Hours stretch into days. You stare out of the windows, watch the traffic crawl by. You sip hot drinks from the machine in the lobby, get to know which combination of buttons to press for the closest thing to a coffee. You field phone calls from the desk, always asking when. You come to dread these calls, save up fragments of information for them, pretend insights. Which lawyer seemed upbeat, or downcast. Whether the jury had come back with questions and what these might signify, whether there has yet been a majority direction. What the jury mix is – how many young, how many old, how many women, men, white, black. And what it all might mean. We reporters exaggerate these small insights, try to encourage the impression that our being here, while we type up background pieces, is worth it. But the truth is, no one knows. No one knows anything at all.
In the end, it takes over a week. The boys are guilty. In the public gallery, the families in their printed T-shirts gasp. A girlfriend’s head sinks into her hands. A pretty sister screams no, no. The judge cautions. The boys look stunned. One drops his head into his lap, the other holds his hands up in front of him, stares at his barrister, as if demanding an answer. One set of lawyers turn in their chairs with smiling handshakes for their juniors, nods for their client. The others sigh, put on spectacles, straighten their spines, brace themselves for questions about appeals and challenges that could stretch into years.
Either side of me, the other reporters who have stood for the verdict fumble with phones under the cover of the press bench, eager to be the first to alert their news desks. At the back of the court, DCI Carter raises his gaze to the ceiling, closes his eyes, and lets out a long, deep exhale. And behind the curtain, the victim bends at the waist, and sobs.
The force’s leader, Chief Constable Bannon, is waiting outside already, his statement all prepared, the cameras trained on him, resplendent in his smartly pressed uniform. Hair cut short at the sides, he is holding his police hat under his arm, in what seems to me a somewhat theatrical touch. A high-profile rape conviction – after a string of controversies about such cases being abandoned – is a much needed triumph for the force and the Crown Prosecution Service, and I can see that the media glory is to be reserved for the top brass.
‘I would like to pay tribute to the courage of the victim in this case,’ Chief Constable Bannon is saying to the circle of outstretched hands holding booms and microphones. ‘That young woman has shown a great deal of resilience and strength in very difficult circumstances. I sincerely hope that the guilty verdict will provide some closure on her horrendous ordeal, and that she will be able to rebuild her life, which was shattered by these events.’
I’d already had the printed handout of what he was going to say, the press release with IN THE EVENT OF CONVICTION emblazoned on the top. I don’t need to hear the live version. Instead I slip away from the pack, get in my car and tap in the postcode of the hotel where I’ve arranged to meet both DCI Carter and Emily, the girl at the centre of what has turned into the biggest court case of the year.
Emily has brought her sister along for support. They sit together on a sofa in the hotel room I have booked, overlooking Parker’s Piece. The cake and drinks I nervously laid out sit untouched on the coffee table between us.
While I talk to her, DCI Carter sits at the back of the room, nursing a takeaway coffee. He throws me stern glances as I fiddle with the dictaphone, pour glasses of water. In the end, he needn’t have worried. Emily is clear and brave. She ignores the photographer, and he gets on with his job. She looks me in the eye, answers all my questions. She does not shed a tear. I notice that her spine is now straighter, her gaze unafraid to meet mine. And I learn, for the first time, what power there is in justice, in being believed.
By the time we have finished it is dark outside. There is a drizzle of rain. The paving stones are dark and wet, the headlamps of cars bright in the distance. DCI Carter holds an umbrella over Emily and her sister while I hail them a cab, pay the driver in cash.
‘Thank you,’ I tell Emily.
She nods. ‘Don’t forget to send me that copy, like you said.’
‘I won’t.’
Then, for the first time since I’ve met her, she smiles. ‘Thank you too.’
I watch as the brake lights on the taxi recede into darkness, the puddles on the pavement bright with the lights of cars. The wind picks up. I pull my scarf up over my chin, turn to my left. DCI Carter is still there, still holding the umbrella, staring after the taxi.
‘I have you to thank for that, I suspect,’ I say. I have to raise my voice over the rain.