Verdict Unsafe by Jill McGown

He said I should make a statement, and I thought I’d get another kicking if I didn’t. So I said OK, and told them all that stuff. But I didn’t do it.”
    “What made you retract the statement?”
    After he had made his statement to Judy about assaulting Bobbie Chalmers, Drummond had been put in the cell with a regular who would steal the paint off a door, but who had a deep distaste for violence of any kind and against women in particular; he had reported the conversation that had taken place. Drummond had boasted about his exploits, and had been told, quite rightly, that he could get life for what he’d done. Lifers weren’t fussy, Drummond had been assured, and a good-looking lad like him would soon get a taste of his own medicine. That was why Drummond had changed his statement.
    “I told the solicitor that I got at the magistrates’ court that I hadn’t really done anything—I wasn’t so scared once I was away from the police station. He said if that was true I should plead not guilty. So I did.”
    “Did you rape any of these women, Mr. Drummond?”
    “No. I just … I just wanted women to be scared of me. But I was scared they’d have me done over again, so I said I’d done all those things. But I didn’t. Honest, I didn’t.”
    Judy half-expected applause for his performance. It deserved applause; she just hoped the jury could see through it.
    “Thank you. No further questions.”
    Drummond made to leave the witness box, and was called back. At first, Judy thought that he wasn’t going to be afforded the chance to recharge his batteries, but true to forai, the judge’s stomach was telling him it was lunchtime.
    When the court reconvened that afternoon, Drummond back in the witness box, Whitehouse standing looking at him, it was, for a few moments, like a tableau. Like one of those old paintings. No one spoke, no one moved, until Drummond began to shift a little uncomfortably.
    “What we heard this morning,” Whitehouse said at last, “was a complete fiction, wasn’t it, Mr. Drummond?” He left his place, and walked over to the witness box, sweeping his gown behind him, and clasping his hands behind his back. “And not even very good fiction at that,” he went on. “Because it depends so much on coincidence, doesn’t it?”
    Drummond’s head went back a little.
    “Let us start with the premise for your fiction,” Whitehouse said. “You aren’t the rapist. You just wanted to be like him. You wanted to commit repeated acts of sexual violence, like any normal lad.”
    Drummond didn’t speak.
    Whitehouse looked at the jury, at the gallery, and spread his arms wide, his suitably frayed gown falling back around his legs. “Which of us here can say that he has not also dressed in black, pulled on a mask, and stared into parked cars to watch courting couples copulate? Which of us has not also followed women in the street until they ran in panic, while we conjured up visions of committing brutal acts of sexual abuse on them?”
    “Mr. Whitehouse,” said the judge. “Is there a question for the witness on its way in the near future?”
    “I do beg your lordship’s pardon,” said Whitehouse. “I wasquite carried away with memories of carefree youth.” He turned sharply to look at Drummond. “Is that a fair description of your hobby, Mr. Drummond?”
    “No! It wasn’t like that.”
    “You have told us it was like that. You have admitted following women in the street, and watching courting couples in cars, haven’t you?”
    “I didn’t watch
them
. I just … watched the cars. Then followed them.”
    “Ah. I see. Followed them until—with luck—the female was dropped off a little way from home. And then you would follow her until she would run in panic—yes?”
    Drummond swallowed. “Yes,” he said.
    “Well, that’s the scenario,” said Whitehouse. “Young man hero-worships rapist, dresses like him, rides a bike like his, and wants to ‘put the wind up’ women. So to