House of Correction

by French, Nicci

  ‘I’ve been authorised to make you an offer,’ he said. ‘More of a suggestion, perhaps.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Tabitha.

  ‘You plead guilty to manslaughter. The Crown Prosecution Service drops the murder charge.’

  All that day Tabitha had felt like she was underwater. Everything around her seemed to be blurry and moving slowly. She couldn’t make out what people were saying and what she could make out she couldn’t understand.

  ‘What would that actually mean?’ she said slowly. ‘I mean for me.’

  Brockbank looked round at his companion.

  ‘What do you think, Ellie?’

  When Ackroyd spoke, Tabitha immediately thought of horseboxes and ski slopes.

  ‘Murder has an automatic tariff of life imprisonment. Minimum of fifteen years before you can be considered for parole.’

  ‘What’s the conviction rate in the Crown Court?’ Brockbank asked. Everything he said was in a bored tone that suggested his time would be better spent doing something else.

  ‘Eighty per cent. Probably more than eighty per cent.’

  ‘What about manslaughter?’ asked Tabitha.

  Again Brockbank glanced across at the younger lawyer.

  ‘The judge has a great deal of latitude. For a start, you get maximum credit for pleading guilty.’

  ‘Maximum credit,’ said Tabitha. ‘That sounds like a good thing. What does it mean?’

  ‘Usually it means something like a thirty per cent reduction in the sentence. Maybe even a fifty per cent reduction. But manslaughter’s a special case. You can get a life sentence or you can get community service. It depends if there are mitigating circumstances.’

  ‘Mitigating circumstances,’ Tabitha repeated. ‘Like what?’

  Brockbank pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know. Hypothetically, if the victim had perpetrated sexual abuse against the accused when she was a minor, that might be considered significant. In the current climate. Of course, nothing can be guaranteed.’

  Tabitha tried to make herself think. She felt hot and cold at the same time. She felt confused. But then gradually a thought took shape.

  ‘It’s a game,’ she said. ‘It’s like poker. You’re saying that I should plead guilty even if I didn’t do it.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything,’ said Brockbank. ‘I’m just relaying an offer.’

  ‘But what if it were you?’ Tabitha asked. ‘If you were made this offer and you hadn’t done it, what would you do?’

  ‘That’s an entirely inappropriate question. I’m not your counsel. I may have an opinion as to what your counsel would advise, if you had one, but I’m not going to say anything.’

  ‘I know what you’re saying,’ said Tabitha. ‘I know what my lawyer would say because I know what my lawyer did say.’

  Now Simon Brockbank looked irritated as well as bored.

  ‘I don’t think this is the time or the place for a lecture on the basis of the British legal system. We’ve come here to make an offer. In my opinion, it is an exceptionally reasonable offer.’

  ‘I just want the truth,’ said Tabitha, almost talking to herself. ‘I want people to know the truth. I want to know the truth myself.’

  ‘Please,’ said Brockbank firmly. ‘Time is short. We need an answer.’

  Tabitha was in turmoil but it was only turmoil due to the knowledge that her choice was really no choice at all. As if she were standing at the edge of the abyss and she had no doubt that she was going to leap off it into the darkness because that was the only way of discovering what lay inside that darkness.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘The answer is no.’

  ‘What do you mean, no?’

  ‘I’m not going to plead guilty. I can’t.’

  There was a long silence. Tabitha had been staring down at the lino floor. She had seen that it was worn in patches and she wondered what had caused the wear. Was it caused by desperate people walking up and down? People like her? She looked up at the two lawyers. Brockbank no longer looked insouciant; there was a glint of interest in his eyes.

  ‘I thought you’d accept,’ he said. ‘The prosecution has an exceptionally strong case. You’re defending yourself. I’m not clear as to your reasoning.’

  ‘This isn’t a game to me,’ said Tabitha.

  ‘Nor should it be. I simply want you to be clear of the implications of your decision. You risk being in prison until you are middle-aged. And I can tell you that at the end of fifteen or twenty or twenty-five years, people don’t come out the way they went in.’

