The Wrong Place

“Can you describe, in your own words, the events you witnessed on 14^th August 2008?”

            There was silence in the courtroom. It was in an old building with no natural lighting; the fluorescent tubes on the ceiling cast a glare over the proceedings.

            I looked from the witness box, beyond the wigged and gowned lawyers, to the four men sitting in the dock: Jahmal Hudson flanked by three of his cronies. The faces of the cronies were expressionless, but Hudson smirked as he looked back at me.

            I remember that day so well. I was out for my normal morning walk and decided to get a paper. I had crossed the road and was heading towards the newsagent, when a young black lad – must have been about fourteen or fifteen – came running out of a side turning. I could hear a car approaching and it followed him round the corner. He glanced behind, saw the car and dashed across the road, heading for an alley that went between two houses.

            At that moment the car accelerated and I could see what was going to happen. The lad froze, looked over his shoulder; but before he could start running again, the car hit him. He went up onto the bonnet with a dull thud, splintering the windscreen. The car braked sharply and the lad dropped to the road. The passenger door opened, and the man I now know to be Jahmal Hudson stepped out. I could clearly see the gun hanging from his right hand. He walked up to the lad, who was trying to crawl away, placed the gun to the back of his neck and fired a single shot. The lad jerked and then lay still.

            Hudson looked around, saw me, raised the gun in my direction and grinned. At that moment, I wasn’t sure what I was feeling; it certainly wasn’t fear and it wasn’t anger; maybe resignation and regret. I wasn’t that old and I had been looking forward to a long and peaceful retirement. Then he turned and got back into the car, which sped away. For a few moments, I just stood there, too shocked to move. Other people were starting to gather round the scene. Eventually, I pulled out my mobile and dialled three 9s.

            Then the forces of officialdom took over. In a blaze of sirens, an ambulance and the police arrived; some of the police were armed, machine pistols held across their chests. I was questioned; taken to the police station to give a statement; asked to look at books of photographs of young black men. In due course, I indentified the man who had pulled the trigger.

            A few days later I was called down to the police station to attend an identification parade. After assuring me that the men behind the glass couldn’t see me, the uniformed sergeant asked me to walk the length of the room but not to say anything until I had looked at each person twice.

            I didn’t need that; Hudson was number five. Although his face was expressionless, almost bored, as if he had done this many times before, there was a sense of arrogance about the way he was standing. As instructed, I walked the line twice, acting as though I was carefully examining each face. When I had done that, I went and stood opposite Hudson.

            “Number five,” I said with some satisfaction.

            “Where do you know him from?” asked the sergeant.

            “He shot the boy,” I replied.

            In the weeks that followed, the police talked to me several times; Detective Inspector Jenkins and a rather grim looking female DC were regular visitors to my flat. It was not just to talk about the case; there had been a number of incidents. They hadn’t seemed like much at first; a young black man would bump into me in the street, giving me an angry look; dog shit had been pushed through my letter box; a brick thrown through my window. One day I had come home from my walk and found “Grass” painted on my front door with the number “187” underneath. Jenkins told me that in the United States, 187 was the police code for a murder; it had been adopted by the gangs there and had started to spread to gangs in London. I asked about protection but all he could offer was increased uniform patrols in the area. In the most serious incident, a newspaper, a copy of the Daily Express, which I usually read, was soaked in lighter fuel and stuffed through the letter box; a lighted match followed. Luckily I was in the flat and was able to put out the fire before any damage was done.

            OK, I was scared now; but I was also angry. The intimidation had made me even more determined to testify.

A few weeks before the trial, a solicitor from the CPS, younger than me and with a pronounced lisp, interviewed me in his office: he just wanted to make sure that my story was consistent. Groups of photographs were spread out in front of me; on each occasion, I picked out Jahmal Hudson as the shooter. Of course, no one would answer any of the questions that I had about the incident.

Now, nearly a year later, I was in court giving my evidence.

            “Can you identify the man who shot Winston Johnson?” the CPS lawyer, who I hadn’t seen before today, asked when I had finished. He looked like a high flyer; dressed in an expensive suit. I wondered how much he was costing the taxpayer.

            “Mr Ross?” he prompted.

            I realised that I had let my mind wander. I pointed to Jahmal Hudson.

            “Had you ever seen Jahmal Hudson before?”

            “Not to my knowledge.”

            “But you are sure this is the man who fired the fatal shot in this tragic incident?”

            I looked up at the dock; locking eyes with Jahmal Hudson.

            “He pointed his gun at me. I don’t think I will ever forget his face.”

            “Can you indentify any of the other men involved?”

            “No,” I replied. “They remained in the car.”

