Don't Say a Word

by A. L. Bird

  ‘Good. I’d like to think my fellow partners here aren’t ones to gossip after a few drinks but I don’t know all of them that well yet, you know? And for God’s sake, don’t tell Lucy about it – I think after yesterday she’d happily blab just to get even with me.’

  I nod again. Pleased to be working for one of the good guys at last, I pick up the file Tim indicated and take it back to my desk.

  I flick through the file first to see what’s there. Lots of handwritten notes, clipped together with their typed-up counterparts. First witness meeting, copies of letters to the CPS, transcript of the committal hearing. Nothing about a court date yet, so far as I can see, and it doesn’t look like there’s been much from the CPS by way of advance disclosure.

  A photo of Rhea. She’s beautiful. Her skin is the lightest caramel, with a smattering of darker caramel freckles across the bridge of her nose and her high cheekbones. Her eyes, sitting beneath perfectly arched eyebrows, are a deep brown, almost black. I’d like to say they shine. But they don’t. They are dulled by goodness knows what. I flick back to the beginning again and read the notes from the first witness meeting.

  RS sitting hunched, mood bad. Try to do intros – no response. Explain here to help. Ask usual questions – how treated, remember police caution etc. No response. Thought might be crying. No sign of mistreatment.

  Ask how she wants to plead.

  Says: I didn’t do it.

  Explain there isn’t an ‘it’, a string of offences.

  Yeah, well how the shit am I to make the money without using this? Gestures to her body.

  Tell her she seems bright and can do better. She snorts.

  Says: Anyway, you know there’s an it. It’s the wraps, innit? I don’t do that crap.

  Ask: So why did the police find it at your address?

  Says: What ‘my address’? You think I’m like lady of the manor now, is it, with my own house and a big driveway? Shares with four other people.

  Ask her about them, what they do.

  She asks me what I think they do.

  Ask her if they all work for the same person. She shrugs.

  Ask her if one of her customers could have left something there. Says she doesn’t bring men back there. Uses cars, car parks etc.

  Try different approach. Move on to her background. Why did you turn to this work?

  Tells me it was the careers adviser at the children’s home. He gave her some practice an’ all.

  I blink away tears.

  Poor Rhea.

  She could be so many of the girls I met along the way. I heard stories of hands where they shouldn’t be and yes, the worst. Rape. Don’t call it ‘serious sexual abuse’. It’s rape. It’s vulnerable young people torn and confused because the people they were told to trust have just helped themselves and yet they still have to pretend to trust them. Because there’s that whisper in the ear afterwards – if you tell anyone about this, you can forget about having a warm bed, you can forget about a future, because no one will believe a screwed-up kid from a shitty family over a man with a job like mine.

  Or so I’ve heard.

  And now there’s some lawyer guy, interrogating her. Tim hasn’t even explained, unless it was in the intros, that he was trying to help her. Why should she trust him, any more than anyone else who has fucked her up over the years?

  I read on.

  Ask: Have you ever seen any of your flatmates with drugs?

  Says: They wouldn’t fucking dare.

  Ask: Why’s that?

  Says: Because I’d shove it right up them, probably where it came from, because I’m not having my daughter growing up like that.

  Christ. She has a daughter.

  Ask: But you’re willing for her to grow up knowing you’re a prostitute.

  Fucking hell, Tim. Don’t say that. Say ‘How old is she?’ Or ‘What’s her name?’

  Don’t preach hellfire.

  RS doesn’t respond.

  No shit.

  ***

  ‘Knock knock.’

  Someone is banging on my desk. I look up. It’s Tim.

  Tim, for whom I have a whole lot less respect than I did five minutes ago.

  ‘Hi, Tim. Just looking through the Rhea Stevens file.’

  Tim looks around and puts a quick finger to his lips.

  ‘Best come into my office, Jen,’ he says, his voice low.

  Grudgingly, I get up from my desk and follow him into his office. All these secrecy games don’t make up for how he’s treating Rhea.

  Once we’re in his office, and he’s shut the door, he talks to me in his normal voice.

  ‘So. Bit of a fix we’re in, isn’t it?’ he says.

