by Ros Carne
The interview room was just big enough to fit four metal chairs around a grey rectangular table and was illuminated by a single glaring strip-light. Natasha, who’d arrived at the court a few minutes before Mel, followed her into the room and sat down. She opened her laptop, took out her copy of the instructions and waited. Her hair was tied back into a knot, accentuating her sharp features and her wide, clear forehead.
The guard brought in Conrad Stevens, a lightly built man of thirty-two. He hadn’t yet made a statement and Mel would need to work out his defence. He was charged with assaulting his girlfriend, Lily Parsons, who’d sustained a broken arm and a black eye. Stevens had told his solicitor that he never intended to hurt Lily. If her arm was broken, he reckoned it was because she had brittle bones. They’d had a row. She could be violent herself, and he might have pushed her in self-defence. He’d given the solicitor a photo to show a bruise on his leg where he said she had kicked him. He didn’t know why she had fallen. They’d been in the kitchen. Maybe the floor was wet.
The prosecution had provided a photograph of the injured Miss Parsons. It might have been a pretty face. It was hard to say, given the state of her right eye, which was closed, purple and puffed. Her other eye appeared blank and almost colourless. Her hair was brown with pink streaks, long and lank. Her right arm was in plaster. Mel couldn’t help feeling this was not the first time Lily had suffered physical abuse.
She told Stevens that she’d seen the pictures and heard what had happened in a note from his solicitor. She understood there’d been a row and needed to hear his story in more detail.
What followed was confused, rambling and contradictory. Mel took down the odd note as she listened, conscious of Natasha tapping away beside her. Lily had been flirting with some men in the pub. She’d had too much to drink and Stevens had brought her home, taking her into the kitchen for a coffee. Then she’d started on him, accused him of treating her like shit.
‘She went fucking crazy. Said I never let her do anything. Like I was trying to control her. As if. No one can control that woman. I never hit her. She was standing by the knife rack. I’m not that stupid.’
‘Miss Parsons said you grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. Then you threw her to the floor.’
‘Fucking liar.’
‘She says you then pulled her up and hurled her against the counter.’
‘More fucking lies. I never hurled her anywhere. Might’ve pushed her. Like I said she was winding me up, provoking me.’
‘I’m afraid, Mr Stevens, provocation is no defence.’
‘You telling me to go guilty?’
‘I’m not telling you anything. Your plea is your own choice. I can raise provocation, but only if you plead guilty. If you decide to plead not guilty I can’t advance provocation as a defence.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘It’s not a matter of what I want. If you have a defence I’ll put that to Miss Parsons. Then you’ll give evidence and the court will hear your version of events.’
‘What do you mean if I have a defence?’
‘Before we decide on plea I need to know exactly what happened.’
She was handling this badly, explaining procedure in too much detail, failing to get his story out. It was poor practice, sending them round in circles and she was conscious of Natasha sitting next to her, taking down every word on her laptop. As a pupil, Natasha was the most junior member of the defence team, yet Mel couldn’t dispel a disquieting sense that roles had been reversed, that Natasha was the one doing the supervising. Stevens had gone quiet. His eyes darted round the room and rested on Natasha.
‘You heard me. What do you think?’
‘I can’t really…’ Natasha started.
‘Miss Baker is here to listen and take notes,’ interrupted Mel. ‘She and I will discuss your case later, but it is easier for all of us if we don’t confuse the situation with two points of view at this stage.’ She nodded at him. ‘Do go on.’
Stevens’ story involved another man, text messages between that man and Lily, flirting in a pub. The interview room was hot and her client’s voice was flat and slow, mildly soporific. Mel had not slept well last night. She’d woken early, worrying about Jacob. His GCSEs were starting at the end of May, but he had taken to going out more, staying out late. On Saturday he had rung from a friend’s house telling her he planned to sleep over. It was midnight and safer to stay out than walk back alone from the tube. She’d asked to speak to the friend’s parents and been told they were asleep. What could she do? After one glass of wine too many she had no wish to drive across London to pick him up, if he was indeed where he said he was. This morning she’d left him huddled in a dressing gown at the kitchen table. He had a timetabled class at nine a.m., but she wasn’t going to risk being late by driving him in again.
