Page 30 of The Elements
The courtroom, unsurprisingly, is packed.
Reporters sit in an elevated row with their backs to the wall, while about one hundred strangers have packed into the public gallery.
All they’re lacking is popcorn. Some, to my horror, are wearing club T-shirts, and they raise their arms in solidarity with Robbie and me when we enter the dock, then pound their fists against the club crest positioned above their hearts.
They don’t care whether we’re guilty or not; all they want is to see us back on the pitch.
Mam and Dad settle into a pew among them.
Further along, I notice a man and woman in their mid-forties staring at me with such loathing on their faces that they can only be the girl’s parents.
The girl.
I have to stop calling her that. She has a name: Lauren Mackintosh.
She’s nineteen years old and reading history at the local university.
I had never met her before that night and have never met her since.
But I’ve talked about her endlessly with the police officers investigating the case, when I’ve insisted that she’s lying about what took place.
She’d been flirting with Robbie all evening, I’ve told them, and it was she who took him by the hand and led him upstairs, not the other way around.
I don’t mention that Robbie turned to me as he followed her, giving me a grin, a wink, and the thumbs-up sign.
As for what happened after that, I have been consistent in my account of what took place.
Yes, I waited a few minutes before following them.
Yes, I was jealous of her. Yes, I wanted it to be me who Robbie went upstairs with.
No, I’m not ashamed of that; why should I be?
Yes, most of the lads know I’m gay, but no one cares.
No, the press doesn’t know. Because it’s private, that’s why, and it would only get in the way of the football.
No, I don’t see any contradiction there, I’m entitled to a private life, amn’t I?
No, I didn’t knock, the door was ajar. Yes, they both saw me enter the room.
No, neither of them protested. Yes, I watched them.
No, I don’t think that’s a strange thing to do.
Yes, she was totally into it. No, she never protested.
No, she never asked him to stop. Yes, if she had, I would have made sure that he did.
Yes, I filmed the encounter on my phone.
No, I didn’t touch myself. No, just because you think that’s a perverse thing to do doesn’t mean it is.
Yes, I enjoyed it. No, Robbie never invited me to have sex with her.
No, I can’t find the phone. Yes, I’ve looked for it, but it’s vanished.
Yes, I know how that looks, but remember, the truth is on that phone, so I wish I hadn’t lost it, because then we wouldn’t even be having this conversation, would we?
Yes, you can search my apartment; feel free, I have nothing to hide.
Yes, I bought a new phone the following morning.
Because I needed one; why do you think? No, I didn’t bother reclaiming on the insurance.
It only cost a grand, that’s why, and that kind of money means nothing to me.
Yes, I was part of the WhatsApp group. No, that’s not the way I normally speak about women.
No, I don’t have a sister. Yes, I accept they were disgusting things to say, but they’re not illegal things to say.
No, I wouldn’t lie to protect my teammates, not even Robbie. Yes, I’m telling you the truth.
I’ve stuck by every word of that for months now.
And I’ll stick by it when I’m on the stand.
Counting on you today, bro. Don’t let me down.
Listening to the opening statements makes me feel like an actor in a television show.
The barristers are ruthlessly polite to the judge, Dame Edith Kerrey KC, who everyone refers to as My Lady.
When the King’s Counsel, Mr. Armstrong, rises to address the jury of seven men and five women, he wears an expression of profound sadness.
He tells them that he needs to be honest with them from the start.
The club, our club, has been his club since he was a child, he says.
It was his father’s club before that, and his grandfather’s before that.
He’s a season-ticket holder, he tells us, and tries never to miss a home game.
His own son, only ten years old, sleeps in club pajamas and is devoted to the club.
His bedroom walls are papered with posters of the club’s players.
“All the players,” he adds. “Including Robert Wolverton and Evan Keogh. At least, he did have their images on his walls until recently when, I’m proud to say, with no encouragement on my part, he chose to remove them.”
He looks down then. His voice catches as he plays the part of Proud Father.
“The credit for my son’s decency must go to his mother,” he continues, “who has been a far better parent than I. Always there for him, while I, for my sins, have spent rather too much of my life within the walls of this fine building, where justice is dispensed without fear or favor, to rich and poor, famous and unknown, alike.”
He pauses now and shakes his head. He seems disappointed by the world.
“What do we do when our heroes let us down?” he muses, as if this question has come to him spontaneously and isn’t one that he’s spent weeks refining.
“What will my son do? Be a better man than those he idolized, I hope, for after all, while he’s too young to understand what this case is about, it’s actually rather simple. ”
He smiles now, as if he hopes this might encourage the jury to deliver a guilty verdict before they’ve even heard any of the evidence, thus saving us all the bother of showing up every day for the next two weeks.
I notice Juror no. 6, a woman in her late twenties, looking directly at me, but she turns away when I catch her eye.
“On a drunken evening, a young woman was seduced by a famous footballer,” continues Mr. Armstrong.
“Someone that each of us might have read about in the tabloid newspapers. I must admit, I occasionally buy those papers myself,” he adds, performing Man of the People now, disassociating himself from Wealthy Advocate in a Gown and Wig.
“And I read the gossip. I can’t help myself. How the other half live, am I right?”