Brockbank pursed his lips. “I don’t know. Hypothetically, if the victim had perpetrated sexual abuse against the accused when she was a minor, that might be considered significant. In the current climate. Of course, nothing can be guaranteed.”
Tabitha tried to make herself think. She felt hot and cold at the same time. She felt confused. But then gradually a thought took shape.
“It’s a game,” she said. “It’s like poker. You’re saying that I should plead guilty even if I didn’t do it.”
“I’m not saying anything,” said Brockbank. “I’m just relaying an offer.”
“But what if it were you?” Tabitha asked. “If you were made this offer and you hadn’t done it, what would you do?”
“That’s an entirely inappropriate question. I’m not your counsel. I may have an opinion as to what your counsel would advise, if you had one, but I’m not going to say anything.”
“I know what you’re saying,” said Tabitha. “I know what my lawyer would say because I know what my lawyer did say.”
Now Simon Brockbank looked irritated as well as bored.
“I don’t think this is the time or the place for a lecture on the basis of the British legal system. We’ve come here to make an offer. In my opinion, it is an exceptionally reasonable offer.”
“I just want the truth,” said Tabitha, almost talking to herself. “I want people to know the truth. I want to know the truth myself.”
“Please,” said Brockbank firmly. “Time is short. We need an answer.”
Tabitha was in turmoil but it was only turmoil due to the knowledge that her choice was really no choice at all. As if she were standing at the edge of the abyss and she had no doubt that she was going to leap off it into the darkness because that was the only way of discovering what lay inside that darkness.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “The answer is no.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“I’m not going to plead guilty. I can’t.”
There was a long silence. Tabitha had been staring down at the linoleum floor. She had seen that it was worn in patches and she wondered what had caused the wear. Was it caused by desperate people walking up and down? People like her? She looked up at the two lawyers. Brockbank no longer looked insouciant; there was a glint of interest in his eyes.
“I thought you’d accept,” he said. “The prosecution has an exceptionally strong case. You’re defending yourself. I’m not clear as to your reasoning.”
“This isn’t a game to me,” said Tabitha.
“Nor should it be. I simply want you to be clear of the implications of your decision. You risk being in prison until you are middle-aged. And I can tell you that at the end of fifteen or twenty or twenty-five years, people don’t come out the way they went in.”
“You think I’m mad.”
“I don’t think you realize the situation you’re in. I should add that this offer goes away in about five minutes’ time.”
Tabitha was panting now, as if she were running or carrying a heavy object.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Fine,” said Brockbank. “Then we need to go upstairs and meet the jury.”
“One thing,” Tabitha said.
“What?”
“What happened to the original McKenzie?”
Brockbank looked puzzled.
“What do you mean?”
“McKenzie. As in, McKenzie friend.”
“Oh, he lost the case. Because he didn’t have proper representation.”
He rapped against the door and then looked back at Tabitha. His expression was almost regretful. “I’m not going to enjoy prosecuting this case. But I’m afraid that won’t do you much good.”
Tabitha had heard of those dreams where people find themselves on a stage, not knowing the lines, not even knowing what the play is. Tabitha had never been on a stage and she had never dreamed about being onstage, so she had never understood the anxiety behind it.
She understood now.
The previous months had been so awful. The claustrophobia, the sense of unreality, the dread, the sense of sheer physical fear. But it had all been a preparation for the main event, for this.
A female police officer with a round face and crooked teeth led Tabitha out of her cell, along the corridor, turning this way and that, then up some stairs. It all felt strangely dingy and shabby. The paint was peeling on the walls, there were cracks in the linoleum on the floor. At the top of the stairs, the officer paused in front of a polished wooden door. She looked round at Tabitha.
“You call her “‘My Lady,’” she said.
“What?”
“The judge. You call her ‘My Lady.’ Normally it’s ‘Your Honor’ but Munday’s a High Court judge. They have High Court judges for big cases like this.”
“I knew that,” said Tabitha. “It’s about the only thing I do know.” So this was a big case. She knew it was big for her. She hadn’t thought about it being big for other people. Of course it was. Murder. What was bigger than that?
The officer knocked on the door. It opened and they stepped through into the light and, yes, it really was like stepping out onto a stage. Tabitha was in a daze. Everything was blurry. She thought she might faint. They took a few more steps into a little enclosure surrounded by what looked like transparent plastic sheeting. There was just a chair and a simple wooden table. She was uncuffed and she sat down. The officer sat behind her and laid her hands placidly on her lap.
Tabitha thought, and she felt stupid as she did so: This is really happening.
She looked around. The large room was wood paneled, but this was not the paneling of an old country house. It looked more like a seminar room from a new university. Below her were three rows of desks. Sitting at them were people in suits and two people in gowns and short wigs. She quickly recognized them as Simon Brockbank and Elinor Ackroyd. Every single person had an open laptop in front of them. Every single person except for her. All the faces looked up at her, as if interested to see what Tabitha
