by H S Chandler
It took a decade before Ruth felt adequately qualified and equipped to open the helpline. Now she couldn’t imagine doing anything else, not just because of her dedication to the task, but because of the number of people out there who needed help. More than she’d ever imagined when she’d started out. And every time the phone rang, for a fleeting moment, she heard her sister’s voice at the end of the line, making the call she’d never made, getting the help she’d never asked for. The phone line was Gail’s legacy.
10
Day Four in Court
By ten thirty the next morning, the jurors were gathered and ready to get started when the usher stuck her head around the door.
‘Brief delay, I’m afraid. The judge is hearing an urgent bail application on another case. Shouldn’t be too long.’ She disappeared before anyone could ask for clarification of the exact time estimate. It had become clear that time had a different meaning inside the court building, and the phrase ‘not too long’ could mean anything from ten minutes to several hours. Waiting was the normal order of the day, with little to do except watch the clock and wonder what was happening elsewhere.
‘Morning, Lottie,’ Jen said. ‘Did you come over the bridge this morning? I heard on the radio there was a terrible traffic jam. I’m guessing you missed it as you’re on time.’
‘I got the bus actually. My car’s in for its MOT today, but the traffic was fine, thanks,’ Lottie murmured, side-stepping away with her mug of coffee. She didn’t want to make small talk. Her commute had been spent counting down the minutes until she could get back into the jury room to talk about what they’d seen the day before. Taking a seat between Cameron and Jack, she wondered how to broach the subject with them.
‘Do you suppose she’s on bail … the defendant?’ Sergeant-Major Gregory asked no one in particular.
‘I hope not. Bristol’s not safe with a woman like that on the loose,’ Agnes Huang responded bluntly.
It was an opportunity to get involved in the discussion. Lottie steeled herself for criticism and took the leap. ‘But we haven’t heard from the defendant, yet,’ she said, wondering why she was taking the side of someone who had inflicted such stomach-churning injuries. She’d lost half a night’s sleep wondering how a woman who appeared so mild could suddenly turn feral. Lottie was both horrified and intrigued. The only conclusion she’d reached was that there had to be an explanation for Maria Bloxham’s behaviour, unless she had simply lost her mind, and that wasn’t Lottie’s impression having studied her in court yesterday. ‘I just don’t think we should assume what type of woman she is yet,’ she added, her voice trailing off into an almost inaudible mumble.
‘I certainly wouldn’t want her living next door to me and my sister,’ Samuel Lowry chipped in.
‘I’m sure your dogs would protect you,’ Cameron muttered into his newspaper, just loud enough for Lottie and Jack at either side of him, to hear. Lottie responded by nudging his foot with hers.
‘You never know what people are capable of,’ Garth Finuchin said, flexing his tattoos, too many of which were on show courtesy of a sleeveless T-shirt. Lottie was glad she wasn’t going to be sitting next to him in court all day. The best anti-perspirant in the world was no match for the temperatures that week.
‘What we’re all capable of,’ Jack said. Lottie smiled at him. He was in classic student-wear, complete with ripped jeans and a top proclaiming some political slogan that Lottie vaguely recognised but couldn’t place. His delivery had been soft and well-intentioned, but the effect it had on the room was certainly not.
‘I’m sorry, it might just be my more mature years, but I am certainly not capable of that sort of violence. I also believe we should expect better of our fellow human beings than that which we witnessed yesterday,’ Tabitha said.
‘You don’t think that pushed to your limits, you might be capable of more than just jam-making and crochet?’ Cameron asked her, keeping his voice light, without lowering his newspaper an inch.
‘That was rude,’ Gregory bristled on Tabitha’s behalf. ‘You’re suggesting Tabitha is no more than some clichéd version of a pensioner. I didn’t see you volunteering to be jury foreperson.’