  ‘She says she didn’t do it.’

  ‘Yes, well she would, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘But what if she didn’t, Tim? Maybe she’s telling the truth – why would she put her kid in danger like that? Maybe we just need to treat her a bit more … respectfully.’

  Tim looks at me thoughtfully. There’s a pause. It grows uncomfortable. Is it me that’s showing a lack of respect, now?

  ‘Sorry, Tim, I just thought …’

  ‘No, no – don’t apologize. That’s exactly the sort of fresh insight I was looking for. Listen, I’ve got a conference with Daniel set up for two. I’ve got lunch with another of the barristers over there, so I’ll see you at chambers. OK?’

  ‘Sure thing.’ I nod. How can you be worried about your lunch, when Rhea is perishing in a jail somewhere? I want to ask him. How can you be so cold? Or maybe he doesn’t get it. Maybe he doesn’t know how to listen between the words, hear the sounds of a chaotic world. A victim, not a culpable culprit.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind bringing the files too, that would be great. Thanks, Jen.’

  He ushers me out of his office, and away he goes.

  ***

  I arrive early to Daniel’s chambers. In the mirror in the lift up to his floor I see how pale I am. I quickly slide on some lipstick. Too pink for my thoughts, but maybe that’s the point of make-up. I remember that delicious plum colour that Chloe used to wear. Made her look more inviting than she really was.

  ‘Jen!’ Daniel cries on seeing me, interrupting my reminiscing. He shakes my hand. I feel a frisson as our fingers meet. How lovely it is that there is an acceptable social way to touch each other immediately. He goes for a kiss on one cheek, and I feel his stubble impress itself on my skin. I pull away as he goes for the other cheek. Embarrassed, I lean in again, but I missed the moment. Things my mother never taught me #347.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. I search for small talk but can’t find any. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since that non-date and I’m struck by how much sexier he is in the flesh than in his photo. I’d forgotten that his thick brown hair is so wavy, that his cheekbones are so high. His eyes so piercing and alive. I’d like to take his hand again. Wouldn’t let him slip through my fingers another time.

  I clear my throat, like he can hear my thoughts, and tap the case file. ‘Did you read the interview notes?’

  ‘From the first interview?’ Dan asks.

  I nod.

  He nods too.

  ‘Tough stuff,’ he says.

  ‘You didn’t think Tim was a bit …’ I trail off. There are many words I could use.

  Dan finishes for me. ‘Blunt?’

  I smile a little. ‘Yes, blunt. That’ll do.’

  Dan nods. ‘Yep, I have a confession. I think that’s my fault.’

  ‘Your fault? How?’

  ‘I told him about how one of our QCs always talks to witnesses or defendants the first time proper bad-cop style, to see what they’ll be like under cross-examination. I suspect Tim was playing QCs but got it a bit wrong.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I do. And when I meet the poor girl, I’ll tell her so myself.’

  ‘You feel sorry for her, then?’ I ask Dan.

  ‘Don�
�t you?’ he counters.

  I relax a little. The human race has come in first again – Dan has restored my confidence in it. I shrug a little and take a seat. He doesn’t need to know quite how sorry I feel for our Rhea.

  When Tim appears a few moments later, he no longer seems like an ogre with no emotional intelligence. Just a wannabe who’s over-reached himself. Haven’t we all been there (maybe I still am)?

  Dan and Tim greet each other. Not quite like old friends – it’s very cordial, but professional. I suppose Dan was just offered as the guy the firm always uses, perhaps not Tim’s first choice.

  We get onto the meat of the conference.

  ‘What are her prospects, Dan?’ Tim asks.

  Dan must have been expecting this question but he wriggles a bit. ‘Not great, I think. I can see why the CPS have chosen this case. It seems a bit mean, and you can’t help feeling sorry for her, with all that background of being in care but –’

  ‘Yes, but if the CPS didn’t prosecute then, they wouldn’t in half of all cases!’ says Tim.

  I flinch. Dan looks at me quizzically. I pretend to be taking notes.

