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Lia Middleton is a barrister who specialises in crime and prison law. You can find her on X @liamiddlet0n and on Instagram @liamiddletonauthor. She is the author of When They Find Her, Your Word or Mine and The Confession Room.
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For Kate Burke –My partner-in-crime these past five years. Thank you for everything.
Francis Joseph blinks numbly as the jurors file back into the courtroom, their footsteps marking the thin line upon which his fate is balanced. They have made their decision. And in just a few minutes, he will know the path that lies ahead. Guilty or not guilty? Freedom? Or the rest of his life behind bars.
Now it is time, he can’t even look at them. He has spent the past four weeks scanning their faces, assessing their features for any change in expression, no matter how small. But knowing that they are aware of his fate before he is, he just can’t face them. These could be his final moments of life as a free man. Better to live them in ignorance than to notice something that reveals the horrifying truth earlier than necessary.
‘Will the foreman please stand?’ says the clerk in her loud, clear voice. Frank closes his eyes. And instead of taking in the noises of the courtroom, the tension hanging in the almost-silence before the clerk speaks again, he forces himself to imagine how it would feel to be out. For the foreman to say ‘not guilty’. To be released from this court, not to return to prison. To go home.
It shimmers into life in his mind, the house he used
to call home rising up to greet him at the end of the stone path.
He opens the gate, his hands trembling, and then the gravel crunches beneath his feet. One hand is curled into a tight fist, the other gripping the single rucksack of possessions that have made up his life since the night it all went so terribly wrong. He slowly climbs the small set of steps which lead to the front door. The key feels hot between his sweating fingers, even in the biting cold. He slides the key into the lock and –
He is home.
After all this time.
All those days hoping, praying, that it will be over soon. That they will let him go.
That twelve strangers will set him free.
He blinks rapidly, his eyes stinging. It feels like something he has already lived, but it hasn’t happened. He might never get to go back.
‘Have you reached a verdict upon which you or a majority of you are all agreed?’ the clerk says.
Frank shuts his eyes again, tipping his chin so that his face is partially obscured from the obsessively keen eyes in the public gallery. And as he closes them, he is back there, inside his home. The hallway stretching before him, leading to his office, the formal reception room, a snug, the downstairs loo, and then the open kitchen and living area beyond. He is so close to all of this being nothing but a memory. Something to pain him as he lives the rest of his life, or at least the
viii
best of the rest of his life, in prison. If they convict him, he won’t be out for at least thirty years, that’s what he’s been told. He’ll be in his sixties or seventies by then. The world will be completely changed. But his world is completely changed no matter what they choose. Even if he is acquitted, he’ll still be returning to his home alone. There will be nobody there celebrating his freedom with him. No one to open a bottle of champagne, or cry happy, burning tears of relief. His parents are six feet under. Any friends he has managed to sustain over the years disappeared when he was arrested, and Linda –
Linda is gone.
She’s never coming back.
And before he can stop it, in the brief second before his eyes fly open, like the grip of a hand letting go at the feel of a burn, he is back there, in his mind.
In the kitchen.
His eyes fly open and he rubs them, blinking rapidly. He won’t cry. Not now. Time inside will do that to you – you can’t show weakness, not ever. Tears will only lead to trouble. To feelings that he simply can’t face.
The foreman clears his throat. ‘We have.’
The clerk nods. ‘For the offence of murder, how do you find the defendant?’
The foreman opens his mouth to speak and –
Then it is over. The verdict is spoken. What will happen to Francis Joseph is decided. This changes everything.
