Cut-Throat Defence: The dramatic, twist-filled legal thriller

By Olly Jarvis

What price justice?

Jack Kowalski is a young barrister who finds himself working on the biggest drugs trial in British history. He argues a savage ‘cut-throat’ defence – a risky tactic where the defendants blame each other.

As the son of Polish immigrants Kowalski has always found it hard to fit in, with a sense of inferiority denting his performances in Court. Now he must face his demons and fight not only for his clients, but also for his future.

When the defendant unexpectedly absconds, Jack and solicitor Lara Panassai struggle to hold the case together. In search of their client, and desperate for new evidence, they are soon drawn deep into Manchester’s seedy criminal underworld.

As the case grows darker, who can Jack really trust?

Intensely plotted and written with real-life insider expertise, Cut-Throat Defence is a gripping thriller filled with rivalry, ruthlessness and nail-biting courtroom suspense.

Praise for Cut-Throat Defence

‘The tautly-written, tense thriller weaves together the fates of crime victims, gangsters, cops and lawyers – often culminating in realistic courtroom drama.’ – Manchester Evening News

‘A legal thriller in the great Grisham tradition – genius author!’ – Gyles Brandreth

‘The violence in the criminal underworld of Manchester is presented in scenes which are short and shocking. Cut-Throat Defence is an excellent read.’ – Simon Brett, author and CWA Golden Dagger winner

‘Cut-Throat Defence is absolutely gripping from the very first chapter. Packed full of twists and turns, I was on the edge of my seat waiting for the verdict.’ – Ginger Cat Blog

‘This is the first Oliver Jarvis crime novel I've read and wow, I love it! It's a fast-paced legal thriller written in a captivating style that just keeps you entertained.’ – Bits About Books

‘To put it simply, I loved it, I devoured all the pages, all the characters … my top book of 2016.’ – Chocolate Pages

‘I couldn’t put it down’ – David’s Book Blurg

‘This book carries what is now becoming this author’s trademark, a legal thriller with real edge and depth of plot with characters that stick around in the mind long after the story and the trial are over. I was hooked into the clutches of this story from the very first page.’ – Reflections of a Reader

Olly Jarvis is a writer and criminal defence barrister, originally from London but now working in Manchester. Drawing on his experiences, he writes both fiction and non-fiction with a particular understanding of the pressures and excitement of life in the courtroom. He wrote the highly acclaimed Radio 4 drama Judgement, and wrote and presented the BBC documentary Mum Knows Best. He is also the author of Death by Dangerous, which was longlisted for the CWA Debut Dagger. Olly has two children and lives in Cheshire, and he tweets at @OllyJarviso.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Canelo
• Release date: Oct 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781911420095

Olly Jarvis

Olly Jarvis is a writer and criminal defence barrister, originally from London but now working in Manchester. He wrote highly acclaimed Radio 4 drama Judgement, exploring a barrister’s thought processes whilst cross-examining a rape victim. Using his knowledge of the Indonesian language, he travelled to Sumatra where he wrote and presented a BBC documentary entitled Mum Knows Best. Olly has two children and lives in Cheshire.

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Prologue

Twenty Years Ago

‘Are you going to smile for me, sweetheart?’ asked Father Dolan.

No response.

The wind flicked Lara’s long black hair round the inside of her hood.

An angry Mancunian sky tried to hold back the rain as if it too mourned a terrible loss.

Father Dolan crouched down so that he could see Lara’s face. Even at five years old it was obvious she was going to be a beauty.

The intensity of his gesture had scared her. She reached for her grandmother’s icy hand and gripped it tightly.

‘Who’s this?’ he whispered, prodding the rag doll poking out of her duffle-coat pocket.

She quickly pushed it further in with her free hand.

The priest tried to reassure her with a smile. ‘Everything happens for a reason, sweetheart,’ he said, raising his voice a little to be heard above the advancing storm. ‘It’s God’s way. He loves you, you know.’

Still no response.

‘I know things must seem very bad for you right now.’ Father Dolan gave a knowing glance up at her grandmother before continuing, ‘It is actually a good day today. Your daddy is going to join your mummy in heaven. That’s good isn’t it?’

She looked straight through him, oblivious to his words. Empty.

‘It’s not you, Father,’ offered Lara’s grandmother apologetically. ‘She hasn’t said owt for weeks. Not to anyone. It’s the shock of it all.’

He straightened up before replying. ‘Poor little mite.’

‘It’s just too awful,’ she said, shaking her head, almost in disbelief. ‘I wish I was dead. So I wouldn’t have to witness this. But I’m all she’s got now. I’m too old to bring up a child, Father.’

