Subpoena Colada Read online

  SUBPOENA COLADA

  By Mark Dawson

  Also by Mark Dawson

  The Art of Falling Apart

  The Black Mile

  and coming soon

  The Costellos

  Murder Mile

  To be added to Mark Dawson’s mailing list, visit http://eepurl.com/sh_kb

  Praise for The Art of Falling Apart

  ‘Ultra-addictive, super-stylish – this is a viciously good novel.’ Toby Litt

  ‘A thrillingly accurate glimpse into the dark depraved heart of rock and roll.’ Xfm

  ‘A talent to be watched.’ Birmingham Post

  ‘A brilliant debut novel from a very promising writer.’ Subject

  ‘Grips you like the Boston Strangler’s handshake – essential.’ Later

  ‘An impressive first novel – edgy vibrancy.’ Manchester Evening Post

  ‘A classic.’ RTE

  Praise for Subpoena Colada

  “A genuine can’t-put-it-down book that you can really get your teeth into.” Punch

  “250 pages of tube-gripping action.” In Brief

  “A thrillingly accurate glimpse into the depraved heart of rock and roll.” Xfm

  The right of Mark Dawson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  FOR MY FAMILY

  ‘In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.’ ANDY WARHOL

  WEDNESDAY (EARLIER)

  OFFICER OF THE COURT

  Court 39 was full of lawyers, court ushers, pressmen and public gallery addicts. The prospect of legal fireworks or, better yet, celebrity gossip, had sharpened the atmosphere’s edge, and the congregation was watching avidly. It was the dog-end of an Indian summer, a sluggish, stifling afternoon, and heat sweltered through the crowded courtroom in sultry, shimmering waves. One of the ushers sponged sweat off his forehead with a damp handkerchief and those unwise enough to wear coloured shirts had their discomfort expressed by dark half-moons of sweat at their armpits.

  In spite of the soporific effect of the temperature, everyone was held rapt by the legal drama unfolding before us. The staid atmosphere of the Royal Courts of justice had been electrified by the glitz and the glamour of the Black Dahlia trial. Nothing excites the public better than a messy celebrity feud, and this was as messy as it got. For the two weeks since the case began, this had been the hottest ticket in town.

  The clock showed 4.10 p.m.; a long twenty minutes before we retired for the day. I was drowsy and sweaty and another all-night session of debriefing and preparation lay ahead. Court hearings place heavy burdens on the lawyers preparing them; an hour on the office couch was the only rest I had to look forward to.

  This was the biggest court in the building. The circus decamped and moved here after the first day had to be adjourned because of the scrum in the corridors kicking and shoving its way inside. I’d never been involved in a case that had aroused interest like this one did; the media couldn’t get enough of it. A thicket of reporters waited outside our office on the off-chance that one of the participants in the legal pantomime would pay us a visit. I lost count of the number of calls I fielded from reporters anxious for a quote on the case, even from a low-life lawyer like me.

  THE CONTESTANTS

  In the blue corner, the Defendant: Brian Fey, represented by my firm, White Hunter.

  Brian had taken everything in his stride. A couple of hundred people packed into a courtroom was nothing compared to the concerts the Black Dahlias had played during their glory days. Concerts I saw, events that lit up my youth, lit up the youths of so many others like me: Glasto ‘91, Reading ‘92, Wembley ‘95. Concerts they played before they split up.

  In the red corner, the Plaintiffs: the rest of the Dahlias, backed up by a rich record label and a team of crack lawyers from the super-expensive firm, Pattersons.

  Our QC, Gordon Rittenhouse, called Brian to give his evidence.

  ‘As you know, Brian,’ Rittenhouse began, ‘we’re here because your ex-colleagues and their record label has alleged that the payment to you earlier this year of £500,000 was a mistake. They say you ought to be forced to pay the money back. You don’t agree, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Brian said, evenly. ‘The money’s mine.’ To our collective relief Brian - with Rittenhouse’s gentle prompting - put on a good show. The past week had been spent priming him with the questions Rittenhouse was going to ask. It seemed like the time had been well spent - Brian answered the questions, didn’t elaborate, didn’t get excited, just like we taught him. And he provoked slightly self-conscious laughter, even from the bench, when he explained the band’s early raison d’etre: ‘I suppose our main objective was to get famous, get loads of girls and be The Beatles.’ He smiled bashfully at this, and you could sense the courtroom warming to him.

  It was working.

  Rittenhouse finished his questions and the QC acting for the band got to his feet. They’d instructed William Dicey, a Rottweiler with a well-deserved reputation for savaging Witnesses. This was always going to be the acid test.

  No intro, no pleasantries, no friendly banter - Dicey launched straight in with, ‘Mr Fey, isn’t it true to say you decided to keep the money because you want to punish the other members of the band for forcing you to leave? Wouldn’t that be a more accurate thing to say?’

  The hacks in the public gallery all pricked up their ears. Like sharks, they could smell blood in the water from miles away.

  ‘No, that’s not true,’ Brian replied. He looked over at me for support and I nodded grimly. By the time I remembered to smile it was too late; he’d looked away again.

