The Woman Before Me

by Ruth Dugdall

  I can hear voices in the public gallery, so I twist round and look up, but what I see scares me. All those men and women leaning over, trying to get a good look, writing things about me in their notebooks.

  At the front of the courtroom, behind a long desk, is a massive wooden chair with a gold crest above it and some Latin inscription. It’s like a throne. Lower down, behind a smaller desk, sits a woman. Small and perfect, she has a glossy bob and a neat black suit and she’s flicking through a thick file. She must be reading about me, the lies people have told about me over the last nine months while I’ve been on remand.

  I’m relieved when I see someone I know coming towards me. My barrister, Mr. Thomas, is fat and rosy; he’s wearing a black cloak over a pinstripe suite. He comes to the front of the dock, at least a foot below me, and I can see he’s beginning to lose his hair.

  “Right, show’s on the road. The judge will be through any minute. Remember to stand when he comes in, and bow your head.” He looks me over. “I like the suit, but undo a couple of buttons at the neck. Your hair would be better in a ponytail, make you look younger. And put some makeup on tomorrow. Not too much, you don’t want to look like you’re too confident, but it doesn’t hurt to look pretty.”

  I rub my lips, knowing I’ll never be pretty. I’ve not worn lipstick, or any other makeup, the whole time I’ve been on remand. My hair hasn’t been cut either and it hangs like a dark veil.

  “I’ll have to ask Jason to bring me some makeup,” I say, looking around for him.

  “He’s outside in the corridor. Like all the witnesses, he can’t come into the court until after his testimony, which won’t be for several days.” He’s told me the trial will last for two weeks.

  A loud buzz makes everyone freeze and the room falls silent. Mr. Thomas hastily takes his place on the front table and pulls on a wig. My guards stand, pulling me to my feet, just as the wooden door behind the throne opens.

  It’s the judge. He’s terrifying in his red gown and white wig. He’s got a long face with narrow slits for eyes. He reminds me of a wizard. The court is his home, and he takes his time, looking around and positioning his papers before taking his seat so everyone else can sit too.

  “Madam Clerk?” he says, his voice loud and firm. “Have the jury been sworn in?”

  The smart woman with the shiny bob swivels round. “Yes, Your Honour.”

  I look over at the cluster of men and women for the first time and study them closely: those twelve people will decide my future. They look so ordinary, like people you’d see in a supermarket. One or two wear jackets, one man has a tie, but most just look like they’re off to town. A woman on the front row is wearing a pretty floral dress, like this is an occasion for her. She’s nervous, looking around and touching her dangly earrings. Believe me, I silently beg.

  The clerk swivels to face me. “Rise please, and state your name.”

  “Rosemary Ann Wilks.” I hope no one can hear the tremor in my voice.

  “Rosemary Wilks, you are charged with the murder of Luke Hatcher. How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty,” I say, as firmly as I’m able.

  She scribbles something on the file. “In relation to the alternative charge of manslaughter, how do you plead?”

  I look at Mr. Thomas, who nods. “Not guilty.”

  “May the defendant be seated?”

  The judge looks bored. “Sit. Prosecution may begin.”

  Almost immediately a dwarfish man in a black gown and a white wig jumps up. He walks over to the jury and studies each face then opens his arms wide and shouts, “Sometimes, things are not as they seem. And sometimes our closest friends can be the enemy. Take a moment to look at Rosemary Wilks. An averagelooking woman, mid-twenties. Someone you might invite to your home for a cup of tea?”

  He pauses, turns to me. They all stare like I’m a circus freak.

  “That was what Emma Hatcher thought, when she let Rosemary Wilks into her home, never guessing what evil intentions lurked behind that ordinary face.”

  He moves slowly to the centre of the room, an actor taking centre stage.

  “This woman systematically stalked Emma Hatcher, prowling her home in the night as Emma slept, destroying personal possessions, and worst of all, pretending to others that Emma’s son, Luke, was her son. She even went so far as to breastfeed him.”

