Chapter 3 Elis
Elis
Something’s happening. This might be it.
The judge and jury aren’t in yet, but there’s a tension building in the room.
It’s unsettling. This place, with its oak-panelled walls and high, ornate ceiling, is supposed to unsettle people like Elis.
It has a dusty smell, like an old book. It’s full of whispers.
And today it’s full of something else – a collective unease.
On the front bench, Miles’s barrister shuffles some papers, stony-faced.
Elis sits in the public gallery, which is mostly full, as it has been for much of the trial.
The press bench is packed, too, of course.
They wouldn’t miss this. The reporters have been lapping up every minute of Miles’s misery, and they’ll no doubt be hoping for a guilty verdict.
To them, Miles isn’t even human, just the subject of a story – a more interesting specimen than is usually served up to them in the dock.
If there was a bingo card containing all the clichés for the tabloids’ dream defendant, Miles would have the lot: well-spoken, expensively educated, glamorous job.
Most importantly, he’s good-looking – objectively more so than ninety-nine per cent of the population.
Good looks are interesting anyway; when our eyes are instinctively drawn to a face in a crowd.
But, for whatever reason, that same attractiveness becomes overwhelmingly fascinating in the context of a fall from grace.
A model at a fashion show might be lazily admired by a small audience, but when he or she tumbles face first on to the runway, the images are consumed by a hungry audience across the world.
That’s what they’re getting here: a slow-motion car crash in which the vehicle involved is the sports car from their wildest dreams. It’s the chance to see the man who has it all lose all that he has.
The whole thing has resulted in an orgy of coverage.
The news sites, even the more sensible ones, have framed their headlines to highlight his advantages in terms of wealth and genetics.
And, naturally, the more personal the dirt they can get the better.
It was laughable the way the reporters started scribbling their shorthand at breakneck speed whenever the prosecution attempted to steer the narrative in a more salacious direction.
At times during this trial, the Crown tried to paint Miles as some kind of deviant, which is ridiculous.
Elis knows exactly why they did that – because they don’t have a motive.
There’s movement. A hush falls over the courtroom, and Elis’s pulse quickens as Miles is led into the dock.
He’s accompanied by a stocky security guard in one of those short-sleeved polyester shirts that are only worn by security guards.
Miles looks solemn and exhausted. He’s in a black suit and tie, like a mourner at his own funeral.
Most of the time, and in all his professional headshots, Miles has what you might call bed-hair – a charmingly tousled thatch that hangs close to his eyes.
But today, and during the whole trial, it has been combed to within an inch of its life.
His weight loss has pinched his face in unnaturally tight under his cheekbones, and his lips appear to be even fuller.
The court artist’s sketch looked almost like a caricature.
Maybe that’s why, Elis thinks, people are able to write and talk and speculate about him as if he’s not a real person.
What doesn’t come across in any of the news stories is that he’s pretty normal, really.
A decent bloke. And Elis should know – they’re mates. Maybe even best mates.
He felt a connection with Miles straight away.
Elis never really fitted in with the lads from his school.
They were all right, but something didn’t quite click; he largely felt inclined to hide the fact he didn’t like the same music or share their love of sports, and it bothered him that the people around him were so lacking in imagination.
But Miles was different. They met because they were both hired to work on a police procedural drama being shot in Manchester.
Miles had a supporting role, and Elis was a day player who ended up staying a whole week because the scenes he was in proved problematic.
It was during the pandemic – everything was closed – and so they spent every evening killing time together at their hotel.
By the last night it was like they’d known each other for years.
Because they both lived in Bristol, they began to hang out, bonding over the craziness of the industry.
Their personalities were so similar it was scary.
That must be one of the reasons why it’s so disturbing to see him there in the dock – it could so easily have been Elis up there instead of him.
The jury members file in, and everyone’s ordered to stand as the judge makes her entrance.
Elis looks around the public gallery. To his left is Miles’s family – his mum, dad and sister.
They hold hands and stare ahead, grim. It’s surprising how few of Miles’s mates have made the effort to come.
George is here – as he has been most days, to be fair – but there are few others.
Far more numerous is Caira’s camp – her family members and their supporters.
They sit to Elis’s right, as far away from Miles’s lot as they can get, and their anger is palpable.
He makes sure not to make eye contact because their hatred extends to him, by association.
He felt it from their stares as he gave evidence from the witness box last week.
He gets it – why they are so angry. They’re grieving and hungry for justice.
But their passion has clouded their judgement; they can’t see logic, can’t see how obvious it is that Miles is not the person responsible for Caira’s murder.
