Three Verdicts

Title Page

Donald R Findlay QC

Three Verdicts

NEIL WILSON PUBLISHING • GLASGOW • SCOTLAND

Chapter One

James Muirhead QC was sitting on a carver in counsel’s retiring room in the High Court of Justiciary in Glasgow, his feet up on the imposing oak table which occupied the centre of the room. It had been there for more years than anyone could remember and mourners would have sat around it in its former life as a wake table, no doubt partaking of a glass or two while extolling (or otherwise) the virtues of the departed. Generations of Scots advocates had worn grooves into its polished surface with the heels of their shoes while waiting for juries to return. It had seen many a celebration and more than its fair share of post-trial wakes.

Muirhead had just filled his pipe and was in the process of raising his lighter when the buzzer sounded to announce that the jury was ready to return its verdict. He lowered the flame to the rim of the pipe and stared at his junior counsel, Donald Anderson, through a spiral of bluegrey smoke. He took the pipe from his mouth, cupping the rosebriar bowl in the palm of his right hand and characteristically stroked his greying moustache.

‘Just so,’ was the only comment he made.

‘Must have a chance.’ Anderson’s observation was as much a question as it was a statement.

‘Well, we’re about to find out.’

Muirhead pulled on his silk gown and turned to the cheval mirror to don his horsehair wig. His face was showing obvious signs of the strain which the case had imposed. It did not get any easier. He tugged at his constricting waistcoat and frowned. He needed a smaller body or a larger suit.

‘Donald?’

‘Yes, James.’

‘Do you think I’m overweight?’

‘What?’

‘Do you think I’m…’

‘I heard you. How heavy are you?’

‘Thirteen and a half…well, fourteen stones. But it’s six feet of solid muscle.’

‘Then you’re too fat.’

‘Thank you for your moral support.’

‘James, can we just go and get the verdict? No point in prolonging the evil hour, is there?’

Anderson took his colleague’s grunt as an indication of assent.