Page 34 of The Elements

Lauren Mackintosh looks different to how I remember her, but then we’ve only met once.

In court, she’s dressed in a simple skirt-and-blouse combination, with her hair tied back in a ponytail.

It’s the day on which Catherine gets to cross-examine her, but I can tell that the jury has responded well to Mr. Armstrong’s questions yesterday when she gave her account of what happened.

“I’m sorry,” I said immediately, understanding that any conversation between us could prejudice the trial, if not invalidate it entirely.

I glanced down at the notebook she held in her hands, in which I’d noticed her making notes since the opening day, and saw, scored into the cover, her name: Dr. Freya Petrus.

I’m not supposed to know any of the jurors’ names, but now I know hers.

And her occupation. Although I suppose it’s possible that she’s a PhD and not a medical doctor.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

She took a long breath before replying.

“Walk on,” she said. “You know we can’t talk.”

I continued along the corridor, looking back to make sure that no one had observed the brief encounter.

When I glance toward her now, I know we have a shared moment.

“Miss Mackintosh,” begins Catherine, standing up and leaning forward on the desk before her.

“I recognize that this is a difficult experience for you, but I want you to know that I understand the courage it takes for you to come forward and give your account of what you claim took place on the night in question. I won’t keep you long, I just want to clarify a few things you said yesterday when being examined by my learned friend Mr. Armstrong. Is that all right?”

The way she phrases this implies that Lauren has some choice in the matter, when of course she doesn’t. Lauren nods and reaches for a glass of water, taking a sip. Her hands, I notice, remain steady.

“You’ve said that you had no knowledge of either Robert Wolverton or Evan Keogh until the night of the party. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“They are rather well-known footballers.”

“I have no interest in football,” she replies. “I’m not into sports at all. I know the most famous players, of course, the ones in the England squad and some of the bigger stars in the Premier League, but the defendants, well, they’re not really at that level, are they?”

I feel Robbie bristle next to me. It bruises his ego that he’s a Championship player, and I know it rankles with him that I play for Ireland. Played for Ireland. Whatever the outcome of the trial, I suspect those days are behind me.

“But when you went to Mr. Wolverton’s apartment,” continues Catherine, “you knew who he was then, yes?”

“Yes,” she admits. “I’d been with my friends in the club, and they recognized him.”

“And you were impressed by him.”

“No, not particularly. Why would I be? He does a job like any other.”

“But you went home with him.”

“No, he and his friends invited a group of us back to continue partying. There were more than a dozen of us there, as you know. Saying I went home with him suggests it was just the two of us.”

Lauren’s unwillingness to be provoked impresses me. She is, I realize, a formidable woman.

“But you did go home with him, didn’t you?” persists Catherine. “Not alone, as you correctly say, but you went back to his apartment.”

“Yes.”

“Even though you’d never met him before and you claim that you had no idea who he was. Is that something that you’re in the habit of doing, Miss Mackintosh? Going back to the apartments of men you’ve never met before?”

“I’ve done it from time to time, yes, like most girls my age,” she replies. “Particularly when there’s a group of us. You meet people, you hit it off, you see where the night takes you. That’s not so unusual, is it? But I don’t do it regularly, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I didn’t mean to imply anything of the sort,” says Catherine. “You’re entitled to go home with any man you want, even if you’ve just met him an hour or two earlier.”

“That’s not what I do,” says Lauren.

“Well, as you’ve just clearly told us, you do it ‘from time to time,’ which, to most reasonable people, would mean at regular intervals. But let’s leave that there for the moment. When you got to Mr. Wolverton’s apartment, what did you make of it?”

Lauren frowns. “I don’t understand the question,” she says.

“Did you like it?”

“I suppose so, yes. It’s very nice.”

“Luxurious.”

“Yes.”

“Expensive.”

“I imagine it must be.”

“You live with your mother, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you live with your mother?”

Lauren stares at Catherine as if she can’t believe she has to explain something so obvious. “I’m a student,” she says. “I can’t afford to move out.”

“But you’d like to?”

“Do you mean would I like to have my own place?”

“Yes.”

She thinks about it. “I suppose so, yes. But I’m happy where I am right now, to be honest. I love my mum and we have a good relationship. We get along. We always have.”

This statement of filial affection goes down well with the jury, who look across at her parents approvingly.

