Denise Mina - Resolution

"You certainly are quite a feisty young woman," he said, objectifying her and robbing her of her dignity, "aren't you?"

He waited for an answer, compounding the insult. If she agreed she'd look like a nutter, if she disagreed she'd look passive, so she compromised. "Dunno."

"Well," he sounded sarcastic, "you seem quite feisty to me, Miss O'Donnell, really quite feisty." He paused to look through his papers.

"Is that a bad thing?" The voice echoed around the tinny sound system. It was Maureen, speaking when she hadn't been spoken to. The lawyers at the table looked at one another, the snide advocate looked at the judge for backup and the judge leaned forward. "You're here to answer questions, Miss O'Donnell," he said sternly, "not to make conversation."

"I'm sorry," said Maureen, irked at being publicly ticked off by someone she neither knew nor worked for. "I'm not a lawyer, I don't know the rules."

The judge was not pleased with this. "Then you ought to listen to me when I tell you what they are," he said, and turned away from her to cut off any further exchanges.

"As I say," said the smug advocate to the jury, "quite feisty."

It all felt very unfair. Suddenly from the public gallery came a drawling, angry voice: "Don't you fuckin' talk to her like that."

Oh, God. It was Winnie, choosing this above every other opportunity in her life to lift a drink and stand up for her daughter. Liam caught Maureen's eye from the public gallery, cringing, helpless to stop it. The bow-tied man gestured to someone. A uniformed policeman stepped out of the shadows at the back of the public gallery and removed Winnie from the court to the tremendous amusement of the back row of the jury box. Liam followed her out, carrying her coat. Maureen tried to smile as if drunken women were a big surprise to her too, but she couldn't pull it off.

"This is a criminal trial," said the judge sonorously, looking around the room and addressing everyone. "It will not be allowed to descend into a circus."

For a moment everyone in the court shuffled in their seats and wondered what sort of rotten circuses the judge had been subjected to as a child.

The advocate gathered himself together, flicking through his papers and taking a loud, deep breath to get everyone's attention again. "So, you chose to go to the Rainbow Clinic?"

Maureen said yes.

"And you went for how many sessions?"

"Two."

"And" – he turned away from her, facing Angus – "whom did you see when you were there? Who, in other words, was your doctor at the Rainbow Clinic?"

Maureen pointed at Angus. "Angus Farrell."

"Can you" – he turned to face her – "point him out to us in this court today?"

The purple and red jurors sniggered audibly. Maureen pointed to Angus again.

"And what was Mr. Farrell like during these sessions?"

Maureen was pleased that she had the chance to say something positive and overcome the impression that she had a grudge. "He was great. He was kind and patient and very helpful."

The advocate nodded. "He helped you?"

"Very much so."

The advocate pushed himself off the side rail and headed into the middle of the court. "This is a little delicate, Miss O'Donnell," he said softly, as if he gave a shit about her, "but could you tell the court the nature of the problem you went to see my client about?"

Maureen cleared her throat carefully. "I was experiencing flashbacks and bad dreams."

This was not the answer he wanted. He tried again: "Could you tell us what the cause of these symptoms was?"

She didn't want to tell them. She looked at the giggly jury members, at the table of lawyers and the haughty judge, and knew that not one person in the room gave a flying fuck. If she made a fuss they'd play on it. "I was abused by my father when I was a child and this was the fallout from it," she said quickly.

The advocate nodded in apparent sympathy. "And Mr. Farrell was patient with you and helped you to get over it?"

She looked at Angus, sitting in the box between the two bored guards. His eyes were half shut, blank but creepy, as if he were about to pounce on her. She looked behind him and saw his ugly family, eating chewy peppermints, passing the roll between themselves. "Yes," she said, "he did."

"Did you see him as a father figure?" He waited patiently for her to answer.

"I don't know what you mean by that." Her amplified voice rattled around the room.

"Did you see him as a father figure? It's a term in common usage."

"I didn't see him as my father," she said, knowing full well where he was going with it.

"You didn't see him as an older man who had helped you," he said incredulously, looking at the jury, "who perhaps had authority over you?"

"I don't see my own father that way, so, no, I didn't see him as a father figure."

The advocate shuffled his papers. "But he did help you?"

"Yes."

"So," the advocate addressed the jury, "he was a good man."

"He was good at his job," said Maureen, quickly. "I don't know what sort of man he was."

"Miss O'Donnell," said the judge, losing patience with her, "no more interjections, please."

"Sorry," she said, a picture of innocence. "I thought that was a question."

The judge knew she was lying. "Unaware of the rules of the court you may be, Miss O'Donnell, but you seem to have a natural aptitude," he said, and the lawyers smiled at what appeared to be a thin judicial joke.

The advocate stepped forward, and continued to question her, making her tell the story of finding Dead Douglas in the front room. He got her to tell how she had written to the Public Registrar for a copy of Douglas's marriage certificate but wouldn't let her say that she'd done it because Douglas swore blindly he wasn't married. And then he asked her questions about Angus, whether he had known that she was seeing Douglas and, if he had, would he have approved? Maureen said she didn't think he would because she was a patient. The advocate pounced on the comment, suggesting that Angus had tried to split them up and she'd fed him acid because of it. Maureen tried to contradict him and got into trouble again.

"Now, Miss O'Donnell," the advocate went on, "we have heard evidence about the state Mr. Farrell was in when he was found on the Isle of Cumbrae." He paused for effect. "We have heard expert witnesses testify to the effect that he was very heavily drugged with lysergic acid diethylamide."

Maureen nodded.

"LSD," said the advocate, "to give it its street name."

It was hardly a street name. The red and purple jurors nudged each other.

"Furthermore," he continued, "we have, just this morning, heard evidence from Paul Cunningham that you purchased a large quantity of that substance from him before or around the time of the deaths of Mr. Brady and Mr. Donegan. Do you recall such a purchase?"

Maureen pretended to think about it. "No," she said.

The advocate turned on her. "You don't recall going to Mr. Cunningham's flat and buying a large quantity of LSD?"

"No," she said certainly. "I have bought drugs for recreational use from Paulsa before but I don't remember buying anything then and I'd never buy a big quantity. If you buy too much at one time and get caught you could be charged with dealing and sent to prison for ages."

" 'Paulsa' being Mr. Cunningham?" he said.

"Yeah."

"Angus Farrell, the man who helped you" – he looked up at her – "has stated that after Mr. Brady's death you came to visit him in the clinic and gave him a coffee. Mrs. Shirley Evans has also testified to that. It is our contention that the said coffee was heavily laced with LSD."

The judge intercepted to say something wry and the advocate conceded, looking at his notes.

"No further questions," he said curtly, and sat down.