by H S Chandler
Maria took the photo from him, running her fingertips over the mobile in the picture. That silly piece of plastic had been the greatest risk she’d taken in the last half decade. She nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s mine. It was tucked into an old pair of gardening shoes in my bedroom. They must have searched hard to find it.’
Newell ran his eyes down the police statement, speed-reading. ‘They claim it was in your wardrobe,’ he said. ‘Any reason why you’d hidden it there?’
‘The police will suggest I put it there so they couldn’t find it, won’t they?’ Maria asked.
James Newell nodded. ‘Quite possibly.’
Maria sighed. ‘It was the one place Edward never ventured. By the time he’d got rid of all my clothes he didn’t like and replaced them with his own choices, he didn’t need to go into my wardrobe any more. Or so he thought.’
‘Can you tell me where you got it?’ Newell asked.
Maria stared at the photo. The mobile brought back so many memories. The idea had come as she’d been cleaning the lounge one day. She’d dismissed it as ridiculous at first. Just another pipe dream in a world where she had nothing of her own. Pulling the cushions out from the couch she’d found a treasure trove of coins. Thirty-eight pence in all. It had been so long since she’d held cash in her hand that she’d spent some minutes just turning them over, studying their faces. Slightly sticky, they nonetheless shone of freedom.
Hard for anyone else to imagine, she thought, as she smiled at James Newell in his bespoke suit and cufflinks. Hard to comprehend in this century, that a situation could have arisen whereby an adult female had no contact whatsoever with money. It hadn’t always been that way. When Edward had first proposed to her, she’d owned a car. An exhausted run-around on its last legs, but it got her from A to B, usually. After they’d married it had failed its MOT and Ed had insisted she get rid of it until he found her something safer. In the meantime, the bus system around Bristol was good and it would save them money to be running only one vehicle. Maria had been impressed by his common sense, and by how much he’d cared for her safety. Then the months had slipped by. It was hard for her to do a week’s shop using the buses. Thoughtful as ever, Edward had signed them up for internet grocery deliveries. It was perfect. Maria did the weekly meal plan and gave Edward a list of the ingredients she needed. He completed the order and paid on his credit card. Her every stress and strain was taken care of. She had no conscious memory of when the scales had tipped. By the time the landline in the house had been unplugged she had known there was a problem, but there was no sudden awakening. She had practiced wilful blindness for a while. Maria despised herself for it. That destructive human tendency to close one’s eyes and believe that somehow, miraculously, everything would turn out all right, had rendered her useless and indecisive.
By the time she needed – not just wanted, but really needed – access to a phone, it was beyond her capability to get one. Until the pennies. Discarded, forgotten, fallen into a different realm, those coins had become her obsession. She checked the couch every morning as soon as the driveway gates had closed behind her husband’s car. Two pence here. A celebrated ten pence there. Occasionally coins turned up in the rim of the washing machine. Once, only once mind, she had taken a pound coin from Edward’s trouser pocket as she’d hung them up for him at bedtime. She hadn’t slept that night, lying sweating in a pool of guilt. Coppers and small coins were one thing. Anything larger than a twenty pence, he’d miss.
Seven months, one week and two days later she had amassed the grand sum of twenty pounds. The woman who looked at her in the mirror that morning had glowed victorious. Her trip to the local newsagent was less exhilarating. Maria had attempted to disguise herself, looking ridiculous as she’d left the house in a winter coat during the summer, headscarf and all. She’d returned to the bedroom and stripped it all off when she realised that no one in Stoke Bishop had the slightest idea who she was anyway. Twice she’d set off but returned home, convinced her husband had some sixth sense and would know what she was up to. Finally, as she was changing her clothes for the last time, she’d caught sight of the criss-cross scarring on her thighs. That was what did it. Off she’d gone to the shop, pennies in a paper bag, to buy a line of communication with the world.
The photograph of the mobile phone sat on her lap, fraying at the edges already where she had gripped it too hard with wet palms.
