‘Before we turn to the verdict, I want to thank you once again for your service over the past five weeks in what has been a trial at the very centre of the public stage,’ Judge Watson says to the jury, her round glasses perched at the end her nose, magnifying her eyes so that she appears even more owl-like. Wise and all-knowing.
Emilia likes her. She liked her from the start of the trial when she peered at them from her bench, high above them in Court One of the Old Bailey, and there was kindness in her eyes instead of disdain. She has watched her carefully throughout the trial, taking in each of the judge’s reactions: her displeased frown as the prosecution insisted that there was no reason for either of the two defendants to remain silent; her dead-eyed glare as they proclaimed that there was no possible defence to keeping the information from the police for so long.
‘You understand, don’t you, Miss Haines, that to successfully argue the defence of duress, the harm that you were so afraid of would have to be imminent?’
The prosecutor’s tone had sent a rush of anger through her. But she forced herself to remain calm, poised. Reacting would have no effect on him, but it could only do her harm.
‘I understand that, yes,’ she had said. ‘The fear of harm was always there. We never knew where they could come from. They abducted me from my house.’
‘But the harm was not imminent, was it, Miss Haines?’ He raised an eyebrow, as though he was impatiently explaining something to a small child. ‘Once you were released from the Confession Room, you would agree that there was no constant gun to your head, forcing you to remain silent?’
‘It was.’
‘If that were true, Miss Haines, how did you have the time to investigate the location of the Confession Room and report back to the police?’
‘I –’
‘If you were able to do that without coming to immediate harm, then surely you could have done it sooner?’
She hadn’t been able to respond, and a deep feeling of dread began to stir inside her. Her eyes had darted quickly to the jury. Some of them were nodding, their eyes gleaming with conviction; but others were shaking their heads, however subconsciously. The dread in her stomach was briefly smothered: they were torn. To convict her they would have to be unanimous.
But they’d returned now with a unanimous verdict. So one way or the other – the doubters had been converted.
The public? The public were a different story. As soon as the press revealed that they had been charged with perverting the course of justice, they were divided. Some were appalled, insisting that Emilia and Isabella should have been allowed to continue their lives unpunished; others thought the prosecution had not gone far enough – that they were being let off lightly. As though a perverting the course of justice conviction would just be a slap on the back of the hand.
But it doesn’t matter what the general public believe. It doesn’t even matter what the judge – the arbiter of law – thinks. The jury are the judges of fact. The jury are the ones who matter. What do they believe?
‘Right …’ Judge Watson glances down at her clerk and nods. The clerk adjusts his gown, tugging it forward just as he has done multiple times a day, the material sliding off his suit beneath. As he stands, Emilia’s stomach turns and she glances sideways at Isabella, who meets her eye and sighs. It is time.
‘Isabella Santos and Emilia Haines – please stand.’
They both rise, their faces close to the glass. A low hum of whispers comes from the public gallery to the left above them, followed by a hush. But Emilia hasn’t been able to face looking up there and seeing the devastated faces of her parents. Or Ciaran’s bewildered dismay. If she looks at them she will cry. And she can’t bear the thought of the other people in the gallery, the onlookers who have been queuing from the early hours to get a coveted seat, seeing her crumble. She will not give them that. Nor will Isabella. She hates it too – after the first day they came to an agreement: no looking up at the public gallery.
‘Can the foreman please stand,’ the clerk says, his voice clear as a bell in the towering expanse of the room.
The man in the furthest seat to the left of the front row clambers to his feet, his movements slow and stiff. He clasps his hands in front of him but he can’t seem to keep them still, and his fingers tug and pull at each other, the energy emanating out of him all the way to the dock.
‘On the charge of perverting the course of justice against Isabella Santos, have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’
The man moves his head in a single firm nod. ‘We have.’
‘And what is your verdict?’