Conrad Stevens’ voice droned on. Then there was a slight change of tone and Mel realised she’d been drifting. She clicked back into the moment.
‘Then she gets up off the floor and goes and sits down. I’m not about to hang around and have her shout at me, so I’m off down the pub.’
‘So, even though she was injured, you chose to leave her,’ said Mel.
‘How’d I know she was injured? Like I said, she got up off the floor. Next thing she’s sitting on a chair.’
‘And before the fall, you say she threatened you. Is that right?’
‘I told her to mind her mouth. She was accusing me of all sorts.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Shagging one of her mates.’
‘Is that true?’
‘What’s it matter?’
‘If it’s true it could support your case. It gives her a motive for threatening you.’
‘Yeah, I suppose. Mind you, I don’t want to look like a bastard in court.’
‘Better to look like a bastard than go to prison.’
She could hear her own voice rising. Was it irritation? She had never messed up like this in conference before. Stevens was not an easy client. But then clients were never easy. He might not be very articulate, but he was no fool. They carried on, Stevens giving contradictory versions of the events, Mel trying to pin him down.
‘So why didn’t you call an ambulance?’
Natasha glanced up then returned to her notes.
‘I already told you. I thought she was all right. I went down the pub. Had enough of her fucking games. When I got back she’d disappeared. Mad bitch.’
‘It would be better not to call her names in court.’
‘It’s what she is.’
‘I suggest you refer to her as Lily.’
‘She fucking provoked me.’
‘Mr Stevens. We have already been over this point. Let’s get back to the injuries. Something must have propelled her pretty hard to cause them. Was it you?’
‘I thought you were on my side.’
‘Did you hit her?’
‘No way.’
‘Push her?’
‘Might’ve done. She bloody pushed me.’
‘The injuries need to be explained.’
‘Like I said, she fell over. I thought I was innocent till proved guilty.’
‘True. But Miss Parsons has made certain allegations. We need to answer them.’
‘Then fucking answer them. You’re my brief. I told you what happened. I’m not pleading guilty. I’m not going inside. I got kids. I got a job. My employer’s keeping it for me while I go through this court crap. You got to get me off.’
‘Your plea is your decision, Mr Stevens. I can advise you. But I can’t mislead the court. We need to prepare a statement. It doesn’t have to be very detailed. But it has to give some idea of your case.’
‘So, what you advising?’
‘You need to stick with your story. And in five minutes I need to tell the judging what you’re pleading.’
The trouble was she was increasingly unsure what his story was. She should be taking him through it,
point by point but she had allowed her mind to wander. Fatal. She had lost the thread.
‘Tell ’em I’m not guilty. And bloody get me out of here.’
‘I’ll do my best to get you bail. Of course, you’ll have to undertake not to go near your girlfriend’s flat.’
Mel glanced at her watch. Ten twenty-five. They were on at ten thirty. She put her head round the door and called the guard. She promised Stevens she’d do her best to get bail, reminding him he didn’t have to say anything this morning except tell the court he intended to plead not guilty.
* * *
The hearing went by as anticipated. Conrad Stevens pleaded not guilty. Bail was refused, and the case was listed for two days in three weeks’ time. Mel’s head was banging. She had handled this badly. Maybe Andy had been right, it was too early to come back to work. The client was all over the place, but she should have controlled him. She still didn’t have clear instructions. And Natasha had been listening to every word. First the Patel case, now this.
They walked in silence to the robing room. Natasha still hadn’t said a word. Mel threw off her wig and gown and bundled them into her wheelie. She shook out her hair and brushed it back to life. Then she turned to Natasha who was waiting beside her.