‘And you lot are assuming the defendant’s some 1970s BBC drama version of a criminal, because you’ve seen the injuries and her husband has the word doctor in front of his name. I think we should all just keep our thoughts to ourselves at this stage.’ No one spoke for a good twenty seconds, then the silence was papered over with the lifting of mugs, and fingers tapping on mobile phone screens.
Cameron lifted his newspaper a little higher in front of his face and went back to reading what Lottie figured were the sports pages. She caught herself. That was another assumption. The world seemed to be full of them. Cameron Ellis, however, was refusing to be drawn into everyone else’s outrage. He was happy to have an opinion that didn’t match the group’s, and had no problem expressing it. Lottie wished she could be more like him. Perhaps if she could talk to him about yesterday, it would help her put the injuries into perspective. She longed to ask if he was really so open-minded about the case, or if he was just playing devil’s advocate to the Tabithas.
Lottie herself felt torn. She’d been desperate to talk about the case the previous evening, but had felt the weight of the judge’s warning too heavily to break the rules. When Zain asked her about the charges, she’d explained the restrictions on discussing matters at home. He’d responded by telling her she was taking it all far too seriously.
‘Fine. It involves an assault,’ she’d said, as she emptied an assortment of stones and twigs from Daniyal’s coat pockets.
‘I don’t see why you have to be secretive about that. Sounds like a normal Friday night in Bristol to me. Drink and drugs involved?’ Zain had asked.
Lottie paused. ‘I can’t say any more,’ she’d replied, wishing she could tell him that she’d felt sick to her stomach when Edward Bloxham had come into the court. Wishing she could explain that she’d hated herself for thinking exactly the same as Queen Tabitha, Just-Jennifer and Agnes Huang. How could a woman do such a thing? A woman. Pour me another glass of stereotype and make it a double, she’d thought. What difference did it make that a woman had committed such an offence? But it did change things, in a million minuscule, ridiculous, outdated ways. Zain wouldn’t be able to understand. How could she expect him to, when Lottie was at a complete loss herself?
Finally they were called into court for the trial to start again. An eerie hush remained in the courtroom, as if Edward Bloxham hadn’t left. Lottie checked up and down the two rows of her colleagues. Not one of them was looking towards Maria Bloxham. It would have been easier, Lottie thought, if the defendant hadn’t been there at all. Her presence felt malevolent given the evidence they had already seen. Imogen Pascal, today bedecked in pale grey with dark pinstripes, had forsaken her stern glasses in favour of contact lenses. It was a softer image, one that made her more likeable.
‘Your Honour,’ Miss Pascal began, ‘we will begin today playing a video blog, popularly known as a vlog for the internet savvy among us.’
She motioned pressing a button at the usher who was operating a laptop linked to a large screen at the front of the court. James Newell got to his feet before the film could start to play.
‘Actually, Your Honour, the defence is not satisfied as to the relevance of this evidence. It has no bearing on the facts of the case.’ He sat down.
‘Miss Pascal,’ the judge said, pushing her glasses down her nose and peering over them. ‘Could you summarise what we are about to see, and explain the relevance to the charge of attempted murder.’
‘Absolutely,’ Pascal said. ‘The contents of the blog are of no direct factual significance, which is why we will show only a brief clip. The relevance is for the jury to witness the man Dr Bloxham was prior to his injury, to compare with the man they saw yesterday. It is also pertinent in balancing whatever picture the defence later paints of Dr Bloxham. In that rega
rd, if the defence can confirm they will not seek to sully the victim’s character in any way, then we can agree not to show the video.’ She paused and raised her eyebrows in James Newell’s direction.
James Newell didn’t bother to answer the question. ‘Is the prosecution really claiming it’s impossible for a man who likes wildlife to be cruel and abusive to his wife? This tactic really is laughable,’ he said.
‘What’s laughable is running a defence with no corroborative evidence,’ Imogen Pascal countered.
‘May I remind you both that the jury is in court listening to this exchange. Keep your comments to yourselves. As far as the video goes, keep it brief, Miss Pascal. Make your point and move on,’ the judge ordered.