Emilia turns her head to look at her friend – because that is what they have become, after the blame slowly melted away: friends. The only two people who will ever understand each other. But Isabella has closed her eyes, mouthing words silently down to the floor. She is praying. Emilia holds her breath.
‘Guilty,’ the foreman says.
Isabella lifts her head, her mouth agape. And Emilia … Emilia can’t breathe. She can’t comprehend what has just happened; she can’t understand how this jury have decided that Isabella wilfully got in the way of the police investigation. She felt like she had no choice – that much was completely clear. The courtroom spins, and a migraine – a daily occurrence now – creeps around her temples to the front of her forehead.
‘On the charge of perverting the course of justice against Emilia Haines, have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’
He nods again in the same exacting movement. ‘Yes, we have.’
Maybe there’s still a chance for her. Isabella kept quiet the entire time. But Emilia came forward and told the truth.
‘And what is your verdict?’
Emilia winces, holding her breath, as if she is readying herself to be plunged into a cold sea. The courtroom jolts to a stop, suspending itself in time –
‘Guilty.’
She gasps as the verdict slams into her, freezing cold, taking her breath away, so powerful that it’s as though she is kicking against a current, unable to break through the surface. Everything beyond the glass is blurred – the murmurs trickling down from the gallery, the words of the clerk, the foreman once again taking his seat. Her hands fall forward and she holds on to the wooden ledge that runs around the dock. Her forehead thuds heavily against the glass and her head spins, the migraine turning the screws on its vice-like grip. She tries to breathe, desperate to focus back in on the room, back in on what the judge is saying, on the comments of the barristers, on Isabella. But she can’t. She is frozen, only able to stare down at her fingers – the knuckles which have turned white.
‘Emilia …’ A whisper comes from behind her. She lifts her head slowly to look at Isabella who shakes her head, her mouth still open in disbelief, tears falling so fast down her cheeks that they are streaking in one clear line and dropping to her feet.
Emilia’s eyes dart out through the glass to the courtroom. Everyone is standing as the judge departs, returning to her chambers to consider their sentences. The defence barristers are cutting through the benches, making their way to the docks to try to offer advice. And the noise in the public gallery builds suddenly, no longer silent or speaking in hushed whispers, but now speaking openly, leaning towards each other with excitement on their faces, as though they have just watched the finale of their favourite show – five weeks of entertainment leading to the ultimate climax.
But the front row of people are entirely different. To the left sit Isabella’s family, her mum sobbing, her hands clutching at her head, her body rocking back and forth. Isabella’s younger brother is standing above his mum, staring out into the courtroom, not speaking. A sister sits beside their mother, her face consumed with anger. And to the right are Emilia’s parents. Her mum is talking rapidly, her confusion written all over her face, looking to her husband for some kind of reassurance. A mistake has been made, that’s all. But her dad is paying her no attention: instead he is staring down at Emilia, and as she finally meets his eyes he says three words, her heart tumbling. We love you. She blinks rapidly, wiping away tears with the back of her hand, her face burning under the intense gaze of one more person.
Ciaran.
She blinks up at him, and for a moment the room falls silent, the world becoming still in his warm, sad eyes. The man who has stood beside her through everything, even when she didn’t deserve it. Even when she asked too much. Even through this. She sniffs and his face breaks. He is crying. His hand trembles up to his face and tears fill her eyes as he mimes their familiar old routine: pointing to his eye, his heart, then to her. I love you. She nods, lifting her hand also: eye, heart, pointing to him then holding two fingers aloft. I love you too.
She collapses back into her seat, the bench vibrating beneath her. The world shifting.
The glass throws her reflection back at her, the courtroom still in focus beyond, and her eyes flicker between the two: her tear-strewn cheeks; the jury chatting amongst themselves; the anger in her eyes; the clerk checking the files; her face painted in sorrow; the prosecutor turning to the bench behind him, shaking hands with Inspector Wild.
This is justice?
She shakes her head, her hands curling into shaking fists.
This is justice.