When I look up, one of the jury, the Chinese woman, has tears running down her face too.
*
It takes some time for my hot, angry tears to stop. Robert pauses between questions but gradually, it becomes apparent to everyone, and to me, that I am unravelled. Even the lightest of questions – what did I do the weekend after the assault? – provokes a fresh flood of tears from me, and although I am surprised and humiliated by my inability to control myself, part of me feels a great wash of relief; to talk about it at last, to tell the truth, to acknowledge my fury and hurt – I step outside myself and observe myself doing this, being honest. How can anyone doubt me now?
Robert looks at the clock, glances at the judge, and asks me one last question. ‘Mrs Carmichael, when you went to Mr Costley and asked his advice, did you have any thought in your head of vengeance against Mr Craddock for what he had done?’
I shake my head, sob, clutch the tissue in my fingers like a child, wipe beneath my eyes, look at Robert, shake my head again, sob again.
‘Just to be clear,’ Robert says softly. ‘Did you wish George Craddock physical harm, did you urge or exhort Mr Mark Costley to kill George Craddock?’
I can only shake my head while I sob.
Robert looks down for a moment, waits for a while, then turns to the judge and says, ‘My Lord…’
‘Yes…’ says the judge. I look at him and he has a slightly disdainful expression. I guess him to be the kind of man who cannot cope when a woman cries in front of him, who feels filled with helplessness and irritation, like Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady. Why can’t a woman be more like a man?
‘May I suggest, in view of the hour and in view of the very obvious distress of my witness…’
‘Yes, I think so,’ the judge readily agrees. He looks around the court. We will adjourn until tomorrow morning. Jury, may we have you here at 10 a.m. sharp?’
The jury gather their bags. None of them look at me as they descend from the box and walk swiftly across the court. It seems odd that I have to sit here, watching them go. I can’t help thinking that they will be sleeping on the image of me, wounded and human, sobbing with sincerity in the witness box.
When they have gone, Robert steps out from behind his row of tables, lifting his hand to the dock officer who is waiting to escort me back to the dock. He comes over and places his hands together, knitting the fingers, lifting the fist he has made and giving a small shake of congratulations.
‘Well done,’ he says softly, seriously. ‘You did really well.’
I reply with a small smile and it is only then that it comes to me how completely drained I am, and a wave of missing Guy and my children and my home comes over me. I have managed to keep that at bay so well up until now, not to think of them, so other and extraordinary has this experience been, but it comes to me now, crashing over me in slow motion – if I don’t get to walk out of this court soon, go back to my normal life, then I will die.
*
That night, for the first time since my incarceration, I sleep well on my thin mattress in my cell in Holloway Prison.
*
The next day, I am escorted again into the witness box, dry-eyed and collected now, wearing a crisp white shirt, hoping that the worst of my examination is over and braced for the cross-examination by the prosecution – but I can’t imagine a plausible line of attack for them. They can’t try and blacken me by expressing doubt about the assault as they want Craddock to be a monster. They can ask about my relationship with you, I suppose, but they have no evidence either way. What can they do?
Robert is brisk in the remainder of his questions – he knows the jury has had a whole night to dwell on that image of me from yesterday, distressed and weeping. He knows they will probably be relieved to see me calm this morning, willing me to remain so. They are on my side. He does not return to the assault or its aftermath, choosing instead to concentrate on the events of that Saturday afternoon, how I picked you up at the Tube, drove you to the street, our conversation before and afterwards – how you refused to tell me what had happened. He finishes with the question, ‘Mrs Carmichael, did you, at any stage of this event, either before or during that drive to George Craddock’s house, urge Mr Mark Costley to kill or harm the man who had assaulted you?’
‘No.’
‘Did you have any inkling that Mark Costley might be about to kill or harm George Craddock?’
‘No, none at all, no.’
*
When Ms Bonnard gets to her feet, do I feel a twinge of unease? No, I don’t think so. The moment has not yet begun to build. At that point, in fact, the moment is unimaginable.
‘Mrs Carmichael,’ she begins. ‘We all saw how difficult you found yesterday, here in court, and obviously I’ve no wish to distress you further, but I would like to ask you a few more questions about the night you claim you were attacked by the victim in this case.’
That word claim goes through me as neatly and as smoothly as if she had slipped a very fine needle into my stomach. How do I disclaim that word? I am not claiming anything. It happened. I stare at her.
Ms Bonnard stares back. ‘There’s just a few details that I would like to clarify with you, if that’s all right?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘So, earlier in that day, you were working at home, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘You got into your party dress, and you took the Tube into town, is that correct?’
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
‘And you walked straight from the Tube to the University building where the party was due to take place – I believed it is called the Dawson Complex?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And you were at the party with Mr Craddock for some hours, drinking with him, before you went with him up to his secluded office on the fifth floor, an area of the building which you both knew to be empty at that time of night?’
‘He said he needed to get some papers, from his office.’
‘Yes, you mentioned that yesterday, Mrs Carmichael.’ Ms Bonnard’s tone is bafflingly neutral. ‘I just want to establish, at the party, when you were drinking and smoking with Mr Craddock, you were for a time seated together outside, in a small courtyard at the back of the building?’
