by H S Chandler
Maria was under no illusions that the prosecutor hadn’t wondered about her in such human terms. No doubt the only question in Miss Pascal’s mind was how many years’ imprisonment marked the appropriate sentence for the attempted murder of a spouse. Her closing speech, like every meticulously plotted part of the trial, would no doubt be killer – pun intended, Maria joked to herself. Nothing anyone could do now. What would be, would be.
She couldn’t hide any longer. James Newell was waiting for her. Imogen Pascal was applying unnecessary fresh lipstick as she exited the cubicle. Maria took the sink closest to the exit door.
‘Good morning Miss Pascal,’ she said. It was, after all, ridiculous to pretend they didn’t know each other.
‘Mrs Bloxham,’ the prosecutor nodded stiffly.
‘Ready to give your speech?’ Maria asked.
‘We can’t talk, I’m afraid. It’s not proper. Nothing personal.’ She recapped her lipstick and pulled a comb from her handbag.
‘It’s not personal? Is that really what you think?’ Maria asked, knowing she should keep her mouth shut. Mr Newell would be furious with her. But it was personal. She was a human being. How could anyone say anything so insensitive?
Imogen Pascal thought better of doing her hair and went to pass Maria and exit. Maria stepped in front of the door, checking no one else was with them in the toilets, but the other cubicles stood empty.
‘You need to let me pass,’ Pascal said.
‘Why? So you can have me sent to prison without a scene? So you don’t have to face the fact that I’m a human being with feelings? Did it ever occur to you that I might be innocent or do you just not care?’
Imogen Pascal took a few steps back. ‘I’ll call security if I have to. I’d rather not. You’re obviously under a lot of stress right now.’
‘A lot of stress?’ Maria shouted. ‘You mean you actually noticed? How kind of you.’
‘Mrs Bloxham, this could stop the whole trial. Is that what you want?’
‘I want you to look at me and see a real person, not just a set of papers or a chance to score a few points. I want you to stop playing games at my expense. How does that sound?’ She slammed a hand into the wall. Two dryers roared into life, blasting unwanted additional heat into the room, and a bundle of paper towels fell to the floor.
‘I’m going to explain something, then I’m walking out of here. If you attempt to stop me I will have you arrested. This is my job. I could just as easily have ended up defending you as prosecuting. I don’t choose my cases, they’re given to me. I understand this is personal to you, but to me it’s a process. I simply play my part in it. You will get convicted on the facts, not because of any trickery on my part. This has been a fair trial. The judge has been impartial and you have an extremely competent barrister. If you don’t like being here, maybe you should take a good long look in that mirror and ask yourself why you are. The answer to that is nothing to do with me.’
Imogen Pascal strode out, showing no sign that she’d been disturbed by what had happened. Maria felt a grudging respect for her accompanied by the erratic pounding of her heart, wondering if even now the prosecutor was hurrying to find DI Anton and have her arrested again. She suspected not. At this stage, the trial would have to be abandoned and restarted, and Imogen Pascal wanted to finish it. Maria was certain of that. Glancing in the mirror, she saw a stranger looking back. Where did the hopeful young woman go who would never have been so aggressive to another female in the ladies’ toilet, of all places? It was Edward she was angry with, not Imogen Pascal. With the thought came a sudden rush of shame. She wanted to apologise, explain that the heat and tension was getting to her. Too late, though. Her case was being called through the public address system. James Newell would be getting worried about her. Splashing cold water over her face, she tidied her hair, ripping off her tights and throwing them in the bin. It was too hot for nylon. She would just have to look dishevelled. Maybe that was the right approach anyway. She was never going to be one of life’s Imogen Pascals. And if the case went against her, she was never going to be anybody at all.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ Miss Pascal began her closing speech, ‘let’s look at what is not in dispute in this case. The horrific and very nearly life-ending injury suffered by Dr Bloxham. The weapon, a chair leg with a bolt sticking out. Who dealt the awful blow? The victim’s wife. It’s not even in dispute that she intended to kill him. So why are you here?’
