Degrees of Guilt

by H S Chandler

  James Newell stood up and looked across briefly to see that they were all settled, before addressing the judge. ‘Your Honour,’ he announced confidently. ‘The defence calls Maria Bloxham to give evidence.’

  21

  Time stopped. Everyone was waiting for her to stand up. Maria glanced around the courtroom at the sea of faces, anticipating what she might say. Each of them had expectations, preconceived ideas of the sort of person she was. The press had their pens at the ready. The judge was flicking through her notes. The jurors – twelve little birds perched on parallel wires – were waiting for something like justification. How could she have done it? Would she do it again, given the chance? And Ruth was there, too, trying to hide at the back of the public seating. Of course she hadn’t been able to stay away. She’d never been able to leave Maria to her fate and today was the culmination of it all. It had been years in the making. Only Imogen Pascal didn’t turn to see her stand up, legs a little wobbly in spite of the sense that she had nothing left to lose. Maria straightened her white shirt and brushed her straight black skirt down before leaving the dock. One of the dock officers accompanied her to the witness stand, presumably to make sure she didn’t make a sudden attempt at escape. They didn’t realise she already had. James Newell smiled reassuringly, and Maria understood that he was assessing her readiness for what she needed to do. It was all down to her now. The case would be won or lost on the strength of the story she told. Maria kept her eyes down and her voice level as she was sworn in.

  ‘Ms Bloxham, could you explain what happened the day you were arrested?’ he asked. Maria opened the set of photographs in front of her, running her fingertips over the images of the injury to Edward’s skull, a dull sense of pleasure stirring in her stomach.

  ‘Do you need some water?’ Newell prompted, his voice a little louder.

  Maria looked up. Everyone was staring. ‘I picked up the chair leg and hit him with it,’ she said. ‘I wanted him to die.’

  The jury froze mid note-taking while the journalists scribbled harder and faster. Someone in the public gallery let go a small sob. One of Edward’s multitude of fans, Maria guessed. The judge issued a delicate cough, staring at James Newell. His face was as unresponsive as the most professional of poker players. Imogen Pascal looked her directly in the eyes for the first time since the trial had commenced. A current passed between them. The real battle had begun. The prosecution would twist every word, wring the evil out of every adjective she used, lay traps weaved of clever questioning to trip her up. Which was why Maria had decided it was best to simply deliver everything Imogen Pascal wanted to hear up front.

  ‘All right,’ Newell said slowly, one finger massaging a small circle on his temple. There had been a plan. Something close to rehearsals so that Maria knew the order his questions would come in. She’d gone through her answers with him. Now she was off script already. She felt sorry for him. It wasn’t a simple case and she wasn’t an easy client, but Maria was done playing intellectual chess. ‘Perhaps you could start at the beginning instead? How did the day you were arrested begin?’

  ‘It didn’t begin that day,’ Maria said.

  ‘I see,’ Newell replied softly, the sideways tilt of his head an acknowledgment that Maria was going to do things her own way and that all he could do was let her. ‘Start from the point you feel is relevant to what happened between you and Dr Bloxham.’

  Maria rubbed the pale band of skin where her wedding and engagement rings used to sit. She could sunbathe for a decade, she thought, and the sickly whiteness would never tan. It was just one scar among many. The first sign that her life was destined to be lived in misery had been when Edward had chosen that ring. It was as good a place to start as any. She told the tale slowly in plain terms. The memories though, came hard and fast, knocking down the internal walls she’d spent years constructing. The retelling might be a gateway to madness, but even madness was preferable to numbness after so long.

  ‘I was overwhelmed when he asked me to marry him,’ she said, choosing a spot on the wall to address. ‘At twenty-one I had no close family and Edward filled that gap. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world.’ That was the whole truth, perhaps even an understatement. ‘Edward was good at romance before we were married. He proposed to me in the Cotswolds. It was during a midnight picnic in a meadow, under the pretext of badger watching. Such a beautiful night. There was a lake on one side and a woodland copse on the other. I was head over heels. It was even a full moon. I’m not sure if he planned that or it was a coincidence. Either way, it was magical.