  The woman in pink draws a sharp breath.

  “And when Emma discovered this, and told the defendant that she could no longer see her or her son, what did she do? She went into their home at night, and started a fire. Luke Hatcher died of smoke inhalation, his tiny body charred by fire. This woman, this average woman who could be anybody’s friend, anybody’s mother, murdered Luke Hatcher. And over the course of this trial, ladies and gentlemen, I shall prove it.”

  As he takes his seat it scrapes the wooden floor, making me shudder.

  Mr. Thomas lets the murmuring quieten before speaking. His voice is even and without theatrics.

  “I too would ask you to look at Rose Wilks. I too would ask you to consider that she looks average. The kind of woman you would invite home, the kind of woman who could be your friend. And I will show you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury that Rose Wilks looks like this because that is exactly what she is. An average woman, who is not to blame for the tragic death of Luke Hatcher—a boy whom Rose loved. It is unjust that this woman has been charged with murder and remanded in prison for nine months. Let us stop the injustice now, ladies and gentlemen. Let me persuade you that Rose Wilks is as she appears. She is innocent.”

  On the second day of the trial Emma takes the stand. I haven’t seen her since the day Luke died, and I would have walked past her in the street without recognising her. Grief has eaten into her, taken her angel-face and made it sharp. She was a small woman anyway, a petite ballerina compared to me, but now she’s like a starved child. She sits in the witness box like a shadow. The clerk has to ask her to speak up twice, and the usher fetches tissues and water.

  I want her to look at me, want to meet her eyes. Once we were best friends, and we both loved Luke. Now we are both grieving. Seeing her across the room, her head bowed, her thin body, my heart aches. Even her hair, which she was so proud of, looks lank and uncared for. Oh Emma, please look at me.

  She’s asked, delicately and then more directly, about my ‘unnatural relationship’ with Luke. She talks in monotone, mumbling one-word answers, and the prosecution barrister looks peeved. He gives up and the questioning is handed over to Mr. Thomas.

  “Mrs. Hatcher, when you left your son with Rose Wilks, did you trust her with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have any reason to believe that she might want to harm your son?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever see her behave in any way that caused you concern?”

  “When Nurse Hall told me that . . .”

  “Did you see anything, Mrs. Hatcher?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “One further question, if I may. Do you smoke?”

  Emma looks ashen. “I did. Only when I was stressed.”

  “You were stressed the night of the fire weren’t you, Mrs. Hatcher?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mind me asking why that was?”

  The silence drags out until she finally says, “I had an argument with my husband.”

  “Did you smoke that evening?”

  I have to lean forward to hear her answer: “No. I didn’t have any cigarettes in the house.”

  “No further questions, Your Honour.”

  Emma is helped from the witness stand. Not once did she look my way.

  Dominic Hatcher stares at me the whole time. His look tells me that if he had a gun, he would shoot me dead. He’s flushed, black-eyed, and very angry. The prosecution tries to calm him down, but every answer he gives is louder than the one before. I shrink back into the wood.

  He says I was always at their house. He says he never trusted m
e.

  Mr. Thomas softens his voice, as if to show his self-control next to Dominic’s aggression.

  “Mr. Hatcher, you say you always mistrusted Rosemary Wilks. Is that right?”

  “Yes. I never liked her.”

  It stings to hear it, even though I always knew he hated me. He was jealous of my friendship with Emma, of how close we were.

  “I wonder if you can explain to the jury how it was that this woman whom you never trusted, never liked, was left to care for your son while you enjoyed a day out at the races?”

  “I didn’t like her. She gave me the creeps. But I never thought she was a murdering bitch.”

  “Objection, Your Honour.”

  “Sustained. Mr. Hatcher, please restrain yourself,” says the judge.

  Mr. Thomas continues, “One more question, if I may. Were you at home the night your son died?”

  “No. I was sleeping at the boarding school. I work there as a head teacher and when—”

  “You were away from the house, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why was that, Mr. Hatcher?”

