Chapter 11
The room wasn’t as grand as those in courtroom dramas. It was about the size of her gym’s spin studio, but an excess of wood panelling the colour of wet sand made it seem smaller. It smelt like her gym’s spin studio too: the pungent reverb of all the nervous bodies that had passed through hung in the limp air. Hers was the second hearing of the day, and with any luck she’d be back in the office just after lunchtime. She’d had to lie to Tony to get the morning off; said she needed to go for a smear. In fairness, she’d prefer to be legs up in stirrups having cells scraped off her cervix right now. She knew she was guilty, but as she listened to the monotonous-voiced prosecution sum up the evidence against her, she felt like a proper criminal. Aggravated assault. The copper who’d copped one practically wept during his witness statement. Where did they recruit them from nowadays? RADA? So much for a proportional response.
‘Do you have anything to say in your defence before sentence is passed?’ asked the middle one of the three magistrates on the bench. Her greasy hair was the colour of dishwater, in a style that was part bob, part combover.
‘Yes, your honour.’
‘Then proceed.’
She stood up. She’d worn ballet pumps along with a simple plain trouser suit. Used to heels, her calves felt taut, and she rocked slightly on her feet. The page on which she’d printed her statement quivered disconcertingly in her hand. She needed to get a grip. Fifteen years of creating compelling pitch presentations had primed her for this. She’d written the modern-day equivalent of the Gettysburg Address. She took a levelling breath, faced the magistrates, and began.
‘Your honours. I want to assure you, in the strongest terms possible, that this misdemeanour was a momentary lapse in judgment. I’d had a particularly stressful few weeks at work, had consumed too much alcohol, and wasn’t in complete control of my faculties. Let me explain…’
She told them that the kick had been instinctual, much regretted immediately afterwards; she believed every officer should be free to execute his duties without the risk of personal harm, and she’d pleaded guilty at the earliest opportunity to demonstrate her contrition. She would, of course, demur to their better judgment, but felt it wasn’t in the public interest to punish her beyond the punishment she’d metred upon herself every day since the incident.
‘This is my first offense,’ she said, eyes wide and blinking, ‘but I promise it will be my last.’
She went on, telling them it had been easy to imagine they weren’t real officers, given the circumstances, and as a young woman, hadn’t she been warned to be vigilant about potential impersonators? But she greatly admired the force, and found it reassuring to know that they were mobile and active in the places where she and her single female friends spent their time.
She stole another glance at the bench. The woman on the left had a close-cropped bleached afro, and wore tortoiseshell glasses through which she was regarding Simone with benign interest. The balding forty-something guy on the right, who looked like he did this in lieu of a social life, was leaning forward and practically nodding along.
‘I wish to reassure you that I am a productive, hard-working individual. By pleading guilty as I did, and standing here to accept my punishment without any legal counsel, I hope to save the State any further burden on its limited resources.’
The outer magistrates seemed to appreciate that bit, half-smiling like she was telling them exactly what they wanted to hear. But the middle woman didn’t seem to be buying it. Her arms were folded across a bosom that spread and lolled, and she almost lost her place when she thought of their lumpen mass beneath that turquoise jumper and mismatched tweed jacket. The woman should have been at a spinster conference, not sat there pouring expressive scorn on Simone’s carefully crafted lines. She pressed on.
‘And regardless of what happens here today, I think it’s only appropriate that I make a donation to Police Care UK, who work to help officers injured in the course of duty.’
She glanced back up to the bench. Mrs Blond and Mr Boring were barely supressing a round of applause, but the puritanical dowager was staring at her with all the expressiveness of a crash test dummy. Simone had once been on a naked bike ride through London, but felt far more exposed under this dame’s gaze.
‘Thank you, Miss Stephens. Very … impassioned. Would you excuse us whilst we deliberate on an appropriate sentence.’
Sentence? Just the single word bravo should do it. But the glint in the old bird’s eye was troubling. Why the deliberation? Her concern grew with every minute they were cloistered away in their side room. What was happening in there? Surely the two human-seeming ones would go minimum fine and be done with it. Even if the old maid was going hardball, they’d outnumber her. Two against one was enough. Still, she’d watched Twelve Angry Men with her dad enough times to know that anything could happen behind closed doors. The wicked witch of the Westminster courts was clearly the type who got joy from other people’s pain.
‘Please stand, Miss Stephens.’
They’d returned, looking significantly more punitive than when they’d left. The witch’s mouth twitched at the corners; there was the tiniest hint of a smile.
‘Thank you for your patience. We have considered your statement along with the events of that night and taken into account that this is a first offence to which you have indeed pleaded guilty.’
She sensed a but – a big cellulite-ridden one coming her way.
‘But an officer was compromised. And every time an officer gets hit, or spat at, or talked down to in the line of duty, a small chink in the armour of our civic safeguarding appears. When you struck that constable’s testicles, you struck at the very fabric of the respect and deference necessary to maintain order in society. There were witnesses. People who may be more inclined to wrongdoing in the future as a consequence of seeing your actions. You failed to take seriously the nature of the enquiry being made of you. You directly ignored an officer’s instructions. And, frankly, your statement suggests you imagine this to be a matter more for posturing than penance.’
Maybe she’d trowelled it on a bit thick, but she hadn’t realised she’d be coming up against Ms Dowdy Dementor here.
‘Contrary to the contrite figure you have attempted to paint with your pretty words, I see a young woman who holds authority in contempt. Whose instinct is to lash out. I believe you to be cynical and self-interested, Miss Stephens, and my colleagues and I are duty bound to try and provide a steer – a gentle redirection of your energies, if you will – away from such conceits.’
The outer two magistrates were staring at their pads.
‘Which is why we have decided to impose a community order.’
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
‘You will undertake one hundred and twenty hours of unpaid work. Your probation officer will instruct you as to where these duties will be executed. You will also pay reparations to the court in the sum of twelve-hundred pounds, in accordance with your means, and a sum of eight hundred pounds for court costs. Failure to comply with any of these covenants will result in a custodial sentence. But given your desire to, as you so eloquently put it, not place any further burden on the State’s limited resources, I am hoping they will suffice to help ameliorate your attitude.’
A hundred questions formed a disorderly queue in her head. But before she could get any of them out, the old hag stood up and left the courtroom, followed by the other two weak and malleable shit-munchers. She quickly texted the girls. America was off; she was beyond poor, and now she was going to have to do some minimum-wage style work god knows where.
‘Cheers,’ she muttered as the door closed behind them. ‘This has ameliorated my attitude no shitting end.’