‘You’re sure they can’t tell if I used it, or how often, or who I called?’ Maria asked her barrister.
James Newell sat quietly, studying her. ‘They can’t prove anything,’ he eventually confirmed. ‘No doubt they’ve tried. It was a good choice of phone if you wanted secrecy.’
Maria looked up at him. James Newell might be quieter and less showy than Imogen Pascal, but he was equally astute. His blue eyes and soft voice hid steel beneath sensitivity.
‘Then it is mine, but I never had the nerve to use it,’ she lied.
‘All right,’ Newell said. ‘But Maria, at the moment we’re struggling to find anything that backs your version of events. The jury only has you to rely on, so if there’s anyone at all you confided in about what was happening in your life, or who might have witnessed anything, now would be the time to tell me.’
‘It’s just me, I’m afraid,’ Maria lied. ‘The way it always has been.’
Newell folded his arms, staring at the photograph of the mobile phone. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing else? What you’ve described experiencing during your marriage was appalling. No one would blame you if you’d reached out for help. When people are pushed to their limits they make bad choices. If there’s anything you’re not telling me because you’re worried how it’ll look, you’d be better off discussing it. Some corroboration of your version of events, even if not every aspect of it is ideal, is better than none at all.’
Maria smiled sweetly at him. James Newell was mild mannered and kind, but he was nobody’s fool. He knew she hadn’t told him everything. ‘We’ll just have to make the best case we can with what we’ve got,’ she told him.
He sighed deeply, picked up the new statements from the desk and slid them into a folder. ‘I don’t want you to suffer more than you already have. A prison sentence would be …’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said quickly. ‘One day at a time. That’s how I endured my marriage. That’s how I’ll get through this trial.’
He nodded. ‘Very well. I’m going to ask the judge to adjourn today to give me the chance to read this new material carefully and decide if we need to do any further work before proceeding. The jury will be sent home for the afternoon. We’ll start again in the morning. Do me a favour, would you? Have another think about what we’ve discussed. If there’s anyone, anyone at all, who might be able to tell the court what your husband was really like, we need to call them as a witness.’
‘Thank you, Mr Newell,’ Maria said. ‘I’ll consider that.’
She wouldn’t. She was quite clear about that. The jury was going to be presented with a version of events on her terms, and her terms alone. Her not guilty plea required some additions and a few omissions. Getting other people involved was only going to decrease her chances of acquittal. Maria didn’t need a law degree to have reached that conclusion.
8
Day Three in Court
Bristol was heaving with commuters rushing from overcrowded multi-storey car parks to offices. The intense sun had scattered overheated cars along the curb-side, smoke billowing from beneath their bonnets, exacerbating rush-hour chaos. Pedestrians clutched bottles of water as they walked, fanning themselves with newspapers. Lottie was tense from the heat before she even arrived, but at least she was there early, thanks to her childminder’s strict parental drop-off-and-don’t-linger rule. Yesterday had been completely wasted. Lottie had wanted to hear from witnesses and explore the issues in the case. More importantly, she’d wanted to go home with a sense of purpose but all she’d felt a
t the end of the day was bored and alone.
A crowd of banner-wielding protestors was gathered a few metres from the court, and several police officers were keeping them restricted to a single area. Edward Bloxham’s face appeared on their boards, with declarations of grief over the man who had been such a leader of the green community. Lottie did her best not to read and be swayed by them, but she couldn’t avoid hearing the chants of ‘Justice Now!’. Seeing Cameron Ellis leaning against the wall outside the Crown Court doors didn’t improve her mood. She put her head down and sped up to go past him.
‘Lottie,’ he called as she headed for the door. ‘Hey Lottie, wait up.’
She gave in, aware that pretending not to have heard him was ridiculous given that Cameron had jogged to within a metre of her.
Gritting her teeth, she turned to face him. ‘What?’
‘Listen, I know you don’t want to talk to me. I was well out of line yesterday. You were being nice and I behaved like an idiot. I got here early to say I’m sorry, before they stick us back in our sheep pen,’ he said. ‘Let me make it up to you?’