Imogen Pascal nodded once more at the usher who pressed play. There was a flash of pixelation across the screen, then a man’s face appeared, close up and beaming.
‘And today, at my favourite time of the year, I have a rare treat for you,’ Dr Edward Bloxham told them through a digital time-warp. He leaned down to the floor and rummaged, lifting a piece of cloth up first, then bringing a tiny squirming creature into view. It lifted its nose to sniff Bloxham’s hands then tipped its head to one side.
A gush of air crossed the courtroom as the viewers cooed over the baby hedgehog he displayed. Edward Bloxham held a morsel to its mouth and let it nibble. ‘The loss of woodland and meadow to building projects in England is having a dramatic effect on this creature’s habitat. We are seeing fewer babies born, and more adult hedgehogs are dying leaving orphaned young. The next generation will be lucky to come across one of these beautiful, shy animals. It is vital that we conserve areas for them to mate and thrive.’ He put the snuffling baby back in its box and sat up to continue addressing his audience, at which point the screen turned blank.
Imogen Pascal continued. ‘That video blog was recorded and put online by Dr Bloxham five days before his death. Now the prosecution calls Dr Gibbs, forensic investigator, to give evidence.’
The usher disappeared outside to summon the witness.
Lottie let out a long breath. Dr Bloxham’s injuries were so life-changing that the video might as well have been sent from beyond the grave. He was never going to hold another hedgehog, nor speak so passionately into a camera to send his thoughts out into the world. He would probably never even understand the outcome of the trial at which he was the undoubted centrepiece. Lives were shattered so quickly. She wondered what Mrs Bloxham’s intentions had been as the blow was struck. Was it fear, anger or a more complex emotion that had made her raise the chair leg? Jealousy, frustration or greed? Lottie felt melancholy. If she had been shocked at the injuries yesterday, today she felt the toll of the loss. Seeing Edward Bloxham talking and smiling was so much worse than just perceiving him as a victim and a patient. The idea that such an engaging and passionate man could be left halfway between life and death was heart-breaking. The weight of the jury’s task suddenly felt enormous. They weren’t just reaching a verdict. They were to pick through the dirt of the Bloxham’s marriage, sorting the bones from the treasure.
‘Clever,’ Cameron Ellis muttered from beside her. Lottie turned to look at him, unsure if he was talking about Dr Bloxham himself or the vlog. The court door opened and a woman walked in, taking her place in the witness box before Lottie could clarify Cameron’s meaning.
Dr Gibbs swore the oath then gave her professional credentials, explaining that she had examined both Dr Bloxham’s injury and the scene of the crime. It had been her remit to oversee all the forensics in the case, from DNA to blood spatters. Lottie didn’t envy the woman her job.
In Dr Gibbs’ hands was a long plastic bag. She placed it on the witness stand in front of her as Imogen Pascal began asking questions. ‘What did the injury tell you about the attack, Dr Gibbs?’
‘The most notable feature of the injury was that the skull itself was not merely fractured, but that the metal fixture normally securing the chair leg to the seat had permeated the skull and entered the cranial cavity, forcing out a section of tissue. That level of force is almost invariably lethal. It is only because the injury was to an area of the brain which allows the vital organs to continue functioning that Dr Bloxham is still alive.’
‘What about the angle of the injury? Did you infer anything from that?’ Miss Pascal asked.
‘It’s high up on the skull. Given that Dr Bloxham is approximately the same height as the defendant, she must have raised the chair leg very high into the air, substantially above her own head, enabling her to increase the force of the blow. Bringing it down onto the top of his skull with so much force not only damaged the skull, but also caused his facial features on one side to slip as a result of skin slackening, nerve and muscle damage.’
Lottie felt sick.
‘Is there any evidence that the defendant intended a lesser injury, for example, to temporarily incapacitate Dr Bloxham while she fled the house?’ Imogen Pascal asked.