  ‘I remember it so clearly. He poured me wine, just half a glass. Edward didn’t like women drinking too much. His own was full when he toasted us. He kissed me, told me I was perfect for him, everything he’d spent his life looking for. At that stage I was still stupid enough to believe he meant that in a good way.’

  ‘How do you think he meant it, in hindsight?’ Newell asked.

  ‘I know exactly how he meant it. He wanted someone naive. I was without family and easily impressed. Almost alone, save for a couple for friends. He became the guiding influence in my life effortlessly. Edward wanted someone he could dominate, so he was right. I was perfect for him.’

  Imogen Pascal leapt up. ‘This is speculation and hypothesis. The defendant cannot be allowed to say whatever she likes about the motives of a man who is unable to respond.’

  James Newell moved a few steps along counsel’s bench to respond to her, stage whisper style. ‘Sit down.’

  Imogen Pascal glared at him, but she was reaching for her seat.

  ‘Mr Newell,’ the judge intervened. ‘I was inclined to agree with you, only in a more polite fashion. This case is emotive enough without you two losing your tempers. Don’t make me tell either of you again. And Miss Pascal, the defendant is answering a serious charge. You will allow her to do so without further interruption. Continue. If a line is crossed, I’ll deal with it.’

  Newell took a sip of water and pulled his gown back up over his shoulders. He managed to give Maria a reassuring nod before returning to his questions.

  ‘You were telling the court about the night Dr Bloxham proposed. Please carry on.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maria said. ‘Edward.’ She allowed herself to slip back to that night. The irony was that she’d thought it was the best of her life when actually it was the start of the end. ‘He laid me back on the rug, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me. “Darling Maria,” he said. “I want you to know I’ll dedicate myself to providing for your every need. I’ll be your friend, your partner, lover, advisor, everything you need.” I realised what was coming then and I was amazed. Not that he was proposing, but that he’d chosen me. He had a PhD and I’d only passed A-levels. He was published, and had even been on television a couple of times. To me he was a sort of celebrity. Edward had everything planned to the last detail. He’d taken the ring from the jeweller’s box I guess it came in, and fitted it into a geode. When I pulled the halves of the rock apart, the purple crystals glittered in the camping light. It sounds pathetic now, but I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It was like discovering an ancient treasure. Edward took my left hand and pushed the ring – it was a small diamond solitaire because he said my fingers were so slight that a large stone would have looked clunky – onto my finger.’ Maria winced remembering the pain it had caused.

  ‘The band ground against my knuckle, grazing off a sliver of skin. My face must have showed the pain because he looked irritated with me and asked if I didn’t like it. I told him I adored it, and I meant it. I wanted to get married and I … I loved him. Truly. I explained that the ring was a bit small but that resizing it wouldn’t be a big deal. He told me he’d asked the jeweller to make it tight, based on the size of another of my rings. His exact words were, “I never want it to slip off. I don’t want you to lose it, just like I never want to lose you. Hopefully you feel the same.”

  ‘I told him I did, one hundr
ed per cent. Rather than go against his wishes, I said I’d get used to the ring. I lost weight for years during our marriage. That ring was so small it never budged. During the summer months my finger would swell until I thought it would burst.’

  ‘Did you ever ask again if you could have it resized?’ Newell asked.

  ‘Often, in the early years of our marriage. I learned by his moods that the suggestion was offensive to him. In the end it was easier to put up with the pain from the ring than the emotional backlash of complaining about it.’

  Imogen Pascal stood up. ‘Your Honour, we’ve been here some time hearing the details of what sounds like an idyllic and romantic proposal nearly twenty years ago. I wonder if we could move onto events which have some actual bearing on the attempted murder?’

  James Newell prepared to answer the objection, but Maria cut in before he could get there, her voice shrill enough to shatter glass.

  ‘These events are relevant because, like everything else in my married life, that ring was designed to cause discomfort. The size of it was planned as a daily reminder that I was tied to him. I couldn’t get rid of it any more than I could get rid of my husband, and he wanted me to feel it every hour of every day.’