  Dan resumes his point. ‘Sure. But what I mean is, there’s this string of circumstantial stuff – all one plus one plus one plus one, which they’re fervently hoping adds up to four, but we have to show it doesn’t. Our best chance is to ignore all the prostitution stuff and focus on disproving the drugs element.’

  ‘She swears blind she wasn’t a mule,’ Tim says.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But how do we prove that?’ Tim asks.

  ‘Again, exactly.’ Dan runs one hand through his lovely hair. ‘Look – she was there when the stuff was there. That plus the incident years ago when they think she probably was there. Plus her kid’s dad with links to the ring – it’s slam-dunk to a jury.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ I ask. Or rather, whine. My voice is high, caught in my throat.

  Tim and Dan look at me in surprise. Yes, I may be a junior woman, there to take notes, but I do have a voice.

  ‘Well, I guess the main thing apart from my job of telling the CPS guy they haven’t proved what they think they’ve proved is to get something human from her that will show us why she couldn’t possibly have done it,’ Dan says. ‘Something the jury will go for.’

  Tim muses for a while. ‘What, like she would never be involved in drugs because her kid sister died from them you mean?’

  My pen freezes. My brain freezes. I want to ask Tim to repeat the phrase. But I don’t have to. I’ve heard it before.

  A decade ago. About Emma. Mick’s sister.

  I look at Tim for any sign he knows the significance of what he’s said. There’s nothing. He’s talking freely to Dan. Dan is nodding soberly at something. I don’t know what. My ears have frozen over too.

  Is this one of those situations they warn you about? That if you say or do the wrong thing, everything comes out? That I must be very careful how I act?

  ‘She did say she has a daughter who she wouldn’t let people do drugs in front of,’ I venture.

  Tim looks at me kindly. ‘You’ll come to learn, Jen, that people saying drugs are banned in their home doesn’t mean they ban themselves from selling them on the street.’

  Just as I thought I was defrosting, I refreeze again. Two lines from my past life. This is too much of a coincidence, isn’t it?

  ‘Ah, but Jen doesn’t know that seedy underbelly we frequent, Tim. She is but a novice in these parts!’ Dan’s tone is light.

  ‘Oh, don’t misjudge her, Dan. I’m sure Ms Sutton has done her share of racy deeds.’

  Are they flirting? Or are they insinuating? Have I found myself in the lion’s den, or just a pit of everyday sexism?

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say. I push back my chair and leave the room.

  I rush along the corridor to the ladies’ bathroom before they can follow me.

  Once there, I splash some water on my face. The lipstick comes off again, revealing the true me – pale and paranoid as ever. But am I paranoid this time? A partner at a law firm where I work, the managing partner of which knows what he believes to be my full history, has just alluded to that secret. Is Bill a gossip? When all along I thought my secret was safe with him, has he been laughing with the other partners about my secret past? About Mick? About Chloe?

  I shake my head. Surely not. Bill must know he’d be in no end of trouble if he was found to have given away my story. That’s why they chose him – trustworthy to a fault. Pillar of the local community. Committed to the role of law in rebuilding lives. All that worthy stuff.

  So. Just harmful flirting, then. In which case, I need to go back.

  I dry my face and return to the room.

  Tim gets to his feet. His face is serious.

  ‘Jen, we didn’t offend you, did we? I’m sorry, I was just trying to lighten the tone in this unpleasant case.’

  I stay mute, biding my time.

  ‘Look, let’s call it a day for now. Dan and I discussed some action points while you were out and –’

  ‘What action points?’ I ask. About me? A follow-up to the flirting?

  ‘About the case.’ Tim looks at me like I’m mad.

  ‘We decided that Tim is doing such a good job of building up Rhea’s trust that he’s going to go and speak to her again,’ Dan tells me. His voice is serious but his eyes are sparkling. Tim thinks he’s building up trust? Lawyers and their egos. Poor Rhea. But Dan’s invisible dig at Tim puts me at ease more than a stilted apology.

  ‘Yes, Dan read the transcripts and was kind to say I went about it like a proper QC!’ Tim says.

  I don’t look at Dan in case my anxiety spills over into giddy laughter.

