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Even had Lucie not been the central figure in the drama, she would have drawn the gaze of every eye in the court. She had dressed down, no doubt on the advice of her lawyers. She wore dark brown, not normally one of her colours: a blouse, jumper and knee-length skirt. Her hair, shorter than she’d usually worn it when we were together, was pulled back rather severely and pinned at the back. Her face was thinner, presumably because of the stress of being on trial for attempted murder. As she walked to the witness box, I strained my neck to see her legs. She wore tights, naturally, in a shade that matched her other clothes. They were decidedly not opaque. I was willing to bet they hadn’t come from Monoprix.
Having taken the oath, Lucie responded to Dunn’s questions, recounting the history of her dealings with Ben Colleran. She had met him during the first week of her degree course. He lectured on Art Theory and History. She shared the widespread admiration of his erudition and incisive analysis. In the months that had followed, her admiration had in no way diminished, though at that time she had not felt any personal attraction to him. Colleran’s demeanour towards her had led her to believe that he saw her as an unusually gifted student, with potential that he felt it important to bring to fruition. They had several encounters during which they enthusiastically discussed questions of art theory, including her proposals for a special project in the following academic year and her eventual plans to do postgraduate work. One such discussion had taken place in the college bar, after which she had gone home with Colleran and they had had sex. She had not seen Colleran for a few days after that, though she did not have the impression that he was avoiding her.
The lack of contact between them had more to do with things that were happening in her own life. A relationship that she’d had over several years with an online journalist was just ending and she needed to move her possessions out of the flat that they’d shared. She’d given up her own flat nearly two years earlier and she now needed to find somewhere else to live. As a result, she hadn’t been in college for about a week, and that was the main reason she hadn’t seen Colleran in the days following the night they’d spent together. When she did finally meet him again, he was warm and reassuring. He’d said that, while he certainly wouldn’t describe what had happened between them as a “mistake” or in any way regrettable, it had certain consequences that they might regard as unfortunate and about which they would certainly have to talk.
Their “intimacy”, as he put it, was no barrier to his continuing to be her tutor and, in due course, the supervisor of her postgraduate work if that was still what she wanted when the time came. It was, however, an obstacle to any involvement on his part in the assessment of her work: grading essays and practical work, marking exams and so on. None of this had come as a surprise to Lucie.
Over coffee, she and Colleran had spelt out the terms of the agreement between them. First, there would be no more sexual contact. Second, they would pretend that no sexual contact had already taken place between them. This meant, among other things, that neither of them would ever mention it to anybody else. Colleran had asked Lucie if she’d already told anybody about them. Lucie had considered not mentioning my awareness of their encounter, but immediately thought the better of it.
She told him that she didn’t think I was the jealous type who was likely to make trouble but Colleran pointed out that, in the context of my breakup with Lucie, any allegations I might make could be discounted as paranoid fantasies. People might believe that there was no smoke without fire but they wouldn’t be able to find any glowing embers.
Lucie testified that she had been happy with this arrangement. She hadn’t felt that Colleran had treated her badly, used her or cast her aside. They hadn’t fought and there had been no simmering resentments, certainly not on her side. While she had no regrets about their one night stand, she had no doubt, to be blunt, that she’d been getting more from her actual relationship with Colleran, that of student and teacher, than she would have got from a sexual relationship with him. She’d had no motive to attack him and had not done so.
Until she began her cross-examination of Lucie, I hadn’t really noticed Anna Thorborn, the prosecuting counsel. Thorborn wasn’t a silk but, as I found out when I Googled her name later, a very experienced junior who made a specialty of violent crimes and had prosecuted more than half-a-dozen murders. At first glance, Ms Thorborn did not seem any more imposing than her defence counterpart but her voice immediately made a greater impression on me than Dunn’s had. For a start, it was clearly audible from where I sat. It was warm, measured and resonant. If she’d been a little more physically commanding, she could have expected to have an enviable career on the stage. She evidently judged it a better strategy to go straight onto the attack with Lucie rather than try to put her at her ease, as a prelude to springing a trap. Knowing Lucie, I was sure she’d made the right decision.
“No simmering resentments, you said. How would you describe your relationship with Dr Colleran?”
“Exactly as I already have described it. Student and teacher.”
“But not simply that, surely? Student and teacher who had enjoyed a one night stand together.”
“Few relationships are entirely uncomplicated. Ours was simpler than it might have been. Perhaps we were lucky.”
“But it was just a one night stand? You never had sexual relations subsequently?”
“That’s right.”