A gentle wind blows across the Thames and pushes my hair into my eyes. I brush it back, knowing that the second I let it go, it will fall back down my forehead, obstructing my gaze. But every strand out of place is worth it for this daily walk. Even on days when it’s cold, or the sun is blazing so that I am sweating through my three-piece suit. Up the Embankment, along the river, then cutting up Middle Temple Lane to chambers. It’s like a hidden world in the centre of London. Nestled behind the Strand, a maze of cobbled streets opening into beautiful manicured gardens, the glorious dome of Temple Church, the stained-glass windows of Inner Temple Hall. It’s a place that even some seasoned Londoners aren’t aware of. A secret oasis. But while on the surface it’s a haven of peace, beyond its facade it is bursting with busy minds, poring over case after case, hour after hour. Tireless ambition runs through Temple. And while I’m exhausted after being up all night preparing for a trial which didn’t go ahead, the Bar does not stop. It does not relent. I need to pick up papers for tomorrow and Charlie, my clerk, said he has a big case for me. The biggest case of your life. I cut across the courtyard, with Middle Temple
Hall on my left, and head down a short set of stairs, catching my favourite view back across the gardens and beyond to the river. The city in the distance. The skyline seeming so out of sorts with the world I am now in, which seems to have paused for a number of centuries. But as the sun makes its slow descent down to dip below the horizon, I veer right, heading down a narrow alley which opens out into a small square, and then turn towards chambers, relishing the sight of my name on the board outside.
Just over six months ago, it was much further down the list, appearing in the order that fellow members of chambers were called to the Bar. But now, I am tenth from the top, and two new letters appear after it.
Harry Mason-Hall KC .
The youngest criminal barrister to ever be awarded the honour of becoming King’s Counsel. And it is an honour. But bloody hell, I’ve worked hard. The endless will it took to even get myself to the table. The dream of the Bar had felt like a distant star for so long – shining and beautiful but simply too out of reach. It wasn’t for someone like me. It was for the others – the boys and girls at the private school who used to walk on the other side of the road, away from the rest of us, whose parents went to Oxbridge and had friends in law and politics. I was like an alien in a new world, surrounded by people who had grown up with privilege which to me felt uncomfortable. Posh accents and even posher country estates. Friends
who were living in apartments in South West London that their parents had bought for them, not having to worry about student loans or barely making enough money during training to be able to eat. I would linger in chambers at the end of the day, checking the kitchen for any food that might be thrown away, glancing into conference rooms to see if any sandwiches or biscuits had been left over. Something to get me through until the next day. When the work did start to materialize at last, there were years and years of grafting, pandering to solicitors and keeping defendants – who would of course find themselves charged with a crime once again – on side. Countless hours, when I could have been with my wife, spending time with our new daughter, building our family, instead of bent over a desk trying to take in all the details of the trial ahead, all the weak points to penetrate the prosecution’s case, all the arguments that could possibly be made for my client. Standing up in court, and defending them as if I am defending myself. As if it is my future, my life on the line. And then finally – the recognition that we all dream of, even the barristers who pretend that they have no interest in it. We have all coveted the title, the red bag, the silk robes. The admiring and envious looks of our colleagues. Six months have passed and I’m still not over it. I’m still waiting to feel like a KC . And still waiting to be treated like one.
The transition . . . it can take time.
‘Evening, Harry,’ says a voice as the door opens.
‘Evening, Oscar,’ I respond, nodding my head politely at Oscar Strachan. He is a tall waif of a man. Extremely skilled. Extremely polite. Extremely fucking annoying.
‘Good day?’
‘A great day. Well, as good as any in front of the bench I’ve had.’
‘Who was the judge?’
‘Woodward.’
He laughs, a hearty acknowledgement, but it is silent, his head rocking back over-dramatically. ‘He wasn’t too hard on you today, then?’
‘Well, the defendant pleaded guilty before the jury were sworn in. So after the brutality of the trial in front of him last week, it all evened out. Karma, some would say. Although the fees from the trial would have been nice –’
‘Good for you,’ he interrupts, avoiding my rant about money and countless hours of work that are now lost. ‘And don’t worry too much about the real KC work still not coming to you yet. It will soon enough, I’m sure . . .’