Maria kept her head straight, just as James Newell had instructed her, glancing only from the corners of her eyes in the jury’s direction. They were listening intently, every one of them edged forward on their seat, most scribbling notes and providing exactly the audience the prosecutor craved. The younger man on the end, next to the pretty young woman he’d spent so much time looking at, was different to the rest. His arms were folded. His notebook remained closed on the desk in front of him. It was he who’d sent the note to Professor Worth that had both delighted and embarrassed James Newell, causing him to apologise repeatedly for not having thought to ask the question himself.
‘You are the arbiters of truth,’ Imogen Pascal announced dramatically. ‘And what’s unusual in this trial is that you don’t even need to decide which side is telling the truth. The reason you don’t have to decide that is because one party has been deprived of his voice, deprived of his right to put his case, almost deprived of his life entirely. Mrs Bloxham was at liberty to say whatever she wanted about her life with Dr Bloxham. She didn’t know that when she was interviewed by the police, of course, so she stayed silent. Her husband might have recovered and been able to give his own version of the facts. But by the time we got to court, by then she knew Dr Bloxham was never going to be able to gainsay a single word she said, which is why she suddenly painted him as a black-hearted manipulator. The question is, do you believe her? Do you believe that the woman who told the psychiatrist – Professor Worth – to go “Fuck himself” was so downtrodden that she never once felt able to simply leave her husband? The woman who thumped the witness stand as she gave evidence. The woman who – and I do not seek to make this about me – but the woman who was unafraid to call me a bitch, right in front of both you and the judge.’
Imogen Pascal turned her head to stare at Maria in the dock.
‘The woman who stood up in the dock and shouted that her husband hated hedgehogs. Do you think Maria Bloxham only developed that temper since attempting to kill her husband, or do you agree with the prosecution’s assessment, that the defendant’s overwhelming aggression played a key part in her attack on her husband? And what about her icy calm when the police arrived to find her still clutching the chair leg? There was no sign of the self-professed terror that she might have been just minutes from death. No trembling hands. No tears. Did she really only use what force was needed to knock him out so she could disappear into a domestic violence shelter, for example? Or did she aim to kill, and use as much force as she possibly could? Did she feel remorse once the danger was passed and the police were there to help her, or did she only faint when she realised her husband was still alive? You already know the answer to those questions.
‘As for the money – the very substantial amount of money Mrs Bloxham stood to inherit – even she couldn’t maintain her initial lie that she had no idea Dr Bloxham was well-off. Of course she had an idea what the house was worth. She admitted knowing her husband had savings. Do you really believe she hadn’t given that a single thought? This woman, who had been kept, wanting for nothing throughout her marriage, who was never once harmed by her husband, has weaved a tale so fantastic, it’s hard to see where the fantasy elements start and stop, but fantasy it is, ladies and gentleman. The defence cannot produce one witness – not one – to back up her version of events.
‘The prosecution says her defence is not only a pack of lies, it is an unbelievable excuse for attempting to rid herself of a husband with whom she was bored, and from whose death she stood to gain substa
ntially. Do not be swayed by the sight of her thighs. We all have scars, some internal, some external. We do not all turn to violence, or attempt to commit a murder. Do not be swayed by the cleverly told tales of a sad life. Remember that she lived in relative luxury, you yourselves having visited the house and locality. Keep at the forefront of your mind what you know about Dr Bloxham. His good character, his work on behalf of endangered species and the environment, his fight against large-scale development. Recall the sound of his voice as he held that baby hedgehog. And finally, ask yourselves this. Which version of events is the easiest to believe? Because as a rule of thumb, you can often trust that simplicity is the closest thing to reality. Can you believe the word of a woman who lost her temper and contradicted herself? Who didn’t explain her defence at either the first, or second, opportunity, but who waited until she had it all figured out months later? Trust your senses. The injuries. The self-confessed hatred the defendant harboured towards the victim. That, you might conclude, was the most truthful part of everything she said. Thank you.’