‘You must be strong,’ he replied, patting her shoulder and then gently steering them along the path.

Father Dolan felt the first drops of rain on his balding head as they hurried up the steps to the stone porch that led into the chapel. He held out an upturned palm and looked heavenwards, as if searching for an explanation.

To little Lara, it was obvious. ‘It’s God. He’s spitting at us.’

Stunned silence. Not just because she had spoken but that she could think such a thing.

Father Dolan wanted to say something, anything to make her understand. But he’d missed his chance; they were being greeted by a dashing young man, impeccably dressed. His imposing presence belied his relative youth. Lionel Katterman was a brilliant barrister, already developing a formidable reputation, not just in Manchester but across the whole of the North of England. Tipped for the very top.

‘Hello, Father Dolan,’ he said warmly.

‘Ah, Mr Katterman. You know Mrs Lodge?’

Katterman immediately switched his attention to the elderly woman, took her hand and closed his other over it. ‘Mrs Lodge.’ He said nothing else. His touch said everything ‒ conveyed such intimacy. Such charm in one so young.

She felt their common grief. It bound them together.

Lionel Katterman knew how to connect with people. Knew what they wanted to hear ‒ sensed it in people. That’s why juries loved him. He reached down and picked up the child, lifting her above his head and then into his arms in a great display of affection. ‘And you must be Lara. Do you remember me? You’ve grown so much since I last saw you. And how pretty you are,’ he said in a voice of mock surprise, reserved only for children.

Lara hated being picked up, being spoken to by all these strangers. Why couldn’t she just go home, or better still, to heaven? Why had she been left behind? It wasn’t fair.

‘Your father and I were best friends, you know,’ Lionel Katterman went on. He needed some kind of recognition, approval, even from a five-year-old child. An understanding that he too had lost. ‘We shared a room in chambers. Do you know what that is, Lara?’

Unmoved by his conversation, she tried to wriggle free.

Feeling a little embarrassed, he placed her gently back on to the stone floor.

She tried to get round him to run inside but Katterman didn’t accept defeat that easily. He stopped her gently with an outstretched arm. ‘Lara, don’t be afraid,’ he said, bending right down just as Father Dolan had done only moments ago. ‘Your daddy was very dear to me.’ His voice cracked. ‘And your mummy.’ He gave her his warmest smile.

She broke free and disappeared through the door.

The pews were full. Michael Panassai had been a popular man. The last few people to arrive were dropping petals into the open coffin.

Everyone was dressed smartly. The men, all in tailored suits, whispered to each other in well-educated voices. They had the demeanour of the confident and successful. Mostly barristers and judges.

Lara and her grandmother took their places in the first pew, near the casket. A small, middle-aged man shuffled past them, catching Lara’s eye. Although suitably attired he seemed out of place. It was his posture – hunched. More humble than the other mourners. One of those people who could pass unnoticed in a crowd. Only Lara was aware of him. He smiled at her. He wasn’t like the others. His smile hid nothing – asked for nothing.

She found herself smiling back, wondering who he was. Was he real? A ghost? Or maybe, an angel.

Her eyes followed him as he took a handful of petals from a basket and moved towards the coffin. Lifting a hand above it, his sleeve revealed a gold bracelet. Obviously polished ‒ deeply treasured. To Lara it shone like the sun. A tiny charm hung from it. A thimble.

As he looked into the coffin, the serenity of his expression altered. Something about the deceased had confused him. Something that didn’t make sense. He reached in to touch it. The material felt all wrong. And the fit. Whose jacket had he been dressed in? It certainly wasn’t Michael Panassai’s.

Suddenly, he looked up. A commotion at the entrance.

‘Get him out of here!’ someone shouted. Then another. The shouts were not directed at Lara’s angel but to someone who had just walked in. Someone well known to all the lawyers – legal reporter, Jim Smith.

Several men scrambled into the aisle and blocked his path.

Smith stood at the entrance. Scruffily dressed. Worn. His cream mackintosh had become grey over time.

Within seconds of entering he was being frogmarched outside by Katterman and some of the other barristers from Paramount Chambers.

‘Please don’t do this,’ he pleaded. ‘I just want to pay my respects.’

‘Can’t you let him be buried in peace?’ hissed one of his escorts as they threw him on to the wet lawn outside.

‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ he called after them, getting to his feet and brushing the grass off his clothes.