‘Oh, I’m not worried.’ I reach for the door and throw him a casual wave. ‘See you soon, Oscar.’
‘Enjoy your evening.’
I pause, watching as he strides away towards the alley that cuts away and up to the Strand. Prick.
He loves to do that. Masking condescension with false concern. Don’t worry too much about the real KC work
still not coming to you yet. It is always a worry for all junior barristers who take silk. You’re too senior now for the bread and butter of the criminal bar – the thefts, the domestic violence, the assaults. The cases that are largely dull and repetitive but that feed you daily, keeping your practice alive and well. But the big, juicy cases – the complex murders, the terrorism cases, the gang trials – they are too senior for a new KC. Especially the Bar’s youngest KC. Those kinds of cases only come along every so often. Yet no one can live on a trial every so often. Before I was a KC, I’d have a murder trial multiple times a year. I became known for them. But now . . . Now they slip past me, falling downwards or flying upwards to those more junior or senior. Like I am stuck in some kind of legal purgatory.
For some, this in-between time isn’t a concern. Stick it out and eventually the cases will come. But I’m not like those people. I have a family to provide for. I’m not from money. The worry eats away at me every day.
But Charlie said that there was something big. Something that I would love. What were his precise words? . . . Something you deserve.
This is it. This will be the case – the one that shows that I’ve been made KC for a reason. I am good enough. And I can do it. The case that will make everything I’ve sacrificed, everything my family has sacrificed, worth it. It can’t all be for nothing. For a career that simply plateaus, never reaching the pinnacle. Or even worse, a career that simply disappears altogether.
I stride through the door and it closes gently behind me. The waft of old wood and leather hits me as I make my way through the entrance hall and towards reception. Some chambers have decided to modernize, stripping their interiors of the trimmings of the traditional Bar and becoming sleek. All glass, all metal. But not One Court Lane. Never us. We are the Bar as it was. As it will always be. The receptionist sits behind a large mahogany desk, the black and white chequered tiles dull and worn after years of footsteps rushing through the various rooms and halls. The stairs curl upwards from behind her, leading to a maze of rooms. Most of the rooms are minuscule, occupied by two or three barristers who share the space, their desks crammed together, files piled and stacked all around them, wherever there is an empty – and sometimes not so empty – space. But some of the rooms are larger, with beautiful bay windows which overlook the river. These aren’t shared. These are for the KCs. I moved into one last week. It feels strange after so many years of sharing. It’s quiet. Almost too quiet. But it’s not like I’ll spend much time there – when I’m not at court, I prefer to work from home, unless it’s so late and I have so much to do that it’s easier to work and then sleep in chambers. But Piera doesn’t like it when I do that. Come home, Harry, she whispers. Chambers is not your home. She always found it much easier than I do to separate work from life. But she misses it. I know she does. And I know that’s why she now wants me home
more often than she ever did when she was practising too. But it’s simply part of the job. It consumes everything.
‘Evening, Georgia,’ I say to the receptionist as I move past her desk towards the clerks’ room at the back of the building.
‘Good evening, Sir,’ she says with a wide smile.
The noise in the clerks’ room hits me as I swing through the double doors. It’s the end of the day, so solicitors’ firms and the CPS are calling, attempting to get cases covered before the clerks leave for the day. There are always late returns, other trials over-running, cases brought forward – and somebody needs to do them. And the clerks, sitting in clerks’ rooms in the heart of chambers all throughout Temple and across the country, are the ones who have to schedule our time. But figuring out who has the time and the experience and the capacity is like moving pieces about a chessboard. One wrong move and justice can simply fall apart.
‘– I know you need someone, Davy, but what do you want me to do? Pull a KC out of my arse? They’re all busy.’
Charlie, the senior clerk who handles all of the KCs’ schedules and cases, holds a finger up towards me, winking briefly as he makes a hand gesture, his fingers mimicking a mouth gabbing relentlessly. And then another – not so polite – gesture. Wanker, he mouths. I smile and lean against his desk.