The two most elderly jurors glanced at one another, shared a nudged elbow. In her mind, Maria could hear them saying what a good job Imogen Pascal had done. Wasn’t she clever? Didn’t she managed to say exactly what they’d been thinking all long? All they were missing was a nice cup of tea and some shortbread biscuits. The pretty young woman was pale and drawn, more so than she had been throughout the trial. Had jury duty affected her so badly? Not nice to have to decide another person’s fate. And the very young man, stick thin and always dressed in ill-fitting clothes, was biting his nails again. Maria used to do that as a child, before she’d found a more precise channel for her nervousness. Not that she would recommend it to anyone else.
James Newell was getting to his feet now. Maria liked him. She’d thought it impossible that she might ever warm to another man again, but he was caring, sweet and entirely genuine. She sat back and waited for her barrister to do what he could on her behalf.
James Newell smiled at the jury, made a point of looking each one of them in the eye, and relaxed into his speech. ‘Good morning,’ he began. ‘It’s been a difficult trial, no mistaking it. You’ll probably be glad when it’s all over. It’s hard to look at photos like these,’ he picked up then released the bundle of photographs, ‘and equally upsetting to have seen the state of Maria Bloxham’s thighs. I’ll concede that seeing Dr Bloxham in this courtroom was distressing, even for those of us who deal with such cases all too regularly. In spite of all that, I’m going to ask you do something which runs contrary to all that emotion. I need you to take a step back and consider the hard evidence. I’m going to recap some crucial parts very briefly. Maria’s name was not on the mortgage …’
Imogen Pascal was standing before Newell could get another word out. ‘Your Honour, my learned friend is aware it’s not good form to refer to his client by her first name.’
‘And as Miss Pascal found it so difficult to remember to refer to my client as Ms Bloxham rather than Mrs on numerous occasions, I shall refer to my client as I see fit in my closing speech,’ Newell said warmly to her, although there was no mistaking the steel beneath his tone.
‘Let Mr Newell continue uninterrupted, Miss Pascal,’ the judge directed.
‘As I was saying … Maria’s name was not on the mortgage. She has no bank account. She has no car. No access to money unless it’s small change down the back of the sofa. No access to a landline and no mobile with any credit in it. The prosecution hasn’t disputed any of these facts. How many of you have none of those things? How many of you know anyone who has none of those things? So I ask you, what sort of home life do you think Maria lived? Who among you has not visited your GP in a decade? Under what circumstances can you imagine that happening? Much has been made of Maria swearing at the psychiatrist, but consider this. If she did suffered the sort of manipulation and torment that she’s described to you, her reaction to Professor Worth makes complete sense, particularly given her husband’s threats to have her committed. That was no baseless threat either, given the extent of her self-mutilation. You can easily see how her worst fear might have been realised. She would have escaped from the house with no bank account and no access to money, with no community ties and no place to go. Dr Bloxham would have said she was a danger to herself. Frankly, he could have said anything he liked. Years of coercive control stripped Maria Bloxham of the tools of independence the rest of us take for granted. Social media, jobs, contact with the outside world. Savings. A phone. Of course she believed she would end up institutionalised if she tried to leave her husband.
‘And as for her behaviour in court, who wouldn’t find this process distressing and stressful? Her reactions have been normal and human. They show that she is emotional, not cold and calculating as the prosecution would have you believe. As for the scars on her upper legs, they are all the evidence you need to be sure that she was self-harming for years. There’s no doubt that she was telling the truth about that. Did Dr Bloxham know? How could he not have known? Did he do anything about it? It appears that he did precisely nothing. Wouldn’t you have tried to help the person you loved when they were inflicting so much damage on their own body? Unless, that is, you were responsible for it. Unless you were the sort of person who liked their partner to play dead during sex. Unless you were the sort of person who, over a period of years, cut their partner off from the rest of the world and controlled their every move. I urge you to accept Maria Bloxham’s version of events. It’s the only version that makes sense. She knew that it was her or Dr Bloxham, kill or die. She did what she believed to be necessary at the time to escape him before it was too late, because a cage – no matter how beautiful, no matter what the postcode, no matter how great its value – is still a cage. She’d been locked in hers far too long.’
