CHAPTER 1



Thoroughbreds. Every single one. Primed for the race, every muscle pumped; groomed in expensive, understated, designer gray or navy suits, classic white shirts, black robes. All these top legal women have a sort of swagger, an ironic way of owning the space, a satchel flung from one shoulder to the opposite hip. Nude or red lipstick, not too much mascara. Cool earrings, and designer boots, or cheeky heels bought on a trip overseas. I study them all. Have done so for years. Copy them. I’m a good mimic, before eventually I become better at ‘being a barrister’ than the ones born to it. The top women do law differently than the men, subtly different, and it takes a while for me to compute the various ways they own the space. All the little details are secret code for ‘we’re here but we’re doing it our way, not like the crusty old male barristers of the past.’ And these accumulate the more confident you become, the more you own your space in court. Barrister bags in pink or blue are placed around the court, like loyal dogs beside their owners: blue for baby barristers of fewer than twenty years, the pink ones are a badge of honour, given to a junior barrister by a KC who has singled them out for praise. I was granted a pink one, and I treasure it, but I use mine more ironically than anything else. White, thick, soft ropes of a certain length and texture act as handles, blazoned with hand-stitched initials in the only font permitted, and lined with court-approved ticking. A barrister bag was once a thing of pride, supposed to be used for carrying briefs and materials for court—they might have been useful centuries ago—but now really there for the show. Symbols of the elite, handed down from father to son to son. Sometimes a daughter received her father’s bag, but those barristers—the women who grew up with law in the family—they don’t have the same uncomfortable relationship with these things that I do. They also don’t love the law like I do either. They don’t see it as a tool for power in the way I always have; don’t hold on to it tight. Sure, they know it is ‘powerful,’ but most slipped into the law as if settling into an old family leather armchair, and think of it more as a family business, not a desperate arena to fight for justice.

It’s easy to pick these women. They mostly don’t do criminal law, nothing grubby. Nothing risky. If they do opt for a criminal practice, it’s usually a tame version, and often chosen more out of curiosity than life experience, chosen more for the excitement than the desire to fight for clients on the lowest rungs of social standing.

For those of us beyond the barrister bag accoutrements, the satchel is a much better statement: confident, unfazed, a symbol of having made it well past the need for a security blanket, our own little badge of honor.

Yet there are some things we all have in common: the horsehair wigs that cover our well-cut, warmly colored styles that give all women barristers the same unfortunate case of ‘six p.m. wig-hair’ at the end of a long day. Something the male forebears didn’t account for when they enshrined it as legal costume. For the men, the only way they can differentiate from each other is the color of their tie. Every now and then some unusual glasses frames or an interesting watch.

In a glance, I can tell who’s who in the court foyer. What cases they have run, won, lost; what cases are listed today. If it’s a certain group of barristers, then it’s all white-collar crime in corporate finance cases, their instructing solicitors trail behind them with trolleys of white binders.

And then there’s those of us who ride the lifts to the criminal courts. We circle, heads held high. All of us trained and ready for the sprint. Not jumpy but wired, like a horse, excited, restless. Waiting for the starting gun. I walk into court with my client, take in a rabble of police leaning into the prosecution barrister. Arnold Lathan is prosecuting. Good. I’m glad it’s him, dare I say this is now perhaps a winnable case. I nod to Arnold briefly and he nods back. My blood rises but I have to hold back, keep it together, don’t get too excited. Arnold’s always prepared, but he’s just not as quick once things unfold. I don’t recognize any of the police. That’s also good. They have no idea what to expect. My client is lagging. Tony. He’s a tall guy, big, this isn’t the first time I’ve acted for him, but it is the first time on a matter like this. Tony’s charge of stealing and assault is based entirely on the evidence of one man, someone whom he once played football with. A compromised witness who maintains a major grudge against him. He dislikes Tony, looks down on him; approached him in the bar and has made a statement that leaves out the abuse and assault Tony endured at this man’s hands. The police clearly believed the story against Tony, and so here we are. The witness’s word against Tony’s. Tony is dressed as I told him, but he still doesn’t cut it. A suit from Primark, a cheap no-brand shirt, and a tie he must have got free with the shirt on sale somewhere. Still, at least he tried. He’s hidden all his tatts of snakes and knives under that layer of polyester. Good. It’s always a shock to me when these tough guys walk into the foyer of a court. And Tony is no different. They run the streets out there, confident, cocky, reading all the signs, but in here, the signals are different, and each of them say ‘you have no power.’ I told him to ‘bring your toothbrush’ and he told me this morning that he actually did. He pulled it out of his pocket, a blue Tesco brand with some fluff from the pocket of his new jacket layering the bristles.

No, Tony, it’s just a saying.

But you told me—

It’s just lawyer talk.

His eyes are glued to my lips, trying to work out what I’m saying. I explain it.

It means ‘the cops have a good case.’

But you said—

Tony, they won’t actually let you take your toothbrush into prison with you!

They won’t?

He’s scanning me for any sort of hope.

Don’t panic just yet.