            “No further questions, m’lord.”

            The prosecutor sat down and the defence counsel rose. He was a white man in his sixties, I would guess. He had a soft face and looked like a benevolent grandfather.

            “This was certainly a traumatic experience for you. You were obviously shocked by what you witnessed. Were you taken to hospital for treatment?”

            “No.”

            “But you were checked over by the paramedics?” He seemed genuinely concerned.

            “Yes.”

            “Yet, just a few hours after these shocking events you were able to indentify my client?”

            “Yes.”

            “Do you know many black men?”

            “Sorry?”

            “Do you have any friends who are black?”

            “Acquaintances; but not friends.”

            “Do all black men look the same?”

            The high flyer jumped to his feet.

            “M’lord,” he objected.

            “Mr. Willis?” the judge asked the defence barrister.

            “I have the right to question this witness’s credibility, and I feel that any prejudices he may harbour could have a bearing on his evidence.”

            “You may proceed.”

            And so it went on until, just before lunch, I was dismissed, but told I should remain in court in case I was required again. As the trial progressed, other evidence was presented: there was a firearms expert, a pathologist, a Scene of Crime Officer, several police officers. It came as no surprise that the murder weapon had not been recovered. Apart from my account there seemed to be no evidence that directly linked Jahmal Hudson to the crime; the prosecution had not even been able to come up with a creditable motive – just the usual supposition about inter-gang rivalry and a lack of respect. In fact, I couldn’t even tell if there was any previous connection between Winston Johnson and Jahmal Hudson at all.

            After three days both barristers rested their cases.

            The judge, in his summing up, gave a detailed recap of the evidence, such as it was. He went on about hearsay and supposition, really pointing out that my evidence was all that linked Jahmal Hudson to the murder. Did the jury consider me a credible witness? Could they convict for murder on the basis of my evidence alone? He then pointed out that even I could not indentify the others involved. The jury were sent out to consider their verdicts.

            It didn’t take long. After less than hour the foreman of the jury rose to pronounce their decision: all defendants not guilty on all counts.

            The court erupted. There were load cheers from one side of the public gallery – the supporters of Jahmal Hudson; members of his gang, I suppose. On the other, there was wailing and crying from the family and friends of Winston Johnson.

            As I went to leave the court, I passed the dock and looked straight into the face of Jahmal Hudson. He grinned at me again; that same sickening grin he had given me just seconds after he had brutally snuffed out the life of a young lad. He then pointed his hand at me in an imitation of a gun and pretended to fire. He was laughing as he was led away.

Outside the court, it was the usual media scrum; photographers were pushing each other to try and get the best shot; television reporters were stuffing microphones of the faces of anyone involved in the case. Jahmal Hudson’s solicitor was giving an interview to Sky News criticising the police for prosecuting his client on the flimsiest of evidence; there was talk of institutional racism and promises of legal action against the Metropolitan Police.

            On the other side of the steps, a solicitor representing Winston Johnson’s family read out an obviously prepared statement that the Johnson family would not rest until Winston’s killer had been brought to justice. He called for an inquiry into the police handling of the crime.

            As I stood there watching, DI Jenkins came over to me; the grim faced DC a few paces behind.

            “I really thought we had enough to put him away,” he said.

            “You had nothing,” I replied bitterly. “If I had been on that jury I would have found him not guilty.”

            Just then, Jahmal Hudson came out of the court building. He stood beside his solicitor and raised a clenched fist above his head. His cronies gathered around him.

            “At least it is over for you,” Jenkins said.

            “Is it?” I asked.

            “You mean the intimidation?”

            I nodded.

            “It’ll stop now.”

            “I was warned not to testify.”

            “He’s been acquitted. There’s nothing to be gained in getting back at you.”

            “I wonder.”

When I arrived back at my flat, I made myself a coffee and took it through to the lounge. I could hear the guy in the flat upstairs moving about; he never seemed to do anything quietly. Pretty soon he was bound to start playing his music loudly. When he had first done this, I had retaliated by playing my music at full volume but it didn’t make any difference; he just turned his stereo up. This guy was starting to seriously piss me off; I had had water coming into my flat on numerous occasions because he kept turning up the thermostat on the water heater. If I complained to him, he would leave his taps on deliberately, causing even more damage. I had even called the police but they were worse than useless. Why the landlords wouldn’t evict him was beyond me.

            The events of the last year were still going through my mind. After about an hour sitting on the settee, when the ashtray was full of butts, I had come to no definite conclusion.   

I was not as convinced as Jenkins about the future; I went to the bedroom and removed a box from the top of the wardrobe. Inside was my father’s kukri knife, with its sharp, curved twelve inch blade, that he had obtained from a Ghurkha as a souvenir of his time in the marines during World War II. I placed the knife on the bedside table.

