She gives a sad smile and I want to claw out her eyes with my fingernails.
‘You are a traumatised young woman who deserves our sympathy, but whatever your problems, you must not be allowed to bring down an innocent man.’
The jury’s faces turn to the accused, slumped in his chair, the patch of fluff between the two glossy stretches of his receding hairline stirring in the breeze from the air con. He looks up at them with wide, bewildered eyes. What did I do?
‘No further questions.’
Rauf is honourable enough not to say I told you so.
‘Surely,’ I rant, ‘the jury isn’t gullible enough to believe such convoluted nonsense?’ But it’s a rhetorical question. Of course they are. Juries will believe any old shit – look at O.J. – and I’ve made my living out of this fact.
I should have swallowed my pride and squeezed out some tears. I’ll make sure I put on a better performance in the public gallery, in case the jury looks over at me to gauge my reaction to any other evidence or witnesses, but Rauf doesn’t need to tell me I’ve missed my chance.
And there’s worse. Before we say goodbye I ask him why the defence barrister didn’t grill me about my sex life. Rauf says they’ve made it much tougher to go down that route. I should have known this. I should have found it out before I went shooting my mouth off to Daniel. They wouldn’t have been able to call him as a witness to my loose ways so there was no need to tell him anything.
Let alone everything.
Back at Abe’s flat that evening I experience my first unpleasant stirrings of doubt. I sluice them away with a bottle of wine.
The next morning I tell Jody and Mira I’m having breakfast with Rauf so as not to have to travel to the court with them, trying to keep the mask of unshakable confidence in place. I’ve lost track of the days, but a free paper I pick up on the bus tells me it’s a Thursday. Always my favourite day in Vegas. The weekend just starting to get going and the air throbbing with anticipation. Jackson has given me a six-month sabbatical. Others have taken over my cases and are, according to him, doing awesomely. That’ll teach me to think so much of myself. A little humility might have saved me yesterday’s car crash.
Over a lonely coffee in a greasy spoon around the back of the courthouse I resolve to try and let go a little, let the CPS do its job. I’ve done all I can, for better or worse: it’s up to them now to make the case. When I spot Rauf as we file back into court I don’t even ask for the sheet of the day’s proceedings.
There are the sounds of people settling, the clunks of knee against pew back, coughs and rustles, the slosh of the jury’s water bottles. Mira and Jody are already here, two pews behind me. I give them a quick smile, then sit down with my back to them.
The next prosecution witness is called, the policewoman who found me sobbing in the rugby club toilets, being comforted by a couple of the older wives.
After her it’s Elaine, one of the wives, who makes perfectly plain her distaste for Rob. Then the medical examiner and his sheaf of photographs.
I hope Jody doesn’t catch a glimpse of them as they are passed around the jury.
There are more photographs of the scene of the crime, my clothing and Rob’s, complete with ragged tears, lost buttons and stains; a few more witnesses, and then the prosecution case is closed.
It’s a strong one, and as we break for lunch, my confidence has bounced back enough to face Jody and Mira. We eat sandwiches in the little rose garden by the court and I pretend to fall asleep in the sun so as not to have to answer any of Mira’s questions.
When we get back it’s the accused’s turn to give evidence. As he stumps up to the witness box, the material of his suit pulling into wrinkles across his slab of a back, I remember the tackiness of his skin, the taste of salt when I bit him.
He gives his own account of the events of New Year’s Eve. It’s all pretty unbelievable stuff. The most unbelievable thing about it, of course, is that it’s the truth.
His barrister cross-examines him, and then it’s the CPS’s turn.
Is the court supposed to believe that I approached him out of the blue and asked him to have sex with me? And that I insisted we have intercourse outside even though the temperature was minus two degrees?
Is it correct that his girlfriend was present at the party?
How would he explain the fact that I was covered in mud and patches of my hair had been pulled out?
His answer, that I fell over crossing the pitch, and that my hair must have got pulled out because I’d asked him to be rough with me, draws gasps of disgust from the public gallery.
