Page 82 of Dissection of a Murder
“I’ve been trying to be professional, run this trial, do all my other work,” I sob, as big tears run down my face. “It’s all got too much!”
“Where have these threats come from? Do you have them on record?”
“Yes, they’re on Instagram. I’ll show you,” I reply, picking up my handbag and rummaging through it. After a few seconds, I roll my eyes to the ceiling, pretend to take a steadying breath.
“What’s wrong?”
“I was at my mother-in-law’s house before I came here. I was so busy sorting her out that I’ve left my phone there.”
“I want to see them,” Chester says. “Can’t you email them to me? I don’t know how bloody Instagram works.”
Of course he doesn’t. Chester wouldn’t understand an app if it hit him in the face.
“No.” I laugh tearily. “You can only log in to your account on a phone that also has the app.”
“Well, Demi’s on there. Darling, give her your phone so she can show me these threats.”
Her body stiffens; I watch it happen. She’s mid-chew with her food and does that thing where you wind your hand around a few times to let it be known you’re about to say something. But it’s obvious what’s happening—she’s stalling.
“Is now the best time to do it? Late on a Friday night? You can see how upset she is, Chester.”
“I’m not having one of my barristers being threatened and worrying about it the weekend before the biggest trial of her life.”
Picking her phone up, she activates it with the face recognition feature and fiddles about with something for an excessively long time before handing it to me.
“Thanks.” I smile. “Won’t be a minute.”
The phone is unlocked and completely open. Chester starts banging on about something I’m not listening to. It’s just noise, meaningless conversation, a necessary soundtrack to this scene she will remember—and regret—for years to come.
I sit, casually, in the armchair under the skylight, as Demi stands up and walks to the kitchen island, trying to look interested in what Chester is saying, but it’s pointless. She’s handed her power over to me. I can imagine what must be going through her head.How did she get me to do this?
This is the first trick of cross-examination: you have something I need, and I’m going to make sure you give it to me.
She has already logged out of her Instagram account, likely fearful I’d go snooping in her messages. Wise move.
Unfortunately for her, she hasn’t clocked that another powerful cross-examination technique is misdirection. People will fiercely protect something when you place a great deal of importance on it, leaving the jewel you really came for vulnerable.
Without any resistance whatsoever, I tap on the green WhatsApp icon, which opens her chats. There are eight listed, none I care about and none of which I came for. Pulling the screen down, I see archived chats and tap on that.
There it is. Just as I expected.
A chat with just a phone number, no name.
The profile picture is nothing, just a shadow. The chat preview reads:
Fine. I’ll do it myself if I have to.
The two small, blue ticks on the left-hand side indicate it was a message sent by her and was read on January 8, two days ago.
Tapping on the conversation to open it, I look up to see Demi talking to Chester, but not fully giving him her attention. She keepsglancing over; her eyes tell me she’s on edge. There’s something on this phone she doesn’t want me to see. And I’m pretty sure I’ve found it.
I don’t know what you want me to do about this.
Demi: Maybe be a man and face up to your responsibility?
Hardly in a position to do that. You’re aware of my situation. What the hell do you expect me to do?
Demi: How can you turn around and be like this after everything? Did it mean nothing to you? Because it did to me.