Tony is scared. Like, little-boy scared. Of course he is. For him this is not an everyday thing, not a familiar place. He’s been up all night, drinking and vomiting, he’s had to iron that shirt, and ask his girlfriend or his mum to put the tie on for him. He probably caught the train in and ate Maccy-D’s around the corner, not knowing where he’d spend the next night. This is big, he could go away for a few years if he goes down.

The truth is, keeping them afraid is useful. They listen more, tend toward being a bit in awe of you, and it acts as a buffer in case they go down. It means once they know jail is possible, you’re all they have. If we walk out of here today, I am his favorite person; if he goes inside, it won’t be a shock. I can see so much of my brother in Tony. Out of place, in a terrible situation that looks like it can only get worse. I head over to him.

Hey, Tony.

As he hurries to stand up, I see he is sweating.

You okay?

Yeah. Yeah.

Anyone coming to be with you?

His tongue moistens his lips. He’s just twenty-five.

Mum’s on her way.

Good.

I am the only thing familiar in this room. There is laughter from a group of barristers, another calling loudly for his client. Confidence and power surround Tony, but he has none of it. His eyes are soft and for the first time since I met him, he has neither gum nor cigarette in his mouth. I see the child in him. Not the asshole in the police brief, the thug who drank too much, lost his cool, and is in over his head.

Do you think there’s any hope your witness will arrive?

He has an ex-girlfriend who witnessed it all, saw that it was not Tony who threw the first punch.

Dunno. Maybe. Shall I call her again?

Yeah, you do that. Tell her we’re in the list for ten a.m.

I know there’s no hope. She’s been AWOL for the last month. Truth is she doesn’t want anything to do with this case. She’s scared to give evidence. No one likes to be cross-examined. At least calling her will give Tony something to do as he waits for his mum. Gives me a chance to review the main points, a trip to the loo, straighten my wig and makeup.

When Tony takes his seat in court, he pulls the chair up to the bar table beside me. I have to reprimand him. A look, ‘no, you can’t sit here.’ I turn to him and explain he is to sit in the dock, I direct him over to the court officer. He complies meekly, he’s shaking. The man described in the police brief as a dangerous, violent, drunken thug in a bar is this scared twenty-five-year-old shaking like a boy. The narratives do not reconcile. This is the truth of the law. Then, Tony’s mum enters, takes a seat halfway down in the gallery. She is alone too. Texting. I gesture to her to ‘turn off your phone.’ She doesn’t understand. I give up. I turn and look at the court clock. Court is starting to hush, judge is late but not much. It’s just after ten. I hear the chatter in the gallery behind me, but now that I’m on the job I push it into background noise. Flick through my papers, pour some water from the jug on the bench into a tumbler, arrange my notes.

The energy in the room every case I run: this is the moment before—when the charged space around me has a current of excitement and dread. This is where my skill set gets to flex its muscle. I draw all my energy into the same place, make the bar table my own. Blinkers on; only focused on what is ahead. Face confident, giving nothing away. So much of this is theater. All the details of the case are in my head, no room for anything else. I am holding it together, holding back, keeping my blood at just the right temperature. Just below boil. Waiting. Waiting. Then bang.

The court officer calls out:

All rise.

We all leap to our feet. Nodding our respect as the judge arrives. He takes his seat, and we take ours. The prosecutor and I, pumped, both in our own lane, both utterly aware of each breath the other takes, but never acknowledging each other unless, ‘I refer to my friend, the prosecutor, Your Honor.’ No eye contact.

We are out of the stalls and it’s on. It’s a long race so I hold back, know when to have restraint. Nothing worse than jumping in too early out of a desire to win a point that ultimately undermines your case. The prosecution opens, stands, and looks at the jury. The best chance for Tony is if the prosecution case can’t be made, where the evidence can be undermined by the defense and there’s the chance to make an argument for no case to answer. That means the case fails, Tony ‘walks.’ I have the whole course mapped in my mind, yet ready to tear it up at the first surprise. The prosecutor stands and lists the charges. At the bar table my eyes graze the bench, performing practiced nonchalance at the prosecution’s accusations. My face gives nothing away, sit still, straight back, focus on what’s before me, poised, watching, waiting, nerves taut. Every word uttered I am processing, interrogating, filing away, all the while feigning boredom. Breathe. Eyes gentle but listen to every word, interpret every physical signal, looking for an opening. The theater is not just to impress the clients, not just to show who is in charge, it’s part of the game. I sit slightly back, head cocked to one side, leaning on the back of my chair, but all my muscles are tightly wound, waiting to spring.

Then I spy an opening: the prosecution witness is drifting away from just answering questions and is elaborating in ways that he isn’t asked to. I can see Arthur, the prosecutor, is tempted to ask something he knows is ambiguous. His hesitation is key. It’s starting to open up, wait, wait … let some more open up. This is the measure of my skill set, the waiting, the calm before.

And there it is, instinct pushes me forward, I leap to my feet. Measured, but clear.

Your Honor.

