Spider in the Corner of the Room - [41]

He sits back, removes his glasses. I inspect them and feel something well up, feel something knock on my skull, reminding me.

‘My father wore spectacles like that,’ I say, pointing to them, realising now what I am recalling. My papa reading his daily newspaper, glasses perched on the end of his nose, slipping as they did down the bridge, his sweat increasing as fast as the hot sun did. I breathe in, the brief memory bathing me in a rare, temporary sensation of comfort.

Harry smiles. Eye creases to match. ‘From what I can see, the evidence is weak at best. That is our defence, our route, I think-discredit the forensics.’ He taps the frame of his spectacles. ‘I will want to reanalyse the DNA. That involves revisiting everything-all the pathology analysis, the witnesses. All upturned, back to front and side to side. Are you ready for that?’

‘Yes.’ I hesitate a little, fear slipping into my consciousness. The thought of repeating it all, of dealing with the whole ordeal again, of the murder details, of my apparent, non-deniable guilt. It is an overwhelming feeling. ‘And after that? What happens next?’

‘I will set in motion the Notice of Grounds forms for your appeal.’

‘And that is everything we need to discuss?’ I say, my mind back on Patricia, on finding out any news.

‘Actually, no.’ He touches his file and pauses. ‘Yesterday afternoon, the priest’s parents gave a press conference. They’re unhappy that you’re appealing against your conviction.’

‘How do they know about the appeal?’

He shrugs. ‘These things get to be public information.’

‘Oh.’

‘The parents are denouncing the appeal. And they are insisting that the DNA evidence is strong enough to withstand an appeal process.’

‘Can they do that?’

‘They can and they have. Watch.’

Harry takes out laptop and opens it. He clicks on the web browser and brings up a YouTube video. There is an image of an old man and woman sitting behind a long desk, hair a soup of grey and white, skin liver-marked, pale. A bubble of worry floats up into my head. They both look like the dead priest. I can hardly bring myself to look as Harry presses play. Reporters come alive, ask questions. Bulbs flash from every angle, the man declaring that I am guilty, the woman crying into her hands.

When it comes to an end, Harry turns off the computer and looks up. The light above us flickers, fades, then splutters back to life. ‘So,’ he says, after a second or two, lifting a thick file from his briefcase, placing it between us on the table, ‘what are your thoughts?’

I drag my eyes away from the light. ‘On what?’

‘On the video, on what the parents have said.’

‘Their questioning of the DNA evidence presents a difficulty to my case.’ I blink, shake my head. Their faces won’t leave my mind.

Harry opens the file. ‘I agree.’ He extracts a court paper. ‘Now, their questioning doesn’t mean to say that they are correct, but it does pose a challenge to us.’ He places a paper in front of me. ‘These are the original court documents.’

I lean forward to read, palms clammy, nervous of what I am about to see. The words ‘knife’, ‘fingerprint’ and ‘trace’ instantly appear. I read on, my anxiety growing. There are details of the body, of how it was found-it is all there: perforating stab wound; nails in the hands; torso sprawled out at the altar; bruises inflicted; restraint used.

‘I want to, with your permission, Maria, revisit the legal principles surrounding the nun’s actions upon the discovery of the body.’ Harry looks at me. I smell him now: a warm fug of tobacco, of icing sugar, of freshly baked bread. I inhale the soothing scent, and my whole body wants to fall into him, to let itself go, let itself be comforted by him, be told by him that everything is going to be okay.

‘So the nun,’ Harry continues, ‘her acting immediately upon finding the priest could have saved his life. It could have broken the chain of causation.’

I snap to, shake off his smell. ‘This chain of causation has never before been discussed.’

‘It should have been.’ He hesitates for a moment. ‘Please be aware, Maria, that to get this conviction overturned, whatever we have must be bulletproof.’

‘“Bulletproof”? That is a phrase meaning “beyond reasonable doubt”.’

Harry nods. ‘The judge should hear your application for permission to appeal any day now. As soon as we know anything, I will inform you. Okay?’

‘Yes.’

Harry begins to slide away the paperwork. I watch him and feel a sudden rush of something that I cannot identify. A feeling. Gratitude? Think. What would Patricia tell me to do? I place one hand on the table. ‘Thank you,’ I say eventually, slow, measured.

He pauses, smiles, then resumes gathering files. We walk to the door. Harry presses the exit buzzer and waits. ‘I hear you helped your cellmate. She tried to commit suicide.’

I swallow. ‘Yes.’

He pats me on the shoulder. I flinch. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and lowers his hand. After a second, he smiles again, the type of smile that creases at the eyes. ‘You know, you remind me of my own daughter,’ he says. ‘You’re a similar age. She is strong, like you. Beautiful, too. But then, I am biased.’ He reaches into his pocket and gives me a card. ‘Here. For you.’