  ‘So I’ll go and visit her again,’ Tim says.

  ‘I can come if you like,’ I tell him. Poor Rhea. She needs someone who gets it. Someone to talk to her about her kid. Someone who’s been there.

  Tim puts his head on one side. ‘Interesting idea for the future. But look, I’m getting somewhere with her. And besides, it will be too much admin with the prison passes and everything. Maybe later.’

  I nod. ‘OK.’

  ‘Anyway, what I was going to say was – I think we’ve got what we need for today. Shall we adjourn to the pub?’

  I flick a look at the clock. ‘I’d love to, Tim, but it’s getting on for school pick-up, and I’m driving, so …’

  ‘Oh, you’ve got time for a quick one, and I won’t let you get over the limit. Come on, live a little.’

  I look at Dan. He shrugs behind Tim’s back in an ‘up to you’ gesture.

  I look at the clock again. I have fifteen minutes, which means by the time we order I would have approximately one point five minutes to down my drink.

  ‘I’ll minesweep what you don’t finish,’ Dan offers, relieving my quandary.

  ‘It’s a deal, then,’ I tell him.

  But as we cross the road to the pub, I’m not at ease with my choice. It’s not so much the timing. Or the drinking. It’s the morality. Because they’ve been shamed into thinking I minded them almost flirting with me, Rhea Stevens’s two best hopes of freedom have abandoned their posts to take me for a drink. If someone had done that to me all those years ago, where would I be now?

  Chapter 8

  The pub is crowded when we get there. Pinstriped suits jostle with polo shirts to be served by a too-relaxed barmaid. I almost turn round and leave then and there – we’ll never get a drink on time. I mustn’t be late for Josh again. But Tim waves us to a table ledge and says he’ll get us a drink in no time.

  ‘Vodka and Coke,’ I say. Tim raises an eyebrow at me. What, am I meant to be on the dry white wine here? Fuck that. ‘A single,’ I tell him. ‘I’m driving.’

  I follow Dan to a trio of bar-stools. As we clamber up, our knees brush. I pull away, too quickly.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Dan asks me. I think for a moment he means the knee-brushi
ng. But he doesn’t. It’s the meeting.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say.

  He looks at me closely. ‘If I offended you, I’m sorry.’ He pauses a moment. ‘But I don’t think I did, did I?’

  I flick a glance at him. ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘I know it’s a serious case, Jen. I take it seriously, don’t worry. I’ll do my bit for Rhea.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ I tell him. If I need to pretend that’s what happened, fine. That upset me too. Just not as much as thinking Bill had blabbed, that I was in a room of people who Know.

  Dan smiles at me and I can feel the warmth of our connection starting. Rebuilding.

  Then Tim reappears with the drinks.

  We clink our glasses, although I don’t know why.

  ‘To Rhea,’ says Dan.

  Tim nods sagely. ‘Yes. To Rhea. Well said.’

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. What are your counsel doing now, Rhea? They are clinking glasses in an overcrowded pub. And what are you doing? Sitting in a cell wondering when you’re next going to see your daughter.

  ‘I should get going,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, already?’ cries Tim. As if I’ve made up my son, made up my caring responsibilities.

  ‘Minesweep for me, Dan?’ I ask him.

  ‘With pleasure,’ he returns. ‘See you soon. Take care.’ This time we both know that we’re going for a kiss on both cheeks. ‘I’ll call you,’ he says softly into my ear. I wonder if he means about the case.

  ‘Let me escort you out,’ Tim says.

  ‘There’s really no need,’ I tell him, but he’s already on his feet.

  Outside, I’m ready to go, but Tim takes my elbow slightly and pulls me away from the doorway into the quiet side street.

  ‘Jen, I really am sorry about before. And look, about you having to leave early – it’s difficult for you. Lucy giving you a dressing-down the other day, you getting on with Dan just now but having to go … well, look, I don’t want to speak out of turn again. But I can recommend a very good child minder.’

  ‘I can’t afford a child minder, Tim.’

  ‘Well, you should be able to, Jen. Let me put in a word with Bill. Least I can do. And I’ll message you her details.’