‘How d’you think it went?’ she asked. She was apprehensive about the reply but she couldn’t ignore her pupil.
‘Hard to say,’ replied Natasha. ‘Is it OK if I send over my notes when we get back to chambers? Or do you want them now?’
‘Later will be fine. But I’d like to know what you think. He wasn’t an easy client.’
‘True. Only when he said Lily was by the knife rack. I thought you might have asked more about that. I mean, given he’s relying on self-defence.’
Mel allowed herself a moment’s thought. It was a good point but she didn’t want to get into discussion.
‘Possibly.’
She was wondering whether she should say more when Natasha added, ‘And the advice on plea. I thought that was supposed to be left to the end.’
Mel felt a stab of irritation at this young woman, fresh from Bar School who thought she could do so much better. She felt like grabbing those delicate shoulders and shaking them. Let Natasha try sorting out a difficult client a week after she’d been chucked on the ground and threatened with rape. She said, ‘Ideally yes. But it can be tricky when a client asks at the outset.’ And when your mind is wondering and you’re only half-present.
‘I guess it can be.’ Mel was endorsing her papers and tucking them into her bag when Natasha spoke again. ‘One more thing. When Stevens said he thought Lily was going to kill him…’
But he hadn’t said that. Or had he? Could it have been when she was thinking about Jacob? She looked up at Natasha whose face was blank and inscrutable as ever. ‘I don’t recall him saying that.’
‘Perhaps you missed it. I wondered why you didn’t pick up it. Was it because you were worried about him changing his instructions again? Anyway, I’ve written it all down.’
‘Excellent.’
She zipped up her bag and reached for her anorak. It was all she was prepared to say. She couldn’t remember Stevens saying anything like that but she wasn’t going to admit she had missed it. Natasha might have made it up. She wouldn’t put it past her.
‘I’m not sure how you’re going to work out a defence statement from all that,’ added Natasha.
‘Oh, we’ll keep it general.’
Mel was ready to go but Natasha was still packing her papers and laptop into her shoulder bag. Then she sat down and took out a large black wallet. She unzipped it and removed a small gadget with a display screen, a strip of paper and a white plastic object, which looked like a fat pen. She stuck the paper in the gadget and pressed the pen thing against her finger. A drop of blood appeared, and she smeared it on the paper strip. She glanced at the screen before packing everything away. All this was done with cool deliberation and Mel couldn’t help staring. Natasha’s hands were smooth, pale and manicured, only the tips of her fingers looked calloused and discoloured. From the constant pinpricks, Mel presumed.
‘Don’t you find it a hassle? Having to check all the time?’ she asked.
‘It’s OK. I’m used to it,’ said Natasha, putting the gadget away and getting out one of her energy bars. ‘I’m planning on buying a different system when the cheques start rolling in. Are you going back to chambers?’
‘Yep. Need to put a face round the door occasionally.’
Mel was standing by the door of the robing room, ready to go but Natasha, who hadn’t moved, said, ‘Give me a couple of minutes.’
Mel felt a twinge of irritation that her pupil, who should have been her shadow, saw fit to keep her supervisor waiting. Next, Natasha unclipped her hair, brushing it back and swirling it up again, this time in a looser style, using a big tortoiseshell clip. The style suited her. It was softer while still highlighting her long neck, delicate jaw and neat ears. Mel was about to ask about the finger pricking and this new system she planned to buy, conscious of how little she knew about this condition which her pupil lived with from day to day. But the questions felt too big and she didn’t want to start that conversation now.
She watched as Natasha got ready. If you inspected hard you might focus on her blemishes, the slightly crooked mouth, the tiniest hint of a bend in her slender nose as if it had once been broken. But the overall effect was arresting, near symmetry with a seductive hint of imbalance. Her eyes were a deep turquoise blue, almost unnatural in their brilliance. And then Mel realised. They were indeed unnatural. When she first saw Natasha in the interview room at Uxbridge Family Court the eyes had been a pale blue grey. Natasha must be wearing lenses. Mel had no idea of their real colour.