‘If you really want Eadie, I can get him for you, but you remember his fee, right? If you’re willing to pay that for a six-week trial then I can get him . . . Yes. Yes – but he’ll need two juniors. Yes, two! He won’t do it with just one; he hasn’t done a trial with just one junior for over a decade – All right. Speak soon.’
He slams the phone down and then swings towards me, crossing one leg over the other with a flourish. ‘Evening, Sir.’
‘What have you got for me?’
‘Oh, is that all the niceties I get today? No how was your day, Charlie? or fancy a drink, Charlie? Just straight in there with “What have you got for me?” ’
‘Well, you did say –’
‘What happened with your trial?’
I smirk, reaching down into my bag to retrieve the paper file, and place it down firmly on the desk. Charlie’s eyebrows raise in approval as he takes in my scrawl on the cover page.
G. Guilty.
‘No trial?’
‘Changed his tune last minute.’
He nods, taking the file and placing it in the tray beside him. He turns back to his screen, a mischievous smile playing around his lips.
‘Charlie, don’t play funny buggers now . . .’ I sigh, internally rolling my eyes at myself. The me of twenty years ago would have wanted to smash someone’s face in for saying ‘funny buggers’. Posh twat. ‘What have
you got for me? Please tell me this is finally the case that will cement my reputation as a KC.’
He pushes himself away from his desk and swings around to face the wall of cubby holes where barristers’ new cases are placed. I could have retrieved the file myself, but Charlie loves a dramatic flourish. And it does me no harm to pander to his nature. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you and all that.
He clutches the papers to his chest and swings back around to face me. They are thick, and bound with a pink ribbon. A defence case. My favourite. In the early days of my career I used to pray for a white ribbon, especially when defence work paid a pittance and I was struggling to keep myself afloat, but now, I hardly ever work for the Crown. And Charlie has learned to stop sending them my way if he can help it. Don’t bite the hand works the other way around too. It’s a strange relationship between Counsel and Clerk, not always clear who holds the power. Who keeps who in employ. But it works between the two of us. Let’s just hope what he has for me really is as good as he has led me to believe. I’m ready to prove myself. I need to prove myself.
‘What is it?’
He leans towards me and I can already tell he is about to speak in a low voice, as though what he is about to say is a big secret, not for the ears of the junior clerks – who are all too busy on their phones, worrying about their own barristers, to give two flying fucks what case I’m working on next.
‘It’s a murder,’ he says in a whisper, just like I thought. A murder. Finally. But I can’t reveal my hand so soon. Best to underplay it.
I cross my arms. ‘Is that all?’
‘Is that . . . is that all? It’s your first sniff of a murder since becoming a KC! And this isn’t your run-of-themill, it wasn’t me Guv, you’ve got the wrong person Guv, it was in self-defence Guv, type of murder.’
‘It isn’t?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nah, it’s not.’ His mouth stretches into a wry smile. The back of my neck tingles, the hairs standing on end.
‘What is it, then?’
‘Well . . . it’ll be a hell of a defence to run. Hell of a defence to win. And you’ll need to win it.’
‘We all lose trials, Charlie. It’s justice. It’s how it works, we can’t win them all.’
He points a stern finger at me. ‘You can lose in a year’s time when you’ve proven that you can run a trial like a silk. That you can win like a silk. If you lose this trial, you might as well go back to being a junior. You’ll get more work –’
‘I understand the stakes.’ I sigh, leaning my neck from one side to the other until it clicks, then fix Charlie with a mocking gaze. ‘It’ll be the first time I’ve been shocked by a defence in a long time. So, come on . . . Surprise me.’
‘Let’s see if you can guess, then. If it’s so difficult to surprise you. Defendant is a man in his late thirties.
