‘You bitch.’
The defendant’s rage leaves globules of spit on the glass separating the dock from the rest of the courtroom. His fists are clenched, even in their restraints – a pair of shining silver handcuffs fastened to contain his unpredictable anger. They aren’t usually restrained in the dock, but Justin Anderson has a reputation. He is violent: often dangerously so. And his mouth is always full of bitter, hateful words. In his mind it is my fault that the judge has decided to withhold his bail. It is my fault that he will have to stay in prison until his trial. He seeks a victim on which to hang the blame – someone, anyone. Anyone except him. And the prosecutor is always the easiest target.
The guards yank Anderson to his feet and he stands, his shoulders slumped as he turns to leave the dock. ‘Bitch,’ he shouts over his shoulder in one final attempt to rile me. The door clangs loudly as he is taken down to the cells.
‘Thank you, Ms Knight,’ the judge says. ‘Miss Jones.’
He stands and the defence barrister and I follow his movement like shadows, bowing our heads, just a fraction, as he nods to us and leaves.
The defence sighs as she begins stacking her belongings on top of one another, her hands shaking. She is new. I could tell, even before her reaction to her client’s profanities gave her away: the pristine state of her robes, the bright whiteness of her wig. A baby barrister, newly born into this life of prosecution and defence where justice falls like an axe whose blade has become blunt and dull over time. She isn’t used to it – not yet anyway.
‘Try not to be too hard on yourself,’ I say as I reach up to pull my wig from my head, tucking my short hair behind my ears. ‘Some people just can’t be saved.’
She sighs, her expression pained. She looks so young. So naïve. But soon she’ll learn, as we all do. Even the best of people aren’t truly innocent.
I push my way out of the courtroom into the long corridor, walking past the short rows of seats where family members sit in small huddles, whispering in hushed voices, whilst the defendant’s gaze sits somewhere in the middle-space, their head lowered, their words stroppy or sullen or scared. I’ve become used to the way their eyes veer towards me as I pass, drawn to the long, black robes – a bull to red cloth.
My phone vibrates and I glance down at the screen.
Message received: Will.
What time will you be home tonight? I have to leave for my dinner by 7. Are you going to your mum’s first? Love you x
I met Will during pupillage. I remember seeing him that first day, sneaking a look as we stood next to each other, almost shoulder to shoulder. That evening he asked if I wanted to go for a drink. I took in his warm eyes and truly beautiful face. His kind voice. I said no, like I always did when men tried to approach me – shrinking away from the glare of their attention. But over time I learned to trust him. Over time he became my friend. And last month he proposed, quietly in our flat, just the two of us.
I reach the dark wooden door and balance my phone on top of my file, but as I punch in the key code to enter, the door swings open.
‘Here she is,’ Caroline, the advocacy manager, says, stepping out of the room reserved for the Crown Prosecution Service. ‘How was Anderson?’
‘As charming as always.’
‘Silver tongue, that one.’ She laughs but then reaches for my arm, her eyes shifting away from my face. ‘Ava …’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘There’s a first hearing for a Grievous Bodily Harm with Intent in Court One,’ she says.
‘Okay …’
‘Jonah was meant to be covering it but he’s been pulled into some urgent police briefing at the office –’
‘So you want me to do it?’
‘Please?’
‘Caroline, you know I want to help you but I’m so busy already. I’ve still got the list in Court Three and I really can’t finish late today. I have to go and see my mum and –’
‘Come on, the hearing shouldn’t take long. They’ll just take her not guilty plea and set a date for the trial. And it’s in front of your favourite.’
‘Gilbert?’
She smiles. ‘Gilbert.’
I glance down at my watch – 10:45 a.m. If I get to Court Three by half eleven, maybe I can still make it …
‘Fine,’ I whisper. ‘But you owe me.’
‘I know.’
‘When’s it going on?’
‘I told Gilbert’s usher that I’d grab you and you’d come straightaway.’
‘Okay.’ I turn away from the CPS room and we begin to walk, Caroline trotting beside me. ‘Quickly give me a summary … What’s the defendant’s name?’
‘Lily Hawthorne,’ Caroline whispers, her eyes darting around for anyone who might be able to hear. ‘She’s only fifteen.’
‘Fifteen?’ I mutter. ‘The youth court sent her here?’
‘Yep, she’s very young. Long history of convictions.’
‘Is she in custody?’
‘No, she’s in local authority accommodation with a tag. We asked for a remand to custody but the judge went soft. And the children’s home she was in before agreed to have her. I was surprised.’
‘And what was the GBH?’
‘Stabbing.’
‘Why?’
‘Something of a teenage crush. He rejected her and she lost her temper.’
‘How many times did she stab him?’
‘Just once. But to the torso from behind.’
I nod. ‘Okay. DNA evidence?’
‘Yes. When she was arrested, she was covered in his blood and the knife had her prints on it.’
‘Did she talk in her interview?’
‘No. She went no-comment but we’re expecting her to claim self-defence.’
I slow as we reach the door to the courtroom and glance at the large metal ‘One’ fixed to the wall.
‘Okay … And the victim?’
‘Forty-three-year-old photographer and entrepreneur. Runs a chain of hotels. She was at his house when she attacked him and –’
A rush of air interrupts Caroline as the door to the courtroom opens outwards.
‘Oh good,’ Charlie – Judge Gilbert’s usher – says. ‘You’re here.’ He tugs his robe onto his shoulder. ‘He’s waiting to start.’
‘See you soon,’ I say, flashing a wide smile at Caroline.
‘Good luck,’ she says.
Charlie opens the door and I step inside, the courtroom expanding in all directions before me. Dark beams support the high ceiling and the walls are windowless, the room lit by artificial light even in the height of summer.
I glance to my left to where the judge usually sits, but he isn’t there. He must have returned to his chambers. And the dock is empty too. I walk forward, towards the front where prosecution and defence share a bench. But as I do so I glance to my left, to the public gallery. Three of the seats in the front row are occupied: journalists – I recognize their faces. And just behind them a man is sitting, his head lowered, but he glances up, his gaze briefly dancing over me.
I freeze.
He is staring down at his lap again now, no longer looking my way, his focus drawn to his phone. But … that face. Those eyes.
I rush towards my place on the front row and slam my notebook down, opening my laptop. The screen glows. I navigate quickly to the court files, my fingers flying over the keys as I type her name – Lily Hawthorne. The casefile loads and I quickly move the mouse to the summary tab, hesitating just for a moment.
It can’t be him.
I click. My eyes quickly scan over the police summary, my brain automatically acting on years of experience, years of having to quickly ascertain key pieces of information –
There it is. The name of the victim.
My stomach plummets.
Michael Osborne.
He has never truly left me. His name has lingered, refusing to fade even after I stripped myself of my own. The last time I saw him, Ava Knight didn’t exist. I was a different person with a different name.
I was Anabelle King.