Newell finished his speech softly, the courtroom entranced, and the mood didn’t break until he’d sat down. Maria risked a glance towards the press and the public gallery. Ruth had come to watch the death throes of the trial and was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Journalists were scribbling madly in their notebooks, perfecting their copy ready to exit and send emails back to their editors. Then the court doors burst open and a crowd began noisily to fill the court.
‘Justice for Dr Bloxham!’ one of them shouted.
‘Send her down,’ someone else began to chant. Others joined in. The noise was deafening. The heat of the protestors’ bodies raised the temperature even further. They stank of body odour from standing outside in the sun, and two of them were shirtless and shoeless.
‘Silence,’ Her Honour Judge Downey ordered. ‘I will have quiet in this courtroom immediately!’ The protestors showed no sign of complying, and police officers intervened, trying to ring-fence the intruders into one area.
‘Lock up the Bristol Butcher!’ one woman shouted, quoting one of the trashier headlines of the day.
‘Get additional security up here right now. Usher, escort the jurors back to their room. Mr Newell,’ the barrister stood up, doing his best to ignore the shouting. ‘I’m afraid I must remand your client in custody over the luncheon adjournment for her own protection.’
Maria was hurried to her feet and taken through the rear door of the dock, down the stairs, with a prison guard at either side of her. Behind her the shouting continued until they reached the cells where layers of metal and concrete made it impossible to hear anything except the complaints of her fellow prisoners.
Her cell, 8' by 12' was basic in the extreme, containing only a metal bench on which she could lie if she felt sufficiently sure about the hygiene of the previous occupant – she didn’t – and a chair bolted to the wall. Not designed for comfort, only as somewhere for you to await your fate, it was still a glance into what her future might hold.
The corridor beyond stank of that crossover point between urine and disinfectant. Something that resembled the reek of school dinners added a top-note, unidentifiable stewed meat and green vegetables that
had sat too long in boiling water. The walls had been marked by people who had found stray pens, nothing intelligible. Just a desire to feel alive by leaving a minuscule piece of themselves there, before being moved on. Most of them would have been transported to a prison from the court cells. She’d heard all about it from her fellows at the bail hostel. Women’s prisons, she’d been told with gleeful darkness, were so much worse than men’s. Psychotropic drugs were widely used to calm down the population. Bullying was extreme. There would be a settling in period that would see her pushed to her limits. One woman at the bail hostel had reported being pinned to a wall while she had boiling water thrown over her torso. She had the scars to prove it. Speaking of which, Maria’s own scars would be on full display in the showers. That was going to get her a certain amount of unwelcome attention. Prison would be quite some leap after nearly two decades alone except for Edward. Sharing a single room with one or two other women, no peace, no quiet, was a curious thought. Getting to know other women intimately – she shuddered to think how intimately and under what circumstances – was unsettling. The idea that her every movement would be dictated to her by the guards and the governor, perhaps some new version of Edward, was horrific.
James Newell appeared in the doorway. ‘You okay?’ he asked as the guard unlocked to allow him access.
‘I’m fine,’ she smiled. ‘Think I’ll pass on today’s lunch offerings though. What happened upstairs?’
‘Looks like an animal rights group who were staunch followers of Dr Bloxham. Stop the badger culling, protect the countryside, prevent new housing on green plots. That sort of thing. It’s really not about you. They just saw an opportunity to promote their agenda in front of a lot of journalists and took it. As the judge is summing up this afternoon, there are a number of television cameras gathered outside. We’ll have to make special arrangements to get you in and out of the court building from now on.’