  ‘It’s not true?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘I see.’ Dicey faked a puzzled expression, then affected taking notes, then looked up again. ‘But isn’t it true to say that you feel you’ve been badly treated by your former colleagues? That you’ve been let down?’

  ‘They haven’t been fair to me, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I think it’s rather more than that, Mr Fey,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it?’

  Where was this line of questioning going? I thought we’d already spotted the potential ambushes, and prepared stock answers.

  ‘I noticed,’ Dicey said when Brian clammed up, ‘that you gave an interview to a Sunday newspaper. It was published last weekend, and a very interesting piece it was. If you don’t mind I’d like to read out an extract to the court. Then I’d like to hear what you’ve got to say about it.’

  An usher scurried down from the bench to deliver photocopies of the article to Brian, Rittenhouse and the Judge, Mr Justice Robinson. Dicey fished out a pair of spectacles and pushed them onto the end of his long nose. He slowly flicked through a folder on his desk and by craning my neck I could see the page he settled on was of copied newsprint, large chunks picked out in yellow highlighter. He unclipped the ring binder and took out the page.

  HOOK…

  Holding it in front of him, with one hand folded behind his back, he said, ‘This is a direct quote from the interview. In answer to a question about your feelings towards the rest of the band - the Black Dahlias - you said, and I quote: "I can’t believe they’d do something like this to me. Is that the kind of thing you do to a friend?" Mr Fey, do you remember saying that?’

  ‘I said something like that,’ Brian admitted. ‘I don’t remember it exactly.’

  ‘Look at the article. You can see where I’
m reading from, can’t you?’

  Brian nodded. He was following it with his finger. ‘You were asked what your feelings were towards this case. You said, quote: "I don’t care whether I win or lose. I’m not paying back the money because it’s mine. If they’re so desperate to get rid of me, they can. I can’t stop them doing that, but there’s no way I’m paying back the cash. They can" - ahem - "F-off." I’m paraphrasing here very slightly, Mr Fey, as you chose to use colourful language not suited to this court. But, in general terms, you said that too, didn’t you?’

  Brian floundered: ‘I don’t remember… Journalists sometimes monkey around with what you say to them, twist everything around, I can’t-’

  ‘I think you do remember, don’t you, Mr Fey?’

  LINE…

  Brian started to stutter something, but Dicey cut him off.

  ‘This interview caught you at your most candid and honest, didn’t it, Mr Fey? More candid and honest than you’ve so far chosen to be today, or at any other time during these proceedings. Isn’t it true to say that you hate the fact you’ve been forced to leave a highly successful and profitable business? That you hate the fact that your glamorous lifestyle has been threatened. Isn’t that really the case?’

  Brian gripped the brass guard rail that ran around the witness box so tightly that his knuckles went white.

  ‘Isn’t it true to say that you greedily seized upon an honest mistake when you saw a chance for one last big pay-day? At its most basic level, This is a case of theft, isn’t it, Mr Fey? This is daylight robbery.’

  Brian looked lost. He began, ‘No, it’s not-’

  ‘But it’s not just about the money, is it, Mr Fey?

  This is about settling a score. About revenge. You want to make your old friends pay for what they did to you. You’ve been wronged and, by thunder, you’re going to make them regret it.’

  That did it. Brian stabbed a finger at Dicey and said, ‘How’d you feel if you were suddenly forced to stop doing something you’ve loved doing for fifteen years?’

  ‘What I would feel is beside the point.’

  ‘Let me tell you,’ Brian said. ‘It feels fucking awful.’

  A flutter of commotion from the public gallery. Mr Justice Robinson appealed for silence.

  ‘Mr Fey,’ the Judge said, ‘please be more careful with your choice of language.’ I watched as reporters accelerated their shorthand notes, taking verbatim transcripts for tomorrow’s papers. ‘You are now in a court of law. Language you choose to use in your day-to-day life might not always be appropriate here. Please bear that in mind.’

  Brian just looked down at his shoes but it was easy to see his blood was pumping hotly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly.

  … AND SINKER

  Dicey went for the throat. ‘You kept the money because you want to punish your ex-friends for firing you from the band. Isn’t it true that you’re determined to take advantage of an honest mistake made by a member of staff at the record company? And isn’t it true that you won’t pay back the advance, even if this court orders you to do so? Isn’t that true, Mr Fey?’ Dicey laid on the contempt with a trowel. ‘And isn’t it true that you hate the rest of the band and that you’ve enjoyed putting them to the time, trouble and inconvenience of bringing these proceedings against you?’

  ‘Yes,’ shouted Brian, all the careful hours of coaching back in the office disintegrating in that single moment.

  He was bloodless with fury. ‘Yes, it’s true. I want to punish them. What they’ve done to me’s not right. It’s not about the money or revenge. It’s the fucking principle. They shouldn’t be allowed to do what they’ve done.’

  I couldn’t stop myself lowering my head into my hands as the court exploded into pandemonium. We all knew Brian had a quick temper, but this… this was turning into a disaster.