He stood for a while, watching the door close. He felt humiliated. Angry. How could they treat him like that? Who did Lionel Katterman and his cronies think they were? Jim hadn’t come for the story. It was to say goodbye to a friend. To one of the few barristers he actually liked – could have a joke with when he was down at court reporting on the trials. He had the same right to be there as them. He made towards the door a second time, then thought better of it. What were they afraid of? Why wouldn’t anyone talk to him? Whenever a criminal barrister died a violent death, questions had to be asked. His readers would always wonder. Was someone he’d prosecuted responsible? Or even an unhappy ex-client? Revenge?

Perhaps there was a story here after all.

---

‘Come along, children. Find a seat everyone,’ clucked Mrs Perkins with an unusual gentleness. After all, it was their first day at school. Such an important day. She wanted the children to remember it fondly.

There was a hum of excitement amongst the little ones as they unpacked their satchels and placed new pencil cases on their desks.

‘Settle down, everyone. I must have absolute silence,’ she demanded with more authority. They might as well get used to it right from the start. ‘Now, has everyone found a seat?’

‘Yes, Mrs Perkins,’ came the reply in unison.

‘Very good. First, I want to welcome you all to Chorlton Primary School, south Manchester’s oldest primary. I want you all to have a rewarding and happy time here with lots of hard work and fun.’

The children beamed, delighted to be spoken to in such a grown-up manner.

‘Right. I want us all to get to know each other, so I’m going to ask you to come up to the front of the class, one by one, and say a few words about yourself.’

The children looked anxiously at each other.

‘OK, you can go first,’ said Mrs Perkins, pointing to a little girl sitting in the front row.

She got up and sauntered coyly to the front. ‘My name’s Molly Hardcastle and I have a bunny called Smudge.’

‘Thank you, Molly. Now, who’s next? You I think.’

A boy skipped to the front and announced, ‘I’m John Burgess and my dad is a fireman.’

‘Well, that is interesting, John. Perhaps your father can come in and give us a talk?’

John puffed out his chest with pride.

This formula continued with other nuggets of information until Mrs Perkins reached the back row. She waved an arm at a boy ducked down in his seat, trying to look inconspicuous, invisible even.

‘Well, come on then. Don’t be shy.’

His reluctance had marked him out. An outsider.

The other children turned and stared. Curiosity turned to amusement. They watched the child get slowly to his feet and take the long walk forwards.

His legs felt leaden. He stood at the front, facing the teacher, unable to turn and face the rest of the class.

‘Well, are you going to say something?’

No response. He looked blankly at Mrs Perkins. Her mouth was moving but the sounds didn’t make sense. ‘Do–you–speak–English?’ she asked impatiently.

He shook his head.

‘I’m Mrs Perkins,’ she explained, touching her chest. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, prodding the boy’s forehead.

He tried to open his mouth but it was glued shut.

Finally, in a whisper, ‘Janusz Kowalski.’

‘Janusz? That’s a mouthful. That will never do.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Hmm, I think we’ll call you Jack.’ She put her hand firmly on his shoulders and turned him to face his classmates.

‘Well, go on then. Tell them what your name is.’

Nothing. Unable to speak. Frozen.

Then, only tears.

Smirks turned to giggles and then all out laughter. Louder and louder.

All laughing at Jack.

Chapter 1

Twenty Years Later

A cold, northern night. The easterly wind brought a smattering of sleet from the Pennines. National Crime Agency Officer Calvin Finch hadn’t noticed ‒ he was too excited. Butterflies in his stomach.

‘Listen. Can you hear owt, gov?’ a junior officer named Saunders shouted out of the darkness.

Finch strained to hear the faint whirring sound high above them. His colleague, Saunders, had been right. This was going to be big. If Finch pulled it off there would be one hell of a promotion. A national job, as well as all the accolades. Months of planning, it had been his investigation from start to finish. His baby. A plane coming in from abroad ‒ there wasn’t anything bigger. And if Finch’s information was correct, there was enough charlie on this plane to keep every nose in Manchester sniffing for a year.

The airfield was only fifteen miles out of town. Officer Finch could see Manchester’s lights sparkling in the distance. He could just make out Beetham Tower. Finch loved his city. Saw himself as its unsung hero – its protector.

But if it all went wrong, he’d be finished. Failure wasn’t an option. Within hours the cocaine would be cut, bagged and moved down the chain from the regional dealers and on to the gangs of Moss Side, Longsight, Rusholme and Salford. Quickly spreading to the nearby towns of Stockport, Bolton and beyond.

‘All right, lads, get ready,’ Finch whispered into his radio, crouching down tightly behind the bushes that marked a perimeter alongside the runway. ‘And remember, radio everything through to Graham as it happens. That includes all verbals from the suspects. I want a totally contemporaneous log. You can bet the defence will be all over it.’

