Dark Angels

‘Have you never heard of murmuring a judge?’ he asked.

The bemused trainee shook her head.

‘Well, it’s a criminal offence–a judge can say anything they want to you, but if you make any smart remarks back, inside court you’ll get done for contempt, outside court, it’s called murmuring.’

‘Thanks, David–I’ve put you down for the jury trial. It’s on the list for today but it’s unlikely to start. I think, as usual, they will have a number that will plead. This won’t–inside the file I’ve put a list of recent cases. Andy Gilmore was stopped by police–they searched his car because it was messy with CDs–and they thought the CDs were stolen. In the course of the search they discovered cocaine–it was an illegal search because it’s arguable that they didn’t have justifiable cause to stop and search in the first instance.’

‘Cheers, Brodie–take it you thought I was the man for this case because I could argue that my car is messy?’ He pulled the file from my outstretched hands–a smile curled round his lips.

‘What am I doing today?’

Danny Bishop looked tired, he was in his early fifties and, although the scar had faded, time was pulling the left side of his face down faster than the right giving him an odd lopsided grin.

‘A two cop breach–in the district court.’

‘Cheers.’

I turned to face Robert Girvan who was looking at me expectantly.

‘You’re going to be watching my back in Edinburgh-Sheriff court–I’m covering the custodies.’

He looked at me as if to question whether that was everything–I knew that I should warn him that all hell could break loose around me, but somehow I couldn’t find the words.

‘The two summary trials are pretty straightforward. Smile at the fiscal and see if you can get them both put in the same court. One is a breach of the peace. My client assures me the witnesses won’t turn up.’

Robert winked at me. ‘That’s the kind of trial I like.’

He liked it because I still paid him for a full day in court.

‘And the other?’ He waited with interest.

‘The other one is solicitation–Maggie Jones giving a client a blow job in his car.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Brodie, why are we taking this to trial?’

A grimace flickered across his face. I hadn’t fancied doing this trial either but Maggie was a ‘good client’, namely she was a heroin addict who did anything and everything to fund her habit. Repeat business was always handy.

‘Okay, Brodie, tell me the defence to this one–please don’t say it was because she didn’t swallow.’

Our humour at anytime of the day is black or lavatorial–preferably both.

‘No, it’s not–better than that, Rob. The arresting officer didn’t see any money change hands–so our argument is that she wasn’t soliciting, she was doing it for fun.’

‘Terrific–at this point I’d like to state it’s me who has to make that argument in court, not you.’

‘Trust me,’ interrupted Lavender. ‘Brodie would rather be making any spurious point than what she’s got to do today.’

My eyes locked with hers, daring her to say anything more. As usual she ignored me.

‘Well–you’re not saying anything and they’ll find out soon enough. Brodie, in her wisdom, is representing Roddie’s whore.’

‘Which one?’ asked Robert. ‘Not Kailash?’

Lavender nodded.

Robert stood up. He tilted his head and spoke softly.

‘Why?’ is the last thing he said as he left for court.

I had stopped asking myself the same question–I was already in too deep.

SIX (#ulink_5268d1da-6b3d-5b63-9757-2d12ddec7f14)

At around 9.45a.m., Edinburgh Sheriff Court resembles ‘Paddy’s Market’. Squalor and clamour abound, as young men with cheap suits and even cheaper tattoos scramble for justice. At the same time, lawyers with overdrafts and considerably more expensive suits clamber for clients–it’s hard to work out who is more desperate.

Preoccupied, I pushed my way through the throng. Journalists jostled with juvenile delinquents, and all of them seemed to want a piece of me.

‘Hey, Brodie!’ A young man, proudly sporting a tattooed blue line across his neck with the immortal words ‘CUT ME’, called out to me. ‘I’m thinking of changing my lawyer.’