At the head of the courtroom, the judge and clerk finish a conversation, and the clerk approaches the jury. Elis takes deep, slow breaths. This is it, he can feel it. It’s deathly quiet now, and he can hear even the faintest of coughs, the scratch of every pen.
The clerk asks the foreman to stand. ‘Will you please confine yourself to answering my first question yes or no.’
He nods his assent.
‘Have you the jury reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’
The foreman, a bald man in spectacles and a tweed blazer, waits a beat, then clear as a bell answers: ‘Yes.’
Yes. Such a simple word, but it sends a shiver up Elis’s spinal column. Behind him, a barely audible gasp escapes a throat. They all knew this was coming, but it still seems unreal. Like it can’t really be happening. Elis’s palms are clammy with sweat. God knows how Miles must be feeling.
The clerk continues: ‘Members of the jury, do you find the defendant Miles Deverill guilty or not guilty?’
The beats are unbearable. Say not guilty. It must be not guilty; it has to be.
The foreman clears his throat. ‘Not guilty.’
For a second, the bench and the ground below Miles seem to lose their density.
The room slips out of focus. Elis’s mouth falls open and he looks over at Miles, who has his eyes closed and appears to be going through something akin to an out-of-body experience.
His family embraces. And to Elis’s right, there are sobs: guttural ones, the kind that sound like they physically hurt.
Those sounds are at odds with the warm wave of relief and jubilation coursing through his body, and the combination creates a curious, intoxicating blend of emotions.
Of course, he feels great sympathy for Caira’s family, but that can’t dull his relief that the jury has reached the correct verdict.
Elis chooses not to look over at Caira’s supporters and instead fixes his gaze on the lead prosecutor.
He looks well-and-truly pissed off. Good.
After the way he went for Elis in the witness box and Miles in the dock, Elis is quite happy to see him taken down a peg or two.
Noise continues to rumble around the court.
The judge tolerates the outbursts of emotion for a few more moments, then calls for order.
She thanks the jury for their time and tells Miles he’s free to go.
After such a painful, drawn-out process, the end is abrupt.
There is no apology, no acknowledgement of the hell Miles has been through.
But it doesn’t matter. Elis can’t wipe the smile off his face. He has his friend back.
Outside court, a breeze cools the back of Elis’s neck as he watches from the sidelines.
A media swarm awaits Miles. They’re all here; the TV crews have half a dozen satellite trucks parked along the street, their cameras already in position.
A group of photographers is poised. A reporter gesticulates live to camera, occasionally looking over her shoulder towards the courtroom entrance.
They’re all waiting. And then he appears, flanked by his legal team.
The photographers buzz into life, jostling for the best vantage.
There are cheers and applause from the small group of Miles’s supporters, but he keeps his cool, his lips pressed into a demure smile.
Eleanor leads him towards the press pack.
‘Good afternoon, everyone,’ she says. ‘Miles will be making a short statement. He won’t be taking questions. ’
Miles unfolds a sheet of paper from his blazer pocket, and it shakes a little in the breeze.
He takes a deep breath. ‘Today’s verdict brings to an end what has been an extremely stressful and trying period.
I’d like to thank the jury for reaching their decision, and my dedicated legal team.
I’m beyond grateful to my friends and family for their love and support during this awful time of my life.
’ Miles pauses for a moment and appears to swallow a lump in his throat.
‘I’d also like to take this opportunity to offer my sincere condolences to Caira’s family.
While I am not guilty of this crime, I remain as horrified as anyone by Caira’s murder and it is my hope that the person responsible will be brought to justice.
To that end, I hope the police will look deeper and carry out the detailed investigation that her tragic death deserves.
Now that this episode is behind me, I have the chance to try and rebuild my life, and I fully intend to take it. Thank you.’
The end of his statement triggers a flurry of questions. All speaking over each other, the reporters’ voices are raised and garbled. For a moment, it appears that Miles might respond, but Eleanor shuffles closer to his side and takes his arm, before leading him away.
The reporters continue to bark questions as Miles makes his way towards a waiting car.
Photographers retreat down the street to hold their position in front of him.
Elis isn’t sure what to do – should he rush over and say something to his friend?
What’s the right thing to say? Before he has the chance to think, George, Miles’s old schoolmate, has hurried over and put an arm around Miles, giving him a playful shake.
A broad smile takes over Miles’s face. He’s done well to stay composed until now, but he obviously can’t help it. The relief spills out. And, at that second, camera shutters explode into life, every lens, from every angle, hosing him down in the second it takes for his smile to fade.