The plane came in to land. Finch could hardly contain himself.

Other NCA officers began to radio through their obs.

The door of the light aircraft slid open. Within seconds, packages were thrown out. A van screeched across the runway, stopping with military precision next to the cargo. Its occupants were soon out and loading the packages.

Finch put his radio to his mouth. ‘Wait for it.’ Finally, ‘We are go! Go, go, go!’

Numerous NCA officers appeared from cover and surrounded the plane, firearms drawn. The suspects scattered in all directions. Outnumbered, they were quickly apprehended. Finch smiled as he watched events unfold – a textbook operation.

---

Carl Marpit could hear his heart beating as he slithered along on his elbows. The perimeter fence was only metres away. Freedom. His life depended on it. Exhausted from the crawl, he had to rest, just for a moment. Shivering. The frost melted into his jeans. He looked back towards the runway. The others were being loaded into vans ‒ to a new life of captivity. People he knew, had grown up with. That was it for them. At least a decade inside. Marpit shuddered at the prospect. It spurred him on towards the fence. Adrenalin pumped around his body, making his mind race. Thoughts of his daughter, Melanie, when she was a baby. Simple pleasures. His old life. How he longed for it now.

At last, he reached the sanctuary of some bushes. It grew darker as he crawled further away from the floodlights that shone over the runway. Nearly made it. He couldn’t see much but he could certainly feel the fence; pressing his face up against it, listening intently for the slightest sound. Nothing. He began to pull back the bottom of the wire mesh. The gap was soon wide enough. First his head and then ‒ a weight on his calf. Someone’s foot?

He couldn’t move.

‘And just where do you think you’re going?’

Marpit’s heart skipped a beat. Not prison. Not again. Please God, not prison. And what about Melanie? What would she do without him?

He could feel his hands being cuffed behind his back and then being pulled by his legs from under the wire.

‘You are under arrest,’ declared Saunders, unable to conceal his delight. ‘For conspiracy to import controlled drugs. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

Marpit decided not to say anything, for now.

Officer Finch had only managed to get halfway to the runway in a tentative jog before stopping to catch his breath. He wasn’t as young as he used to be and his weight slowed him down. He stood for a moment, bent over, hands on knees.

Saunders approached. ‘Nearly missed this one, gov. Trying to crawl under the fence.’

‘Well done, lad,’ replied Finch, straightening up. ‘Go and help your colleagues. I’ll bring him in.’

Saunders paused for a split second, ready to protest at being stripped of his trophy, but then he thought better of it and headed back towards the others who were loading the men into vehicles. Nobody argued with Calvin Finch, least of all a rookie like Saunders.

Finch was some distance from the full glare of the floodlights but he could make out the features of the man in front of him. Late forties, losing his hair, but no remarkable features. He looked scared. Finch was going to enjoy this.

‘The cuffs aren’t too tight are they?’ he asked.

‘No. Are you in charge here, mate?’ responded Marpit.

‘Yeah, Calvin Finch. What’s it to you?’

Marpit looked furtively around him and into the darkness then spoke quietly, ‘My name’s Marpit. I wasn’t supposed to be arrested. Working for Wolfy. You guys were supposed to let me slip away.’

Finch smiled, appearing to acknowledge the truth of the confession.

Relieved, Marpit’s frame relaxed a little.

Finch took a step towards Marpit and launched a fist into his stomach.

Marpit cried out in pain as he doubled over and collapsed on the ground.

‘Good try, mate,’ said Finch. ‘I hope you like porridge. You’re gonna have plenty of it.’ He laughed as he put a boot into Marpit’s chest. ‘Don’t forget to come and get this one,’ he shouted to his colleagues.

‘You don’t understand,’ begged Marpit, still spluttering from the assault.

Finch pulled him to his feet. ‘Oh, I understand, Carl. I understand all right.’

‘How did you know my name?’

‘Lucky guess,’ Finch replied with a chuckle. ‘The trouble with you lot is that it’s always got to be all about you. London isn’t the centre of the universe, you know.’

He set off towards the other officers who were now running over. ‘Fuckin’ ’ate southerners,’ Finch muttered to himself.

Chapter 2

Six Months Later

‘Jack Kowalski. My name is Jack Kowalski.’

Jack Kowalski woke with a start, like most days recently. Sweat bobbled on his forehead. He reached for his mobile and turned off the alarm. Jack needed to be in chambers by 8.30. He wasn’t in court and had no papers to work on, but wanted to show willing. And if, as sometimes happened, there was a real emergency where any barrister would do, he’d be in the right place. That was pretty much the only work that came his way now. Washed up at twenty-five – his first waking thought.

