“Mrs Johnson, could you please remind us what happened after you got stabbed?” Jake asked.
“I fainted,” I answered.
“What was the last thing you remember?”
“My head on the floor, looking at Jaime, and the pain in my belly.”
“How many times did the victim hit the table with his head before you fainted?” Jake asked. “Remember, you are under oath.”
“Only once.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m completely sure. I pushed him away from Marcus, I got accidentally stabbed, and he fell on to the floor and hit his head on the table.”
“And then you lost consciousness,” he said.
“Correct.”
“What is the first thing you remember after that?”
“The doorbell. Detective Hassan rang it and woke me up. I remember the pain and the blood,” I said.
“So, you don’t have any memory of what happened in the lapse between you getting stabbed and Detective Hassan getting to your house?”
“No, I was unconscious.”
“Who was in the house with you at the moment?” Jake asked.
“Jaime, Marcus, my husband and myself,” I answered.
“Are you completely sure there wasn’t anybody else?”
“Yes. Only the four of us.”
“So, apart from yourself, the only adult in the house was Mr Johnson, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“If you were unconscious when the crime was committed, how do you explain the victim’s death?”
The time had finally come. It was either Mark or I, and he had betrayed me. He had run to Detective Hassan as soon as he saw her to blame me for the murder of Jaime. My blood boiled. The question had been thrown to me like the end of a rope to the bottom of a well, and I was drowning in my own blood. If he had done it, he must pay, there was no question about it, and the last chance to make him pay lay before me. I just had to answer the question and hope the judge would allow my lawyer to dig deeper into the matter.
“Mark did it,” I said. A murmur spread like fire throughout the hall. Nobody was surprised, though. It was something all of them had thought about, and it had been pointed out to them by my lawyer a few minutes ago. Perhaps it was only a shy suspicion, only a remote possibility, but doubt had been already planted in the members of the jury and the judge and the prosecutor and everybody else.
“Your Honour,” the prosecution barrister said, “I must object to this line of questioning once again. My learned friend is insisting on accusing the witness without evidence.”
“Yes,” the judge said with a fearsome look in her eyes. “Mr Davies, if you try to divert the case by accusing the defendant’s husband again, I will be forced to charge you with contempt of court.”
“I apologise, Your Honour,” Jake said, bowing his head with a humble expression. “Mrs Johnson,” he continued, “could you describe your relationship with your family?”
“We weren’t at our best right then,” I said. “Jaime had always been very special, but he was growing difficult.”
“Why was that?” he asked.
“He didn’t get on well with Mark, and whenever they had an argument, he’d be on a rampage for a few days, causing trouble at school, home and wherever he went.”
“Did he argue with you as well?”
“Yes, of course,” I answered. “We argued quite a lot. But we always found a way to get over it. He knew I loved him.”
“How was Jaime’s relationship with Marcus?” he asked.
“He absolutely loved his little brother. He was thrilled from the very moment he knew I was pregnant.”
“So, you did not fear he could hurt the baby?” he asked.
“No,” I hesitated. “Well, at least at first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mark did fear for Marcus’s safety, and in the end I suppose he transmitted his worries to me, in a way.”
That was it. Jake couldn’t press any further if he didn’t want to be in trouble with the judge. But a trace of doubt was already there. Mark had the motive and the opportunity. The same as me. The only difference between us was his testimony. He had testified against me, he had told his version of the story before I had the chance to say anything, and he held on to it; that was the only reason why I, and not he, was sitting in the dock.
Dizziness blurred my vision when I saw the prosecution barrister stand up. This wasn’t going to be pretty. It was his great opportunity, his best chance to convince the jury. He would be ruthless. I shook my head to fight the daze. It was important my mind was clear. I needed to do my best not to fall for the prosecution’s sophisms.
“You said you always found a way to get over your arguments with the victim, but isn’t it true that the week before he was killed, you had a very serious fight with him? Isn’t it true that this wound was still open the day the crime was committed?” The barrister got straight to the point.
“That’s not true, it wasn’t a fight,” I replied with anger. “I was upset because I had let him down.”
“Is that so?” he asked. “Didn’t you openly say that you feared he could hurt Marcus?”
“I did! But I didn’t mean it! Mark was trying to convince me!”
“But you did say it,” he continued. “That is a fact. Jaime heard you, and his attitude towards you changed.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “I absolutely loved him. He was my life! I was devastated because he heard that. I shouldn’t have said it. It wasn’t true! I did say it, but it wasn’t true! I loved him and trusted him and saw all the good he had in him!”
“But you attacked him when you feared your other son was in danger,” he said.
“No!” I said. “That’s malicious. I didn’t attack him. I only pushed him away from Marcus. I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want him to fall down, and I didn’t want him to die. Never. He was my baby!” I felt my eyes wet. That was too much. It was horrible somebody could even think I was able to do that to my own boy, to the person I loved the most in this world.