‘Yes.’
‘And, during this period, when you were seated together on a low wall, can you recall placing your hand on Mr Craddock’s knee?’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Can you recall him placing his hand on your knee?’
I think for a moment, and I’m not playing for time. ‘He may have done, yes he did, I think, just above my knee, to steady me.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘We were laughing about something, some joke someone else had made. There were other people with us at that point, they had pulled chairs over and were seated opposite us. One of them said something funny and I spluttered my drink. I think I spilled some, I was unsteady, I put my hand on his knee to steady myself.’
‘You put your hand on his knee?’
‘Or he did, on mine, or both. I’m really not sure. It might be both.’
‘So you were both in open physical contact during this conversation?’
‘Well yes but, it was just…’
‘You were flirting, weren’t you?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t call it that, we were talking, joking I suppose, there were a lot of other people…’
‘Mrs Carmichael, I don’t really wish to get into a detailed discussion of the definition of flirting but if I were to tell you that people at that party noticed you two together, that wouldn’t surprise you, would it?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Did I flirt with George Craddock that night? It’s entirely possible. But there’s flirting and there’s flirting. There is social flirting, the kind of flirting we all do, all the time, with colleagues, with the man in the queue behind us as we renew our Oyster card, with the waiter who brings our iced wate
r. Then there is flirting with intent. There is what you and I did walking down the corridors of the Houses of Parliament. The two are unmistakably different. Surely anyone understands that?
‘Mrs Carmichael, did you, or did you not, tell George Craddock that you were promiscuous?’
‘Absolutely not!’ I feel a flush of triumph that she is asking something so absurd.
She lifts an immaculate eyebrow. ‘Really? You seem very certain.’
‘Yes, of course I’m certain.’
‘What would you say if I were to tell you that I can produce a witness who observed you doing just that?
‘They are mistaken. Everyone at that party was drunk. It was that sort of party.’
She gives a small pause, during which she arches her back almost imperceptibly, and then says in a low voice. ‘I’m not talking about the party, Mrs Carmichael.’
‘Then I have no idea what you are talking about.’
She gives a sigh, looks down at her papers, leans forward with her elbow on her box of papers, pauses again. I stay silent and wait.
‘Do you recall…’ she says slowly, ‘…the occasion that you spent a week with George Craddock, it was nine months before he was killed.’
‘You mean when I went to the University to do my external examining, for the students to present their work?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,’ she fires back quickly, as if she has caught me out in some obscure debating point.
‘Yes, yes I do. I spent every morning that week assessing students along with him and another lecturer. I had lunch with them both on the Friday. We were in complete agreement, it was just a professional…’
‘You remember? That’s good…’ She gives another long pause, a sniff, looks down, then up. ‘Then you might also remember telling George Craddock in front of a witness that you were promiscuous.’
‘No,’ I am shaking my head.
‘Did you, or did you not describe yourself as, and I quote from a witness statement which I’m happy to read in its entirety, as “Cheap and easy, that’s me.”’
‘Oh,’ the penny has dropped. ‘That’s so ridiculous! I was talking about coffee. In the atrium.’
‘Did you use the phrase, “I like to pretend I’m classy but in fact I’m really easy”?’
‘Yes, but I was talking about the coffee machine.’
‘Mrs Carmichael, I’m not asking you for the context that surrounded that comment. I’m sure you were bantering away on all manner of subjects with Mr Craddock but please answer the question yes or no: “cheap and easy”, did you use that exact phrase? Yes or no?’
‘That’s so stupid.’
‘Yes or no?’
‘It’s ridiculous, you’re giving the…’
‘Yes or no?’
‘I’m trying to…’
‘Yes or no!’
‘Not in the way you mean!’ This last response is a cry on my part. I cannot help myself. I cannot believe this is happening.
Having goaded me until I cried out, the young barrister gives up, glances first at the judge and then the jury as if to say, see? I’ve done my best. You get the picture. Now I know why they always appoint young women barristers to defend rapists, just as Laurence said – poor Laurence, who had a knife held to his throat in our kitchen for doing no more than bandying the truth around a little too lightly, as if he was spinning coins on the table. Now I know what I would have faced had I attempted to go the legal route and take Craddock to court, if I didn’t already – and I know that I am only facing a fraction of it. I am on trial for murder but if I was standing here as a victim of a sexual assault I would have been on trial in just the same way. I’m glad, I think, and I think it viciously and unequivocally, I’m glad you beat him to death. He deserved everything he got. And I know, as I think this, that my face is a mixture of fury and venom but no more than a fraction of the fury and the venom that I feel.
It goes on. Eventually, we break for lunch.
*
At lunchtime, Robert comes to see me in my cell. To my surprise, he doesn’t seem unduly concerned about what Ms Bonnard is up to, seems to think it is rather ham-fisted, in fact. ‘She’s making a clumsy attempt to paint you as some sort of scarlet woman but we’ve already established you are anything but.’
‘Why is she doing it?’
