by H S Chandler
‘No need for that,’ Tabitha said.
‘What makes you better than us?’ Agnes demanded.
‘How I would love to answer that,’ Cameron sneered at her.
‘Pan? What it is you’re not clear on?’ Tabitha attempted to bring the table back to order.
‘I’m on the fence, so not guilty seems the only fair decision. That said, if it was going to swing matters one way or the other and conclude proceedings …’
‘You cannot make a decision just so you can get out of here quickly,’ Gregory admonished.
‘That’s not what I was saying,’ Pan replied, rubbing his eyes. ‘It just seems we’re stuck.’
‘I suggest we write the judge a note,’ Tabitha said. ‘She’ll advise us. It’s too hot to stay in here any longer.’
They were called into the courtroom twenty minutes later, all reconvened in their usual places. Lottie kept her head down, much closer to Cameron than she wanted to be. He was making her skin crawl. She knew the only reason he hadn’t really exploded at the Tabithas was because he had the numbers he needed with her and Jack. Crossing her fingers, she waited for the hell to be over. Surely the judge had to dismiss them if they were adamant that they couldn’t reach a verdict. They’d been at it a whole day.
‘I’ve received a note from the jury,’ the judge announced to the lawyers when everyone was settled. ‘It seems they are divided in proportions that would not be resolved by my issuing a majority direction of either 11 to 1, or even 10 to 2. Any suggestions from counsel as to how we proceed?’
‘I’d invite Your Honour to give the majority verdict now, to attempt to move things along,’ James Newell said.
‘I agree,’ Imogen Pascal joined in. ‘And I should add that we reviewed our position overnight and have decided we will list the case for a retrial if this jury cannot reach a verdict, although we’d obviously like to avoid that scenario given the costs.’
‘You’re fucking kidding,’ Lottie heard Cameron mutter. He sat upright and frowned across the courtroom towards the public seating. She followed the line of his eyes, noting that the three huge men who’d appeared yesterday were back again. Other than that, the seating was populated only by the same crowd who’d been in court on and off throughout the trial. Someone was controlling him, she thought, sharing information and telling him what to do, unless he was working for the defendant directly. His fingernails were digging into the padding on the seat arms. As Lottie watched, it began to rip. He was stronger than Lottie had ever imagined. All those hours working with his hands, the hands Lottie had spent nights fantasising about, had made him lethal. She imagined those fingers around her throat and knew there was no way she would cross him. Cameron Ellis wasn’t just dangerous. He was totally out of control.
‘Very well,’ the judge said, checking her watch. ‘Members of the jury, it’s been a long day and you’ve obviously worked hard. You may return to your hotel for the night. Tomorrow you will begin deliberating again, but I will accept a majority verdict from you. You may go.’
The usher stood up to see them out. Lottie looked back at Cameron who was still staring across the court. She scanned the crowds again to see who he was so interested in, but by then he was on his feet and following the rest of the jurors.
‘Your room, tonight, 9 p.m.,’ he hissed as he stalked past her in the corridor. ‘And don’t be a bitch and not answer the door, or I’ll speak to your husband instead.’
James Newell’s head was uncharacteristically low when he walked into the conference room. Maria kept her hands folded in her lap, trying to come to terms with the latest blow.
‘They’re just going to keep on bringing me back until they get a conviction, aren’t they?’ she asked.
‘They’ll try once more, if this jury can’t reach a verdict,’ Newell corrected her. ‘I know this isn’t what we’d hoped for. The jury is obviously deadlocked at the moment. The judge will give them the whole day tomorrow to try to make up their minds, and if not the case will be listed for trial and we’ll start over.’
‘I’m not sure I can do this again,’ Maria said, chewing her nails. ‘Sitting in the dock like a lab rat with everyone staring at me.’
‘You can’t plead guilty just to avoid a second trial. That’s what the prosecution wants. I suspect that’s why Imogen Pascal announced their change in position in front of you. They don’t really want the expense of retrying a case they might still not win. She’s trying to force your hand.’