  There were shouts and exclamations as Dicey turned to junior counsel, a tight smile on his face. They knew the case was theirs now. Reporters dashed outside to make hold-the-front-page-type calls back to their news desks:

  BRIAN FEY ADMITS HE STOLE MONEY FROM EX·FRIENDS

  EX-DAHLIA FEY IN FOUL-MOUTHED COURT OUTRAGE

  BAD BOY BRIAN THROWS IT ALL AWAY

  The Judge roared for silence but no one was listening.

  I looked up at the rest of the band, sitting in the pews behind their expensive lawyers. They were doing a bad job of hiding their jubilation.

  There was only ever going to be one outcome after that. Brian’s case was founded on the already shaky proposition that he was entitled to the money because he had contributed to the creation of the band’s latest record. Brian’s angry confession, plus later admissions about his minimal involvement in the record, meant the final outcome was severe, onerous and inevitable.

  ‘Mr Fey,’ said Mr Justice Robinson at the conclusion of his judgment, six days later, ‘I have no hesitation in finding that you have, in effect, stolen money from your ex-colleagues. You have behaved dishonestly, disloyally, and with scant regard to the friendship one assumes you once shared. It is my judgment, therefore, that you should immediately pay back the £500,000, and also that you should pay the legal costs that they have incurred.’

  The grand total, when White Hunter’s fees were added to Brian’s other liabilities, would eventually top £900,000.

  Money he didn’t have.

  I got the blame, of course. Everyone needs a scapegoat and I was it. The partners told me I should have kept my client under closer control and should have prevented that damaging interview. They said I hadn’t prepared Brian properly for the witness box. He should never have been allowed to lose his cool like that. It was all my fault.

  Only Brian, who had the most to lose, absolved me from any contribution to his downfall.

  ‘If it was anyone’s fault,’ he said to me afterwards, ‘it was mine. I lost the case, not you. I did the interview. I lost it in the box. So don’t beat yourself up about it, OK? After all- it’s only money.’

  Kind words then, given that Brian lost everything in the weeks that followed. And, after everything that happened to him subsequently, he was still the only person who didn’t blame me.

  SUNDAY

  A CELEBRITY DEATH

  I hear at the party that John French has been found dead. The John French, bassist and new vocalist of the Black Dahlias, Brian Fey’s replacement in the band. His body was discovered by a friend two hours ago and now the police are swarming all over his flat.

  I try not to pay too much attention and concentrate on my drink, but it’s difficult to avoid being interested in something as juicy as this. I shuffle along the bar to eavesdrop the gossip.

  Hip and trendy Soho. Such a cliché. Ex-sweatshop transformed into modish minimalist lounge bar by society It-girl with too much money and too much time. Art deco steel and brushed chrome. Cold and sterile. The usual crowd is here: media figureheads, record company A&R, the young and the beautiful, the old and the rich.

  I look around: Richard Branson and Chris Evans; Liam and Noel Gallagher; Sharleen Spiteri and Sophie Ellis Bextor; Jodie Kidd and Sophie Dahl; Gail Porter and Jade Jagger; Rachel Hunter and Patsy Kensit; David Baddiel and Steve Coogan; hip young things from the soaps.

  Lots of lovely celebrities.

  We’ve all been comped for the launch party of the big new album. For a young punk band - Monster Munch, the next Next Big Thing - are about to release their debut. Work obliges me to show up to these hideous occasions, on the sniff for new clients. I’ve been to parties like this a million times before and they definitely are not my scene. Insincerity clogs the air, a miasma of phoniness and mendacity.

  A few minor stars stopped by earlier, just long enough to be noticed by the tabloid hacks before leaving for more fashionable pursuits. Now the party has undergone the inevitable metamorphosis from hip to unhip. There was a fifteen-minute envelope earlier when this might possibly have been the most happening event in London - three Big Brother evictees plus both Posh and Beck
s were in attendance - but that was hours ago, or at least it feels that way now.

  WHY I’M HERE

  Three reasons:

  Reason No. 1

  I’m avoiding home.

  Reason No.2

  I don’t want to be sober. I don’t want to be awake for hours over-analyzing the causes of my new status: dumped.

  (Rewind: six weeks ago. My long-term girlfriend dumps me for no reason whatsoever. Hannah Wilde. Yes, that Hannah Wilde. Hannah Wilde the actress. Hannah Wilde the all-round semi-famous person. One day she was there, mooching around with the kind of edgy neuroticism I’d come to interpret as normal behaviour, the next day she wasn’t. More about Hannah later, but for present purposes take it from me that it has seriously messed me up.

  Let’s be honest about it: I’m still in a bit of a state.

  And when I’m forced to return to the flat tonight I’ll have had the opportunity to protect myself properly against the ghosts flapping around the empty rooms because, ladies and gentlemen, I intend to be completely off my head.)

  Reason No.3

  I thought Brian might like the chance to mix it up with his old crowd again. Davey, his new manager, had called on Friday to tell me he’d been depressed, and he knew Brian and I got on well. ‘Take him out,’ he suggested to me. ‘Loosen him up. He needs to relax.’

  Nerves before the release of his new album and the solo tour? It figured. So a couple of drinks might take the edge off things.