“That’s for the jury to determine,” the barrister said while getting ready to ask the next question. “When you woke up, were you in the same place?”
“What?” I said. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t thought about that at all. It was a very important detail, and it had completely slipped my mind.
“You said you fainted, is that correct?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Did you faint and wake up in the same spot?” he asked, but I didn’t know what to say, so I stood still. Thinking. Until the barrister pushed me further. “It is a very simple question, Mrs Johnson. All you have to answer is ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”
And I wished it were that simple. He knew the answer. I knew the answer. If I told the truth, I’d be one step closer to my disgrace. If I lied, they’d probably find out and nobody could save me then. Unless my lie was…no, there wasn’t a way around it. I knew I was innocent. Or at least I believed I was innocent. Why lie, then? I felt a couple of sweat drops roll down my forehead and under my ear. I needed to be truthful, it was the only way, and if it all ended up in my downfall, at least I’d have the solace of having been authentic to myself.
“I don’t know,” I answered, looking for one last chance of getting away from this situation.
“I will make it simpler: where was the last place you remember you were when you fainted, and where was the last place you remember you were when you woke up? Was it the same place?”
That was it. I couldn’t escape the question. He would insist and insist until I finally answered. “No.”
“Could you please repeat? A little louder this time?” the barrister insisted.
“No, I wasn’t!” I said.
“Let me tell you what I think happened,” the barrister said. “You were stabbed by your son when trying to defend your baby. You got angry. Really angry. You saw Jaime’s head hitting the table
, but you knew he was alive. You were enraged. Nobody would harm your baby. Not even your older son. You stood up, blinded by fear and fury. You approached the victim and you killed him, smashing his head against the table again and again until your husband stopped you. Then you dragged your body through the carpet, sat next to the wall and passed out.”
“Liar! You’re lying! I didn’t do that! I didn’t kill my boy!”
“Order!” the judge said. “Order in the court!”
He had what he wanted. He had my hesitation, my doubt, my anxiety. I had proven myself insecure and weak to the jury. I was lost. I wouldn’t even dare look around. I wanted to be small, to shrink until nobody could see me anymore. But I knew they were there, looking at me, examining my body language and my reactions, and it wasn’t over yet. Jake stood up. It was time for the re-examination. He’d ask me a few more questions, although I couldn’t see the point and he didn’t look very cheerful either.
“Mrs Johnson,” he said, “the day of the incident, you were taken to the hospital, is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” I answered.
“As for Detective Hassan’s testimony, you were unconscious when the ambulance got to your apartment, is that correct?”
“Yes,” I said.
“When did you wake up?”
“In the hospital, after having gone through surgery.”
“And what was the last thing you could remember when you woke up in the hospital?”
“Me laying on the floor and looking at Jaime. And the pain in my belly.”
“Did you remember having talked to Detective Hassan?”
“No. Not back then, no.”
“When did you?”
“When Detective Hassan took me back to my house. She was hoping I could remember how Jaime had died.”
“Did you?”
“I didn’t, no. But I remembered how the doorbell woke me up and Detective Hassan asking me questions.”
“So, is it possible then that you forgot anything else?”
“No, that’s not possible. When I was taken back to my house, I relived everything. I could see everything clearly.”
“Would it be possible for someone to drag your body and sit you next to the wall?”
“Your Honour,” the barrister interrupted the questioning, “I object. The defence wants to divert the case by blaming the defendant’s husband again.”
“Not at all,” Jake said. “I wasn’t talking about any specific person, Your Honour. I’m just setting out the possibility of the defendant being removed from the spot where she fell unconscious. That’s it.”
“No,” the judge said. “I’ll let it go in this occasion. Mrs Johnson, answer the question.”
“Yes, it’s entirely possible that I was dragged there.”
That was it. No more questions. The case for the defence had been presented, and everything was ready for both the prosecution and my lawyer to sum up facts and evidence. There wasn’t anything else I could do or say or keep. No more questions for me to answer before the inquisitive eyes of judge, jury and prosecution.
I didn’t even pay attention to the barrister’s closing speech. It was pointless. He wasn’t going to say anything new, and neither was Jake. No more breathtaking inquiries, no more objections and no more witnesses, just more-of-the-same interminable argumentations and scarcely intelligible legal jargon.
However, there was still room for excitement and cruel suspense. The judge seemed unconvinced, and although it wasn’t her job to come up with the verdict, she made sure she let the jury know they should declare me innocent if they had any doubt. But I was afraid the case wouldn’t be determined by justice. Never mind the evidence. Never mind Detective Hassan’s testimony. The jury was made up of mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers. They had been presented with a horrible crime, and it was just too easy for them to imagine themselves losing a son or a daughter. They could feel the pain without having to think hard. I saw it inside them. They were angry. Their eyes were arrows hissing on their way to my face. It was pretty clear they weren’t going to reach a verdict based on their knowledge of the law, but in their feelings about this horrendous crime. They needed somebody to pay for it, and they’d have her. They’d have me. They weren’t professionals. Just people. Shocked by what they’d just heard.