“You didn’t flirt? Share intimacies? Ask for his advice on matters outside the academic arena?”
“I certainly didn’t notice him flirting and I wasn’t aware of doing it myself. I’m not in the habit of scrutinizing my behaviour minutely.”
“‘No tears, no fuss. Hooray for us?’”
“The memories are quite a small part of what I’m thankful for, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking whether you’re not presenting an image of sophistication and coolness that creates a veneer over a reality that’s very different and much more messy.”
“Then the answer is ‘no’. I don’t try to present an image and I find it laughable that, if I did, it would be one of sophistication. I was brought up in a small town in the Pyrenees. Really, if you knew it, sophistication is the last word that would come to mind.”
“You’re not affecting a detached, matter-of-fact attitude to a sordid episode that, in fact, left you feeling used and discarded?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You were already student and teacher when the sordid episode occurred, weren’t you?”
“Yes. With the qualification that I wouldn’t describe it as sordid. Infelicitous as to timing, that’s all.”
“So there was already a significant disparity in status and power between you.”
“Status certainly, if that matters. Power, I don’t know. I suppose it depends on what kind of power you mean.”
“Power to affect your grades, your future opportunities, for example?”
“If we’d continued to sleep together, Ben would have had to withdraw from all that. That’s why we decided not to.”
“You decided not to.”
“Yes. We both did.”
“The jury has heard your evidence as to what Dr Colleran said to you. It might be construed in one of two or possibly three ways, mightn’t it?”
“It seemed straightforward to me.”
“On the one hand, you might have taken it as a veiled threat. Play along with what I want or your results won’t be quite as good as they might have been. Certain options will no longer be available. Is that how you interpreted it?”
“Certainly not. Ben didn’t want me to ‘play along’. He specifically suggested that we should end the … um, relationship. The sexual part of it.”
“That was the second possibility I had in mind. You could have taken it as Dr Colleran’s way of letting you know he had no interest in continuing the affair and that you’d better accept it or he could make as much trouble for you as you could for him.”
“That’s not how I took it.”
“So, how did you take it? At face value?”
“Yes. Why not? I had more to gain than Ben had by forgetting that anything sexual had happened between us. It wouldn’t have cost him much to hand me over to another tutor, let him or her mark my papers. I was the one who valued him more as a mentor and guide than as a lover. He felt the same way, but it wasn’t as urgent for him. We were in agreement.”
“You are a member of a student society named London Colleges Women’s Cooperative, aren’t you?”
“I was. I haven’t been to a meeting since Ben was attacked. My membership has probably lapsed.”
“What kind of society is it?”
“It’s a women’s campaigning and discussion group.”
“It discusses and campaigns on, among other things, violence against women, sexual harassment and workplace equality, isn’t that so?
“Yes.”
“Do you recognize this pamphlet?”
“It’s an occasional newsletter published by the Womben’s Cooperative. This particular issue dates from 1998, nearly three years before I joined. I haven’t seen it before.”
“Would you read the marked passage, please.”
“‘That the President and Chief Executive of a country that delights in being described as the world’s only remaining superpower, and who is himself routinely characterized as the most powerful man in the world, should have a sexual relationship with a much younger intern and that this outrageous abuse of power should be defended by many who would call themselves liberals, tells us more than we could possibly wish to know about the patriarchal nature of the power structures of what its advocates like to call Western liberal democracy.’”
“Does that passage express your views?”
“Not at all. The Women’s Cooperative doesn’t have a party line. It accommodates widely differing views. And in any case, as I said, that passage was written several years before I joined.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like to hear what you think about the Lewinsky business. Is it never objectionable for a man in a position of power to have sexual relations with an intern?”
“Obviously, it can be. But power is of many different kinds. Political power doesn’t necessarily translate into, say, sexual power.”
“So, you don’t think that President Clinton did anything wrong as regards Ms Lewinsky?”
“On the contrary. I think President Clinton could hardly have behaved worse than he did, and that it’s unfortunate that the impeachment wasn’t successful.”
“But not because he had sex with a young woman in a greatly subordinate position?”
“Exactly. Because he committed perjury about it, twice.”
“You feel strongly about perjury, do you?”
“I do when it’s committed by the head of the government, and somebody who has sworn to uphold the Constitution.”
“But not in all other circumstances?”
“I suppose I think it’s wrong in all circumstances, but outrageous when it’s committed by someone in a position like the President’s.”
“Would it be fair to characterize your position like this: perjury is unacceptable when committed by a person who is responsible for upholding the law, but understandable, though not justified, where the person committing it is in a less powerful position?”