  ‘Mrs Bloxham …’ the judge cautioned.

  ‘It’s Ms Bloxham,’ Maria interrupted her loudly. ‘I don’t want the title any more than I still want that engagement ring. I had to get it cut off my finger. Even that was painful, like every aspect of getting rid of him has been.’

  Her Honour Judge Downey glared at her, taking a moment before responding. This time Newell managed to get a word in first.

  ‘I apologise, Your Honour. Giving evidence is obviously traumatic for my client.’

  ‘Your client needs to be aware that she must speak through you, both to me and to Miss Pascal,’ the judge replied. ‘On this occasion I’ll deem the matter of relevance to be satisfied, but I won’t be so lenient with the next outburst. Carry on, Mr Newell.’

  Maria picked up a biro that had been left on the witness stand in front of her. As James Newell organised his notes, she unscrewed the end and removed the ink cartridge, snapping the clear plastic casing in two. She needed to be able to concentrate, to stop getting lost in the intensity of the memories and control herself.

  ‘Could you describe the early part of your marriage?’ Newell asked.

  Maria slid the shard of plastic as hard as she could into the palm of her hand, forcing herself not to release her grip on it as she focused her eyes back on the wall opposite her. The pain was clean and clear. It wiped out everything else. She blinked a few times, breathed deeply and took herself back to the years of confusion and denial.

  ‘It was series of disappointments,’ Maria said. ‘Everyone and everything seemed to be letting me down, except Edward. He was good at that, picking me up after I got knocked down. It took me years to realise that he’d orchestrated the damage to make sure he was the only person I had left.’

  ‘Is there a specific example that comes to mind?’ Newell asked.

  ‘My best friend,’ Maria smiled as she pushed the plastic a millimetre deeper. She hadn’t allowed herself to remember that particular loss for years. It had signalled the end of every contact she had beyond Edward, and a period of extraordinary grief. ‘Andrea. We used to have a night out together once a month. Edward tolerated it before we were married, but not for long afterwards. To start with, Edward told me he wanted his new bride to himself in the evenings, given how hard he was working during the day. I was flattered, rather pleased actually. It’s nice to feel so wanted. I explained it to Andrea, making excuses sometimes for not being available, but the truth is I turned down her invitations with something like pride. It seems pathetic now, how much I loved our routine. I would get home from work, cook dinner, light a fire and put his favourite newspaper on the coffee table ready for him. He used to tease me about it.’ She swallowed hard, feeling all eyes on her, the humiliation of her loyalty sticking like thorns in her throat. Picking up the glass of water with a shaking hand she tried to get past it.

  Newell saved her. ‘You were saying he used to tease you? Can you remember how, specifically?’

  She nodded. ‘Sometimes when I brought his slippers, he’d say, “Good dog,” or he’d pat me on the head. I thought it was affectionate, you know? A private joke between us. I told Andrea about it. She was supposed to laugh, agree with me about how sweet it was. When she didn’t I was offended. Cross. I think seeing her face when I told her confirmed a sneaking suspicion I’d had that Edward was laughing at me, not with me. I blamed Andrea for not having a sense of humour. In fact, I told her she was desperate to find fault with my husband. After that I barely saw her. There was too much tension between us.’

  ‘So did you and Andrea lose contact at that point?’ Newell asked.

  Maria took a breath, looking across to the jury. A few of them had crossed arms. She didn’t seem to be making any headway with them. The younger ones were interested, leaning forward ready to take notes. The jury foreperson was whispering to the older man next to her. She wondered what they expected from her. Was she supposed to cry and pour her heart out to them?

  ‘Ms Bloxham? You were telling us about your relationship with Andrea,’ Newell prompted her.

  ‘Yes, sorry,’ she said, ‘We did lose touch, but only after I’d seen her one last time. I’d been married about a year. She waited for me outside work one evening. I was intending to walk to the bus stop when she called out my name. She hadn’t warned me that she’d be there, but by then she’d stopped phoning me.’

  Maria could still see her, bright red coat and smiling face, beaming as if nothing was wrong at all.