‘What, this rough?’ says the barrister, holding up the photo that made most of the jurors wince.
During the cross-examination the jury is increasingly restive, and by the end some of the women are glaring him with barely disguised loathing.
But all is not lost for him.
Next they bring in character witnesses who, to a man, insist upon what a great bloke he is. Salt of the earth. Heart of gold. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Etc. We hear about his trek across the Andes for Sports Relief, his commitment to the rugby team, how every Sunday he visits his granny in her nursing home.
And then we’re done. It’s all over apart from the summing-up by each side. The prosecution evidence was strong, but there’s no denying we are left with the impression of a confused drunken fool who made a terrible mistake.
As we file out of the court I put on a brave face for Jody and Mira but all my doubts have crept back in.
Rauf is waiting for me outside and I tell Mira and Jody I will see them back at home. His expression makes my heart sink into my shoes. Silently he leads me back to the witness room and closes the door behind him. I collapse onto the sofa, in dire need of whatever caffeine is left in the rat’s piss the machine provides.
And then his face splits into a grin.
I stare at him. ‘What? How was that not bad for us?’
He laughs then, and I want to hit him. ‘Seriously, Rauf. What the hell is so funny?’
‘Ah, come on, Miss Mackenzie, you’re the laywer!’
I fold my arms and glare at him.
‘They’ve introduced bad character reference for you, trying to make out that you like rough sex. And good character reference for him: all that shit about Granny Elsa. So …?’
‘So, what?’ I still want to slap him.
He grins. ‘So we get to introduce rebuttal evidence.’
My heart lifts, just for a moment, until I remember that I don’t change my gran’s nappy every weekend and my friends are not about to hop on a plane to tell the court what a truly saintly corporate lawyer I am.
‘Do we have any?’
His infuriating smile becomes sly. ‘Leave it with me.
So I do. I leave him to it and go off to enjoy my weekend, which is all the time the seriously pissed-off judge has given us to patch holes in our case. We should have given him warning in the prosecution case statement that we intended to do this, and he’s within his rights to refuse to allow it. But Rauf and the CPS barrister somehow work their charms on him, to the disgust of the defence barrister, who’s spitting blood as we file out of court.
Jody, Mira and I head straight for the station and by five o’clock we’re lying by the pool in a spa hotel in the middle of Kent. Mira, who must have sensed what the trial is taking out of us, has banned all conversation to do with the case, and we simply read, eat good food, drink decent wine, and watch videos of a laughing Flori, smeared in fruit puree.
Arriving back at St Jerome’s on Sunday night, my mood has lightened enough to gift me an unbroken night’s sleep, but when my alarm goes off on Monday morning the dread descends once more. Aside from whatever rebuttal evidence Rauf has managed to dredge up, we are left with the summing up and my victim impact statement. I must somehow manage to make myself cry. I have to. Or he walks.
On the way to the station I buy a pack of tissues – I can press them to my face to hide any lack of tears.<
br />
The courtroom is quieter this morning. The rubberneckers have heard all the titillating stuff and moved on to the child-murderer in the court next door.
The first few minutes are taken up by the CPS barrister’s creeping apology to the judge, who laps it up like a fat, cantankerous cat. All the while the defence barrister twitches in irritation, tapping her pen on the desk, and Rob sighs and shifts in his chair.
Finally the CPS barrister is ready to proceed.
He clears his throat, waiting for his audience to give him their full attention, and I remember the thrill of power this part always gave me. I can’t wait to get back to work. I hope Jackson has a decent case lined up for m—
‘I’d like to call Daniel Stillmans.’
There’s a moment’s silence, then white noise fills my head, so loud that I don’t hear the clip of his footsteps as he walks past me to take the stand. The chair creaks as he sits down, his blond hair catching a bar of light slanting in from the high windows.
No, oh no. He’s going to tell them everything I told him in the café. He’s been biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to blow the case apart.
‘Would you please tell the jury how you met Miss Mackenzie.’