Married to his wife for ten years. Known each other since . . . wait for it . . . university where they studied law. According to the prosecution, he comes home to find her with a packed suitcase and realizes she’s going to leave him. Crown say he murdered her by slitting her throat. Now . . .’ He stretches out his legs in front of him, clasping his hands behind his head. ‘Guess. Guess what defence he gave in interview.’
I press my lips together and roll my eyes. ‘Well, it’s obvious. She was leaving him for someone else. So, he’s saying it was the other man.’
He lifts his chin mockingly. ‘Not even close.’
‘She tried to attack him so he had to defend himself.’ ‘Nope.’
I sigh, crossing my arms. ‘Loss of control –’
‘Your guesses are getting worse –’
‘He wasn’t even there –’
‘Ah . . . you’re on the right track but still not quite.’
I pause, stubbornness urging me to keep on guessing. But curiosity prevails. ‘Just tell me now, Charlie, or I’ll open the file and just find out myself.’
He unclasps his hands from behind his head and grips the armrests of his chair, pushing himself to standing. He’s about six inches smaller than me, but what he is missing in stature he makes up for in bravado. He meets my eye, a keen look in his own, and presses the file into my chest.
‘He says she did it herself.’
A rush of energy runs through me, like electricity,
my hairs standing on end. I grip the file, my fingertips tingling. ‘Now that is interesting.’
‘And surprising. Correct?’
I tilt my head slightly to one side. ‘I’ll give you that this time, Charlie. I’ve never run anything like this. It’ll be –’
‘Challenging?’
‘Indeed. And interesting. Thrilling.’
‘It’ll be one for the books. And one to show that you can do the KC work. You can take Old Bailey murder trial after Old Bailey murder trial. No bother. If you successfully defend this, you won’t have to worry about getting KC work again. I’ll be batting them away with a stick.’
I smile, unable to stop myself, but my stomach turns. It seems too good. ‘What’s the catch? I feel like there’s a catch.’
A brief grimace flashes across Charlie’s face.
‘Charlie . . .’
‘It starts next week.’
I breathe in sharply, my heart quickening.
Next week. No. That isn’t possible. A trial like this will take weeks to prepare. Meeting the defendant, advising, preparing the case, the speeches, the legal arguments . . . The prosecution will have been mounting their case against him for months.
‘Next week? Jesus Christ, Charlie, how has this happened?’
‘Listen, Prior was meant to be leading, but for some
reason he and the defendant fell out and he returned the brief.’
‘So he’s a tricky client. Have his solicitors asked him about new representation?’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘He asked for you.’
My brow furrows. Defendants don’t usually ask for specific barristers. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, he asked for you. Apparently he still knows a lot of people from when he studied law – he does something unrelated now but he knows people. And he wanted you.’
‘What about the junior? There must be a junior on this?’
‘He packed it in too. And the defendant is insisting on no junior. He just wants you.’
My hand lifts to my forehead, my mind racing. ‘Was this not in the news? I’ve never heard of the case.’
‘It had a small amount of local coverage but nothing in the nationals. There’s nothing high profile about it. Legally, yes, it will get coverage, but the public don’t care. At least not yet. If someone covers the trial it could take hold. Or maybe not. They can’t care about every murder, can they now?’
My chest tightens. It can’t be done. Not in a week. It’s too much. The chance of failure is almost absolute.
But if I win? If he is acquitted . . . it could change everything.
I sigh. ‘All right . . . Hand it over.’
He smiles and lets go of the file.
I pull the top of the first page down, revealing the top half of the defendant’s details as the paper curves over the pink ribbon which is wrapped horizontally around the pages, binding them together.
Francis Joseph.
The smell of curry hits me as my key turns in the lock and our front door slowly creaks open. She’s got takeaway – my favourite. She must have had a hard day with the baby. She had sworn off takeaways during the week. Every night, after she puts Rose down to sleep, she cooks, and we eat together. No matter what case I have on, no matter how busy I am, we eat together. Sometimes it’s the only time we spend together. There are evenings when all I can focus on is what needs to get done, what else I should be doing with that time. But then I see her face, her smile, and how much it means to her, and I’m overcome with guilt. Since when was anything more important than her?