  ‘You think I’m mad.’

  ‘I don’t think you realise the situation you’re in. I should add that this offer goes away in about five minutes’ time.’

  Tabitha was panting now, as if she were running or carrying a heavy object.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said.

  ‘Fine,’ said Brockbank. ‘Then we need to go upstairs and meet the jury.’

  ‘One thing,’ Tabitha said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What happened to the original McKenzie?’

  Brockbank looked puzzled.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘McKenzie. As in, McKenzie friend.’

  ‘Oh, he lost the case. Because he didn’t have proper representation.’

  He rapped against the door and then looked back at Tabitha. His expression was almost regretful. ‘I’m not going to enjoy prosecuting this case. But I’m afraid that won’t do you much good.’

  * * *

  Tabitha had heard of those dreams where people find themselves on a stage, not knowing the lines, not even knowing what the play is. She had never been on a stage and she had never dreamed about being on stage, so she had never understood the anxiety behind it.

  She understood now.

  The previous months had been so awful. The claustrophobia, the sense of unreality, the dread, the sense of sheer physical fear. But it had all been a preparation for the main event, for this.

  A female police officer with a round face and crooked teeth led Tabitha out of her cell, along the corridor, turning this way and that, then up some stairs. It all felt strangely dingy and shabby. The paint was peeling on the walls, there were cracks in the linoleum on the floor. At the top of the stairs, the officer paused in front of a polished wooden door. She looked round at Tabitha.

  ‘You call her “My Lady”,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The judge. You call her “My Lady”. Normally it’s “Your Honour” but Munday’s a High Court judge. They have High Court judges for big cases like this.’

  ‘I knew that,’ said Tabitha. ‘It’s about the only thing I do know.’ So this was a big case. She knew it was big for her. She hadn’t thought about it being big for other people. Of course it was. Murder. What was bigger than that?

  The officer knocked on the door. It opened and they stepped through into the light and, yes, it really was like stepping out on to a stage. Tabitha was in a daze. Everything was blurry. She thought she might faint. They took a few more steps into a little enclosure surrounded by what looked like transparent plastic sheeting. There was just a chair and a simple wooden table. She was uncuffed and she sat down. The officer sat behind her and laid her hands placidly on her lap.

  Tabitha thought, and she felt stupid as she did so: This is really happening.

  She looked around. The large room was wood panelled, but this was not the panelling of an old country house. It looked more like a seminar room from a new university. Below her were three rows of desks. Sitting at them were people in suits and two people in gowns and short wigs. She quickly recognised them as Simon Brockbank and Elinor Ackroyd. Every single person had an open laptop in front of them. Every single person except for her. All the faces looked up at her, as if interested to see what Tabitha Hardy looked like in real life. She had a sudden sense of herself as the star of the show. The bull in the bullfight. One of the faces seemed to come into focus and she saw it was Michaela. She wa
s almost unrecognisable in a dark trouser suit. She was holding a thumb up. Tabitha didn’t feel able to hold up a thumb in response.

  ‘All rise,’ said a voice.

  Tabitha looked around, puzzled, and saw the officer gesturing at her to stand. A door in the far wall opened and a figure entered. Tabitha saw a red robe, an off-white wig and a pale face. The figure sat down and nodded at the prosecution lawyers. Everybody in the court sat. When the judge spoke, Tabitha was surprised to hear a woman’s voice, although she shouldn’t have been. She had been told repeatedly.

  The judge put on a pair of half-moon spectacles, shuffled through some papers in front of her and opened a laptop. She looked around and seemed to notice Tabitha for the first time. She frowned.

  ‘Today we’re going to deal with some preliminary matters,’ she said. ‘Do you understand?’

  She sounded like a very grand headmistress. A headmistress from an earlier age. Tabitha’s own headmistress had not been grand.

  ‘Not really,’ said Tabitha.

  The judge gave an exasperated sigh.

  ‘This is why we have counsel.’

  ‘Counsel?’