  ‘She asked where my car was parked and I told her I’d got rid of it as Edward said it would never pass the MOT. Andrea didn’t comment on that which was completely unlike her. Usually she’d have said something about Edward bossing me around. At the time it was a relief that she didn’t make a big deal about it. With hindsight I should have known straight away that something was wrong. I told her I had time for a coffee as long as I didn’t miss my bus. I gave my best friend the grand total of twenty minutes after a decade of friendship.’ Maria smiled at her own stupidity and shook her head. ‘I didn’t deserve her anyway. She was only trying to warn me.’

  ‘Warn you about what?’ Newell asked.

  Maria raised her eyebrows. ‘Him, of course. She saw through him from the very start. I guess she was less naive than me, but desperation is blinding. Andrea told me she missed me. I think I told her I missed her too, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking. I hope I did. I remember being worried that if I missed my bus, Edward’s dinner wouldn’t be ready on time. He didn’t like that.’

  Maria could still fell the warmth of Andrea’s arm, the last time she had ever slid it through Maria’s so they could walk together to a nearby café. The sense of her being so near, so loving, brought tears to her eyes. Losing Andrea had been her own fault, not Edward’s. What a price she’d paid for that stubbornness.

  ‘We ordered hot chocolate. It was always our treat. We met working a Saturday job together as teenagers, at a chemist’s. After that, Andrea got a degree online and I had a string of administrative jobs. We made small talk for a minute. She asked how I’d been. I … I lied. I told her life was wonderful. It was too hard to admit how unhappy I was, and I was still at the stage when I thought that perhaps it was my fault for not being a good enough wife. Anyway, Andrea didn’t say anything but it was obvious from her expression that she didn’t believe me. I snapped at her.’ Maria rubbed her forehead. ‘Why do we do that to the people we love?’ she asked, addressing the question to James Newell. He met her eyes patiently, waiting for her to continue. ‘Then Andrea asked after Edward, and I was embarrassed. I knew by then, you see – what he was. Not all he was capable of. Not how devious he was. That would be giving myself too much credit. My naivety was still a work in progress. But I knew he had a mean streak. He could be crue
l. And I’d begun to feel the loss of control Andrea had warned me about. The money, the car, my friends. He didn’t like it when I made suggestions about what we ate or did. Around then, the dates are a bit fuzzy, he’d decided I shouldn’t drink alcohol at all. Not that it was a big deal, but it reinforced that he was behaving more like a parent than a partner. I knew I’d given away control of my life.

  ‘Of course, I pretended everything was wonderful, told her Edward took care of everything, which at least was true. She just stared at me. Andrea had these huge blue eyes. Beautiful. I’d been waiting for her to say something about Edward and eventually I couldn’t bear it any more. “Go on, then,” I said. “Say what you’re thinking. You never could hide anything.”

  ‘Andrea looked hurt, but not surprised and she said that was because she’d never needed to hide anything from me before. She told me she loved me. That was worse than her pity. I knew she loved me, and yet I’d chosen Edward over her and actually I was starting to suspect that he didn’t love me at all. Not in a normal way. Not how I wanted to be loved. Even then, when she was reaching out to help me, I was still too proud to let her.

  ‘I pretended I had no idea what she was talking about, playing for time and trying to figure out what to say to her. Andrea put her hand over mine, and I wanted to grip it. I wanted to throw myself into her arms and tell her I was lonelier than I’d ever been in my life. I didn’t, obviously, or I wouldn’t be standing here today. So I played dumb and made out she was making a fuss about nothing.’

  Only that wasn’t true. Maria had done something worse. Making a show of trying to recall the moment to the jury, she could hear her actual words at scream pitch in her mind.

  ‘I’m fine. Better than fine. Unlike you, I have a husband and a beautiful home. Is that why you’re being such a bitch?’

  Andrea had gasped. The victory had lasted just seconds. Everyone thought they knew better than her. Maria the weakling. Maria who needed guidance. The young woman who could never make up her own mind. She got enough of that condescending bullshit from her husband. She didn’t want an additional helping from the one person who was supposed to have her back.