Kathryn Fox - Without Consent

Geoff scratched the palm of his hand with the opposite thumb. “I told the police I killed her. I tried to tell them what happened but no one believed me. Not even Mum.” He turned to Veronica. “Now I want to see my picture.”

Veronica shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know if I have it.”

Geoff’s jaw tensed. He slapped the table and Veronica started, then pulled a photo from the back of her yellow notepad. It was a wallet-size snapshot of a girl with long, dark hair.

Geoff snatched it, and held it close to his chest.

Anya was no longer sure who was in control. She looked around for the guard, who was speaking to another visitor.

“I told you I’d look after it for you, and bring it when you wanted,” Veronica said. “But you do not threaten me. Ever.”

Geoff hid the picture against his chest and sulked.

“Is that your girlfriend?” Anya asked.

“Not yet, but she likes me. She said so.”

“May I see?”

Geoff looked at Veronica, who nodded, and then passed his prized possession slowly across the table.

Anya gasped when she saw the photo. The hair was longer, but it was probably taken a while ago. Even so, the candid smile unmistakably belonged to Melanie Havelock. And her address had been scrawled on the back.

“For God’s sake, you’re withholding evidencein a major crime investigation.”

“Keep your voice down,” Veronica Slater snapped as she went through the final security gate. “It came with a love letter from the girl.”

Anya felt her temples pulse faster. “Like hell it did! The police should know he’s got the picture.”

“Well, neither of us is in a position to say anything. What happened in there just then was privileged. You go shooting your mouth off to your police buddies and no lawyer is ever going to hire you to consult again.”

Anya wanted to slam Veronica against the wall of the admin building. “How dare you? He didn’t show me the photo in a medical consultation.”

Veronica didn’t waver or let on if she felt intimidated by Anya’s anger. Instead, she seemed to feed on it.

“In a way, he did. You were there to assess him and he showed you his fantasy girl. Even told you how she liked him. That’s sounding pretty delusional to me, which is, if you recall, a medical term.”

“This isn’t about semantics. He has a photo of a rape victim, and he’s under suspicion for committing that crime. It ties him to the victim.”

“Grow up, we’re not in Kansas, Dorothy.”

The lawyer scratched the path with her heels as she opened the door to the admin building. Sarcasm only made her more repugnant, Anya thought-if that was possible.

“The moment he gets bail, the police find out.”

The door closed and Veronica turned. “He’s already been denied bail. But he swears he got that photo from the girl and I believe him. We all know psychos have made false rape accusations before. Maybe she’s a complete nutter. Ever thought of that? Otherwise, it’s easy to argue that anyone could have sent him the photo. Maybe he’s being set up? Wouldn’t be the first time the police have tried to stitch up one of my clients.”

Anya leaned on the door. “Don’t play the victim, Veronica, it doesn’t suit you. How many of your female colleagues have you bitten the heads off in your career?”

The lawyer smiled and shook her head. “Resorting to personal attacks now your cognitive arguments have failed you? You’ve just proved how jealous you are. It’s my intimate relationship with Dan. That’s what all this is about.”

Anya felt the rash on her neck rise. “You’re the one who’s delusional now.”

Some of the visitors began to appear along the path. The two of them stopped talking long enough to collect their possessions stored in the lockers inside and sign out.

Anya was annoyed that she’d resorted to personal comments, but she could never think up good comebacks on the spot. One would probably come to her at four o’clock the next morning.

The press were still hanging around and Veronica was in full melodramatic mode. “I’m worried for the mental health of my client, who is having trouble understanding why the police have arrested him again.”

Anya felt nauseated at the public performance and wanted nothing more to do with it. She headed toward her car, with a lot less respect for Dan Brody. Fingers shaking from anger, she fumbled with the keys in her lock.

She dropped the keys and bent down to see a pair of red stiletto heels approach. She stood up, bracing herself for another fight.

“We haven’t finished. I still want that report on the Randall murder. All the inconsistencies you came up with.”

“Fine. You’ll have it. But I can tell you now, if you want me to appear in court, what I say may not be so favorable to Willard.”

Veronica swung her briefcase like a schoolgirl and smiled-again. “I thought as much. That’s why I wanted you on this case.”

Anya didn’t understand. Veronica just smiled wider.

“Let me explain it to you. I knew you’d come up with something to criticize Alf Carney’s PM. We all know he’s been a joke for years. With you working for the defense, the prosecution won’t want to touch you. They’ll know what evidence you’ve come up with to cast doubt on Willard’s conviction, which would ruin their similar-pattern-evidence prosecution.”

“You’re forgetting that I’ve done the examinations on all the assault victims.”

Veronica stepped closer. “We all know that the medical examination in a rape case has very little to do with the outcome. In fact, it’s almost insignificant. Besides, there are always experts like Lyndsay Gatlow who are happy to give an opinion on the evidence if required.”

Jesus! Veronica had nobbled her. She wanted her blocked from testifying for the prosecution and had set her up. Anya had done everything Veronica had planned, and more.

Veronica took advantage of Anya’s stunned silence.

“If I’m not mistaken, you’ve already told one of your police mates about the discrepancies in the Randall murder, so they already know you’re casting doubt on Willard’s conviction. Looks like you’re not testifying for either side now.”

Anya clenched her teeth, grinding them. “Get away from me before I do something I may not regret.” She unlocked her car, got in and started the engine. The vision of Veronica’s smug expression haunted her as she sped out of the car park.

Morgan Tully, the state coroner, rockedback and forward in her leather chair. Peter Latham sat, elbows on the chair arms, index fingers meeting at his beard. Anya filled a glass of water for a distraction. She thought she could hear her carotid arteries pounding. If it hadn’t been for Morgan Tully, Anya would have been somewhere else. Anywhere but in that conference room.

Directly opposite Morgan, Dr. Seth Myer, head of the College of Pathologists, folded his arms and kept checking the clock on the wall. The empty chair at the head of the table had been reserved for Alf Carney. No one, it seemed, had wanted this day to come. A representative from the Medical Complaints Tribunal, a lawyer, was allocated the task of taking notes and serving as a witness to what was about to transpire.

“From everything I’ve seen,” Seth Myer said, “he’s using papers that are twenty years old to corroborate his findings. He’s either sorely out of touch or he’s committing perjury every time he testifies. He just selects studies that back his claims and refuses to admit that other possibilities exist.”

“In some of the cases I’ve reviewed,” Anya added, “instead of referring to texts, he quotes his own previous autopsies as validation.”