The next morning dawned with blue skies, but it was freezing cold. As I was being led from the door of the prison to the van, the wind tore through me. Even though it was still only November, it felt cold enough to snow but the blue sky said otherwise. I sat on the metal seat in the van, wincing as I did so as the temperature irritated the stitches in my buttock. At least it was only a short journey to the courtroom.
The difference in the temperature between the van and the interior of the court cells when we arrived was enough to make me break out into a sweat. The court heating must have been running at full pelt, and it was much warmer than it had been earlier in the week. Once the holding cell locked behind me, the first thing I did was take off my suit jacket. I was looking around for something to hang it on when I heard a voice behind me.
“Do you want me to hang that up for you?” I turned to see a young man with an earnest expression looking through the bars at me. He was thin, about my height, and dressed in the white shirt and black trousers that so many people who worked in the system seemed to wear. There was an embroidered patch on his shirt with a company logo, some squiggle in red and white that I couldn’t quite make out. Another couple of men in the same uniform were milling about behind him on the other side of the room. “There’s nothing to hang it up on in the cell, you see.” His accent gave him away as being local to Norfolk, and it was too broad for him to be from Norwich itself. “People would only try to hang themselves off of it if we put a hook in there.” He laughed at his own joke, even though it wasn’t very funny. I handed my jacket through the bars of the cell.
“Thank you,” I said as he took the jacket from me. To my surprise, he walked over to a cupboard and pulled out a proper hangar, sliding the jacket onto it and smoothing the fabric as he put the jacket back into the cupboard. I’d been half expecting him to throw it over the back of a chair.
“Do you want a cup of tea or coffee?” the young man called over.
A few minutes later, I was sipping a cup of tea from a polystyrene cup. It was the nicest cup of tea I’d had since before I’d been arrested. The young man — I wasn’t sure quite what to call him — had asked me about milk and sugar, the whole works. He’d even checked that it was the right colour before passing me the cup. That was, I thought, the reason it tasted so good. There was a bit of effort that had gone into it. It wasn’t just a cup of brown muck that had been handed over. I sat in the cell for maybe ten minutes before Mr Jackson came into the room. He stood next to the man who’d made the tea chatting for a few seconds before they both walked over to my cell. Mr Jackson made the other man look even thinner. I knew it wasn’t a fair comparison, but I couldn’t help it.
“You’re on, Mr Dawson,” Mr Jackson said as the man in the white shirt unlocked the door to the cell. I walked through, handing him the empty polystyrene cup. I figured that me walking over and putting it in the bin wouldn’t go down too well with Mr Jackson.
“Thank you very much for the tea,” I said. The young man smiled in return.
“Oh, no problem,” he replied. “I’ll just grab your jacket for you.” As he headed across the room to the cupboard, I looked at Mr Jackson. He stared back at me, with his normal sullen expression.
“Did you have a good evening?” I asked him on the off chance he might speak to me for once. To my surprise, he replied a moment later.
“Yeah, was okay I guess.” That was it, though. It was progress of sorts. I shrugged my way into the suit jacket and followed Mr Jackson up the stairs and into the courtroom.
In the courtroom, the only people that were there when we arrived were Paul and Laura. When they saw me come in and take my seat, they both walked over to speak to me. Paul was dressed in his standard black robes over a dark grey suit, and Laura had her usual business suit on. Her blouse today was cream, not the green one I liked the most, and she had tied her hair up into a French plait. At least, I think that’s what it was called.
“Gareth, my dear boy,” Paul went first. “How are you? I must apologise for not visiting you last night.” He nodded toward Laura. “I’m afraid that we’ve both been rather busy.” I looked across at Laura and a bizarre image of the two of them together, as in properly together, somewhere in a seedy Norwich hotel room came into my head. Despite the unwanted image, I smiled. “I’m confident, you know,” Paul continued. “Really confident.” Laura smiled at me, and I immediately felt bad for the previous thoughts I had about her. I had been in prison for a while, though.
“I’m sorry too,” she said. Laura dropped her voice as Paul turned away and walked back toward the table, his black robes billowing out behind him. “How are you doing?” she asked in a half whisper. “Is everything okay?” I didn’t reply, but smiled to let her know everything was fine. I got to see her dimples for a few seconds, which was a result.
I sat down, forcing Mr Jackson to shuffle over on his seat to make room for me. There was a space on the other side of my chair where the other prison guard had nipped outside, no doubt trying to get his nicotine levels as high as possible before the court sat. I didn’t blame him. Mr Jackson sniffed loudly.
“I think she likes you,” he said. I turned to look at him, but he remained sitting in the same position staring forward with his enormous arms folded across his chest. “Shame you’re in nick really,” he continued. That was the most sociable thing he’d said since the first day I’d arrived at Norwich. I looked at him, trying to work out if he was joking, taking the piss, or just making a statement. As I was wondering what to say in response, or whether to say anything at all, Miss Revell breezed into the courtroom. She was followed by her two stooges, both dressed in the same type of suit. One of them was carrying a laptop, the other one a box file of some description. When he saw her, Paul walked over to their table and within seconds they were deep in conversation. I couldn’t help but wonder what they were talking about when I noticed one of Miss Revell’s stooges saunter over to Laura and say something to her. She glanced up at him and laughed. Even from this distance, I could see her dimples. I looked at Mr Jackson and thought for a second I saw a smile on his face, but I couldn’t be sure. Bastard.
The public gallery was filling up, so I concentrated on the people who were filing in so I could get my attention away from Laura. A lot of the people I didn’t recognise, but I saw Andy and Jacob make their way in, as well as Robert’s parents. There was a small group of four men who took their seats in the second row. They were all dressed in pretty much the same way in scruffy jackets and jeans, all with notebooks clutched in their hands. They had to be from the press, but from which press I couldn’t tell. I wouldn’t recognise a reporter from the Evening Daily Press at the best of times. It was obvious from how they were talking to each other that they knew each other. The gallery filled up pretty quickly, and the twenty or so seats were filled within a few minutes. I looked at the clock on the wall of the courtroom and saw that it was almost ten minutes before nine o’clock. As the minute hand ticked onto the number ten, both Paul and Miss Revell reached for their wigs and adjusted them on their heads. Paul was fussed over by Laura, while one of Miss Revell’s suited assistants helped her. A hush descended over the courtroom as the minute hand of the clock made its way round the clock face until it reached five minutes to ten.
The door behind the judge's desk opened halfway, and the familiar face of the court usher peeked out of the opening. He glanced around before turning back to say something to someone still in the room, presumably the judge. There was a pause before the door opened fully and the usher stepped through. He stood to one side of the door and drew himself up to his full height, preparing for his moment in the spotlight. I looked through the door behind him, eager to get a glance into the judge’s inner chambers or whatever they were called. I couldn’t see much, but there was a man in a suit in there who looked very familiar. I looked back into the courtroom at the desk where the man and woman who didn’t really fit in had been sitting. Court employees, Laura had called them. Their desk was empty, and I was ninety nine per cent certain that one of them was sitting in the judge’s private room. They might both be in there, but I couldn’t see that far into the room.
The usher took a deep breath.
“All rise,” he said in what he presumably thought was a commanding voice. It wasn’t, but who was I to criticise? We all got to our feet as Judge Watling walked through the door, swinging it closed behind him and cutting off any view I had of his inner chamber. He sat on his throne and took a second or two to assess his little empire.
“Please, be seated,” he said after a pause. There was a rustling noise in the court as everyone sat down and made themselves as comfortable as they could.
It was showtime.