‘No need,’ Lottie replied. ‘You’ve apologised. We can leave it there.’ She moved closer to the doors, doing her best not to make eye contact with him, the embarrassment of his previous nastiness still raw. A ten second apology didn’t make up for humiliating her in front of the other jurors. As far as she was concerned, Cameron Ellis could stay out of her way for the duration.
He managed to step ahead, hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. ‘A thousand apologies wouldn’t make what I did any better, but that’s not how I am normally. Please, let me buy you a decent coffee to start the day. If nothing else I can save you from another cup of the dishwater they’re serving, okay?’ Against her better judgment, Lottie sighed and paused. ‘Great,’ Cameron said, ‘I know a fantastic place just around the corner. Follow me.’
‘I didn’t say yes,’ Lottie said, glancing at her watch.
‘You didn’t say no,’ he grinned. ‘And yes, we do have time. Take the free coffee and run if that’s how you feel. Just give me another chance. I was having a really bad morning, and I didn’t sleep all night worrying about it. You can spend the next half hour finding as many swear words as you can to yell at me if you like.’
Lottie smiled in spite of the irritation she still felt. Cameron Ellis could be as charming as he was horrible, but Lottie knew how a bad day felt. She’d been having a lot of them lately.
‘Now I really am taking that smile as a yes. Come on, if we don’t get moving you’ll change your mind again,’ he said, as he held out a hand out to let her walk past him.
‘You’re going to have to work a lot harder for me to actually forgive you,’ Lottie said as they began to walk together. ‘And I don’t need half an hour to think up the swear words. I had them all in my head yesterday. Some of us are just better at minding our mouths than others.’
‘Fair comment,’ he grinned. ‘I guess I owe you more than just a coffee.’
‘Coffee’s a start,’ she said, softening. ‘As long as it’s followed by a lot more grovelling.’
They went to Corky’s Café and chose an outside table to watch the slow progress of the traffic. A trickle of sweat ran down Lottie’s back and she wished she’d worn a darker top. By the end of the day the cotton would be see-through if the temperature kept up.
Lottie turned her attention to Cameron who was ordering their coffee. She shouldn’t have given in that quickly, not after he’d been so unpleasant, but he seemed genuinely sorry. The truth was that the jury room, as cramped and fascinating as it was, was a lonely place. Making a friend, even one with a snappy temper, was better than having no one to talk to at all, and she wasn’t tempted by the thought of joining Tabitha’s fan club. The others all seemed so dull. Jennifer was nice but uninspiring. Agnes Huang was odd. Cameron, if nothing else, seemed more alive than all the others.
He sat down and pushed a full cup towards her, offering sugar as an afterthought. ‘What do you make of it so far?’ he asked.
‘Being on the jury?’ she clarified. He nodded as he drank. ‘I don’t really know what I expected in the first place. It’s like being removed from reality. You’re there to sit quietly, watch and judge someone else. I’m not sure how comfortable I am with that.’
‘Me too. It’s interesting, but what if we get it wrong?’
‘I guess that’s what the judge is there for, to make sure we’ve got all the information we need. But there’s a lot they seem not to be telling us, and all the rules! We shouldn’t even be talking about it. I feel like I’m fourteen again and my best friend just told me who she fancies. How do you not go and tell someone else?’ Lottie asked, ripping open a packet of sugar and emptying the granules around the edge of her saucer.
‘I’m not sure I want you on the jury if I’m ever accused of anything, if you think this is on the same level as fancying someone,’ Cameron laughed. ‘Are you going to actually eat any of that sugar, or …’
‘Old habit,’ Lottie smiled, feeling self-conscious and pushing the saucer to one side. ‘I used to take sugar, now I just like playing with it. Therapeutic or something I suppose.’
They sipped in silence.
‘So is your little boy missing you?’ Cameron asked. ‘This must be tough on him if he’s used to being with his mum every day.’
