It’s the defense’s turn today: the short, round man, whose belly protrudes from his black gown so it won’t hang closed. I glance toward my aunt and uncle, clasping hands on the other side of the gallery, and wonder if Becca’s lawyer realizes how much hope is resting on his curly-wigged head. In the solace of the school library this morning, I managed to find a book on English law. It said the defense doesn’t have to prove anything, only show “reasonable doubt.” I roll the phrase around my brain, trying to wring some comfort out of it.

Becca’s lawyer questions Nick’s GP first.

“Why did you prescribe antidepressants for Mr. Wood?”

“He was going through a difficult period. Insomnia, feeling anxious . . . It was just a temporary measure.”

“Were you concerned about his state of mind?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

I can see what the defense man is trying to do. Reminding the jury of the possibility of suicide. Because possibility surely means doubt. But then the prosecutor stands up to cross-examine the doctor, and shoots to the heart of it: “Did you think Mr. Wood was a suicide risk?”

The doctor ponders. “I can never rule it out, of course. But I actually got the impression he wanted to address his mental state so he could be there for his partner.”

“If Mr. Wood was intending to commit suicide, don’t you think he would have taken a large amount of his antidepressants, or perhaps something like paracetamol, rather than a dose of unknown medication he found lying around?”

“Objection!” calls Becca’s lawyer. “This is speculation.”

The judge agrees. But, again, the prosecutor’s logic trails in the air, like smoke.

And although I presume the defense lawyer knows what he’s doing, I can’t help feeling his suggestions contradict one another as he continues. Maybe Nick took the pills on purpose, maybe accidentally, maybe they were Becca’s pills or maybe they weren’t. We can’t prove it, he’s trying to insist, and sometimes he sounds convincing. At others the prosecutor smashes her manicured hand right through his theories.

My hope lifts and dives so many times I feel sick.

Then it’s over for another day, and when I get home I think Mum suspects where I’ve been but she doesn’t say anything. I make chicken nuggets and burned potato waffles because she’s too tired to cook, and there’s something comforting about the childish meal, something that makes me want to curl up on her knee.

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