“Miss Mackintosh, would you agree that your evidence is materially based on the jury believing that you have a good memory? That you remember exactly what you said and did on the night in question and are relating it truthfully?”

“Yes.”

“And do you have a good memory?”

“I think so.”

“Then you will remember the beginning of our conversation.”

“I wouldn’t call it a conversation,” says Lauren. “But yes.”

“When you explained to us that you supposed you liked Mr. Wolverton’s apartment and that it was also, supposedly, luxurious.”

“Yes.”

“Is luxury not something that most people would, objectively, agree upon?”

“Perhaps,” she says. “To a degree.”

“You decide a fair deal by supposing matters after the event, don’t you? Such as supposing that the apartment might have been luxurious, but only months after seeing it?”

“Something as insignificant as the design of a flat, yes.”

“Am I understanding correctly that you’re only guided by supposition about minor moments in life?”

“I don’t know. Is that what I—”

“Including you merely ‘supposing’ that one day you would like to own a home and to live independently of your mother, which to most people would be a highly significant life event?”

“I obviously did not mean it that way.”

“How many other apparently significant events in your life did you merely ‘suppose’ have happened recently, Miss Mackintosh?”

“None.”

“Do you want to reflect and give a less rehearsed answer?”

“No.”

“I didn’t anticipate you would.” Catherine shakes her head and sighs loudly. “You’ve admitted already that you asked your friend Jennifer whether or not Mr. Wolverton had a girlfriend.”

“I asked her whether he had, yes. I don’t know what you mean by ‘admitted’ it.”

“And you asked her this question after you arrived at his apartment, not when you were in the nightclub?”

“Yes.”

“So presumably you were interested in applying for the position?”

“What position?”

“The position of girlfriend.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” says Lauren, losing a little of her composure now. “It was just a question. I’d been chatting to him, he seemed nice, so I wanted to know, that’s all. I mean, if he had a girlfriend, I didn’t want to waste my time.”

I watch Mr. Armstrong when she says this and notice a nerve twitch in his cheek. This was a mistake on her part, and Catherine immediately pounces on it.

“You didn’t want to waste your time,” she repeats, looking baffled, as if she barely understands English. “What do you mean by that?”

“I didn’t want to…”

She hesitates. She knows she’s slipped up.

“What? Hope that you and Mr. Wolverton might become romantically involved? That you might find yourself living in this luxurious apartment some day?”

“I wasn’t thinking that far ahead,” says Lauren. “Honestly, it’s a standard question when you meet someone and you’re having a good night out. Does he have a girlfriend? Guys ask me the same thing. Do you have a boyfriend? The difference being, I actually listen to the answer and respect it.”

“So you weren’t thinking of moving in with Mr. Wolverton?”

“No.”

“Were you thinking as far ahead as the next day, after perhaps having spent the night with him?”

“No.”

“Were you thinking as far ahead as how to get him to have sex with you?”

“No.”

“Miss Mackintosh, you’re not in the habit of giving much thought to matters, are you?”

“But I am clearly in the habit of saying no,” says Lauren, fighting back.

“It was you who led Mr. Wolverton upstairs, wasn’t it?” continues Catherine, forcing a different answer, which is given reluctantly.

“Yes.”

“With the intention of having sex with him.”

“We’d been talking, that’s all,” insists Lauren. “Having a laugh. And he asked whether I wanted to see the rest of the apartment. I said OK. The only reason I led the way was because I happened to be the one standing closer to the staircase at the time.”

“Or you had positioned yourself closest to the staircase, hoping that Mr. Wolverton would issue an invitation.”

“Oh, come on!” says Lauren, growing angry now. “I was just standing there, the way anyone might be. It wasn’t some great Machiavellian plan.”

“Still, fortunate for you,” replies Catherine. “Because he took the hint.”

“I’m not sure that I consider getting raped fortunate for me ,” says Lauren. “I assume it’s never happened to you.”

“No,” admits Catherine. “But then I don’t generally go back to the apartments of young, single, famous millionaires who I’ve only known for five minutes.”

“I was waiting for that,” says Lauren, offering a bitter laugh.

“Waiting for what, Miss Mackintosh?”

“Waiting for you to tell me that it was my fault.”

“You misunderstand me,” replies Catherine, shaking her head and looking entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. “I don’t think it’s your fault. After all, you can’t be blamed for something that never actually happened, can you?”