‘I’m worried about my mother. How will she cope? She’s too old for this.’
‘She’s certainly made an effort.’
It was true. Isabel looked splendid in a scarlet silk dress and jacket. Her hair was swept up and she was wearing a platinum and ruby brooch. She appeared to sense their scrutiny for she looked up, smiled and then turned back to her companion, a woman from the Witness Service who had brought her a cup of tea.
‘She’s enjoying the drama,’ said Georgie.
‘If only I knew what she was going to say.’
‘She’s not going to rat on her daughter.’
‘Digger’s clever. He can’t lead of course, but he can lure. I’ve seen him before with a reluctant witness.’
‘Don’t go that way, Mel. You can’t control him. You can’t control her. You’re not running this show. The only thing you’re running is your own story.’
She studied his face. What did he mean, ‘story’? Had he seen through her? Something inside her wobbled and she asked, ‘Will I have to give evidence today?’
‘Why are you asking me? You know how it works.’
‘I won’t be able to speak. I can hardly walk.’
‘You’ll be fine. No one could ever believe you were capable of violence. No one. You’ll be great.’
They walked into Court Four, Georgie turning into the public seating area, Mel acknowledging the usher and making her way to the glass-panelled dock at the back of the court. The panels were spaced inches apart so a defendant would be able to hear the proceedings. Yesterday had been tough, but she’d felt curiously detached. The first day of a trial was often like this, even her own trial. A novelty, a spectacle, not yet real. By day two the jury would have settled in, allegiances would be formed, sympathies established. Like a cinema audience they would move from critical detachment to total immersion. And sympathies could switch in a flicker. The usher closed the heavy door. There was no handle on the inside. The door on the other side of the dock led to the cells.
Beyond the low hum of the air conditioning, Mel could hear the occasional cough and shuffle of feet as the prosecution team settled themselves. Still no sign of Alisha.
She took her seat, staring ahead of her to the coat of arms above the Bench, remembering the advice she gave her own criminal clients. Sit up straight. Don’t smile or laugh. Try not to weep. Follow the evidence. Watch the witnesses carefully. Take notes if you like, but not too many. When giving evidence, be as nice to everyone as you can. Answer the questions put. Don’t try too hard to control your face but remember, every reaction you give will be noted by the jury. Tell the truth but don’t say more than necessary. Could she really have given such advice? How could any sane person follow it?
Alisha had given her no advice, only an attempt at reassurance. ‘You’ll be fine, don’t worry.’ It was unsatisfactory. She would have expected more from her representative. She would also have expected her to be in court in good time, to have another chat with her before Natasha’s cross-examination.
‘Court rise.’
Judge McDermid took his seat. He was considered both fair and robust, his interventions sparse and measured. It was impossible to read much in his ragged Scottish countenance.
Seconds later, Alisha raced in, uncharacteristically frazzled, a few strands of long black hair escaping from the wig which sat slightly askew on her forehead. McDermid said nothing. His facial expression was enough.
‘Your Honour, I apologise for my late arrival,’ spluttered Alisha. ‘Shortly before we were called into court, a police officer acquaintance spoke to me. He passed on some information which will be relevant to today’s proceedings.’
McDermid remained impassive. ‘Do you wish to address me on that information?’
‘If I may take instructions?’
‘Very well, Miss Mehta, you may speak to the defendant. Usher, please inform the jury there will be a further slight delay.’
Alisha stepped into the dock and spoke quietly to Mel. ‘Natasha was arrested last night. For shoplifting. She gave fingerprints and they traced them to someone called Lola Tondowski. I’m going to ask about Lola.’
‘No. I don’t want to go into that.’
‘Why not? It goes to credibility. Casts doubts on Natasha’s character.’
‘I said NO,’ Mel retorted, her voice rising in pitch, unable to quell her agitation.
‘What is it, Mel?’
‘What’s what?’
‘There’s something else. Something you haven’t told me. This Lola. What about her? If Natasha’s hiding something that can only help us.’
‘I’ve already said, Alisha, I can’t talk about it. OK?’
‘Mel, if you want me to represent you properly you need to be open with me.’
Mel shuddered. Everything could blow open. Her son had refused to show her the texts. How bad could they be? What if there were more pictures? And how could she be sure of Jacob’s story? He had closed down pretty fast and she had no idea how far he had gone. Natasha must have made the first move. But she was not on trial today. Her behaviour would only reinforce Mel’s motive for hurting her.
‘You’ll have to trust me on this, Alisha. There’s stuff about Lola, about Jacob, I don’t want it coming out. They were texting, sharing photographs. I can’t even bear to talk about it. Mention the shoplifting if you like, if the judge lets you. But nothing else.’
‘But that’s serious, Mel. Are you saying she was grooming him?’
‘I don’t think I would use that word. From what I gathered from Jacob he was pretty keen to go along with it.’
‘But that’s just the point. Sexual predators…’
‘For Christ sake, Alisha, I said I don’t want to go there. God knows what Jacob might have done or said. I don’t want it mentioned. Anyway, he’s all right now. That’s the main thing.’
‘What if Digger raises it?’
‘Why would he blacken his own client?’
‘If it gives you a motive for hurting Natasha, she might agree to it. It depends what she did. Did you see her texts?’
‘No. He wouldn’t let me see them. Made me give her back her phone.’
‘So you only have Jacob’s word for what happened?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Alisha! I saw the fucking photographs!’
It was hard to breathe. Something in her chest was fluttering as if a tiny bird had been caught between her ribs.
‘OK, Mel. Stay cool. I’ll follow your instructions. You know that. I only wish you’d told me all this before.’
Mel remembered how often she had said or thought that about her own clients who kept things back. But all she could say was, ‘I couldn’t.’
Through the glass of the dock she could see Digger conferring with someone from the Crown Prosecution Service. There were three people on the public benches: Georgie; a young woman with a notebook who might be a law student; and an elderly man who Mel guessed was one of those full-time court room spectators, a self-appointed expert who filled his days with other people’s catastrophes. Her mother wouldn’t be allowed in until she had given her own evidence. At least Jacob had agreed not to come. On another set of benches closer to the judge she noted the reporter she had seen yesterday. Alisha was sitting close, waiting for her to continue.