Jack had just finished a disastrous pupillage. Only a matter of time before he’d be asked to ‘find somewhere else’. Truth was, if Century Buildings weren’t prepared to take him on as their newest barrister, nowhere else would.

It all came down to one thing – stage fright. As soon as he got near a courtroom he became so nervous that he couldn’t think straight, let alone construct complex case-winning strategies. All newly qualified barristers suffered from it to some extent, but Jack had it bad. And if anything, it was getting worse.

He sat up and stared at his feet poking out over the end of his bed. It had been made for a child, a gift from a distant relative. Jack hadn’t realized until he’d carried the pieces up five floors and then assembled it. Anyway, it fitted rather well into his miniscule bedsit. Even more fortuitously, he didn’t have any other furniture to clutter up the place. His only possessions of any size were an ironing board, a clothes rail and a small electric keyboard. As a cheap stand-in for a piano, it had to do. Playing Chopin was Jack’s escape ‒ the only time he could breathe and forget all the daily pressures.

The rent was a good deal due to the abundance of apartment blocks that had sprung up around the city just before the recession hit. He loved living in Manchester’s Northern Quarter.

Jack climbed out of bed and opened the fridge. A half-eaten piece of cheese or a carton of milk. He chose the latter, holding it up to his mouth.

The rain pounded against a glass door. Jack was drawn to its beating rhythm. He took in the view across the whole of the city. Even the rain couldn’t spoil that skyline, set against a backdrop of mountain peaks. It made anything seem possible.

Jack was ready to fight another day. Time to prepare for battle: shower, shave, teeth. Then his armour: pants, dark socks, tunic shirt, collar studs (front and back), cufflinks, day collar, silk tie, pinstripe suit (trousers having first been given a quick iron under a dishcloth to prevent them going shiny) and, finally, black brogues (heavily polished to disguise their antiquity). Jack was determined that even if he couldn’t sound like a barrister, he would damn well look like one.

Quick mirror check, then dark raincoat, blue wig bag, laptop, portable printer and out the door.

He pressed the button and waited to see if the erratic lift would chug its way up to the fifth floor.

The doors opened. A small, grey-haired old man stepped out.

‘Tata?’ Jack said in surprise. ‘You’re soaking! What are you doing here?’

‘Janusz!’ Jack’s father, Mariusz, began to explain in Polish.

Jack cut him off. ‘Speak English, Tata. You promised me you would try. You’ve been here fifty years and no one can understand a word you say.’

Mariusz scoffed. ‘OK, OK, I try. I bring you zupa,’ he said holding up a large saucepan with the lid held in place by cling film.

Jack felt guilty about the reprimand as he took his father into the flat. He was always telling him off lately. Pushing him away, then regretting it. Transferring his anger on to his dad. Anger at his own failure. He softened at the realization. ‘You shouldn’t have, Tata.’

‘You know Pani Mila. She always make too much.’

‘I think she’s in love with you, Tata. That’s why she comes to cook and clean!’

‘Oh, don’t tease, Janusz. You eat now,’ said Mariusz, opening the fridge and noting its contents.

Jack obeyed, putting the pan on the hob and removing the lid. The aroma wafted out. Pieces of white sausage and boiled egg. ‘Zurek! My favourite. Thank her for me, won’t you? Anyway, how did you get here?’

‘First bus, then tram,’ he replied.

Jack heard the familiar jangle of his father’s bracelet. A present from Jack’s mother on their wedding day. Mariusz never took it off. It pinged against the steel radiator over which Mariusz was draping his overcoat.

‘Tata, I’m really grateful, but you can’t travel across the whole of Manchester just to bring me soup, especially in this weather.’

‘It’s nothing. Back in Poland, when I boy, I walk ten mile to school every day.’

‘I know, I know. You grew up on the farm – nothing for miles around – only chickens for company. But they will arrest you and put you in a psychiatric ward,’ teased Jack. ‘I can see the headline now: Polish Tailor Sectioned After Seen Carrying Saucepan of Soup on Trams.’

Mariusz wasn’t listening, carefully inspecting Jack’s clothes rail now. He shook his head. ‘Take off coat and jacket.’

‘Tata, I haven’t got time,’ protested Jack, doing it anyway.

‘Jezu!’ exclaimed Mariusz in horror. ‘Crease on trouser not straight. Take off.’

Jack couldn’t see any problem with them at all, but took them off to appease his father.

‘Where the iron I give you?’

‘Over there on the shelf.’

‘OK. You eat soup.