31. Guest v. Finbow Day Seven #3
“But typically when we recommend something, it is because we have enjoyed it very much, is that not the case?”
“Of course it is,” I say, tight-lipped. “Or believe we’ve enjoyed it.”
“So, how do we make sense of the fact you earnestly recommended my client’s services, only later to state that she, in your own words, ‘eroded your power, freedom, and well-being’ from the moment you met her?”
“At the beginning, things were different,” I snap curtly. “I had no idea what was happening.”
Ms. Ibrahim raises a hand to her forehead. “This is really starting to stretch logic here. Because, according to my client, you were so positive about your sessions that you didn’t just make one recommendation, but several. Is that not the case?”
My palms begin to sweat. Across the courtroom, my gaze falls on Jean, who smiles to herself, and, in that moment, I make an inward vow: Once Mary is free, I will use it. I will take that recording to the police. I will ruin Jean, just as she ruined me.
“Who else did you bring in for life coaching, Ms. Bird? Could you provide their names to me?”
I pause. A moment too long. “I might have mentioned Jean to one or two people.”
“Truth and lies, Ms. Bird!” Ms. Ibrahim’s voice thunders suddenly. “I thought you said you knew the difference? Please name the two young women for whom you enthusiastically made introductions to my client, Ms. Bird, or I will.”
There is an awful carousel of emotions: shame first, but also relief, at finally admitting my role out loud. Remorse for the relief. On it spins. I glance over at Anna’s vacant chair, grateful she is no longer present to witness another hideous confession.
“One girl was called Decca,” I say, bile rising to my throat. “And there was another girl who I also met in Rome: Bea. I regret it now.” I gasp, unable to look up as the judge calls for quiet. “I regret it so much.”
I am remembering how freely those girls, Bea and Decca, danced in their white togas at the party.
My shock to see Jean there, out by the banks of the Tiber, talking to some student.
The trespass of it. That wasn’t how it was meant to go.
She’d asked me to bring her new clients, and I wanted the recognition for it.
In a hurry the following day, I had given Jean the girls’ email addresses and written a quick introduction.
I told them I’d met Jean through my own residency.
I called her my “art doula.” Bea replied gratefully, joking that she felt she needed professional help to deal with her Christmas party comedown.
There was no response from Decca. But I never saw or heard from her again.
Ms. Ibrahim raises a hand. “My lord, to be transparent, my client often welcomes personal recommendations from clients. If time permits, she likes her details being passed on. Both individuals have waived their right to anonymity, and have provided written statements attesting to their contentment with my client’s methods. ”
What happened to those girls who had such gilded futures ahead of them? At the time, I resented the contented way they obliviously stepped through life, their boisterous self-assurance. Did a part of me want to see them humbled and reduced? Wrenched open, in the same way Jean pulled me apart?
The lawyer turns back to me. “My point here, Ms. Bird, is that you felt you deserved something for your perceived role in growing Ms. Guest’s client base.
Just as you felt you deserved something from my client for spying on her legal opponent.
When you didn’t get what you wanted, you launched a vendetta against Ms. Guest, making all sorts of statements that you now undermine at your own choosing. ”
Ms. Ibrahim turns to the judge, lamenting his wasted time. “My lord, Ms. Bird’s statement must be struck through. Not only has this witness harbored a personal vendetta against my client, but her version of events, as we have seen, is wholly unreliable.”
She turns back to me. “Speaking truthfully under oath is the backbone of this country’s legal system.
Your meddling in this courtroom’s events may have grave consequences, and so I bring my questioning to a conclusion now, to avoid any further interference or confusion.
Thank you, my lord. We have nothing more. ”
As I am brought down from the stand, I become aware of someone staring intently: not Ms. Carr’s furious gaze, but the court illustrator.
The last time anyone observed me in this way was years ago, when I was sitting opposite Mary or Jean.
There is a strange flicker of pleasure at being looked at again, objectified in the way those women once studied me.
So far, the court drawings published at the end of each day have been grossly exaggerated: Jean’s bearing is hunched and mousy.
Anna, by contrast, is a Disneyesque icon of womanhood, her cleavage like a deep gauge, her lips plump, and her hair dark and flowing.
I step away from the witness box and wonder: How will this artist portray me? Jean’s ruthless handmaiden, or a pitiful weak link? Anna’s aide or Jean’s victim? Not a hanger-on. Not a leech. No, I was once at the center of things.
A somebody. Whatever may be said of me, however I will be sketched, not a nobody.