“And of the four who were found innocent, how many were later—”
“Mr. Carman, where is this leading?”
“I am just trying to establish, my lord, that Mr. Collier doesn’t make mistakes. It was simply—”
“Stop there, Mr. Carman. Mr. Collier, you will not answer that question.”
Sebastian realized that the jury would know only too well what Mr. Carman was trying to establish.
“No more questions, my lord.”
* * *
When the court reconvened at two o’clock that afternoon, the judge invited Mr. Gray to begin his cross-examination. If he was surprised by the defense counsel’s opening remarks, he didn’t show it.
“Mr. Collier, I don’t have to remind a man of your professional standing that you are still under oath.”
The customs officer bristled. “No, you don’t, Mr. Gray.” The judge raised an eyebrow.
“I’d like to return to the tape recording, Mr. Collier.” The witness nodded brusquely. “Did you find your conversation with the anonymous informant somewhat unusual?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question,” said Collier, sounding defensive.
“Were you not surprised that he sounded like a well-educated man?”
“What makes you say that, Mr. Gray?”
“When replying to the switchboard operator’s question, ‘May I ask who’s calling,’ he said, ‘No, you may not.’” The judge smiled. “And didn’t you also find it interesting that the informant never once swore or used any bad language during the conversation?”
“Not many people swear at customs officers, Mr. Gray.”
“And did you get the feeling he was reading from a script?”
“That’s not uncommon. The pros know that if they stay on the line for more than three minutes we have a good chance of tracing the call, so they don’t waste words.”
“Words like, ‘No, you may not?’ And didn’t you find the caller’s expression ‘well known in the trade’ rather strange, given the circumstances?”
“I’m not sure I’m following you, Mr. Gray.”
“Then allow me to assist you, Mr. Collier. You have been a customs officer for the past twenty-seven years, as my learned friend kept reminding us. So I must ask you, under oath, with your extensive knowledge of the drugs world, have you ever come across the name of Hakim Bishara before?”
Collier hesitated for a moment, before he said, “No, I have not.”
“He wasn’t among the one hundred and fifty-nine drug smugglers you’ve arrested in the past?”
“No, sir.”
“And didn’t you find it a little strange, Mr. Collier, that the thirteen ounces of heroin were in a side pocket of his overnight bag and no attempt had been made to conceal them?”
“Mr. Bishara is clearly a confident man,” said Collier, sounding a little flustered.
“But not a stupid one. Even more inexplicable, to my mind, is the fact that the man who gave you the tip-off, the well-educated man, said, and I quote”—Gray paused to glance down at his yellow notepad—“‘He has thirteen ounces of heroin in his overnight bag.’ And thirteen ounces he had. Not fourteen. Not twelve. And, as promised, in his overnight bag.”
“Clearly the informant’s contact in Nigeria told him the exact amount of heroin he’d sold to Mr. Bishara.”
“Or the exact amount he’d arranged to have planted in Mr. Bishara’s bag?”
Collier gripped the sides of the witness box, but remained silent.