‘Piera?’ I call out, setting my bag down on the console table in the hall.
‘I’m in the living room,’ she says. I take off my suit jacket and waistcoat and hang them on the bannister, then pull off my shoes, my back aching as I bend down. That’s one thing they don’t warn you of when you’re training for the Bar – the occupational hazard of being on your feet all day. Your back is fucking knackered by forty.
When I step into the living room, she smiles at me, and my stomach flips. Even after all these years, after a long day, or a hard case, she is just the remedy. Even with milk stains down her top, her face pale with exhaustion, she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Curled up into the corner of the sofa, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, loose strands falling down her face. A large glass of red wine in one hand. She stopped breastfeeding Rose at six months. She found it more difficult than she expected to let go of that bond.
‘Ms Roman, you are a sight to behold.’
‘Oh, shh, you old flatterer,’ she says, her voice croaky and warm. That smile stretching across her face.
I remember the first time I saw her. It was my first day of pupillage – the training year for barristers, the final hurdle in becoming a fully qualified advocate. The other pupils looked incredibly young, fresh out of law school. After my years as a paralegal, I was nearly twenty-eight and already running behind. I was so focused, so ready to begin my career with no distractions. But then, there she was. Standing on the other side of the room, talking to her supervisor. Her long hair tumbling down her back. For a moment she scanned the room and her gaze fell on mine. And there it was. That smile.
I cross the room and flop down on the sofa beside her, lowering myself on to my side to place my head in her lap. ‘Enough of the old, please,’ I say, groaning as
a pain twinges in my lower vertebrae and I turn over to look up at her.
‘I’m not sure young people moan as they manoeuvre themselves –’
‘Excuse me, Piera, but I think you’ll find –’
‘I know, I know – I’m only seven years younger than you – you remind me all the time.’
‘Well, you call me old all the time.’
‘Because seven years is basically a decade. A lifetime.’
I laugh, and her dark eyes sparkle as she beams down at me. I gesture, a small waggle of my fingers, and she leans forward, kissing me gently on the lips.
‘Where’s Rose?’
‘Upstairs sleeping. You can go in and see her –’
‘I will.’ I always go to Rose when I get home. Sometimes she’s still awake and my heart soars at the sight of her chubby, smiley face. But more often than not she is sleeping and I place a kiss on her forehead, watching quietly as her snuffly breaths lift her chest up and down, her arms splayed either side of her.
I look up at Piera as she lifts the glass to her lips, gulping loudly. But then I properly take in her face – the mascara and eyeliner smudged on her lower lashes, the flush of her cheeks.
I sit up. ‘Have you been crying?’ My hand reaches forward to cup her jaw, my thumb gently stroking beneath her eyes.
She lifts her hand to cover her eyes and sniffs loudly before lowering her fingers, her eyes bloodshot.
‘It was a long day with Rose, that’s all. I just got . . . overwhelmed.’
‘What was she doing? Not sleeping again?’
She nods, then sighs. ‘I don’t know what’s happened – she used to nap so well. I thought it would get easier as she gets closer to turning one but . . . it’s getting harder again.’
‘It’s just a phase. She’ll get back to normal, and when you go back to work, you’ll have a break and be able to focus on yourself –’
‘I can’t even imagine going back right now.’