“More or less. ‘Understandable’ might be overstating it, depending on how you interpret the term. It’s to be expected, in certain circumstances.”
“How about when a woman in a position of low status — a student, say — is accused of attempting to murder a man in a higher position who’s injured her in some way? Is it to be expected in those circumstances?”
“The question is hypothetical, in that those circumstances don’t arise in this case. But if you press me to answer, I’d have to say ‘yes’, it is to be expected in those circumstances. But it wouldn’t be justifiable.”
“So if you were to find yourself in such circumstances, you wouldn’t lie on oath to get yourself out of trouble?”
“Until the circumstances arise, it’s impossible to be absolutely sure, but I don’t believe so.”
Thorborn seemed even less comfortable with the hypothetical nature of the questions than Lucie claimed to be, but she made what she could of the answers her questions received. I was a little surprised by Lucie’s composure and apparent unflappability but reflected that she’d always been adept with words. Remarkably so for a woman whose metier was the visual rather than the verbal, working in a language that wasn’t her first. If I’d begun to forget why she’d impressed me in the beginning, her performance in the witness box would have functioned as a reminder.
Thorborn went on to ask Lucie at length about the hammer. Lucie agreed that she’d bought a small hammer for use in her sculpture class. She hadn’t seen it for some time before she moved out of the flat she’d shared with me. She was sure that she hadn’t taken it with her when she moved and thought that, if it wasn’t to be found there subsequently, the only possible explanation was that it had been removed by somebody else, but she had no direct knowledge by whom.
The cross-examination of Lucie took most of a day. When it was over, Dunn told the judge that the defence had finished presenting its case. Anna Thorborn quickly stood up to say that she wished to call a witness in rebuttal. When I heard my own name, my pulse began to race and I suddenly became lightheaded. Even as I stifled the protestastion that I needed more time to prepare for this, another part of my brain coolly exulted in the unexpected opportunity to play a decisive part in Lucie’s acquittal.
In my struggle to contain my panic at the prospect of having to give evidence after all, so soon after I’d resigned myself to not being called, I didn’t take in much of what the opposing counsel were saying. Dunn, I more or less gathered, was complaining that the prosecution had no right to call me after the conclusion of their case, while Thorborn maintained that the defence couldn’t claim to be surprised or at a disadvantage since they had taken a witness statement from me. The judge told Thorborn that she could call me for the purpose of rebuttal only.
As I walked to the witness box, I attempted to reassure myself that this was working out for the best. As I’d be Thorborn’s witness, she wouldn’t be entitled to cross-examine me and would, in any case, be restricted to asking me about things that had come up in Lucie’s testimony. On the other hand, Dunn, who would be able to cross-examine, would be asking for information that I was more than willing to give.
Thorborn whispered something to the CPS solicitor sitting behind her, who in turn went and spoke briefly to Vicky, sitting at the far side of the courtroom from the witness box. The solicitor then took his seat again, wrote a sentence or two on a pad, tore off the page and handed it to Thorborn. I watched this happening as I tried to concentrate on taking the oath. As Lucie had, I chose to swear rather than affirm. I’d read somewhere years ago that an oath is equally effective and binding irrespective of who or what one swears by. To call on a nonexistent God as witness in no way vitiates the obligation to be honest and truthful. I saw no need to be so precious as to insist on an affirmation.
Anna Thorborn quickly got me to confirm that I was the ex-boyfriend mentioned by Lucie, the one she’s split up with days after her sexual encounter with Colleran. Having established that, she asked me whether I had heard Lucie complain about her treatment by Dr Colleran.
“No, not at all.”
“She didn’t, for example, say that he had coerced her into having sex with him?”
“On the contrary. She denied it.”
“She denied it. How did the question arise?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.” This was why the solicitor had spoken to Vicky. What had I told her? I surely hadn’t mentioned to her my belief that Lucie had, in fact, been coerced but was refusing to admit the fact to herself. Even if I had, I was giving evidence for the prosecution. Thorborn couldn’t impeach me. Even if she could establish that I’d previously said something different to Vicky, she was effectively stuck with my answers. All I had to do was stick to my guns. Even when you know that, it’s not so easy when you’re in a courtroom, caught in the penetrating glare of a formidable prosecutor.
“If she denied it, it must have been somehow at issue. Did you ask her whether Colleran had pressured her?”
“Yes. I did. She said he hadn’t. She was very clear about that.” That is to say she was certain. She hadn’t convinced me.