‘Ready,’ said Natasha.
They set off together across the reception area to the front door, down the stone steps, along the long path lined with huge dark rhododendrons. There were no more questions about the case and Mel was disinclined to revert to a difficult topic. It started to rain, and Mel pulled up the hood of her anorak. Natasha, who was wearing an expensive-looking belted raincoat, offered to share her umbrella.
‘No, it’s fine. The tube’s five minutes down the road.’
They walked on, Natasha’s presence beside her an invisible stain on the morning air. The diabetes business gave Natasha a vulnerability that ought to have called out Mel’s sympathy, if not compassion. Instead it left her cold, even irritated. It must be a bore, but it was not a reason to like her. Anyway, it was hard to like someone who had just seen you at your worst. It was much easier to dislike this woman with her neat hair, her smart understated clothes, her obviously expensive handbag. Everything was fine with Natasha, no cracks in her shiny surface, only those calloused fingertips, and Mel had missed the moment.
They arrived at the tube, Mel drenched and exhausted, her pupil still full of energy in her dry, well-cut coat. As they waited in silence for the train Mel remembered she had said nothing about the missing Attendance Note. She’d been meaning to ask Natasha about it, but she been focusing on Stevens and the moment hadn’t arisen. In fact, there were a few things she’d like to ask Natasha.
‘How about a drink after work?’ she suggested. ‘We were supposed to have a meeting at the outset but somehow there was never a right time.’
‘OK,’ replied Natasha, though she looked surprised.
‘Great. I’ve got a few papers to attend to in chambers and expect you have too. Five thirty at Daly’s any good?
‘Five thirty it is.’
The train came roaring into the station. They sat side by side in the empty carriage as it hurtled back towards Chancery Lane. Natasha took out her iPhone and tucked a wireless headphone behind her ear. It must be a good quality system. Mel could never hear anything through her own earbuds in the noisy tube. She pulled out her Kindle and looked at the thriller she’d started a couple of weeks ago. She was still struggling to follow the plot. The words swam across the page.
Chapter Eleven
Natasha
‘It’s always been my ambition,’ she said, ‘ever since I was a kid.’
‘You were brought up in care, right?’ said Mel.
‘Till I was twelve. Then I was adopted. How did you know?’
‘It was on your application. You must have thought it relevant.’
‘I don’t know if it’s relevant. I just… well, I don’t hide it.’
It had got her the pupillage. Natasha knew that. She hadn’t mentioned the adoption on the application form. Just written that she’d been in care for ten years on the box marked ‘other relevant considerations’. She might as well get something out of those miserable years. Alisha told her they had been looking for another ethnic-minority candidate. Georgie had persuaded them they shouldn’t overlook well-qualified white women from disadvantaged backgrounds.
She and Mel were tucked into a booth at the back of Daly’s Wine Bar on the corner of Essex Street and the Strand. The place was surprisingly empty, perhaps because it was a warm evening. She would stay for one drink. A run in the park would be good, but Mel had asked her to join her and you needed to keep your supervisor sweet. Natasha was keenly aware that Mel hadn’t warmed to her in their first two weeks. It was time to turn things round.
So, over a glass of expensive Chardonnay, she spoke about her diabetes, how she’d discovered it at twelve, around the time of the adoption, the weight loss and repeated infections, the mood swings and exhaustion which everyone had put down to adolescence, that hot day at school when she’d collapsed and been rushed to hospital. She told of the doctor with the long face who’d talked down to her as she lay on the hard bed attached to a drip, her confusion at the diagnosis. Mel nodded. Natasha did not describe the feeling in her stomach as she sat in a fluffy dressing gown in the room off the children’s ward, staring at teddy bears and plastic toys, listening to warnings about possible blindness, kidney failure and amputations. Never mind that such outcomes were rare and could be prevented by careful management. All she could remember now was her insides turning, her fury that she had been picked to go through this nightmare.