“How do you plead?” Judge Winthrop’s voice boomed through the packed courthouse, as the sounds of shuffling and whispering died down. Now there was a just silence ringing in Sandra’s ears as all faces turned to look at her. She saw question marks hovering above their heads, their mouths hanging open eagerly.

Sandra could hear her heart thudding in her ears. Her defence attorney Britney, wigged and gowned, nodded at her from the bench. Twelve pairs of eyes from the jury pew bore into her. She looked at her hands in her lap, thinking “I need a manicure”, her nails were all different lengths, some jagged, her left thumb chewed down revealing sensitive plump pink flesh.

She swallowed audibly. “Not guilty your honour.”

The room hummed again. Somewhere from the back a baby gurgled. The cavernous courtroom with its dark mahogany fittings and tall ceiling seemed to capture every sound.

The crown prosecutor, Carl Jameson, cleared his throat, scraping his chair to standing and began his opening statement. A strand of wispy grey hair escaped from beneath his wig.

“Your honour, ladies and gentlemen of the jury”, he began slowly, languorously, as he teetered back and forth on his heels. “Today you will learn the facts. The prosecution will prove beyond reasonable doubt, that Sandra Reeve ruthlessly and with intent, murdered her husband Chris Reeve.”

Sandra inhaled deeply, trying to block out his voice, adjusting her face to neutral, as she had been told to do by Britney and began chanting in her head. “In the buddha, the dharma and the sangha most excellent, I take refuge until enlightenment is reached.”

She repeated the mantra three times slowly, each phrase accompanied by a deep breath, followed by a slow exhale. “By the merit of generosity and other virtues, may I attain enlightenment for the sake of all sentient beings.”

Her heart rate began to return to normal and Carl’s words washed around her. She observed them leaving his mouth in a plume of black smoke and curling up and around the courtroom. He now appeared blurry at the edges, the light streaming in from the glass doors at the back lit up the contours of his wig, his black gown now a calming shade of shimmering gold.

By the time Britney had delivered her opening statement, Sandra had been through an entire lovingkindness mantra and a peaceful smile was playing at the corners of her mouth. 

*******

It was day three of the Reeve trial. It was the middle of summer and 38 degrees in the shade. Sandra and Britney left the cool darkness of the Downing Street Courthouse and were immediately met by a wave of heat and activity.

Media vans were parked outside the old sandstone courthouse, and a gaggle of reporters surged towards them from the shade of the jacaranda trees. Sandra felt the crunch of the gravel pathway under her feet, teetering a bit in her high shoes which she was not used to wearing.

She felt Britney’s steady hand on her arm, guiding her forward. “Brave face now Sandra. Just remember. No comment.”

A rush of reporters, each tailed closely by their cameramen approached, microphones thrust forward in their hands.

“Sandra! Sandra!”, she heard her name being called repeatedly, urgently, heard the zing of cameras and lights flashing.

“Did you kill him Sandra?”

“Why were your prints on the hammer?”

“How come you didn’t report him missing?”

“When did you find out Chris was having an affair with the 16 year old neighbour?”

Britney shielded her, pushing through them to the carpark.

“No comment,” she kept saying. Sandra whispered the same, following Britney’s lead. They were almost at the car.

“How are you going to cope with life imprisonment Sandra?” was the last question she heard before sinking into the passenger seat of Britney’s Audi. The door slammed behind her. Shaking, she was aware that Britney had turned to face the barrage of press.

“My client is innocent and devastated by her husband’s death” she heard Britney say. “Please respect her privacy while she grieves.”

Britney jumped into the driver’s seat, started the car and it shot forward. The journalists parted reluctantly, making their way back to the parked news vans, consulting their notes.

Sandra was shaking convulsively. Her breath coming out in ragged gasps.

“You ok?” Britney asked. Sandra fought back tears, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Life imprisonment? Life? Could that be true? I couldn’t bear that.”

“No,” Britney almost yelled. “That will not happen. You’re a buddhist for god’s sake. You wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“But they laughed at that,” Sandra sobbed into her tissue.

Britney looked at her grimly, then pulled left into Crown Street. “I know. We’ll find something. That fucker Carl Jameson better watch himself.”

*****

Britney sat alone at a corner table at the Crown Hotel overlooking the hustle and bustle of Elizabeth Street. City workers were marching towards Wynyard Station to get home for the weekend, others were gathering in the pub for afterwork drinks. She thirstily gulped her beer, followed by a vodka chaser, enjoying the burn as it went down her throat, feeling comforted by the warmth as it settled in her stomach.

She tore the cardboard coaster into neat squares, going over the case in her mind. She saw Karim, one of the lawyers from her firm approaching her with his beer in hand, and shook her head. He nodded and veered off to another table, understanding she needed to be alone.

