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A Novel
by Suzie Miller
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CHAPTER 1
Thoroughbreds. Every single one. Primed for the race, every muscle pumped; groomed in expensive, understated, designer gray or navy suits, classic white shirts, black robes. All these top legal women have a sort of swagger, an ironic way of owning the space, a satchel flung from one shoulder to the opposite hip. Nude or red lipstick, not too much mascara. Cool earrings, and designer boots, or cheeky heels bought on a trip overseas. I study them all. Have done so for years. Copy them. I'm a good mimic, before eventually I become better at 'being a barrister' than the ones born to it. The top women do law differently than the men, subtly different, and it takes a while for me to compute the various ways they own the space. All the little details are secret code for 'we're here but we're doing it our way, not like the crusty old male barristers of the past.' And these accumulate the more confident you become, the more you own your space in court. Barrister bags in pink or blue are placed around the court, like loyal dogs beside their owners: blue for baby barristers of fewer than twenty years, the pink ones are a badge of honour, given to a junior barrister by a KC who has singled them out for praise. I was granted a pink one, and I treasure it, but I use mine more ironically than anything else. White, thick, soft ropes of a certain length and texture act as handles, blazoned with hand-stitched initials in the only font permitted, and lined with court-approved ticking. A barrister bag was once a thing of pride, supposed to be used for carrying briefs and materials for court—they might have been useful centuries ago—but now really there for the show. Symbols of the elite, handed down from father to son to son. Sometimes a daughter received her father's bag, but those barristers—the women who grew up with law in the family—they don't have the same uncomfortable relationship with these things that I do. They also don't love the law like I do either. They don't see it as a tool for power in the way I always have; don't hold on to it tight. Sure, they know it is 'powerful,' but most slipped into the law as if settling into an old family leather armchair, and think of it more as a family business, not a desperate arena to fight for justice.
It's easy to pick these women. They mostly don't do criminal law, nothing grubby. Nothing risky. If they do opt for a criminal practice, it's usually a tame version, and often chosen more out of curiosity than life experience, chosen more for the excitement than the desire to fight for clients on the lowest rungs of social standing.
For those of us beyond the barrister bag accoutrements, the satchel is a much better statement: confident, unfazed, a symbol of having made it well past the need for a security blanket, our own little badge of honor.
Yet there are some things we all have in common: the horsehair wigs that cover our well-cut, warmly colored styles that give all women barristers the same unfortunate case of 'six p.m. wig-hair' at the end of a long day. Something the male forebears didn't account for when they enshrined it as legal costume. For the men, the only way they can differentiate from each other is the color of their tie. Every now and then some unusual glasses frames or an interesting watch.
In a glance, I can tell who's who in the court foyer. What cases they have run, won, lost; what cases are listed today. If it's a certain group of barristers, then it's all white-collar crime in corporate finance cases, their instructing solicitors trail behind them with trolleys of white binders.
And then there's those of us who ride the lifts to the criminal courts. We circle, heads held high. All of us trained and ready for the sprint. Not jumpy but wired, like a horse, excited, restless. Waiting for the starting gun. I walk into court with my client, take in a rabble of police leaning into the prosecution barrister. Arnold Lathan is prosecuting. Good. I'm glad it's him, dare I say this is now perhaps a winnable case. I nod to Arnold briefly and he nods back. My blood rises but I have to hold back, keep it together, don't get too excited. Arnold's always prepared, but he's just not as quick once things unfold. I don't recognize any of the police. That's also good. They have no idea what to expect. My client is lagging. Tony. He's a tall guy, big, this isn't the first time I've acted for him, but it is the first time on a matter like this. Tony's charge of stealing and assault is based entirely on the evidence of one man, someone whom he once played football with. A compromised witness who maintains a major grudge against him. He dislikes Tony, looks down on him; approached him in the bar and has made a statement that leaves out the abuse and assault Tony endured at this man's hands. The police clearly believed the story against Tony, and so here we are. The witness's word against Tony's. Tony is dressed as I told him, but he still doesn't cut it. A suit from Primark, a cheap no-brand shirt, and a tie he must have got free with the shirt on sale somewhere. Still, at least he tried. He's hidden all his tatts of snakes and knives under that layer of polyester. Good. It's always a shock to me when these tough guys walk into the foyer of a court. And Tony is no different. They run the streets out there, confident, cocky, reading all the signs, but in here, the signals are different, and each of them say 'you have no power.' I told him to 'bring your toothbrush' and he told me this morning that he actually did. He pulled it out of his pocket, a blue Tesco brand with some fluff from the pocket of his new jacket layering the bristles.
Excerpted from Prima Facie by Suzie Miller. Copyright © 2024 by Suzie Miller. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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