiate with the other side. ‘At least not unless she has been instructed,’ she added. Natasha smiled, and looked from Mel to Mrs Patel. Her blue eyes glittered.
Mel spent the first five minutes listening to Mrs Patel’s fury at her husband’s failure to disclose ownership of three apartment blocks in Karachi.
‘He bought them ten years ago. I’ve seen them. He showed me when we were on holiday in Pakistan.’
‘Do you have a photograph?’
‘I had lots. He deleted them from the camera.’
‘Address?’
‘No. Is that a problem?’
‘I’m afraid it is. Mr Patel denies ownership of the blocks and unless we have documentary evidence we won’t get very far. Have you ever seen papers relating to the blocks?’
‘Oh yes. They were in my husband’s safe.’
‘And now?’
‘He took everything when he left.’
The usher popped her head around the door.
‘Counsel in Patel?’
‘Yes, I’m Melanie Goddard.’
‘The other side wants a chat. He’s been here since nine. Mr Diggory-Brown’s representing.’
Mel’s throat felt dry and she unscrewed her bottle of water. ‘Digger’ was a rising star who lived up to his name, a supremely confident young man with hair as sleek as a wet mole. It was ridiculous to be unnerved, but something about Digger destabilised Mel. She told herself he was no more than a typical posh boy, but he had a brain that soaked up evidence and a Machiavellian head for tactics. In the robing room he oozed charm, but he never stopped working. Every friendly enquiry had a subtext.
‘I wonder if you can give us ten minutes.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
Ten minutes were insufficient to get much out of Mrs Patel in addition to making the essential trip to the Ladies. Her client refused to drop the allegation about the apartment blocks, so Mel would have to put it. Though it was unlikely Patel would crumble and admit something as critical as undisclosed property. Mel had run losers before, but it was galling to have to do so on her new pupil’s first day.
Negotiations commenced. Neither husband nor wife was prepared to compromise and at the stroke of eleven Mrs Patel was on the stand. Without firm evidence, there was no way Mrs Patel would get what she wanted, and the evidence wasn’t there. You didn’t choose your cases and Natasha needed to understand this. Witnesses rarely collapsed under the shaft of cross-examination, however sharp the advocacy.
Mel calculated there was no need to spend long questioning Mrs Patel, given that her situation was set out in her financial statement. For one thing the judge wouldn’t allow examination in chief on every document set before the court and, more significantly, Mel simply hadn’t had time to run through every point in the conference. But when Digger put to Mrs Patel that she received unexplained credits and directed her to the precise page and line in the raft of bank statements, Mel realised she had miscalculated. She should have pre-empted him. She listened helpless as, one after another, her client’s financial misdemeanours were laid bare before the court.
It was always easy to blame yourself after the event, but how much could she have done? She could have studied the papers more carefully, spent longer in conference, questioned her client more closely about the allegations. If Mrs Patel hadn’t insisted on fighting the apartment blocks point there would have been more time to strengthen her own defence. Some cases were unavoidably jinxed, but Mel knew she could have put up a better fight. Above all she should have abandoned Jacob to his Xbox, ignored the incomplete biology homework and left him to make his own way to school.
Natasha disappeared during the lunch adjournment saying she needed to pick something up at Boots.
‘Fine, I’ll be in the conference room,’ said Mel.
She was irritated. The role of a pupil was to shadow her supervisor, not to disappear off to the shops. Though she could hardly object if Natasha urgently needed toiletries or a prescription. Hadn’t someone said she was diabetic? Mel had little idea what that involved other than a careful diet and regular doses of insulin but there might be some special medication. She sat with Mrs Patel and her sister for twenty minutes, avoiding all but the most general references to the case and then left them with their sandwiches, returning to the robing room to run over her cross-examination of the husband. She avoided eating in front of clients. She’d packed a chocolate bar and that would do for now. She would grab something on the way back to chambers.
Natasha turned up five minutes before they were due in court with a casual, ‘Hi, Mel. How’s it going?’
Now was not the time for a lecture on Bar etiquette but she looked at her pupil in a way she hoped Natasha would understand, and made a mental note to explain a few ground rules when the time was right.
As she stood up to question Mr Patel, Mel felt a pang of hunger coupled with a tremor of anticipation. She ought to have gone out to buy something. That was what Natasha must have been doing. They should have gone together, got to know each other. It wasn’t as if those last sixteen minutes of preparation had been any help. Her papers were already flagged where she could reasonably challenge the witness. Areas of questioning were itemised in her notebook, together with page references. But as she looked down at her scribbled biro marks, she knew her notes were too general. There were days when you needed detail and this was one of them.
She set off gently, asking him about his successful business, appealing to his pride. He was doing well, making good money, rather more money than you would expect for someone who ran a corner shop. But he had an answer for every point. This was going to be difficult; Mrs Patel’s allegations, even if true, would be hard to establish.
Working her way to the killer question, Mel asked about Mr Patel’s property investments.
‘I own a house, if that’s what you mean. Not like my wife. She owns three.’
‘That’s not correct, is it, Mr Patel?’
‘It certainly is. She didn’t deny it when Mr Diggory questioned her.’
Mel challenged him on the Karachi properties, but Patel wouldn’t budge. Just as she had anticipated.
She was conscious of Natasha behind her, listening to every word. It was good for her to see the real thing. Success in court didn’t come easy and it was nothing like TV drama.
She must have paused a moment too long, because before she could lob her next question, Mr Patel added, ‘Like I said, I own a house. My home. Since she chucked me out that is.’