‘But Professor Worth will be so much better prepared next time. He’ll have all the answers in place to condemn me before I’ve even given my version of events. You know that,’ Maria said, standing up and pacing.
‘You’ll be better prepared too. Don’t lose heart now. Let’s get through tomorrow and see what happens. There’s no point worrying yet. I meant to ask you – the three men who went into the public gallery. Are you quite sure you don’t know them? The timing was …’
‘Strange, I know, but I’m afraid I have no idea who they are. Certainly not the type Edward would have been friendly with, and I didn’t organise rent-a-crowd support.’
‘No,’ Newell laughed. ‘Probably just interested members of the public then. Nonetheless, be careful on your way back to the bail hostel. They looked organised, if you know what I mean.’
Maria waited in the conference room until the last of the journalists had given up on getting a photo of her, and disappeared. She had prepared mentally for the case to end either that day or the next. The thought of starting from scratch was intolerable. Metal flashed in her mind. She needed some relief. The tension was like a boil that needed lancing. One more day, she thought. Twenty-four hours and it should be over. Twenty-four hours and she might have been sentenced. Back wearing clothes other people chose for her. Eating food other people decided upon. Sleeping in a bunk not knowing what might happen in the hours of darkness. Her fortitude was shrinking with every passing minute.
She was tired of proving herself, and exhausted at the preconceptions the press had been allowed to spout. What was it about being female that meant you were assumed to be hysterical, given to flights of fancy, or just a plain old liar? She was fighting to be believed on every single fact, yet from the second Edward’s qualifications had been read out in court, he’d been put on a pedestal. The difference between men and women suddenly seemed less like a chasm and more like a continental divide. It wasn’t just about the unequal pay, preferential promotions, and everyday sexism that she’d read so much about in the papers. It was the sense that women needed less gravity, breathed a lighter version of air, that somehow they were less substantial in every way. A man could hit a woman and be an alpha-male. A woman who hit a man was a shrew or a she-devil. Women being deceptive seemed to be the presumed normal state. She’d thought life with Edward had prepared her for any eventuality. Not for this trial though, and not for prison either. Spending the second half of her adult life behind bars was suddenly unthinkable.
She had to go past the pharmacy en route to her hostel. Her discipline and resolved evaporated. Not one cut since she’d been arrested and here she was, needing it again, longing for the simple, clean pain to end the nightmare. Just a single slice and it could all be over, she thought, as she left the building and headed for the shops. It wouldn’t even hurt. She could wrap herself up warm, maybe sit in the bath tub. If she took a handful of paracetamol first, she could just fall asleep as the water turned red.
31
Ruth went to check on her twins for the fifth time that evening. As usual, she’d put them to sleep in their separate beds, and now they were snuggled up together in one, arms wrapped around one another. Max was sucking his thumb and Lea was playing some invisible piano with her fingers on top of the covers. Both were smiling in their sleep. They’d spent the evening decorating their grandmother with stickers. Ruth’s mum had sat through the arts and crafts session, happily accepting that every visible inch of skin was going to end up plastered in a cart
oon character, sparkly star or rainbow. For once there had been no spilled drinks, no tantrums, no yelling of obscenities. Odd really, given Ruth’s own mood, that their house was so serene. She wanted to scream. The prospect of there being a second trial if the jury couldn’t agree on a verdict was barbaric. Maria had suffered enough.
Certain that the house was settled for the night, she locked herself in her office, taking out one of her journals from the filing cabinet. It documented her final call from Maria. At the time Ruth had made her notes, she’d had no way of knowing that Edward Bloxham was just two hours from being air-lifted to a hospital. She opened the relevant pages, noting how bad her handwriting was, but then she’d been upset when she was writing her notes. Her recall of that particular conversation was almost word perfect, but she reread her notes anyway, poking at the soreness of it all.
Maria had called at lunchtime. By that stage, Ruth had put Maria’s mobile number into caller recognition on her phone. She’d answered quickly, hoping Maria was having a rare good day.