  He sighs, breathing out slowly. “Because Emma and I had an argument. About that bitch.”

  Dominic glares across at me as he leaves the stand.

  It is four days since the trial began, and Nurse Hall is called forward. My favourite nurse from the hospital, she doesn’t look comfortable in the courtroom. She speaks softly, touches her mouth often. Mr. Thomas goes up to the witness box first.

  “Thank you for coming today, Miss Hall. It can’t be easy getting time off from a children’s ward. I imagine it is a heartrending job?”

  “It can be, yes.”

  “You say you met Rose Wilks in the hospital when she was in labour with her son?”

  “That’s right. Her son Joel was in intensive care. I took special note of Rose, as I knew it was so hard for her, him being so poorly. But it was still a shock when he died.”

  I clench my stomach.

  “And how did Miss Wilks react to her son’s death?”

  “She was devastated. And so was her partner. They were just in pieces.”

  “Not the behaviour of someone capable of murder?”

  “Objection!” shouts the Prosecution, “Nurse Hall is a nurse, not a psychologist.”

  “Sustained,” the Judge says, “please rephrase, Mr. Thomas.”

  “Miss Hall, did you ever doubt that Rose loved her son Joel?”

  “Never.” Her voice is louder than before.

  “And when you saw her in the café with Luke did she show him anything other than care and affection?”

  “She was very attentive.”

  I catch the eye of the woman on the jury, the one in pink, to make sure she’s heard.

  “So, although she may have been overly involved with Luke, perhaps as a result of losing her own son, there were no signs that she wanted to harm him?”

  “Not harm, no.” Miss Hall pauses. “But when I saw she was breastfeeding him I thought that was odd.”

  Mr. Thomas is prepared for this, “Odd, maybe. But not harmful?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “In fact, in other cultures it is quite common for babies to be nursed by women who are not their mothers. In this country it was not so long ago that wealthy women would employ wet nurses.”

  “I believe so.” She sounds uncertain.

  “Thank you. No further questions.”

  I feel warmth flood my heart for Nurse Hall. I want to call over to the woman in pink, see, I loved Luke. I would never hurt him! Mr. Thomas waits until Nurse Hall has left the witness stand before turning to the audience.

  “Ladies and Gentleman of the Jury, it is for you to decide. Does the woman before you seem capable of murder? Or does she seem a normal woman, a woman who loved her son Joel, who bore the terrible loss of his death, and was then caught up in a tragic set of circumstances? Could we not look at this sorry woman who has been accused and admit that ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I?’

  “Rose admits to being in Luke’s bedroom on the night he died. She should not have been there, she admits it. She should not have given in to her love and breastfed the boy. But she was grieving for her own son and depressed.

  “She is adamant that she did not smoke in the Hatcher’s house. By Mrs. Hatcher’s own admission, she, too, is a smoker. Mrs. Hatcher had argued with her husband that night and was unhappy; the cigarette that started the fire may have been hers. Whatever the case, however the tragic accident occurred, one thing is certain: Rose Wilks did not deliberately start the fire that killed Luke Hatcher.

  “I put it to you that the proper verdict is that Rose Wilks is not guilty of murder. She is not guilty of manslaughter.”

  5

  NOW

  “Hurry up, Amelia. We’ll be late!”

  Cate was pouring milk over Amelia’s Rice Krispies. She had already buttered a piece of burnt toast for her own breakfast. Hearing no sign that her daughter was on her way down, she took the stairs two at a time, and found Amelia on her bed amid a heap of dolls and teddies, still in vest and knickers.

  “Why aren’t you dressed?”

  “I’m tired.” Amelia flopped onto the bed. “I want to stay here.”

  Cate retrieved the pink dress she had laid out from the floor. “Arms up,” she commanded, pulling it over her daughter’s blonde hair. This was Tim’s fault; he’d returned her late the night before even though Cate had asked him not to. Amelia was always tired and cranky after spending a weekend with him.