  ‘Barristers. Lawyers.’ She sighed again. ‘But there’s no point talking about that now. You’ll just have to do your best. I’ll try to give you some guidance but there’s only so much I can do. For example, is there any prosecution evidence that you want excluded?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Tabitha, ‘but I can’t properly hear what you’re saying. Am I going to be stuck in this plastic box for the whole trial?’

  ‘You’re the accused. The accused sits in the dock.’

  ‘So what was your question?’

  Judge Munday repeated it.

  ‘Like what evidence?’

  ‘That’s entirely up to you.’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t even know what that means.’

  Judge Munday took a long slow breath.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no,’ she said and wrote something on a pad in front of her. She turned to the prosecution lawyers. Brockbank stood up. He put his hands in his pockets.

  ‘I’m hoping we can arrange for the witness statements to be read out. To save time.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ said Tabitha in a raised voice.

  ‘There’s no need to shout, Miss Hardy,’ said Judge Munday.

  ‘Ms Hardy.’

  Judge Munday paused. It looked like she was swallowing a piece of food that was hard to get down.

  ‘Ms Hardy,’ she said finally. ‘All statements are to be addressed to me, not to anyone else in court. Unless you are cross-examining a witness. Evidence that is accepted as an agreed fact can simply be read out to the court.’

  ‘No,’ said Tabitha.

  ‘What do you mean, no?’

  ‘I don’t accept it.’

  ‘Which evidence don’t you accept?’

  ‘Any of it.’

  Judge Munday slowly took off her spectacles.

  ‘Ms Hardy, you cannot simply waste the court’s time.’

  ‘I’m fighting for my life,’ said Tabitha breathlessly. ‘I’m not wasting anybody’s time.’

  There was a pause. Brockbank gave a cough.

  ‘Perhaps it might help if we went through the witnesses one by one,’ he said.

  He went through them all: the police officers, the forensic investigator, the pathologist, the various fellow villagers, and in each case Tabitha said that she didn’t accept it and that they would have to give evidence in person. Finally he sat down and Judge Munday gave another sigh and picked up a piece of paper and scrutinised it for a moment and then looked at Tabitha.

  ‘I have to say that your defence statement was wholly unsatisfactory.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The purpose of the defence statement is to define the issues on which your defence will rely. There is none of that here. There is nothing.’

  Tabitha couldn’t think of anything to say. Again it felt like she was standing in front of a headmistress being dressed down. Tabitha had never been good in situations like that. Judge Munday put the piece of paper down.

  ‘Ms Hardy,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what you’ve been told about conducting your own defence. Some defendants seem to see it as a way of creating confusion and throwing dust in the eyes of the jury. I can assure you that you will be treated fairly but I will not allow that to happen in my courtroom. Do you understand?’

  ‘I really don’t know—’

  ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. We’ll begin with the opening statements tomorrow.’

  She stood up and everybody stood up with her.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Tabitha clutched her notebook. She stared through the Perspex at the court.

  There was Michaela with all the files in front of her; today she was wearing a vibrant green dress which cheered Tabitha slightly: she was a flash of colour and disobedience in a room of greys and blacks.

  There was the jury who had been sworn in that morning, seven men and five women, and Tabitha didn’t like the look of that man on the left with a military moustache or the woman with hair like a bowl and a look of disapproval already on her face. Or the young man who kept picking his teeth for that matter. She had thought of objecting, opened her mouth to do so, then stopped: not liking the way someone looked at her wasn’t a reason for throwing them off the jury.

  There was Simon Brockbank and Elinor Ackroyd in their flappy gowns and their stupid wigs.

  And Judge Munday sitting in state, files stacked in front of her. It was hard to believe there was a normal woman under her wig and robe.

  There were other people as well, some of them tapping on their laptops. Tabitha didn’t know who they all were. She guessed the men and women with notebooks must be journalists. And there were a handful of people up in the public gallery. She met the eye of an old man who was gazing avidly at her and looked away, feeling suddenly nauseous. Then she saw Michael gazing down at her and his face had lost its disapproving expression and was kind. She blinked. The face resolved. Of course it wasn’t Michael. Of course he hadn’t come. Nobody had come, only curious strangers.