“Why did you ask her that?”
“She’d just told me that she’d spent the night with another man. Had sex with him. I didn’t want to believe that she’d … that she’d done that willingly.”
“Was there anything about her appearance or demeanour that suggested that she hadn’t?”
There was extensive bruising on her thighs and around her genitals. The jury didn’t have to know that. I could easily lie, without the slightest fear of being caught out. All I had to do was answer “no” and Thorborn’s rebuttal witness would have done her more harm than good. But I didn’t have the nerve to lie.
“She was bruised.” Why did I say that? I’ve thought about it almost obsessively ever since and the best answer I can come up with is that I still felt guilty about the way I made Lucie take off her skirt and tights. I wanted to confess my own cruelty. Thorborn, of course, drew it all out. I was already wishing I could take back my statement but it would have been obvious to the jury that I’d been telling the truth the first time. Inwardly berating myself, I resolved that if Thorborn asked me about the hammer, I’d tell her that it wasn’t found in my flat because I’d removed it and dropped it in the Thames, having in the meantime used it to smash the victim’s skull. She must have read my mind.
“Did you ever see a small sculptor’s hammer that belonged to the accused?”
“Yes. It was in the flat we shared.”
“Was it still there after she’d moved out?”
“Yes. She didn’t take it.”
“Do you know what became of it?”
“I do.” I drew in a very deep breath. The moment had come when I would change the course of Lucie’s trial. It was unfortunate, but unavoidable, that in the process I’d put myself in the frame for attempted murder.
But before I could say any more, Dunn was urging the judge to stop me from answering. The question, he said, went well beyond rebuttal. I’d confirmed what his client had said in evidence, that she’d left the hammer behind when she moved out of the flat. She hadn’t said anything as to what happened to it subsequently, just that she hadn’t seen it again. The judge told Anna Thorborn that she could ask me if I knew that Lucie had, in fact, subsequently come into possession of the hammer. She studied my face for a second and declined to avail of the opportunity.
If Thorborn hadn’t asked me if I knew why the hammer hadn’t been found in my flat, Dunn might well have done so on cross-examination. Now, however, having successfully prevented Thorborn’s question from getting an answer, he steered well clear of the hammer. He can have had no idea how much damage he did his own case by his reticence, which is exactly what a good advocate was supposed to exercise in such circumstances. I was excused and left the witness box.
I didn’t feel like waiting around for counsel’s closing speeches but thought I should at least listen to the judge’s direction to the jury. I decided to get a coffee. At first, I considered staying in the building rather than go through the security rigmarole again but, seeing that I had plenty of time and thinking that I had a better chance of getting decent coffee somewhere like Caffè Nero, I decided I might as well escape the courthouse atmosphere for the time being. I bought an Evening Standard on my way to the coffee shop. I couldn’t see anything in it about today’s proceedings, and that suited me just fine.
When I got back to court, the judge was about to adjourn for the day, saying that he’d instruct the jury in the morning. He didn’t revoke Lucie’s bail. That, I asssured myself, was a very good sign.
In the event, I didn’t go back to hear the judge direct the jury. I needed a break from the court and I was dejected that the moment when I could have had an influence on the verdict had passed. If I believed that the judge was wrongly placing the emphasis on one aspect of the evidence, or was missing the point of a particular detail, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.
The summing up was not itself widely reported the next day because by then the jury had finished their deliberations and convicted Lucie, freeing the papers to reveal the predictably lurid background pieces they’d been assembling but couldn’t publish while the trial continued. Sentence was adjourned for twenty-one days for various reports, including a psychiatric one. This time, Lucie was in custody.
The story doesn’t quite end there, though only a few events remain to be reported upon. Three weeks later, Lucie returned to court. This time I was present. I did not try to hide; it would have been difficult in any case as only a handful of members of the public came back to hear the sentencing. I was careful, however, not to look directly at Lucie, who seemed understandably subdued. She was sentenced to nine years. Dunn indicated that he would seek leave to appeal.
I started to write this account on the day that I heard that leave had been refused by the Court of Appeal. The conviction and sentence both stand. I’ve written my version of events, not for it to be read by anybody else, but to get both the order of events straight and to fix in my mind the action I’m now required to take. It’s perfectly clear that I can’t let Lucie remain in prison for my crime. The only thing I can do to prevent that is to confess, and do everything necessary to persuade the authorities that my confession if truthful. It would probably be in my own interest to do it before Colleran dies. And that’s precisely what I’m now resolved to do—any day now.