room beside me, whom I have nicknamed Soldier, has continued to ignore me. I’m sure that seeing me embrace Bosco didn’t do much to sway his initial feelings about me. The word that Pia Wang has been pushing on behalf of Crevan is that I was trying to get rid of the Flawed man from the bus, not help him. If Soldier has seen these reports, which I’m sure he has because Flawed Court TV is the only station we can get on the tiny television in our cells, then that is why he isn’t looking at me. I can only gather from this that he is not anti-Flawed, that he feels my actions were unfair. If only he knew the truth, then he would know he had an ally in the cells. I know this untruth will save my life, but I can’t help but feel embarrassed that this is the perception out there of me. I feel Soldier’s disgust through the wall, and I don’t blame him, but I wonder, if he had the same chance to get out of this, would he take it?
Dad goes back to work and Mum stays with me. She has brought with her a suitcase of my clothes for the trial, and it looks like she went into a clothes store and grabbed every item from the racks. Soldier watches with a sarcastic look as Mum lays out the clothes on my bed, hangs them from every point of the cell she can. He shakes his head and goes back to pacing. I feel self-conscious about all the fuss in my cell when he has been alone all morning, but I try to put his presence out of my mind and concentrate on saving my own life.
“That’s a lot of pink,” I state as I run my eyes over the selection.
“We’ve got pale pink, baby pink, orchid pink, champagne pink, pink lace, cherry blossom pink, lavender pink, cotton candy, hot pink …” Mum lists the shades as she moves along the line, already eliminating the ones she doesn’t like and tossing them back into the suitcase. The hot pinks, candy pinks and lace are removed. The suggestive tops with the low fronts are taken away. We settle on baby pink: skinny cropped trousers and a blouse so light pink it is almost white, buttoned up the centre with ruffles, and a pair of ballet flats. A walk across the cobblestoned courtyard in heels is too much of a stage set for a tripping/heel-getting-caught disaster. Not a good look for the cameras and the hysterical public, who will be there to watch me. The flats are pink and tan leopard print.
“They’re sweet, but they say ‘don’t mess with me’, too,” Mum says. “Remember, in this world, image is everything.”
Tina arrives with a male mannequin, then leaves.
“Sweetheart, this is Mr Berry,” Mum says. “He will be representing your case. Judge Crevan recommended him, says he’s the best. He represented Jimmy Child.”
The mannequin suddenly moves. He offers me a big smile, a smile I don’t believe, a smile that is as fake as the smooth skin on his face. From the neck down he looks sixty; from the chin up he looks thirty. He wears a dapper suit – like he’s just walked out of the airbrushed pages of a magazine – shiny shoes, a handkerchief perfectly positioned in his pocket and gold cuff links to match his gold tie. His face shimmers where his cheekbones have been accentuated, and I definitely see powder on his skin. He’s perfect, and yet I don’t trust him. I look over at Soldier, who is glaring at my newly appointed representative with suspicion. I must say I agree, once again, with his instincts. Our eyes meet, and he shakes his head as though I am nothing and then walks to the far corner of his cell, as far away from me as he can physically get.
“Celestine,” Mum says. She jerks her head in Mr Berry’s direction, and I realise I haven’t acknowledged him yet.
“I’m sorry.” I move forward hastily, as if I’ve been pushed.
“I understand,” he says, devoid of all understanding and affection, through his big white teeth. “So let’s get to it.” He takes his seat and bangs his briefcase down on the table before him. Gold clasps spring open. “Today is just procedure. You won’t be required to say or do anything at all apart from deny the Flawed claim, then they’ll set a time for your trial tomorrow and send you home.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Celestine,” he says, noticing my nerves, “you just stick with me, kiddo, do as I say, and we’ll both be fine. I’ve done this a million times.”
The both is not lost on me.
“Of course, your situation is unique. I don’t usually have every member of the press and MTV outside my door. Not even for Jimmy Child, but then young women in the media are always more interesting. We found that helped us in Jimmy’s case. They were more interested in his wife and her sister than him.”
“MTV?”
“You’re a pretty seventeen-year-old girl from a good part of town, no serious problems, girlfriend of the son of Judge Crevan. What’s not to love about this case? Plus they’re looking for a new reality show, and it looks like you’re their newest target. You represent a generation that will be obsessed with every detail of every aspect of this case, a generation that is pliable, mouldable and just so happens to have more disposable income than any other demographic. Whatever shoes you wear today, they’ll want tomorrow. Whatever earrings you’re wearing, they will sell out by the end of this week. Whatever perfume you wear, there will be a waiting list for it tomorrow. It will be the Celestine North effect. The fashion and sales industry will love you.”
He speaks so fast I can barely keep up with him, and he talks through a smile, which makes it difficult to read his plumped-up lips, which rarely move.
“Every single medium is going to use you for its own motivations – you remember that. You’re a poster girl for the Guild, you’re a poster girl for Anti-Guild, you’re a poster girl for the clothes you’re about to wear and for the lip gloss they’re going to wonder about. Does your daily eating plan include carbs, and how many ab crunches do you do a day? Who styles your hair? How many boyfriends have you had? Have you had a boob job? Should you? Plastic surgeons are lined up and ready to talk about every aspect of you, Celestine North, and I care about all those aspects because they affect the outcome of the biggest question at all: are you Flawed?”
I don’t know if he’s waiting for an answer or not. He is simply studying me, all of me, with his snake-like eyes, which stare at me from under his eyelid-lift, so I don’t respond. I will not give him the benefit, and I wonder again where this stubbornness comes from.
“Everyone is ready and waiting to use you for their own good, just you remember that.”
Everyone? “And what’s your angle?” I ask.
“Celestine.” Mum gasps. “I’m sorry, Mr Berry, but Celestine has the tendency to be so literal about everything.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Mr Berry says, studying me with his big smile, looking and sounding like there is everything wrong with all of that. “Like I said, today is procedural. You’ll deny the charge, then you’ll go home, and you’ll wait until trial tomorrow. It will all be over by the end of tomorrow. You need to think about character witnesses. Parents, siblings, best friends who’d die for you, that kind of thing.”
“My boyfriend, Art, is my best friend. He’ll speak for me.”
“Sweet,” he says, flicking through his documents, “but he won’t.”
“Why not?” I ask, surprised.
“Better if I ask the questions,” he says. “But seeing as you asked, Judge Crevan has decided he’s off-limits.”
I can tell he’s uncomfortable with this decision, and I understand why. Bosco could not ask his son to lie about my helping the old man to the seat. It makes sense to me, and yet I feel deeply
