She put the piece of paper down, set her coffee on top of it.
“You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?”
“No.”
“I strongly advise you to plead not guilty to murder, but guilty to manslaughter.”
“Is that it?”
“If you plead not guilty on all counts, Tabitha, you are very likely to spend many years in prison. There is a mandatory life sentence for murder. If you plead guilty to manslaughter with diminished responsibility, we can build up a strong case in your defense. He abused you. You were traumatized and mentally disturbed. It is very likely you would get a lesser sentence, perhaps no more than two years, which means you’d be out in one.”
“I see.”
Tabitha drank the last of her coffee, which was turning cold now. Her head was beginning to throb.
“There’s a problem,” she said. “What if it isn’t true?”
“Tabitha—”
“If I do what you say, I’ll never know.”
“What won’t you know?”
“We need to find out who did it. Whoever it is.”
“That has nothing to do with any of this and it’s not my job. My job is to represent your interests. This is what I advise you to do; it’s your best chance. No solicitor would tell you anything different.”
“OK,” said Tabitha. At last she knew what she was going to do. It made her feel vertiginous.
“What does that mean?”
“It means no.”
“You want to plead not guilty?”
“You think I did it, don’t you?”
“We’ve been through this. It really isn’t the point.”
“It is. You think I’m guilty so I should plead diminished responsibility and try to get out as quickly as I can. But what if I’m not?”
Her solicitor gave a deep sigh; her shoulders looked heavy.
“All right,” she said at last. “All right, if that’s what you want, we will go in there and we—”
“No.”
“Sorry?”
“I don’t want you to represent me.”
“What are you saying?”
Tabitha smiled. “Don’t you get it? I’m firing you.”
Eighteen
The stairs leading up to the court were narrow and steep and Ingrid’s dress tangled in Tabitha’s legs. A lace was coming undone on her trainers so she had to stop and retie it with the two police officers standing too close behind her.
The courtroom took her by surprise; she blinked in its light. There was a man in a black gown with a clipboard, and rows of empty wooden benches, and three people sitting near the front, talking to each other, as if this was just another day. Two women sat at machines.
She stumbled as she went up into the dock. There was glass on either side of it, and she didn’t feel tall enough. She stared out, confused. The exultation she had felt a few minutes ago had ebbed away and in its place was a sense of helplessness.
The judge came in and he wasn’t as old as she’d expected. He had a gray wig and a blue-and-black gown with a red slash across it. He called her Ms. Hardy and she wanted to thank him for using the correct title. He had a thin, clever face and a courteous tone. Perhaps he would be the judge at the real trial. He was saying something else but she couldn’t hear properly.
“I was asking, Ms. Hardy,” he said, “if your legal representative is present.”
“No,” said Tabitha. “Your Honor,” she added. Was that what you called a judge?
He frowned. “Is he on his way?”
“I haven’t got legal representation.”
“Why not?” His benevolent expression changed to one of alarm.
“I fired her.”
“What?”
“A few minutes ago,” added Tabitha.
He leaned forward. “I hope this isn’t some attempt to delay proceedings.”
“No.”
“You are charged with murder.”
“I know.”
“This is serious.” His voice slowed. He spoke to her like she was a small child. “You don’t have to pay, you know. This is a charge of murder. But you must have legal representation.”
“I don’t think that’s correct.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t think that’s correct.”
The judge pushed his wig back slightly to scratch his head and scowled at her. He looked appalled.
“For goodness’ sake. This is a serious, complex matter. You need legal representation.”
“They’ll tell me to plead guilty.”
“They will act according to your instructions.”
“But they won’t believe it.”
“They will present your case to the best of their professional ability.”
“I’ll do it myself,” said Tabitha. Her voice was scratchy.
“That’s ridiculous.” He leaned further forward. “It’s worse than ridiculous, it would be a gross act of self-harm.”
“It’s my right.”
The judge stared hard at her until she felt herself flush. Her legs trembled and she wished someone would offer her a chair. Finally he sat back. His face wasn’t so benevolent now. He took several deep breaths.
“If you think you’ll get some benefit by doing this, you’re very much mistaken,” he said.
“She just wanted me to plead guilty,” said Tabitha.
“Stop,” said the judge. “Don’t say anything about any conversation you had with any lawyer. Do you understand?”
“I don’t see why it matters.”
“In court, you follow the instructions of the judge. Do you understand?”
“All right, fine,” Tabitha said angrily and then tried to calm herself. “I mean, yes.”
He looked across at the prosecuting team.
“This young woman says she is going to conduct her own defense,” he said. “She has been advised against it, but there it is. It’s your duty to get all the documents in your case to her. Everything. Do you hear?”
They nodded. The younger man with the clipboard grinned at Tabitha as though she’d just told them all a good joke. She knitted her brows at him and he looked away.
“I don’t want things going astray. At the end of this hearing, I want you to give her contact numbers. She needs to have a CPS liaison officer immediately, is that clear?”
They nodded.
“How will they contact me?” asked Tabitha.
“Usually we get in touch by email,” said the young man.
“I’m in prison.”
“I know.” He was still smiling.
“You’ll need to use the phone,” said the judge irritably.