Tattoo Boy knew that the press were here to see me and he wanted to be part of the action. Young men like him are known as ‘dripping roasts’, highly prized at the Edinburgh bar for being cash cows. Their criminal activities, and subsequent trials, bought most of the Mercedes cars parked outside court. I didn’t like to turn down such a plea as his, but I had other things on my mind. For one, Jack Deans was bearing down upon me.

‘I hope you’re not feeling as bad as I am, Brodie.’ His voice sounded rough, like heavy-duty sand paper. I was feeling dreadful and he was always guaranteed to bother me one way or another. I’d ignore him. That was always classy.

‘So, Lord Arbuthnot is no more,’ Deans mockingly intoned. ‘How does it feel to be representing his killer? Real step up the old career ladder there, eh?’ I kept ignoring him, this time because I had no answer, not for Jack Deans or myself.

BBC Scotland moved in to the gap that had opened up as I moved away from Deans. I had no comment for them either. Disconcertingly, I heard a reporter describe me on camera as the rising star of the Scottish bar. For how much longer, after I’d dealt with this corpse of a case, they didn’t deign to tell me.

The public space in front of the courthouse was even more crammed than usual. Everywhere, people mixed cheek to jowl, everywhere, that is, except for one tiny corner. This wasn’t just a piece of ground–this was territory. It belonged to the Dark Angels. Instantly recognisable, their garb was almost a marketing strategy. Long black leather coats. Peroxide white hair worn long and poker straight for the girls, spiked crew cuts for the boys. Black hats, and short black painted nails were obligatory for both sexes, as were the silver-topped black walking sticks they all carried. Their skin was alabaster white, as if they would shrivel in the sun.

They were into everything, but, strangely they were never caught, or, at least, never brought to trial. Urban myths existed about their cases being returned to the police marked ‘No Pro’, no matter what they were accused of. The ‘Dark Angels’ were, for some reason, not to be prosecuted. It was a source of speculation in the bar common room as to how they escaped detection. It certainly was not the case that they blended into the background.

In the centre of the pack, their leader, Moses Tierney, stared at me sullenly. Moses was his real name, not a carefully chosen brand addition like everything else to do with his gang, and he was born during a brief period in his mother’s life when she was junk free. I had heard that she called him Moses because he was to be her deliverer. Predictably, this wasn’t to be, and after his mother’s death, Moses was taken into care. Her only legacy to him was an overactive imagination and a flair for the dramatic. I had never observed Moses Tierney at court, nor had I glimpsed the ‘Dark Angels’ in daylight before, but I knew who he was, who they were. My gaze locked with that of Moses; he had the stare of a wolf, with pale grey, dark ringed eyes. In all this commotion, he held my attention. I suddenly felt as if he were presenting the Dark Angels to me–he wanted me to see them. To his gang, he was their Messiah, and I had to concede he had kept them out of trouble–so far.

‘Charismatic, isn’t he?’ Jack Deans had sneaked up on me again. ‘Are you wondering why they’re here?’

This time, I nodded in answer. ‘I think we all are.

What’s brought them out of their hidey holes at this time of the day?’

I was fixated on the Dark Angels. As I stood watching them, as one, they all stared at me, lifted their walking canes and raised them towards me. Almost in salute. There was no danger in their action. They then turned and slowly filed away.

‘That answers it,’ resumed Jack Deans. ‘They came for you.’

I pulled my eyes away from the bizarre homage in front of me and shot round to face Deans. ‘Are you enjoying baiting me? Winding me up about Kailash and now about Moses Tierney?’

‘I feel that’s a trick question, Brodie,’ he answered. A part of me knows you want me to say “No” and be gallant and mindful of your feelings and all sort of pish like that. But another part–roughly ninety-nine per cent–wants to ask you if you’re officially off your fucking head? Of course I’m enjoying it. You’re squirming, you have no idea what to do–I’d have to be, at the very least, a practising lawyer not to get any pleasure out of that. ‘And you get a lovely wee blush to your cheeks when you’re mad at me.’

‘Anything else you want to add before I leave with a highly satisfying picture of me kicking your bollocks from here to Princes Street?’ I asked.