Page 79 of Broken Country

“Yeah?”

I hesitate. There’s something I want to tell him, something I have a suspicion about, but what if I am wrong?

A few months ago, I made a pretty momentous decision to throw away my diaphragm. I had ended things with Gabriel by then and Frank and I were trying to rebuild ourselves, piece by piece. We’d told each other everything, all the bad things, as if to say, this is me, in my worst, most ugly state, are you sure it’s what you want? When we finally made love, reaching for each other tentatively in the darkness, it was almost like the first time. The surprising pleasure of it in those darkest of days, it became a tiny fragment of light, of hope. But, as each month passed, and my period arrived, I began to despair. I’d set my heart on another baby, for Frank even more than myself, and I started to think I had left it too late.

The last few days I’ve felt something, a nausea that isn’t linked to the constant feeling of dread, a revulsion for certain tastes and smells, which reminds me of before. But what if I’m imagining it? I couldn’t bear to raise Frank’s hopes, then dash them. Not now, when the two of us are hanging on by a thread.

“I love you.”

Frank laughs. “You said that already.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know. Me too.”

“What if they find—” The beeps begin, perfect timing.

“The money’s run out. I love you.”

“Tomorrow,” I say.

“Tomorrow.”

The line goes dead, and I stand, for a long time, the phone pressed to my ear as if Frank is still there on the other end.

The Verdict

“All parties in the Crown versus Frank Johnson trial to Court Seven.”

We have been waiting for a verdict for almost twenty-four hours. Yesterday, Judge Miskin summarized the essence of the case for the jury. The Crown contests Frank Johnson was provoked into shooting his brother in a flash of white-hot rage. The defense claims it was self-defense: Frank was trying to protect himself and his brother. To be convicted of murder, Judge Miskin said, the jury must believe, beyond reasonable doubt, that Frank Johnson intended to cause his brother serious harm when the gun was fired. For a manslaughter conviction, the jury must agree an unlawful act took place, namely the unlawful use of the weapon which killed him. If they believed Frank was holding the gun, with his finger on the trigger when it unintentionally went off, that would amount to manslaughter.

“Please take as long as you need to consider the evidence,” he told them. “And I must urge you, once again, to disregard the press coverage which has accompanied this case.”

Robert told us juries can come to a decision within an hour. Often a good sign when they do, he said. As the afternoon dragged by without a verdict, we felt more and more despondent. We were exhausted by waiting and the days of tension leading up to it; I just wanted it over and done with.

Now, with the decision upon us, my body freezes in rebellion. My limbs refuse to move. Blood-rush in my brain. Allthe fear and anxiety I have tried to suppress rising up to crush me.

“I can’t do it.” I gasp the words.

“Yes, you can.” My father puts an arm around my shoulders. “Frank needs you there, now more than ever.”

My mother, on my other side, urges me to look at her.

“Remember, my love, we are here, every step of the way. And we always will be. You are not alone.”

“Frank’s not guilty. He’ll be walking out of here a free man,” Eleanor says, in a confident tone that doesn’t fool me. “You’ll see.”

There is a sickening quiet within court today, the air thick with expectation. No one seems to be talking, not the journalists on the press bench, nor counsel, nor the people who have queued for their spot in the gallery since eight o’clock this morning for the final day of this trial. I look at the faces around me and wonder what it is that brings them here. This snippet of human drama, a husband and wife whose lives have been wrecked not once, but twice, by death. A well-known author in the mix. A secret love affair which became a national talking point. When the trial is over, they will return to their lives and forget all about us.

The jury files in, one by one, and I am so tense it is all I can do not to scream. I examine their faces as they take their seats. Do they look grimmer than usual? They are dressed smartly for their last, and most significant, day in court. A day when all the power lies with them. Even the young hippy has put on a jacket and tie. City Gent, who has been elected foreman, is wearing a striped shirt with a white collar. Electric-Blue Specs is wearing a dress with a big floppy bow on each shoulder.

Not a single one glances at Frank in the dock. It feels sinister to me, as if they cannot bear to look at the man they are about to find guilty. Then again, they have scarcelylooked at him throughout the whole trial, apart from when he was on the witness stand.

The foreman stands up. My heart folds in on itself.

“Members of the jury,” the court clerk says. “Have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?”

“Yes,” the foreman answers.

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