Wait. Calm down. The prosecution has called him, not the defence. And there’s no way they could have known about him unless Daniel got in touch with them. Which means he’s on my side. Isn’t he?
‘On the plane from McCarran.’ His voice is clipped and professional.
The court is completely silent. All my attention is fixed on his face, willing him to turn and see the desperation in my eyes. Just get up and walk away. Please don’t do this to me.
‘We hit it off straightaway and over the ensuing weeks became close.’
I blink. He’s making it sound like we had a relationship. His handsome face is drawn. The fat girl in the wraparound dress can’t take her eyes off him.
‘And what happened after the night of the New Year party?’
This is it. I wince. Please, I think. Please don’t tell them …
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. ‘I’d planned to go with her, but Mags insisted I spend the night with my children.’
I stare at him.
‘They love New Year’s Eve and, well, it’s been a long time, what with my divorce.’
Rauf glances at me and I can almost feel him thrumming with excitement. Leave it with me.
One of the jurors shifts in his seat. Perhaps I’m not such a hard bitch after all.
‘If I’d gone it would never have happened. She would never have been … raped.’
For the first time he looks across at me. His eyes are shining. Christ, he’s good. Though I know it’s all an act, my heart balloons in my chest.
His head drops in an Oscar-worthy demonstration of shame and when he speaks again his voice is soft. ‘After that, things were different. She didn’t want me anywhere near her. What happened to her made her afraid to be close to someone again. She doesn’t trust anyone any more. She’s built a wall, I think, to protect herself.’
I feel the eyes of the court fixed on me, and for the first time since I set foot in the musty-smelling building, the emotion that blurs my vision is genuine. I let my eyes well up and over, before dabbing the tears away with my sleeve.
The defence brief sighs at this cheesy attempt at emotional manipulation and, in one fell swoop, alienates the whole courtroom.
‘So you noticed a definite change in Mary’s character,’ the barrister says, ‘before the attack, and after?’
I nod and the transcriber’s fingers fly.
‘And prior to this, you never saw any evidence of mental health problems or this “hatred of men” my opposing counsel implied?’
‘No. Of course not. That’s nonsense.’
‘The defendant has tried to convince us that Miss Mackenzie liked rough sex.’ He speaks the words with distaste. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask such an intimate question, but did Miss Mackenzie ever ask you to hurt her in any way during your lovemaking? To beat, or scratch, or bite her? Anything that might have caused the injuries you see here.’
He walks across the room and hands Daniel a sheaf of photographs. For a moment I’m glad Rauf didn’t tell me, because I’d never have allowed Daniel to see me that way.
He gives a sharp intake of breath.
Now that he knows how far I have gone in this deception, the depths I have stooped to, will he be disgusted? Will he feel he has to speak out?
He isn’t looking back at me.
Not the merest rustle of paperwork or murmur of breath disturbs the silence. It’s so quiet we all hear the slap of the photographs as he tosses them onto the floor. They fan out, face down with shame.
‘That,’ he says softly, ‘isn’t making love. It’s torture.’
The barrister walks over, picks them up and tucks them back into the file. Then he turns back to Daniel. ‘So that we can all cast these unpleasant aspersions aside, I must ask you to confirm whether Miss Mackenzie ever asked you to … hurt her in the ways depicted in the photographs.’
Daniel’s lip curls. ‘No. She did not.’
‘Thank you, and my apologies, but it is, alas, all too common in these cases, even in the twenty-first century, to see the victim branded as a liar, or mad, or an indulger in “rape fantasies”.’ His air speech marks perfectly communicate the contemptibility of this idea. ‘My commiserations that what happened that night destroyed this fledgling relationship, a normal, healthy relationship based on affection and respect, not sadistic torture fantasies.’
‘Thank you. I still hope that …’ Daniel swallows. ‘That one day, after all this is over, maybe we can start again.’
I can’t look away, even as I hear the fat girl sniffle. The defence brief is muttering to her client. Jody’s knee glances my own. The sun through the thin window is a blade of light bisecting the room between us.