            When I went out, which wasn’t as often as previously, I would be constantly on the lookout for any threat. If I saw a black man walking along the street towards me, I would wonder if this was the one, and cross to the other side.

            But after a while, I started to relax. Nothing had happened since the trial; it seemed that any threat existed solely in my mind. However, I still slept with the kukri knife on the bedside table.

            It was about three months after the trial; on a Saturday night. I was slumped in front of the TV, tired and pissed, after another day spent clearing up after a water leak from the flat upstairs. I was watching some rubbish singing contest on ITV. I would rather have been watching a movie, but the guy was playing his music. So, it was either this, or a dance show on the BBC. Saturday evening TV had really gone downhill. I had had a few beers but they had done nothing to improve my mood.

            The kukri knife lay on the coffee table.

            There was a knock at the flat door. I got up, and after a moment’s hesitation opened it. A gun was pointing directly into my face; Jahmal Hudson’s grinning face behind it.

            I backed up into the hall; Hudson following. Keeping the gun pointed at me, he closed the door and turned the lock. He gestured with the gun towards the lounge door. I had no option but to proceed. I could feel anger building within me; this guy had turned my life upside down for over a year and here he was again. The guy upstairs turned his music up even louder.

            Why hadn’t he shot me out of hand? Maybe he wasn’t here to kill me. But, if not, what was he here for?

            I carefully lowered myself onto the settee. The kukri knife was a few inches from my hand but I made no effort to reach for it; I didn’t even look at it. He would be able to shoot faster than I could grab it. Hudson dropped into a chair, keeping his eyes on me.

            He had become relaxed; he was so confident in his position. Although he still held the gun, it was resting on the arm of the chair. I chanced a quick glance at the knife. Could I get it and use it before he could shoot me?

            “Would you like a drink?” I asked. “I certainly feel like one.”

             He looked at the sideboard where an unopened six pack stood and nodded.

            I stood up slowly, and passing the side table, went to the sideboard. I pulled out two cans and handed one to him. To open the ring pull, he had to take his hand off the gun. At that moment, I dropped the other can, grabbed the knife and, twisting round, slashed it down on his wrist.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your point of view, the blade of the knife was not that sharp; although he was cut, he kept his hand. As he screamed in agony, I grabbed the gun.

“On the floor, fucker,” I yelled.

He looked at me incredulously as his blood dripped on the carpet.

“On the floor,” I repeated, backing away from him, the gun level. To my amazement, my hands were steady. “On your stomach with your hands above your head.”

He had no choice.

“You are a dead man,” he said. I was surprised that his voice was so still and calm.

“So this is self defence.”

I walked over to him, placed the gun against the nape of his neck and pulled the trigger. In the confined space of the lounge it sounded like a bomb going off. I wondered if the guy upstairs had heard it over his music.

Hudson jerked once and then lay still. The gun slipped from my hand and landed next to him.

I went out into the hall, unlocking and opening the front door.

When DI Jenkins and his team arrived, I was sitting on the settee drinking the beer. I felt calmer and more relaxed that I had for a long time. On the TV, Simon Cowell was reducing a female singer to tears all in the name of entertainment. The knife and the gun lay on the floor where I had dropped them. Jenkins took the scene in at a glance.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Then formally, “Michael Ross, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence.....”

The CPS decided they had enough evidence for a charge of murder; which my solicitor says would be dropped if I were to plead guilty to manslaughter. I declined. I want my day in court.

So, now I sit in prison, on remand. Several of Jahmal Hudson’s fellow gang members are in here, either serving sentences or on remand, so I’ve been segregated for my own safety. Yep, I ‘m locked up with the paedos and the rapists. My solicitor says it will be about a year before I come to trial. Still I’ve plenty of books to read and there is a TV; I can even watch Sky Sports which I couldn’t do in the flat as the landlord wouldn’t allow satellite dishes.

Not that I would have anything to go back to even if I were acquitted. The night after it was announced that I had been charged with Jahmal Hudson’s murder, the flat had been firebombed. Everything I owned was gone. The fire had even spread to the flat upstairs; the guy had been out, but he won’t be playing his music loud anytime soon.

Being in the wrong place at the wrong time can change your life. I don’t regret killing Jahmal Hudson; he had killed in front of me, had probably killed before and would almost certainly have killed again. I am sure he would have killed me. The fact that the legal system couldn’t deal with him is my only disappointment.

Now, I have to rely on that same legal system to determine my future; if, after the jury have reached their verdict, I have to go to prison, so be it.

I still believe that I did the right thing.

I have to.