I pause, watching her face closely, her lowered eyes, her mouth turned downwards. I frown. ‘Really? But you love prosecuting. You said you were desperate to get back.’ For the first six months, she mentioned it almost every day. I love her, she would say, her face flushed with maternal guilt, but I can’t wait to go back. She missed it. Before we had Rose, being a barrister was Piera’s entire life. It filled her up, gave her satisfaction in a way that nothing else could. When she went on maternity leave she only wanted to take three months off, but I convinced her to take a year. She was reluctant at first, insisting that three months was enough, that a year would set her career back by a decade. I took six weeks off to be with her and the baby and we lived off savings, and slowly she came around to the idea of more time away from it all. I didn’t want her to miss out on everything motherhood could bring her, but sometimes I wonder if it has made her resent me.
‘I know, but . . .’ Her eyes fill with tears. ‘I can’t imagine leaving her. When I think about leaving her I feel so guilty. And . . .’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve been out of it for so long now. There will be other barristers who have come in and taken my place –’
‘That isn’t true,’ I say, reaching for her hand, my thumb stroking her knuckles slowly. ‘You’re brilliant –’
‘We’re all replaceable, Harry.’ She raises her eyebrows, lifting her chin towards me. ‘Maybe not those of us who are so special we get made silk, but the rest of us . . . we’re replaceable.’
I allow the sting of her words to settle into my skin. She doesn’t mean it, I know she doesn’t. It’s been a hard time for her, torn between her relative newness as a mother, her love for Rose, and the ever-present tug of her desire to return to the Bar.
‘Well, we don’t need to worry about it now,’ I say, squeezing her hand. ‘We still have a couple of months. And your chambers will support you. And I’ll support whatever you want to do, you know that.’
She bites her lip, lowering her eyes, but then offers me a small smile. ‘Thank you.’ She pushes herself off the back of the sofa, straightening her spine, and sighs loudly, as though expelling all the bad feeling inside. ‘Right – shall we eat? It’s warming in the oven.’
‘Uh . . . yes, please. I’m starving.’
We move to the table and I place her plate in front of her, her favourite butter chicken sending steam up to her face, but she doesn’t touch it.
‘Piera?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
She shakes her head and smiles again, picking up her naan. ‘Yes, I’m sure. Sorry.’ She scoops some of her curry and lifts it to her mouth, blowing on it gently. ‘So how was your day? Trial go okay?’
I fork some Madras into my mouth, sucking in air as the scorching sauce hits my tongue. ‘He pleaded at the last minute. So we did sentencing and that’s that.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Yeah, and wait until you hear what’s next.’ I raise my eyebrows at her teasingly.
She sits up, her spine straightening, her eyes flashing with interest. ‘What is next?’
I mirror her, setting my shoulders back, my chin lifted as I prepare to tell her the big news. Pride flutters in my chest. ‘A trial that starts next week. Charlie offered it to me when I went to chambers to pick up my papers. He’d been teasing me with it all day, insisting that he had a trial for me which would be the next step in my career.’
‘And what is it?’
My face breaks into a smile, at odds with the words that are perched on the edge of my tongue, ready to be muttered. ‘A murder.’
Her mouth drops open, her eyes wide. ‘But you said it’s next week. How –’
‘Apparently the defendant fell out with Prior and he stepped down.’
‘God, that’s tight –’
I close my eyes briefly, a rush of anxiety washing over me. ‘I know. To be honest, I’m kind of freaking out about it. A week isn’t long enough.’
‘It’s not long, that’s for sure –’
My eyes fly open and I take in her face. I can’t read her expression but there is doubt there, just under the surface. ‘You think I should have turned it down?’
My breath catches in my throat. I need Piera’s support. I need her to believe that I can do this. To believe in me.
She lowers her chin, meeting my gaze with an unfailing steadiness. ‘If anyone can do this, you can.’
I let go of my breath in a heavy exhale. I can do this. It’ll be hard: apparently difficult client, late nights, long hours, no sleep. But it’ll be worth it.
She sips her wine, then cradles her glass in her hand. ‘So tell me. What’s special about it?’
‘Victim is the defendant’s wife. Her throat was slit – in the kitchen. They were at home on their own and he doesn’t have an alibi –’
‘What’s his defence?’
