‘Why on earth?’
‘Well, they’ll assess Sebastian – whether he’s fit or sane enough to stand trial.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s perfectly sane.’
‘But they will also talk about the crime itself and assess whether Sebastian is mature enough to understand the offence he is charged with committing.’
She sucked hard at the last of her cigarette. It was a stub tweezered in her manicured nails and yet she sucked at it. Daniel saw the lipstick stains on the butt and the cigarette stains on her fingertips. He remembered his own mother’s yellow fingertips and the line of her skull appearing when she inhaled. He remembered the bite of hunger, watching as she swapped a tenner for drugs. He remembered lollipops for dinner: crunching them too fast.
He closed his eyes and took a breath. It was the letter, he knew, not Charlotte, which had provoked these memories. He shook his head as if to release them.
It was seven o’clock in the evening. The interview room was calmed by the sweet smell wafting from Sebastian’s hot chocolate.
Sergeant Turner cleared his throat. Written notice of the charge was given to Charlotte and Daniel, as Sebastian’s appropriate adult representatives.
‘Sebastian Croll, you are charged with the offence stated below: murdering Benjamin Tyler Stokes on Sunday 8 August 2010.’
‘Fine,’ Sebastian answered. He held his breath, as if he was about to take a dive.
Daniel felt his throat tighten as he watched the boy. Part of him admired the boy’s gall but another part of him wondered what it was masking. He glanced at Charlotte and she was rocking gently, holding on to her elbows. It was as if she was to be charged instead of her son.
Turner faltered for a moment at the boy’s response. The boy turned to his mother. ‘I didn’t do it, Mummy!’
Charlotte put a hand on his leg to calm him. He began to pick at his fingernails, his lower lip out.
‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘I didn’t do it, you know. Mum, I didn’t,’ said Sebastian.
He began to cry.
Daniel was there at 08:55 the next morning when the Reliance van drew up and opened its doors to receive Sebastian. Daniel stood with his arms folded as the boy was led from his cell, his thin wrists cuffed, into the cage in the back of the van. Shades on, Charlotte cried. She gripped Daniel’s forearm as the cage doors were closed and locked.
‘Mummy,’ Sebastian called from inside. ‘Mummy!’ His screams were like a nail coursing along the metal casing of the van. Daniel held his breath. He had watched this happen to so many clients: people he was willing to fight for, people he admired; people he despised. This moment had always been calm for him. It signalled the beginning. The beginning of his case; the beginning of the defence.
Watching the doors close on Sebastian, Daniel heard his own childhood cries in the boy’s desperate pleas. He remembered being Sebastian’s age. He had been troubled. He had been capable of violence. What was it that had saved him from this fate?
When the doors were locked, Daniel and Charlotte could still hear Sebastian crying inside. Daniel didn’t know if the little boy was innocent or guilty. Part of him believed that Sebastian had told him the truth, another part of him was concerned about the boy’s strange interest in blood and his tantrums that seemed worthy of a younger child. But Sebastian’s innocence or guilt was inconsequential. Daniel did not judge his clients. They were all entitled to a defence and he worked as hard for those he disliked as those he admired. But juveniles were always difficult. Even when they were guilty, as Tyrel had been, he wanted to keep them out of the prison system. He had seen what happened to juveniles inside – drug dependency and re-offending. The help that Daniel felt they needed was considered too expensive; politicians used the criminal justice system to win political points.
Daniel sat in his office overlooking Liverpool Street. He had the radio on low as he made notes on Sebastian’s case.
He had placed the letter in the front pocket of his briefcase; the paper was crumpled now, from being read and reread. He took it out and read it again. He still had not called the hospital. He refused to believe Minnie was dead, but read the letter again as if he had missed something. It was a cruel ploy, he decided. All her phone calls over the years asking for forgiveness, and then tiring of that and just asking to see him one more time.
Daniel wondered if the letter was another attempt to have him back in her life. She might well be sick, but trying to manipulate. He folded the letter and pushed it away from him. Just thinking about her made his stomach tight with anger.
The office was warm, delicate rays of sunshine shot through the sash windows and illuminated dust. He picked up the telephone.
After all the things he had said to her, she would still call every year on his birthday and sometimes at Christmas. He would avoid her calls, but then lie awake at night arguing with her in his head. It seemed that the years did nothing to calm the anger he felt towards her. The few times that they had spoken, Daniel had been clipped and distant, not allowing her to tempt him into conversation, when she asked how he was enjoying work or if he had a girlfriend. He had mastered detachment long ago, but Minnie had helped him to perfect it. It was because of her that he didn’t want to let anyone in. She would talk to him about the farm and the animals, as if to remind him of home. He was only reminded of how she had let him down. Sometimes she would say again that she was sorry, and he would cut her off. He would hang up the phone. He hated her justifications even more than what she had done. She said it had been for his own good. He didn’t like to remember, and mostly he did not, but the pain of that still took his breath away.
He had not called her for over fifteen years.
Not since their disagreement when he told her that he wished she was dead.
It hadn’t seemed enough. He remembered wanting to hurt her more.
Nevertheless, he dialled without checking her number or struggling to recall it. The phone rang and Daniel took a deep breath. He cleared his throat and leaned forward on the desk, eye on the door of his office.
He imagined her prising herself out of the chair in the living room, as her latest pound-mongrel raised its eyebrows at her. He could almost smell her gin and hear her sighs. Hold yer horses, I’m comin’, I’m comin’, she would say. The phone switched to answer-phone. Daniel put the receiver to his chin for a moment, thinking. He didn’t have time for this. He hung up.
Outside the window, he saw a runner, lean and wiry. Daniel watched him navigating the traffic and the pedestrians. He could see from his style and the length of his stride that he was making a good pace but from this distance it seemed as if the man was running slowly. The trees shimmered at Daniel from behind the glass. He had been at the office since early morning and had not stepped outside since to feel the grace of the sun on his skin.
‘You busy?’ said Veronica Steele, Daniel’s senior partner, popping her head round the door.
‘What’s up?’
Veronica sat on the arm of the couch, facing him. ‘Just wondering how you’re holding up.’
Daniel threw a pencil down on to a pad that was covered with scribbles. He spun to face her, hands behind his head.
‘I’m all right.’ Daniel sat back in his chair.
‘You’ve decided to stay with it?’
‘Yes.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Not the best career decision, I’m sure. I know it’ll get messy. Half of me feels totally out of my depth and the other half wants to try and … save him?’