‘He’s doing okay,’ Lottie said, wishing they could just talk about the trial. She’d been enjoying being something other than a mother for a few minutes. Good of Cameron to take an interest, though. He’d obviously listened when she’d introduced herself, which was more than most people did when she talked these days. ‘He likes his childminder. She looks after other boys his age, so I suppose it feels like a club.’
‘What about you? When you’re not being insulted by morons like me, how are you finding the juror experience?’
‘Well, the moron pretty much ruined my day yesterday,’ Lottie raised her eyebrows at him.
Cameron winced. ‘Okay, I deserved that.’
‘Other than that, it’s somewhere between awful and fascinating. A bit like being unable to look away from a car crash.’
Cameron laughed. ‘It’s weird, right? I’ve never done anything like this before. And this case! I can’t get my head around why the defendant would have tried to kill her husband. Surely if you’re that fed up with your partner, you just pack your bags and leave.’
‘It’s not always that easy,’ Lottie said. ‘All relationships are different.’
‘You can’t tell me you’re not married to someone rich and successful,’ Cameron grinned.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Really?’ he asked. ‘You’re playing me.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Lottie said.
‘You’re beautiful,’ Cameron replied. ‘You must have had your pick of men.’
‘You’re going to swing from yesterday’s insults to that level of flattery without even flinching? Wow, you’re something else,’ Lottie said, tipping her head to one side and staring open-mouthed at him, sure he was making fun of her. Then again, it wasn’t altogether unpleasant being complimented by a good-looking man, even if she hadn’t forgiven him for his previous outburst.
‘Just making an observation. Too much?’ he grinned.
‘And then some,’ Lottie answered, wiping her forehead with a serviette, the coffee a mistake in the heat, she realised.
‘So what’s the story?’ Cameron asked. ‘You’re bright and funny, so you seem kind of young to be married with a child. Was it true love?’
‘My husband’s just a normal guy, and thanks but you’re overdoing it. My life consists of looking after my three-year-old and housework. Most of my socialising is done at a toddler group,’ she replied, wondering why Cameron had asked if it was true love in the past tense. Had she given the impression of not being happily married? She was sure she hadn’t admitted anything so personal. She did still love Zain
. They were happy most of the time. Content. Only that wasn’t quite accurate. Zain was content, and she didn’t have any specific reason not to feel satisfied, except she wished her husband would lay off the pressure to have another baby. That was the last thing she wanted right now.
‘So is parenting enough for you? I’m not insulting you again,’ he looked serious for the first time that morning, ‘but you’re confident – you spoke up in court on the first day when most people would have been too intimidated to try – and you’re outgoing, even if I did screw up your attempt to be friendly yesterday.’
Lottie stirred the remnants of her coffee unnecessarily to avoid having to meet Cameron’s gaze. The woman he’d just described was the opposite of how she felt. What he had done, though, was put into words exactly who she wanted to be again. She felt a warmth inside that had nothing to do with the sun’s harsh burn on her skin. It had been too long since anyone had looked at her and seen a person with attributes other than femininity.
‘Morning,’ a man called out as he marched past, saving her from responding. ‘It’s getting quite late, by the way.’ Lottie looked up to see Gregory tapping his watch at them. She checked the time on her mobile.
‘The Sergeant-Major’s on our case. He’s right about the time. We should get moving,’ she said, picking up her bag.
‘Let’s finish our coffee first. If he’s the Sergeant-Major, Tabitha has to be royalty,’ he grinned.
‘Queen Tabitha,’ Lottie laughed. ‘We really shouldn’t start giving them nicknames. It’s hard enough to take most of them seriously already. Come on, drink up, I really don’t want to be late.’
‘Do we have to go? I can’t stand the thought of being locked up all day when it’s this sunny out here,’ Cameron replied.
‘I know what you mean,’ Lottie said, draining her cup and standing up. ‘I could have taken my son to the park for a picnic. How about you? No one to tempt you away from work on a day like this?’
‘Long story but the answer’s no,’ Cameron said. ‘I didn’t get as lucky as your husband.’