They came back solemn and quiet. Flooding the court with their self-righteousness. They played their role. They were the justice. Stainless. As if none of them had jumped a red light in their perfect, exemplary existence, empowered to give or take one person’s life away from her forever. They sat down. All of them but one. A lady in her sixties. She wore a nice blue blazer and a white blouse, and her eyes were half-hidden behind a pair of glasses with a pink frame that matched perfectly well to her coloured short hair. She looked like the kind of person who pays her taxes, has a lovely family and is always ready to be a good citizen and do the right thing.
“Have you reached a verdict upon which you have all agreed?” the clerk said.
“No, we have a majority,” the lady said. A majority. That meant not all of them thought I was the crazy killer the prosecution barrister had depicted. There was hope for me after all. Perhaps, and only perhaps, most of them had found me not guilty. For a second, for less than a second, I thought those people could’ve seen the truth behind the thick curtain that had fallen before me. My heart pounded hard. I could hear it. It was fast and strong and speeding up with every drowning breath I took, with every drop of sweat that fell on to the floor. It could happen after all. They could declare me not guilty.
“What’s your verdict?” the clerk asked. By this moment, my heart was bigger than the box it was in. It was going to explode in my chest. I couldn’t hear or see or sense anything other than the lips of that lovely lady moving up and down to decide my future.
“Guilty.”
Chapter 29
The institution
An irritating buzzing around my ear woke me up at around midnight. It was annoying. I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep. I was warm under the duvet, even though it was December and the grass blades were white with ice. Sweet Marcus. It wasn’t even a dream. It was the very beginning of a dream. The fly again. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I switched the lights on. I couldn’t see it. It was so irritating. Bloody fly. It was still and quiet now, as if it knew I was trying to hunt it down. Perhaps it had hidden under the bed. No. It wasn’t there. Or I couldn’t see it. Oh dear, so cold, and I was sweating. What was a fly doing in my room in December anyway? Was it even real? It was impossible to spot. I went back to bed, I closed my eyes, and again, the beginning of the beginning of a dream. Marcus’s smile. I missed him so much. The buzz resumed. Awake again. Lights on. “Fuck! Just shut up!” I shouted, only to notice the echo of my voice reverberating through the cell and moving down the corridor. I couldn’t sleep anyway, so I started recalling the conversation I had with Susan not long ago.
“Listen to me, Laura,” she had said.
“No. I don’t want to. I don’t want to listen to anybody.” The slightest human interaction I had made me feel sad and miserable, and I couldn’t help bursting into tears.
“But look at you, you can’t continue like this.”
“I don’t care. Not anymore.”
“Look at me. Look me in the eyes, Laura. I’m here to help you.”
“I don’t need your help!”
“Yes, you do. You need help. You’re unwell. You’ve got a baby waiting for you, and he needs his mum.”
“You don’t understand.”
“What? What is that I don’t understand?”
“Never mind my baby. I’ve given up.”
“But how can you say that?”
“Mark won’t ever let me anywhere near my boy again. He thinks I’m a threat to Jaime.”
“Marcus, you mean?”
“What? Yes, Marcus. That’s what I said.”
“The important thing here is for you to recover. Ever
ything is possible. You just have to believe in yourself.”
“That’s easy to say. Apparently, it’s the easiest-to-say sentence in the world.”
Susan looked after me. She cared. Even though she didn’t know me, she only knew the bad things. She had only seen my dark side. But she was nice to me, and it always was a pleasure to talk to her, even in the days when I couldn’t be bothered to answer her questions or greet her or even look at her.
But that night I remembered what she’d told me. “Why don’t you take part in the art therapy program?” My reaction had been of course to curse her and her bloody program, but she insisted. “The doctors would love to see you do something creative, and so would the judge. Come on, there’s got to be something you can do!”
That night, awakened by some stupid fly, I finished that conversation in my mind: I guess I could write something. I used to like it, although when I was younger I thought I didn’t have anything interesting to tell. But now I did. I could write a story about my own life. The doctors and the judge would definitely like it, and who knows, if it was good, it could even be published and the world could know the truth about me from my own hand. And so I started writing, although the only thing I could create that night was an awful paragraph I threw in the bin at dawn.
Susan was exultant when I told her. Her face glowing with an honest, long smile. I hadn’t realised how beautiful she was until then. Not an obvious hit-you-in-the-eyes beauty, but something more subtle, more lasting. Her face was unusual. Too rounded, I guess I could say, and her cheeks were like peaches trying to escape their bag, covered in a brightness only second to her eyes. Her lips were slightly bigger than average, and the left corner – only the left corner – shrank to give way to a lonely dimple when she spoke. “Have you chosen a title yet?” she said, but I couldn’t stop looking at her dimple, appearing and disappearing with every word and every smile.
The Outcast Son Page 22