  “Ow, Mummy. You’re hurting.”

  Ignoring her protests, Cate grabbed Amelia’s sandals, pushing them onto struggling feet and tightening the straps. “Right. Come on—breakfast. Quickly!”

  Amelia reluctantly followed her downstairs, plonked herself on a chair in front of the soggy cereal, and whined, “I don’t want Krispies. I want Cheerios.”

  “Just eat them.”

  Irritated, Cate saw it was nearly 8.30. She still had to drop Amelia at her childminder Julie’s house, and then drive down the coast to Bishop’s Hill Prison. She was going to be late. Throwing an apple and a sandwich in her bag, she turned to see that Amelia’s hunched shoulders were shaking. Torn between anger and pity, Cate begged, “Please don’t cry, Amelia.”

  “But I wanted Cheerios,” she sobbed, “Daddy lets me.”

  Giving in, Cate grabbed a clean bowl, filled it with Cheerios, sloshing the milk on the kitchen counter in her haste, and placed the bowl in front of Amelia. “Now eat them. Quickly!”

  Amelia’s insistence on Cheerios had cost Cate valuable minutes. After dropping her off at Julie’s she had driven to the prison and rushed into the entrance.

  She waited patiently, catching her breath. The prison officers behind the reinforced glass continued talking to each other, ignoring her, so she banged on the window and pushed her ID card under the grille.

  “Cate Austin. Probation Officer. Reporting for my first day.”

  Once inside the prison Officer Dave Callahan showed her around. He looked to be in his early fifties, with suspiciously dark hair and a body that was muscle gone to fat. He had probably been attractive in his youth, and held on to the illusion that he still was. Flirting with Cate, he escorted her around the units, making a show of chivalry by opening every one of the barred gates, but not showing her the respect of addressing her by name. When she asked him to cut out calling her ‘love’ and ‘sweetheart’, he just laughed in reply. She was going to have problems with him.

  “So what makes a pretty girl like you want to work in a prison?”

  “Well, I would have been a pilot, but I don’t like heights,” she retorted, dryly, as Callahan’s booming laugh reverberated round the walls.

  “This used to be a training farm for men who were going off to the colonies.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, young farmers got taught to work the land, then pissed off for a new life in Australia. Wouldn’t
mind emigrating myself. Now it’s two prisons, one for men and one for women. The men’s side is ‘open’, so you’ll see cons wandering around, just like those farm-boys, getting ready to leave. Some have been inside for years, at the end of long sentences, but if they’re here it means we can trust them to work locally. They’re Category D—low risk.”

  “I’m going to be based on the women’s side.”

  “That’s a different kettle of fish altogether, that’s why they’re behind the wall. Female cons aren’t categorised, but if they were those bitches would be category A. Evil, some of ’em. It’s too late to teach ’em to be proper women. They’d rather be out burgling and scoring drugs than looking after their kids.”

  They walked down a slope leading to a separate building with a flat roof. The sign on the wall said ‘Hospital Wing.’

  Callahan unlocked the external doors and led Cate into a corridor of cells, where the walls had been painted white rather than grey. The hospital wing didn’t deserve its name. It was still just a prison landing, but with posters telling visitors to wash their hands and a torn diagram of a skeleton tacked to the wall. The cells were still locked, with an observation window of about thirty centimetres by ten, meaning there could never be any privacy, even for the sick. A woman was in the office, bent over a newspaper. She was wearing a starched nursing jacket instead of the usual white shirt and black tie. Cate guessed that whatever medical training she had received would be scant and it was unlikely she deserved that watch fob pinned to her chest like a medal.

  At the sound of their footsteps, she looked up and came forward. She was slightly built and wore black trousers with steel capped boots. She reminded Cate of one of those games of Amelia’s, where you were dealt the tops and bottoms of people, and had to match them up. With the top half of a nurse and the bottom of a prison officer, this woman was a match Amelia would never have made. She offered the woman a hand, and introduced herself.