I hold everything in one place, and eyes, eyes are all looking at me. I can’t see anyone, but I feel the shift. Standing tall, waiting, and the judge focuses in on me. I hear my own voice.

I’m so sorry to rise, sir, but I believe my friend at the bar table, counsel for the prosecution, is leading the evidence from his witness. The prosecution case rests solely on the evidence of this man, this witness here. A witness, the defense will argue, is severely compromised.

Strong and sure, explaining my objection, making my application to disallow a line of questioning. The prosecutor tries to maintain his momentum, I feel the urge to say more but rein it in. Less is more, I’ve made my point, keep them guessing. The judge momentarily pauses, like he has just felt the energy of the game, his eyes resting on me again; he knows me, he has seen me in action before. Is that respect? He hasn’t been on this side of the bench for a long time, but he loves the fight, he loves a muscular argument, and this one is shaping up. He leans forward. Application granted.

Yes! In my mind I am cheering, but anyone watching me won’t see it. My instructing solicitor sits in a chair near mine at the bar table. He is a man almost as young as Tony, from a nice private school, with the neatest haircut in the room. I don’t need him at all, but he thinks I do, so he pores over his notes just to be ready. I see Tony look at me from the dock as I turn back to take my seat. He doesn’t quite know that I have won a significant point, but he feels it, a subtle shift. The witness in the box is someone Tony once knew well, but after this there is no friendship left. This man has moved a long way from when he and Tony played football together. He wears sharp cologne and works in property now, some sort of estate agent. He is the ‘bastard’ that the Tonys of this world always lose to. To Tony this man is everything wrong with his life, a lifetime of built-up hostilities leading to this moment where the witness sits in court trying to get Tony sent to jail. For me, though, the witness is just the witness, a pawn in the bigger game. I sit down while the prosecutor continues to examine his witness, he has botched something, and he is patching it up as best he can. There are other barristers in court, sitting in the gallery as they await their own court matters, alert to the arguments, curious to see how another one of their own uses their skills. The judge speaks.

It’s your witness, Ms. Ensler.

And this is the moment. The witness is mine, oh yeah, the witness is mine now. The witness breathes in, wary, sizing me up. He is computing everything about me, taking in what I am wearing, how I look at him, whether I am the sort of woman he can charm, or ridicule. My neurons are firing, words being formed; I’m carefully selecting phrases as tight as a drum. The courtroom is silent, charged, waiting for me. I drink up this moment. I stand and take a moment, move my robes and do up the button on my suit jacket. The courtroom is still. I can hear my own voice in my head. ‘Keep it cool, Tessa, keep it cool.’ I can see in my periphery the witness still taking the measure of me. I look small to him, young. But he can’t quite figure me out. I let everyone wait just a second more than they expect, then I launch.

Cross-examination is the best part. It’s all instinct. Yes, you need the information, the map of the journey forward, but once you’re on your feet you need to be nimble. Need to be flexible. Turn on a beat.

I focus in on the witness. Inside I’m poised, ready for the play ahead. But the witness has no idea who I am, perhaps he was warned by someone of my various techniques, but by now he has forgotten it all.

I ask the witness a question, he turns to the judge and answers the question quickly.

I ask the same question in a different way, watch his face, a flicker. He repeats his answer, a dismissive wave at me, before quickly eyeing the judge. I repeat his answer. I don’t look but I feel the prosecutor stir slightly at the bar table next to me.

I repeat the answer again, quizzically. The witness looks right at me, thinks I am getting mixed up. I flick through some papers, let him think I’ve lost my way.

He jumps in, tries to explain his answer, his voice patronizing. He lets it be known with the pacing of his words that he thinks ‘this one is a bit slow in understanding.’

I hear myself breathing, then a barely audible snicker from the prosecution.

Good. Very good.

Again, I flick through pages in my file, check Tony in the dock, he moves uncomfortably.

Good.

I ask a similar question and watch the witness relax. His shoulders roll back, eyes dart around, a smirk. ‘This one doesn’t seem to know what she’s doing.’ Check the judge. Expressionless. But this judge has seen me before, he’s seen the likes of me. He’s quietly observing the performance. Question one.

Question two.

Look worried about the answers. This emboldens the witness. He looks around the gallery, looking for an audience. Flashes me a look and condescends, then … is that a hint of flirtation? I nod at his answers, flicking through pages, fumbling. I watch him, yes yes, here he goes.

I let the witness talk, overtalk. I let the witness ‘clarify.’ Good.

Thanks for that, sir, I wasn’t sure …

And he goes further. He’s in his element. His eyes dismiss me; ‘This one must be straight out of uni or something; she’s not that good,’ he thinks. He’s putty in my hands now. He relaxes, thinks he has the upper hand. And so now he is not careful, not afraid, no longer vigilant.

He says something inconsistent.

I nod, and look confused, let him explain it to me, but inside I am on alert. This is the break in his serve, this is where I take my lead. He’s explaining and I’m nodding as he digs himself in more deeply.


Copyright © 2024 by Suzie Miller