And then tears are spilling down my cheeks. I fumble in my bag for the tissues, but it falls to the floor with a clunk. I am stripped bare in front of all these people. Eventually Jody hands me a handkerchief and I press it to my face, letting my hair fall like a curtain.
‘Thank you, Mr Stillmans,’ the barrister says. ‘Your witness.’
‘No questions, Your Honour.’
At the end of the day there’s a delay as both counsels speak to the judge about something. I have arranged to meet Rauf in the coffee bar around the corner and, to his credit, my thunderous expression when he walks in does not give him pause. He stands by the counter, taking his own sweet time stirring his latte, letting me stew.
‘Why the hell,’ I hiss as he slides into the booth, ‘didn’t you tell me?’
He shrugs. ‘Worked, though, right? You looked one hundred per cent human, for once.’
‘Quite a risk, don’t you think? He might have said … anything. And how could you have predicted my response?’
He sips his coffee, then licks the froth from his shapely top lip. ‘Mr Stillmans and I had a long conversation, from which I gleaned that your feelings for him might be worth exploiting.’
‘You’re a shit, Chaudhry. Don’t ever do that again.’
He inclines his head, smirking.
‘I’m glad you find my discomfort amusing.’
Now he grins openly. ‘I can make it up to you.’
I place my own cup down on the sticky table and fold my arms. ‘Please try.’ As he speaks in his quiet, silky voice I realise I was wrong about him. He isn’t going to be good. He is good.
But before I can think of a way to respond in a way that doesn’t exacerbate his unbearable smugness, my phone rings. Its position, face up on the table, means that both of us can read the name on the display.
Rauf waggles his ridiculously bushy eyebrows. ‘My pleasure,’ he says, and gets up and walks out of the café.
I hesitate for the briefest moment, then draw my finger across the name to take Daniel’s call.
41. Rob
Kathy says it’ll be time for the summing up soon and then the jury will retire to try to reach a verdict. She says our chances are fifty-fifty. The bitch doesn’t seem to give a shit either way, mind, and she’s started taking calls about other cases, as if I don’t matter a toss.
I’ve been making eyes at the fat girl and it was going quite well until that cheesy bastard with the perfect teeth opened his mouth. Kathy said that was a bad moment, that the lying slag’s tears looked genuine enough to convince the jury. I tell her that maybe she decided to make it up because otherwise he’d have thought she was screwing around on him. Not that I should have to come up with this stuff. That’s her job. My parents are paying her enough.
Without looking at me she gives a noncommittal ‘hmm’ and I know she’s not convinced by my version of what happened at New Year. That’s probably why she’s not giving it 100 per cent. After all this is over I’m going to complain about her to the barrister’s association or whatever. Maybe I’ll sue her.
Their bloke walks in, bald head shining under the lights, heels clicking against the wooden floor. Smart shoes. Expensive. Another couple of years at the firm and I’d have been able to afford shoes like that. Course that’s never going to happen if we lose. I glance at Kathy, but she’s looking down into her lap. The bitch had better not be texting someone.
Before we came in this morning she told me to prepare myself for a worst-case-scenario custodial sentence. Which means I might go to prison. Apparently they’ve got a new witness. Kathy tried to stop it but because we’d already called witnesses to my good character, they’re allowed.
Across the aisle, in the public gallery, the lying slag sits down. As she tucks her skirt under her arse she catches my eye, just for a moment, and gives me a flicker of a smile. I look at the jury to see if they’ve clocked it, but they’re looking at their papers.
It was this smile, when someone handed her a glass of water on the first day, that made me finally recognise her as the girl from the bleachers. It was a horrible moment and I’m not ashamed to admit that my balls shrank right up into my pelvis. I didn’t understand it then and I don’t understand it now, but I’m not going to feel sorry for myself. She’s a fucking nutcase and Kathy’s bit about it being inherited from her nutcase family should work if the jury’s got a single brain cell between them.
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