‘I don’t believe so,’ Dr Gibbs replied. ‘This was a very substantial blow. The angle of the strike at the rear of the skull is relevant. If you look at photograph number 3 …’ Dr Gibbs opened the bundle of photos on the desk in front of her. Lottie leaned forward and opened the booklet, her stomach lurching as the injury appeared supersized and in glorious technicolour. It was all she could do not to immediately close the pages again. ‘Here you see the injury from behind. It is slightly to the left of the centre of the skull, with a triangular shaped indent. The positioning means that Dr Bloxham would not have been aware of the chair leg being raised because the weapon would not have been noticeable at either side of his peripheral vision. He was attacked squarely from behind and could not have defended himself. The injury also indicates that there was no sound prior to the attack. Had there been, the victim would have been in the process of turning his head as the blow was struck, and the injury pattern would not have run straight down the back of the skull.’
‘Do you have the weapon with you?’ Miss Pascal asked.
‘I do,’ Dr Gibbs said. ‘The defendant’s fingerprints and DNA were found both in the blood at the end and along the lower shaft, confirming that she had held it with both hands. There were other fingerprints on the article also, none at the bloodied end though, but one expects that with furniture which has been used over a number of years, and this piece was approximately thirty years old.’
The chair leg was given an exhibit number and handed to the defence to inspect before being passed to the jury. Tabitha took it first, taking her time examining it, removing her glasses and writing notes on her pad as she turned it around. By the time it reached Lottie, the plastic bag was slick from sweaty palms. She handled it with her fingertips, holding her breath. The blood was still visible on the end, although it had long since blackened and dried, leaving a powdery residue in the bag. What made her skin crawl was the hair clumped and matted around the metal edge. The end of it was sharp. You’d be hard pressed not to foresee just how much damage it would do, whether the exact angle of the blow was deliberate or accidental. As she passed it down to Agnes Huang, Lottie watched her wrap both hands firmly around the base of the leg and draw her arms back, as if ready to take a swing. From behind, Lottie could see Agnes’s muscles flexing with the weight of it. The chair leg was old and dense, nothing flat-packed or light-weight about it. Swing that and you were making a choice, she thought. Swing that, and you really meant it.
Imogen Pascal sat down and James Newell got to his feet.
‘Dr Gibbs, the amount of force used might indicate a number of different motivational factors, none of which you can assess, isn’t that right?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure exactly what you mean,’ Dr Gibbs replied.
‘I mean the amount of force used might have been affected by anger, or equally from fear, or a number of other emotions,’ Newell said.
‘I don’t think I’ve indicated any one specific emotion,’ Dr Gibbs countered.
‘No, but you stated that the bl
ow was delivered while Dr Bloxham’s back was turned, implying that it was an unprovoked attack. My point is that your view is rather simplistic. It assumes that a fight is a stand-alone event, and that a person only defends themselves in the midst of action,’ Newell said.
‘Yes, that’s how I see it,’ Dr Gibbs said.
‘Which ignores the possibility that the blow might have been landed to prevent a later event, or the prospect of future harm,’ Newell said.
‘My learned friend is asking this witness to speculate,’ Imogen Pascal interjected.
‘I’m exploring an alternative scenario,’ Newell responded. ‘But I’ll move on. Dr Gibbs, can we agree that the metal on the chair leg was what caused the bulk of the damage to the skull?’ he asked.
‘It certainly caused the skull to split fully rather than just fracturing but remaining closed,’ Dr Gibbs said.
‘Using such force, it would have been almost impossible for Mrs Bloxham to have ensured that one specific part of the leg came into contact with the skull. The chair leg might easily have turned as she raised it or swung it,’ Newell said.
‘I suppose so,’ Dr Gibbs said.
At the back of the courtroom, Maria Bloxham shifted in her seat, giving a tiny shake of her head and frowning. Lottie wondered if she was recalling the precise moment she brought the weapon down on her husband, the reality of what she had done sinking in.
‘And thus, it might be the case that Maria Bloxham had not intended such a dramatic injury as in fact resulted,’ James Newell finished.
