Chapter 4
Court to Matthew’s mind means dark wooden panelling, an imposing space.
He watched Witness for the Prosecution on his laptop when the jury letter arrived, keeping the screen hidden from Rosalind.
She’d only have made some snide remark about how he’d be lucky to find anyone like Marlene Dietrich popping up on the stand.
Any thoughts of old films or antique courtrooms go out of his mind as soon as he’s through the door.
It’s office-bland, light wood and glass.
But not without pomp, slick and modernised as it might be.
A coat of arms above a chair on a dais where he assumes the judge will sit, NEMO ME IMPUNE LACESSIT written on the wall in black letters glaring down at him – no one provokes me with impunity – as if the thoughts of Matthew’s mind have been weighed in the balance and found distinctly wanting, try as he might not to be provocative.
He shifts from foot to foot, uneasy. Something dark in him is writhing too close to the surface.
As all the potential jurors file into the courtroom, the air hums, excitement growing.
Matthew feels it too, his palms tingling.
A loud rap-rap from the side of the courtroom makes his heart jolt, miss a beat.
He looks over to see a man in a black gown carrying something like a lantern on a pole over his shoulder enter through a door to the right of the dais.
The clerk shouts the word ‘Court’ as he does.
There’s a flurry as the advocates all rise to their feet as the judge walks in, a woman in a wig, resplendent in robes, white satin over crimson, red crosses down her front, a white silk scarf round her neck like a tie.
The man puts the object into a holder on the wall behind the judge, next to the coat of arms.
‘What the hell’s that?’ the man next to Matthew mutters but Matthew doesn’t move. He’s transfixed by the pageantry of it, a ceremony of centuries, beyond now or then, a timelessness that picks him up and carries him with the tide of it.
‘Call the diet. Her Majesty’s Advocate against Eliza Lawson and Isobel Smyth.’ The man in the gown is declaiming again.
Matthew is about to look more closely at the girls in the dock but one of the advocates sitting at the curved table in front of the judge’s clerk gets to her feet, distracting his attention.
‘My name is Miss Brodie. I appear for the first accused, my lady. Eliza Lawson. She pleads not guilty to the charges in the indictment.’
Another advocate pops up as soon as the woman sits down. ‘I’m Miss Goodly. I appear for the second accused, Isobel Smyth. She also pleads not guilty to all charges on the indictment.’
So the male advocate on the other end of the table must be the advocate depute, the person prosecuting the case. Matthew tingles with momentary pride that he’s remembered the proper name.
Movement from the dock, a hand rising, falling again.
Matthew looks over properly for the first time.
It’s raised to the same level as the judge, containing two smaller figures sitting hunched between burly security guards, stern-faced women in uniform at each end of the dock, dwarfing the slight figures who are both wearing grey hoodies, heads bent down.
One fair-haired, one dark. A third security guard separates the girls from each other.
Behind the dock is the public gallery. It’s packed, the rows of chairs all full.
Only a few people stand out – a blonde woman sitting in the front beside two men, all with notebooks in their hands.
A large group of teenage girls huddled together, younger than Daisy.
School uniformed, burgundy V-neck jumpers and white shirts.
Matthew is surprised to see them – it’s not half-term yet.
That’s the whole point of Rosalind’s diatribes about the holiday, to get there before schools are out. Maybe the girls are studying law.
Back to the dock again. Three security guards, glass walls at each end of the dock separating the accused girls from the rest of the court; a tumbler over spiders to keep them enclosed.
They don’t look like spiders, though. None of the menace.
They look like children, small, pale faces peeking out behind masses of hair, shoulders hunched over.
The fair-haired one straightens herself upright.
Her skin is clear. The one with dark hair stays stooped though, a greasy fringe flopping down across her face.
Matthew can’t see too clearly, but it looks like she’s got a piercing under her lower lip, a large stud sitting amongst a cluster of angry spots.
The clerk of the court is speaking. She’s got a glass bowl in front of her full of slips of paper from which she’s going to pull out the names. Matthew drags his gaze from the back of the courtroom to the front.
‘Will the ladies and gentlemen whose names she calls out please come forward and take their seats in the jury box.’
At that she gestures over to the space at her left, three tiers of seats, computer screens attached to the desks before them, one between two.
The potential jurors shuffle. The court clerk coughs, clears her throat.
Christopher Patel
Emma Fraser
Alistair Macdonald
Aisha Ahmed
Roderick Davidson
Russell McLean
Michael Reid
Dharam Singh
Jasmine Lewis
Called out in turn, each makes their way up to the jury box and takes their seats. The sandy-haired woman is there. Emma Fraser. She makes no effort to extract herself from the situation, a smile lifting one corner of her mouth. She catches Matthew’s eye again and the smile spreads. It’s a taunt.
Neil Mackay
Leroy James
Sarah Thompson
Only three spaces left now. It isn’t going to be him. He can go back to work, back to Rosalind. Back to normality. Everyone will be happy.
Nicola Wilson
Elliot Graham
The Clerk of Court leans back for a moment, takes in a deep breath.
One space left. She runs her hand around the rim of the bowl as if to prolong the agony.
It won’t be Matthew, he knows it now. He can see Olivia’s eyes smiling at him above her mask, across the operating table.
A question. Later?, one eyebrow raised. It’ll be sooner than he thought.
Matthew Phillips
He walks over and takes his place.