Robert shrugs. ‘She’s clutching at straws. She thinks the worse she makes you look the better Costley will look.’
The examination-in-chief went so well, Robert says, that he’s not worried about what Ms Bonnard is trying to do, or what the prosecution may do in their turn. Whatever they make me look like has no relevance to whether or not Mr Costley has a personality disorder. He understands it’s distressing for me but I shouldn’t be unduly concerned about it – he could object but actually, he thinks it’s better to let her go on and make herself look unpleasant and vindictive, and it’s drawing the prosecution’s fire. If they were planning on taking the same angle, they will look repetitive. ‘You came over as a fine upstanding citizen yesterday,’ Robert says and it is easy to believe his vision of me; it is so soothing. It is possible that, at that particular moment, I myself had forgotten the truth.
*
After lunch, I am taken up to the dock in the usual way, stand when the judge comes in, then am released into the court through the side door in the dock. I don’t look over at the jury when I walk across the court this time, although everybody watches me, as before. The public gallery is open again now and I don’t even glance up at them. I don’t feel frightened of Ms Bonnard at that particular point.
‘Mrs Carmichael,’ Ms Bonnard begins. Her tone is completely neutral, just like yesterday – I wonder if I am in for more of the same, the horrible, insinuating questions. Instead, she begins with, ‘Just for a bit of background, and I’ll hope you’ll forgive me, you were quite a high-flyer at university, weren’t you? Took a first, I believe?’
I remember what I have been told, to direct my answers at the jury. ‘Yes, that is correct.’
She spends some time, then, on my education, my marriage, my hobbies. After the way she went for me this morning, I can see the bafflement on the jury’s faces and, eventually, the judge’s expression takes on a slightly hangdog look. He frowns slightly when Ms Bonnard begins on my marriage.
‘You met your husband at university…’
‘Yes,’
After a while, the judge leans forward and clears his throat and Ms Bonnard says, ‘I’m sorry, My Lord, just one more question and then it would be the right juncture to take a short break. Mrs Carmichael, would you describe your marriage as a happy marriage?’
‘Yes, very happy.’
‘No trial separations, huge rows, wild affairs?’ She smiles at me.
‘No.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Carmichael, that will do for now. We will continue after the break.’
The judge turns to the jury and says, ‘Members of the jury, I would suggest no more than ten minutes.’ They rise and begin to file out. The judge says, ‘Ms Bonnard…’ and Ms Bonnard rises to her feet, gives a bow and asks permission to approach the bench.
DI Cleveland leans back in his chair, puffing out his chest, lifting his arms above his head, then lowering them slowly. Craddock’s father is motionless in his wheelchair. The Family Liaison Officer is talking to him quietly but he shows no sign of response. I look over at you but you are sitting in your chair with your head tipped back and your eyes closed. It’s nearly over now… I think. As far as I can tell, everything will ride on the closing statements.
*
The break takes longer than anticipated. The judge comes in and the usher goes to fetch the jury, then comes back with the message that one of them is still using the bathroom facilities. The usher delivers this message with the air of someone who is expecting to be boiled in oil as a result. From the expression on the judge’s face, it seems as though he might, indeed, boil the usher in oil, but that is nothing compared to what he w
ill do to the hapless jury member upon the panel’s return. The judge lets his forearm drop to his table with a noise, whips off his glasses and says, ‘I would like my jury back in court now…’ The usher bows again, exits. DI Cleveland is standing by the prosecution table while all this is going on, talking quietly to Mrs Price, and the judge turns to him and snarls, ‘Officer, please! Your place!’ and bulky DI Cleveland snaps ramrod straight, like a toy soldier, flushes with embarrassment, bows and returns to his seat, even though half the other people in the court are still wandering around unseated.
I have remained in the witness box throughout the break and am beginning to feel that was a mistake. How much longer can this take? A wave of weariness settles over me.
*
This time, Ms Bonnard gets to her feet very slowly – and I feel something, some small shred of anxiety. I glance at Robert but he is still looking down at his papers.
‘I would like to take you back a bit, in your career,’ Ms Bonnard says, ‘I hope you will bear with me.’ At that point, the middle-aged black man wearing a pink shirt and sitting on the far right of the jury box yawns broadly. I register how tired everyone seems to be, not just me. It’s the close air in the courtroom, I think, that doesn’t help. The air conditioning seems to produce an irritating hum without having any noticeable effect.
‘Can you just remind the court,’ she continues, ‘when was it you first attended a committee hearing at the Houses of Parliament? How long ago now?’
‘Four years,’ I reply.
‘That was a House of Commons Select Committee on…’
‘No,’ I say, ‘actually, it was a Standing Committee at the House of Lords. Standing Committees don’t exist any more but at the time the House of Lords had four of them, each covering different areas of public life.’ I covered all this ground with Robert yesterday, but I continue. ‘I was appearing before the Standing Committee on Science to give evidence on developments in computer sequencing in genome mapping.’ I wonder if Ms Bonnard is trying to make me look careerist, in the way that television dramas always present a woman’s work ambitions as somehow pathological.
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