She knew Sandra hadn’t killed her husband. But the facts were stacked against her. She had no alibi, having been home alone on the night of the murder. She had truthfully recounted the events leading up to the discovery of his body to the police. Chris had gone out in his car to soccer training after an early dinner (spag bol and salad) and had gone straight to the garage to tinker on his racing mini when he returned. This was not unusual and she woke up the next morning to find the bed empty. She wasn’t worried about his safety. She searched the house and garage and couldn’t find him anywhere. His car was parked in the usual spot.

She was getting ready for work when the police knocked on her door. Chris’s body had been found by a morning walker and her dog, dumped near a bushtrack behind their house. The murder weapon, a hammer, was recovered from a hastily dug hole in surrounding bushland. It was covered with her fingerprints and his skin, hair and blood.

Sandra had a motive. On the day of his murder, she had discovered that Chris was having an affair with Indiana Barrow, the 16-year-old daughter of their neighbours, James and Diana Barrow.

James and Diana, obvious suspects for the murder, had watertight alibis. They had spent the night away down the south coast, while Indiana slept over at a friend’s house.

The best defence Britney had was in the form of character witnesses. Sandra’s firmly-held Buddhist beliefs quite literally meant that she wouldn’t hurt a fly. She didn’t even swat at mosquitos! And she had friends in her community to attest to this. But Carl had been scathing and clever in his cross questioning of her star witnesses, causing the jury to stifle their laughter and from that moment onwards, she could sense any rapport she had established with the jury was broken.

Carl had the jury eating out of his hands. Despite his drab appearance, he was a skilled and charismatic speaker, and his age and experience gave him an air of superiority, something Britney lacked. By contrast she was young and attractive, and appeared far younger than her thirty years.

Things were not going well for Sandra. Unless Britany could pull a rabbit out of a hat, Sandra could be facing 25 years imprisonment for a first degree murder.

*****

Sandra poured a generous tot of vanilla Absolut vodka into her favourite coffee mug. Freshly showered, her wet hair wrapped in a towel, she could finally breathe again.

She cradled the mug in both hands and walked down the hall from the kitchen to the outdoor patio. She sank into the basket chair with a sigh. It was her favourite place to be. Chris had given her this chair for her 30^th birthday. It was so roomy she could sit cross-legged in it and meditate. She still had trouble believing what had happened in the last few weeks. She knew something was up with Chris, but it was only on the day of his murder that she had found out about his affair with Indiana.

James and Diana Barrow, both busy executives, had moved in next door 5 years ago with their 12-year old daughter Indiana. Apart from their annual New Years Eve street party and occasional greetings in the street, Sandra had little to do with them. Chris however, had begun coaching the girls soccer team for his local club a year ago, and had mentioned that Indiana, now a striking-looking young woman, had joined the team.

She shuddered, remembering the text messages that popped up on her phone the day of his murder. “Do you know where your husband is?????” and “He’s fucking the little girl next door…”

At first she was shocked and afraid, thinking they were real. Then convinced herself it was a hoax and blocked the sender. She had thought no more of it until later when the police questioned her. They made her feel guilty. Why hadn’t she told anyone? Confronted Chris? Reported the hoax? And moreover, why hadn’t she been in the slightest bit worried when Chris didn’t come to bed that night?

The sound of knocking broke her reverie, and she jumped, placing a hand on her heart to calm herself. Police? Journalists? An angry neighbour? She had had them all lately and she just wanted some peace now. Some time to herself to prepare herself mentally for the hell that she had to face.

She approached the front door cautiously.

“Mrs Reeve?” a voice called softly followed by more knocking. “It’s Indiana Barrow. Please let me in. I have something to tell you.”

*****

Downing Street Court was packed again. Over the weekend the press had gone to town with the Reeve Murder trial and Sandra and Britney were now household names. The buzzing of voices and anticipation was silenced by Judge Winthrop’s gavel and shout of “Order in the court!”

Britney eyed her opponent Carl across the bench. He wore a smug smile across his puffy face, the wisp of grey hair hanging out from under his wig.

“Your honour,” Britney stood. “The defence calls its witness Indiana Barrow.”

Shocked gasps filled the room as Indiana entered from the side chamber. Her hair was swept up in a high ponytail bound by a white ribbon, and she appeared younger than her 16 years, wearing a plain white dress and white Vans. Her olive complexion was pale and dark rings smudged under her brown eyes. She approached the witness stand and took the oath. The room was silent now, the jury members exchanging looks with each other.

Carl’s face reddened, his eyes bulging as he scraped to his feet. “Objection your honour”, he yelled.

Britney fought the urge to laugh out loud, struggling to contain the mixture of joy and nerves she felt rising in her throat. She gave Sandra a little smile and nod. Clenching her fists at her sides she took a deep breath and prepared to win her first murder trial.