to cry again. To add insult to injury, I’m forced to take off my shoes and hand them over along with my handbag.
I’m walked to a small cell with pale blue walls, a single bed with a blanket on it and a toilet. The door shuts and I’m left alone to try and contemplate this hideous reality. I take a seat on the edge of the bed and shudder when I realise how far from clean this cell is. I draw my knees up to my chest and lean back against the cold wall, my black gown pulled tightly around me. My wig is lying on the bed next to me but I can’t bring myself to look at it.
What the hell is going on? I try desperately to focus my mind. What was it the Judge said? Something about a cheque for £5000 and some CCTV. I haven’t got five grand! I think I’m about £5000 overdrawn if anything!
Ok, this is getting me nowhere. Obviously I know I haven’t tried to bribe a juror so if I’m not guilty then this whole thing has to be a mistake. Someone, somewhere has obviously mixed me up with someone else. My breathing becomes a little easier and some of the fog inside my head clears. They’ll realise soon that they’ve messed up and I’ll be allowed to go. Then, they can get on with arresting the real culprit. I’ll demand a full apology, I might even sue them for the pain, suffering and humiliation I’ve been put through! I’ll sell my story to the paper and make sure that everyone knows I was wrongfully arrested. Perhaps then I could even do some pro bono work defending lawyers falsely accused of crimes. I’ll became famous for being a brilliant advocate who fights for justice, maybe I’ll even take silk off the back of it!
As I’m contemplating this, the hatch in the back of the cell door opens and I can see a man in the gap.
“You have the right to free and independent legal advice,” he drones, sounding like he’s reading from a script. “Please indicate which solicitor you would like if you have a preference, or if you have none, the duty solicitor can be appointed to your case.”
“What?” I ask dumbly. He glares at me.
“You have the right to free and independent legal advice-”
“No, I understood what you said, I don’t know why you think I’d need legal advice.”
He looks at me and his eyes narrow maliciously.
“Oh yes, we all know you think you’re some hotshot barrister. You should know the law already then.”
“That’s not what I mean!” I exclaim. “Haven’t you come to tell me I can go home?”
He laughs and it’s a rather unpleasant sound.
“Let you go home? Now why would we do that? We’re just waiting for our CID man to come back in to interview you.”
The blood rushes to my head and I quickly run to the toilet and vomit. As I retch I can hear the officer laughing and I start to cry again.
“I’ll take it then that you want the duty solicitor?”
I sit back on my heels and push my hair away from my face. My throat is burning and the smell of the toilet is making me feel worse.
“No.” I say, coughing slightly. “No, I don’t want a solicitor.”
The hatch is slammed shut and I kneel on the cold dirty floor in shock. They’re going to interview me. I’m being treated like a criminal. They really think I did do this. I make my way back to the bed and lie on my side, drawing my knees up until I’m in the foetal position. I’m shaking with cold and fear, so I pull the scratchy blanket over me. It smells musty and I dread to think how many other people have used it.
I lie there for what seems like an eternity until the hatch and then the cell door is opened. The same officer from before directs me to through the custody block and to an interview room where I sit behind a table that has a tape recorder on it. I’m familiar with police interviews as I read through countless of them on a weekly basis. I know that the police are going to ask me questions about whatever it is I’m supposed to have done and this is my only chance to give them my version of events; if I come up with anything different later then people will assume I’ve