‘Hi Maria,’ she’d said. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Not really doing … at all,’ Maria had replied. ‘Saying goodbye now, Ruth. No more calls.’
‘Why?’ Ruth asked, putting down her coffee and picking up her pen, scribbling down Maria’s words.
‘He says I can cut myself again tonight.’ Maria had long since stopped saying her husband’s name. Ruth always knew who “he” was. There was no one else in Maria’s life. ‘I’m going to. I’m just not sure I’ll be able to stop. The pain helps. I can forget everything. I think I want to forget now.’
‘Maria, you’re worrying me,’ Ruth had said. ‘You mustn’t let him make you do this. The self-harm is so dangerous, especially when you’re feeling like this.’
‘You’ve been a good friend. I know I never got to see you in person, or thank you properly, but I always knew you were there when I needed you.’
‘I can send help. You need to get out. Right now. I can call the police …’
‘He’ll have me locked away. He’s got it all planned. I’ve never gone to the doctor, just cut more and more. I can’t get away from him. He’ll still control my life. I’ll be told I’m depressed and paranoid, a danger to myself. The funny thing is, I know I am.’
‘This isn’t right, Maria. Please, I can’t do nothing.’
‘I don’t want anything,’ Maria had said. ‘Just to hear your voice.’
‘I have your address. Do you remember you gave it to me before when you were really scared? You promised you’d let me help if it got bad enough. This is it, Maria. It’s now. You have to give me permission to get help. I can call the police, or an ambulance. Whatever you need.’
‘No one will believe me. Sometimes even I think I’ve made it all up in my own head. I don’t want to argue with you, Ruth. Maybe he’ll have changed his mind by the time he comes home.’
‘You could pretend to be ill. Just go to bed, tell him you were sick today. You said he hates to be around illness. He’ll leave you alone.’
‘Not this time. I don’t want to play games any more. It’s all right, really. I’m all right. You’ve been so …’
The mobile phone beeped. What little credit Maria had left was gone. Ruth stared into the receiver of her landline, furious and terrified. She knew better than to intervene when she’d been specifically told not to. And what had Maria really said? That she was going to cut herself again. They’d been there before. If she called the police, they would attend at a house to find a woman who would say nothing was wrong. There was no injury to justify calling an ambulance. Any intervention meant that Edward would realise Maria had been in contact with someone and then he’d search the house from top to bottom until he found her phone.
So Ruth had done what she did at the end of every call. She’d faithfully written up her notes, careful to recall the wording used as precisely as possible, noting inflection and what she’d been able to assess or diagnose about her caller’s psychological state. Ruth had always been good at that, at hearing the precise emotions in people’s voices, in assessing their strengths and weaknesses by the things they said or didn’t say. Reading people was her gift. By the time she’d finished her notes, she knew one thing with absolute certainty. Maria no longer cared about living. The call was no cry for help. It was the last contact she would ever have with anyone except Edward.
32
Cameron was sober. Lottie wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. Either way, he was in a foul mood. The steak knife she’d concealed in her sleeve on leaving the hotel restaurant was hidden beneath her pillows. It was true she couldn’t say no to him coming to her room, but she could at least arm herself. She sent the last ten minutes reading and rereading a text from Zain.
‘House empty without you,’ it read. ‘Danny and I told your photo about our day. He can’t wait to have you home. I know things have been hard. So much work pressure I forgot to pay you any attention. Let’s book a holiday soon. Good luck tomorrow.’
Lottie had phoned to say goodnight to Danny, and Zain had been on speakerphone, but somehow texts allowed you to say things more clearly. The guilt was consuming her. Fear of the possible consequences of her stupidity was making her ill. Just one more day, she told herself. If she could keep it together for just one more day …
That was when Cameron had slunk in, his eyes narrowed to slits, looking as if the whole world was his enemy. He threw himself into the chair and put his head in his hands. Lottie stayed next to her door, leaning against the wall and waiting for him to speak.