I lean towards her. ‘He says she did it to herself.’
Her eyes narrow, flashing with disbelief. ‘His defence is that she killed herself?’
‘Yes. I was reading through the pages on the way home. Apparently, he says that he had packed a bag for her to take to her sister’s house, he got home, she had tried to overdose but it didn’t work, so she did it. He was there, and she did it to herself.’
‘How long had they been together?’
‘It didn’t say in the papers I’ve read so far, but married for ten years. And they met at university.’ I take a sip of wine, my eyes widening as I suddenly remember. ‘He was actually at Oxford at around the same time as you.’
Her head tilts to the side. ‘Really?’
‘God, I wonder if you crossed paths – Francis Joseph?’
She narrows her eyes, her head shaking slowly. ‘I don’t recognize the name. But I met so many people at uni, most of which I can’t remember,’ she laughs. ‘What college?’
‘God, I didn’t even think about the college . . . That’s what you get for going to your local university and not –’ I pause, forcing the very posh accent that I’ve learnt to mimic during my time at the Bar, ‘– aiming for Oxbridge. You forget about colleges –’
‘Oh shh, stop making fun of me –’
‘You know I love your posh voice,’ I laugh. ‘I’ll ask about his college when I meet him for a conference.’
‘When are you going?’
‘Tomorrow.’
A cry echoes through the baby monitor which sits on the side table. Rose is awake.
‘I’ll go,’ I say, standing quickly. ‘Unless you want to?’
‘No, no,’ she says, tearing off more bread. ‘You go.’
‘I’ll be back in two minutes, let me just settle her.’
I rush out of the living room and up the stairs, slowing myself outside Rose’s room. I press my ear to the door. It’s quiet. I push the door open slowly and tiptoe inside.
There she is, curled up in one corner of the cot, a muslin tucked close to her body, her eyes closed. She must have cried out in her sleep. Sometimes she does that. We used to always barge in as soon as we heard her cry, and half the time we would wake her up ourselves by accident. Now we tread with caution.
I reach down and stroke her hair – what was once fair, soft tufts now growing darker and longer. ‘I love you, Rose,’ I whisper, then retreat slowly until I am back in the hallway and pull the door closed until it clicks.
I return to the kitchen and sit back at the table. Piera is pouring herself another glass of wine, and she points at it in a question.
‘No, I’m good for now,’ I say, and she places the bottle back on the table. ‘So . . . hell of a case, right?’
She nods. ‘What a defence. What’s your gut say? Think he did it?’
‘I mean, it’s an outlandish defence, definitely, but surely it isn’t one you just pluck out of thin air. What if he’s innocent? What if it really was her?’
She grimaces. ‘But to slit your own throat?’
‘People have done far worse when their mind turns against them.’
She nods. ‘Well . . . either way, it doesn’t really make a difference, does it? If he’s guilty, it’s very unlikely he’ll ever tell you, and it’s your duty to represent him. And if he’s innocent . . . If he’s innocent, then he needs the best defence he can get. You can do this.’
You can do this. The words we have always uttered to each other, like a mantra. Our way of connecting, showing that no matter what, we believe in each other absolutely. She said it to me for the first time as I was getting ready for our advocacy tests during pupillage. I whispered it to her as she was brushing her hair the day of her first trial. She said it firmly, meeting my eye as she stood behind me in front of the mirror the afternoon I was interviewing for silk. And I repeated it over and over, her hand clasping mine, as she gave birth to Rose. You can do this. Our belief in each other is the foundation of our relationship. Without it, we are nothing.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too.’ I lean across the table and kiss the side of her head, then scoop some more curry into my mouth, which has now cooled enough that I don’t further burn my tongue. ‘Hmmm. This is bloody delicious.’
She smiles and nods, and we continue to eat, and I talk about the case, how important my first murder trial as a KC will be for my career, thinking out loud about how I might run the case and how best to prepare in