She looked again through her notebook. She still had the itchy sense that she was missing something, but every time she tried to grasp it, it slipped out of her mind.
She tried on the clothes that Michaela had brought in. The boots fitted perfectly, but the suit was slightly too big. She rolled up the cuffs and stood in front of the mirror, looking like a scarecrow. She said, “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” Her voice rasped. She wondered if it was too late to call Mora Piozzi.
The afternoon before, she washed her hair and combed it straight. She sat in her cell with an egg sandwich that made her stomach heave. She tried to help Dana with her reading, as if this was just another evening, but all the words blurred.
She lay in bed and thought she would never sleep but she must have done because she lurched awake with a feeling of panic and the sky outside her window was a brightening gray. It was today and she wasn’t ready and when she stood up her heart bumped and her breath came in shallow gasps.
She washed and brushed her teeth. She put on the new white tee shirt and the suit; she pulled the boots on. She combed her hair until it lay flat on her scalp.
She met herself in the mirror. “Good luck, Tabitha Hardy,” she said.
Part TwoProsecution
Fifty-Two
Tabitha had only glimpsed the front of Harwood Crown Court out of the little window of the transport vehicle. It could have been any modern, public venue with its sweep of steps leading up to plateglass doors. A regional theater, perhaps, a concert hall or library. But the vehicle turned down a side street and, handcuffed to a warden she had never seen before, Tabitha was led in the back way past parked cars and large steel rubbish bins. She was hardly aware of her surroundings, just the squeak of her rubber-soled shoes on lino, the walls painted a glossy institutional cream color. She found herself—almost as if she had just woken up—in a short corridor with two cells on each side. One of them was open, waiting for her. She was led inside, her handcuff was unlocked and she was left alone, locked in.
This cell was utterly bare, with just two molded plastic chairs and nothing else. No sink, no toilet, no window. Tabitha just sat and stared at the wall. She heard the now familiar sound of a key turning in the lock and the door opened inward and two people were ushered into the room. The door was shut behind them.
Tabitha looked round slowly. A middle-aged man and a young woman were looking down at her. The man had a florid face with short curly gray hair. He was wearing a pinstriped double-breasted suit, white shirt, sober dark tie and black leather shoes. The woman was dressed in a navy-blue skirt and jacket, white shirt with low-heeled black leather shoes. Her blond hair was tied back in a bun. She had minimal makeup, the palest of red lipstick and no nail varnish. Both of them were immaculate in almost every detail down to the man’s silver cuff links. Their clothes looked as if they had not just been cleaned but brushed. Their shoes were polished so that they shone. There was just a touch of raffishness in the man’s hairstyle, a fuzziness, but even that seemed to denote confidence. By comparison, Tabitha’s clothes—the clothes that Michaela had bought on her behalf—felt shabby and cheap and even fraudulent, like a badly made costume.
“I’m Simon Brockbank,” the man said. “I’m acting for the crown.” He paused. “That means I’m the prosecutor. This is my colleague, Elinor Ackroyd. She’ll be assisting me.”
Brockbank spoke as if he were already just a little bored by the proceedings. His accent, his whole demeanor, immediately made Tabitha feel inadequate, underprepared, undereducated. And then she felt angry with herself.
“I suppose you’re here to tell me that I’m stupid to be defending myself.”
“It’s a little late for that,” said Brockbank. “That particular train has left the station.”
“I’ve got a McKenzie friend, though.”
“Good for you,” said Brockbank. “Some kind of lawyer?”
“My ex-cellmate.”
He glanced across at his colleague and leaned back against the door. He unfastened the buttons of his jacket, revealing a waistcoat. He put his hands in his trouser pockets.
“I’ve been authorized to make you an offer,” he said. “More of a suggestion, perhaps.”
“What’s that?” said Tabitha.
“You plead guilty to manslaughter. The Crown Prosecution Service drops the murder charge.”
All that day Tabitha had felt like she was underwater. Everything around her seemed to be blurry and moving slowly. She couldn’t make out what people were saying and what she could make out she couldn’t understand.
“What would that actually mean?” she said slowly. “I mean for me.”
Brockbank looked round at his companion.
“What do you think, Ellie?”
When Ackroyd spoke, Tabitha immediately thought of horse boxes and ski slopes.
“Murder has an automatic tariff of life imprisonment. Minimum of fifteen years before you can be considered for parole.”
“What’s the conviction rate in the Crown Court?” Brockbank asked. Everything he said was in a bored tone that suggested his time would be better spent doing something else.
“Eighty percent. Probably more than eighty percent.”
“What about manslaughter?” asked Tabitha.
Again Brockbank glanced across at the younger lawyer.
“The judge has a great deal of latitude. For a start, you get maximum credit for pleading guilty.”
“Maximum credit,” said Tabitha. “That sounds like a good thing. What does it mean?”
“Usually it means something like a thirty percent reduction in the sentence. Maybe even a fifty percent reduction. But manslaughter’s a special case. You can get a life sentence or you can get community service. It depends if there are mitigating circumstances.”
“Mitigating circumstances,” Tabitha repeated. “Like
