Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘Ms Gray?’

The solicitor is young and disinterested, his suit expensive and confidently striped.

‘I didn’t ask for a solicitor.’

‘You have to have legal representation, Ms Gray, or represent yourself. Do you want to represent yourself?’ His arched eyebrow suggests that only the very foolish would consider such an option.

I shake my head.

‘Good. Now, I understand you have admitted in interview the offences of causing death by dangerous driving, and of failing to stop and give details after an accident. Am I correct?’

‘Yes.’

He rifles through the file he has brought with him, its red ribbon untied and thrown carelessly on to the table. He hasn’t yet looked at me.

‘Do you want to plead guilty or not guilty?’

‘Guilty,’ I say, and the word seems to linger in the air; the first time I have said it out loud. I am guilty.

He writes down something far longer than one word, and I want to peer over his shoulder to read it. ‘I shall apply for bail on your behalf and you stand a good chance of getting it. No previous convictions, abiding by your current bail conditions, answering bail on time … Clearly the initial abscond will work against us … Do you have any mental health issues?’

‘No.’

‘Pity. Never mind. I’ll do my best. Now, do you have any questions?’

Dozens, I think.

‘None,’ I say.

‘Court rise.’

I expected more people, but apart from a bored-looking man with a notebook, in a section of the court the usher explains to me is for press, there are very few. My solicitor sits in the middle of the room with his back to me. A young woman in a navy-blue skirt is next to him, passing a highlighter over a printed page. At the same long table, but several feet away, is an almost identical pairing – the prosecution.

The usher next to me tugs at my sleeve and I realise I am the only one still standing. The magistrate, a pinch-faced man with wispy hair, has arrived, and court is now in session. My heart is pounding and my face is hot with shame. The few people in the public gallery are looking at me curiously, as though I were an exhibit in a museum. I recall something I once read about public executions in France: the guillotine mounted in the town square for all to see; women clicking their knitting needles as they waited for the performance. A shiver runs through me as I realise I am today’s entertainment.

‘Will the defendant please rise?’

I get to my feet again and give my name when the clerk asks for it.

‘How do you plead?’

‘Guilty.’ My voice sounds reedy and I cough to clear my throat, but I’m not asked to speak again.

The lawyers argue over bail in a verbose rally that makes my head spin.

There is too much at stake; the defendant will run.

The defendant has kept her bail conditions; she will continue to abide by them.

There is a life sentence to consider.

There is a life to consider.

They speak to each other through the magistrate, like warring children communicating through a parent. Their words are extravagantly emotive, illustrated with flamboyant gestures that are wasted on the empty courtroom. They argue over bail: over whether I should be remanded in prison until the Crown Court trial, or released on bail to wait for my trial at home. I realise my lawyer is arguing for my release, and I want to tug at his sleeve and tell him I have no interest in bail. Except for Beau, there is no one at home for me. No one to miss me. In prison I will be safe. But I sit mutely, my hands in my lap, unsure of what picture I should be portraying. Not that anyone is looking at me. I am invisible. I try to follow the lawyers’ argument, to work out who is winning this war of words, but am quickly lost in the theatrics.

A hush descends on the court and the magistrate fixes me with an unsmiling gaze. I have the absurd urge to tell him that I’m not like the usual occupants of his court. That I grew up in a house like his, and that I went to university; held dinner parties; had friends. That I was once confident and outgoing. That before last year I had never broken the law, and that what happened was a terrible mistake. But his eyes are disinterested and I realise he doesn’t care who I am, or how many dinner parties I have held. I’m just another criminal through his doors; no different from any other. I feel my identity being stripped away from me once more.

‘Counsel has passionately defended your right to bail, Ms Gray,’ the magistrate says, ‘assuring me that you would no sooner abscond again than you would fly to the moon.’ There is a titter from the public gallery, where a pair of old women are wedged into the second row with a Thermos flask. My modern-day tricoteuses . The corners of the magistrate’s mouth twitch appreciatively. ‘He tells me your initial flight from the scene of this truly abhorrent crime was a moment of madness, out of character and never to be repeated. I hope, Ms Gray, for all our sakes, he is correct.’ He pauses, and I hold my breath.

‘Bail is granted.’

I let out a sigh which might be taken for relief.

There is a noise from the press box and I see the young man with the notebook sidle out of the row of seats, his book stuffed messily into his jacket pocket. He gives a bob of his head in the direction of the bench before exiting, leaving the door swinging behind him.

‘Court rise.’

As the magistrate leaves court, the hum of conversation grows louder, and I see my solicitor lean over towards the prosecution. They laugh about something, then he comes over to the dock to speak to me.

‘A good result,’ he says, all smiles now. ‘The case has been adjourned for sentencing at Crown Court on the seventeenth of March – you’ll be given information about legal aid and your options for representation. Safe trip home, Ms Gray.’

It feels strange to walk freely out of the courtroom, after twenty-four hours in a cell. I go to the canteen and buy a take-away coffee, burning my tongue in my impatience to taste something stronger than police station tea.

There is a glass roof above the entrance to Bristol Magistrates’ Court, which gives shelter from the drizzle to small groups of people, speaking urgently to each other between drags of cigarettes. As I walk down the steps I’m jostled by a woman heading in the opposite direction, and coffee seeps through the ill-fitting plastic lid and on to my hand.

‘Sorry,’ I say automatically. But as I stop and glance up I see that the woman has stopped too, and that she is holding a microphone. A sudden flash of light startles me and I look up to see a photographer a few feet away from me.

‘How do you feel about the prospect of prison, Jenna?’

‘What? I—’

The microphone is thrust so close it almost brushes my lips.

‘Will you be sticking by today’s guilty plea? How do you think Jacob’s family are feeling?’

‘I, yes, I—’

People are pushing me from every angle, the reporter’s questions shouted over a chanting I can’t decipher. There is so much noise it’s like being in a football stadium, or a concert arena. I can’t breathe, and when I try to turn I’m pushed in the opposite direction. Someone pulls at my coat, and I lose my balance, falling heavily against someone who pushes me roughly upright. I see a placard, clumsily made and brandished high above the small throng of protesters. Whoever has written it has started too large, and the last few letters have been squeezed together to make it fit. Justice for Jacob!

That’s it. That’s the chant I can hear.

‘Justice for Jacob! Justice for Jacob!’ Over and over, until the shouts seem to come from behind and all around me. I look to the side for a space but there are people there too, and my coffee falls from my hand and loses its lid as it hits the ground, liquid splashing my shoes and running down the steps. I stumble again, and for a second I think I’m going to fall and be crushed underfoot by this furious mob.