‘We can’t let this go to a retrial. You’re going to have to persuade them to side with us,’ he snarled.
‘You’re insane,’ Lottie replied. ‘How the hell am I supposed to change their minds? We’ve only got Pan on our side and he’ll flip as soon as it means he can get back to work. But Tabitha, Gregory and Garth? That’s not happening.’
‘You have to,’ Cameron said slowly. ‘Fuck!’ he shouted, bursting from the chair and kicking the side-table hard enough to send it flying. Smashed glass skittered across the floor. Lottie put a shaking hand on the door handle. ‘Don’t you dare open that bloody door,’ he commanded.
‘I don’t know what you expect me to do,’ she cried. ‘You said just stay quiet and vote not guilty. I did everything you wanted. This is nothing to do with me.’
Cameron breathed out hard and shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘We need a plan. They won’t listen to me. I’ve had too many run-ins with that snooty dog Tabitha. If we keep Pan on our side, that’s four of us. Six more need to say not guilty and we’re safe.’
‘Safe how? What is she to you?’ Lottie asked.
‘She?’ Cameron looked confused.
‘Maria Bloxham. You’re so determined she should be found not guilty. I don’t get it. At the start of the trial you wanted to be released from jury service. How did you end up this involved?’
He rubbed his temples. ‘Yeah, well, it turned out that jury service offered a way to solve all my problems, at least until Imogen fucking Pascal changed her mind about the retrial. Anyway, that’s not your problem. You need to figure out how to get enough jurors to vote not guilty or your husband gets a life-changing surprise. I hope you like Asia, because that’s where you’ll be headed for contact visits, if you get any.’
Lottie bit back the desire to either scream at Cameron or beg for mercy. Neither was going to work. He’d played his strongest hand with the audio file. Tonight he was a mess. Not just desperate, but scared. Really scared, she realised. It was like looking at herself in a mirror.
‘You’re in trouble,’ she said. ‘So you can give me as many orders as you like. You’re right, Zain probably would divorce me. He might try to take Daniyal, but maybe not. He’s proud, but not vindictive. What I think is that you’ve got just as much to lose as me. That question you pulled out of your pocket for the psychiatrist. You didn’t write that. Where did it come from?’
‘An interested pa
rty. Does it matter? It didn’t make any fucking difference.’
‘The same someone who asked you to help Maria Bloxham? They obviously thought it was the right question to ask, so it might help us too. I just want to know what’s in it for you. If you’re expecting me to sort this shit out, I think I have a right to know,’ she said.
He sat on the edge of the bed, picking his nails. His face was ashen. ‘There are some debts. No big deal. If I’d been Maria Bloxham, I’d have smashed in that bloke’s head for the money too.’
‘You really don’t believe it was self-defence,’ Lottie whispered, ‘but you’re still prepared to force Jack and me to say she’s not guilty.’
‘I couldn’t give a flying fuck what happens to her. This is about my life, my problems.’ He stood up and ran at the wall. ‘Shit!’ he shrieked, kicking the plaster. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’
Lottie stood up straighter. ‘Your life’s in danger. That’s what those three men were doing in court, the ones you wouldn’t look at. Is that who you met in the parking area last night? No wonder you were so pissed off when you came up here.’ She paused, thinking it through. ‘You always were short of money. Now it makes sense. How much do you owe?’
‘Enough that the interest alone is going to cost me my right hand – maybe both hands – if I don’t pay it,’ he yelled, striding across the room and grabbing her by the throat. In half a second she was against the wall on her toes, struggling to breathe. ‘And if you’re so fucking smart all of a sudden, you might want to concentrate on sorting out how we do this.’ His face was millimetres from hers. His spittle was flying into her eyes. The edges of her vision began to blur as she flapped her hands uselessly against him. Then she was on the floor gasping for air, scrabbling away from him into the corner.
She waited until her vision returned to normal, watching him as he stood, forehead leaning against the wall, banging his head softly every couple of seconds and muttering to himself.