  She felt humiliated, utterly exposed and shamed, sitting like an exhibit in this horrible wooden box, everyone examining her and speaking about her and having opinions about her. Her suit itched; it was like thousands of tiny insects were crawling under her skin. The courtroom came in and out of focus. She knew that she had to concentrate but her mind kept drifting. Suddenly she remembered a maths lesson long ago, and Stuart Rees leaning over her as she worked, his breath hot and stale on her neck. How had she let him—? She bunched her fists: she needed to focus.

  Now Simon Brockbank was standing, pulling down his cuffs ever so slightly, taking a small sip of water from a glass, looking down for a moment at the notes in front of him, taking his time over everything, relaxed and composed. He turned towards the jury, looking slightly sorrowful. Tabitha gritted her teeth; there was a precise nub of pain in her temples. She gripped her notebook, leaned forward slightly.

  ‘Members of the jury,’ Brockbank said. His voice was rich and sonorous. ‘Over the course of this trial you will hear the testimony of many witnesses and have the opportunity to consider a great deal of evidence, some of which is straightforward and some technical and complicated. But at its heart, this case is very simple. Tabitha Hardy is charged with the murder of Stuart Rees. There can be no graver crime. There might be times when you feel sympathy for her because – as the prosecution will show – she had good reason to feel angry with the murdered man. But do not let pity divert you from your task, which is to decide whether or not on the twenty-first of December 2018 Tabitha Hardy killed Stuart Rees in a pre-meditated act of murder.’

  He took another sip of water and turned back to the jury.

  ‘I have been a barrister for more decades than I like to admit.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘And I have to say that I have rarely
come across a case that is so straightforward and so—’

  Tabitha rapped on the Perspex several times. Everyone looked at her. Simon Brockbank’s mouth was open in mid-sentence.

  ‘Ms Hardy?’ said Judge Munday. ‘You will have your opportunity to respond, but this is the prosecution’s opening statement.’

  ‘I need a pen,’ said Tabitha. ‘I need to make notes and I haven’t got my pen. Michaela’s got some.’

  Michaela leaped to her feet. She rummaged among the piles of papers in front of her, looking rather frantic, then held up a clutch of pens held together by a thick elastic band.

  Judge Munday nodded at a woman seated at the bench below her who rose and made her way to Michaela. She took a pen and brought it to Tabitha.

  ‘Also,’ said Tabitha, ‘I can’t hear very clearly from here. It’s a bit fuzzy. Maybe he can speak more clearly.’

  Simon Brockbank looked towards her and gave a tight smile then resumed, talking slowly and carefully. Tabitha opened her notebook and several loose pieces of paper dropped to the floor. She picked them up, ducking out of view for a second. The pen didn’t work at once and she had to scribble it across the page.

  Now he was saying she had motive. She had opportunity. There was ample evidence. He was going to tell the jury the salient facts of the case that would be laid out during the trial.

  Tabitha grasped the pen. Her hand was sweaty.

  ‘First of all, motive. When the accused was fifteen, she was involved in a sexual relationship with Stuart Rees.’ He put up a hand as if someone were trying to interrupt him. ‘However complicit she might have been at the time, she was underaged and vulnerable. Her life was blighted by this sorry episode.’

  Tabitha listened to his words rolling out across the court. Her mouth was dry and the precise pain in her head had widened out into a booming ache. She kept her eyes on her notebook, but she could still feel all those eyes on her.

  ‘You will hear,’ continued Simon Brockbank to the jury, ‘how she suffered from severe clinical depression, how she had psychotic episodes, how she was hospitalised and how she has been under a regime of drugs to help her cope. It’s a sad story,’ he said solemnly. ‘Very sad. But’ – and here his voice became firm – ‘it also gives the accused a powerful motive. Tabitha Hardy believed, with reason, that Stuart Rees had destroyed her life and got away with it.’