The Better Woman (15 page)

Mealtimes were like an interval from her thoughts. The food was mush, but the officer was a voice, a face.

‘Two of the psych nurses are out sick,' he told her a few days in. ‘There's nobody available to assess your mental state, so you'll be staying in this cell until your hearing. Consider yourself lucky.'

‘But I'm not allowed to read or write,' Jodi pointed out with a great deal of frustration, ‘and the noise from the TV is doing my head in.'

‘At least you're safe.' He jerked his head backwards, in the direction of the main cells. ‘A nice girl like you wouldn't want to be in the midst of that lot.'

Finally, the day of the Supreme Court hearing dawned. Jodi got dressed in the green tracksuit and was transported in a security van to the court. She was taken to the cells, then to an interview room for a brief chat with Prue, back to the cells, and finally to the courtroom. It was a small ordinary room in the bowels of the building, decorated with light green carpet and wood-panelled walls. The ceiling, set low, had dozens of inset lights that dazzled Jodi's eyes after the dimness of the cells.

Grandma and Marlene were there, sitting along the back wall, a sign overhead saying that the area was reserved for family members. Her dad was there too. He looked as if he had a stomach bug, his face sickly, his lips puckered.

Grandma smiled encouragement at Jodi. Her love, hard and unconditional, transcended the short distance between them and instantly boosted Jodi's spirits.

I'm going home today. I am. I am.

Grandma was the first and only witness to be called to the stand. She leaned heavily on her walking stick but, once in position, looked as formidable as ever. She spoke in her most austere tone, one that could still make Jodi quake in her boots.

‘My granddaughter won't run away, I can assure you that,' she stated, staring daggers at the judge. ‘She's a good, obedient girl, very studious and hardworking. She'll live with me until this is all sorted out. Her poor mother is in no condition to care for her.'

Grandma stepped down and the hearing became focused on the conditions of bail. Prue leaned forward in her seat as she spoke to the judge.

‘Your honour, my client is a student and will need some
leniency in order to attend her classes. She is no threat at all to the community . . .'

The Crown, a woman with short dark hair who didn't look unlike Prue, didn't quite agree.

‘Your honour, the Crown suggests that exposure to the community should be limited as this is an extremely violent crime. We strongly believe that a nightly curfew is appropriate in this case . . .'

For Jodi, it was like watching a play in which she was the central character, but she was mute and couldn't speak for herself.

The judge cleared his throat, anticipation falling across the courtroom at the sound. ‘Bail is granted on the following conditions: daily reporting at Dee Why Police Station, and a 7 pm to 7 am curfew.'

Prue stayed poker-faced. Grandma and Marlene smiled shakily. Tony looked ready to keel over.

Jodi was told that she needed to return to the prison until the paperwork for the bail was complete. Prue had already warned her that this would be the case. She accepted it. She could cope with a few more hours.

After dinner, when all the paperwork was signed, Jodi was released from the prison. Marlene and Grandma came to fetch her. They took turns to hug her and check her over. Jodi hugged them back, vowing never to take their familiarity for granted again.

Marlene drove while Grandma ran through the accommodation arrangements.

‘You're coming to stay with me, Jodi,' she stated, ‘and Shirley is staying with Marlene.'

Jodi realised for the first time that the house in Lewis Street was a crime scene, no longer a home.

Shirley was waiting at Grandma's house. She stood up from her seat as they walked in. She looked like a skeleton of her old self, her cheekbones protruding, her eyes hollowed out.

‘I'm sorry, Mum,' Jodi cried, afraid to step closer, afraid of what reception she would get.

Shirley shook her head, tears rolling down her face. ‘I'm the one who should be sorry. Sorry that I wasn't strong enough to go to the court today, that I was blind to what was going on in my own house, that I didn't kill the bastard myself.'

They moved towards each other. Their embrace held nothing back: shock, sorrow and disillusionment melding them together. They cried in each other's arms until Grandma, thinking that they had cried enough, shepherded them into the kitchen for tea and sandwiches.

After the tea, Grandma suggested that Shirley and Jodi both get some rest. Shirley left with Marlene and Jodi went to Grandma's spare room. She crawled, exhausted, into the bed. The cotton sheets felt soft under her skin. The sheets in the prison were made of some special tear resistant fabric and had a plastic feel to them. These sheets were so much nicer. She nestled into them. But couldn't sleep.

She'd thought she was coming home to the familiar, but now she was beginning to realise that everything was irrevocably changed. Grandma's house was now her home. She liked its clutter and cosiness, but this bed wasn't where she was used to sleeping. Tomorrow she would have to report at the local police station, and she would not be permitted to leave the house between the hours of 7 pm and 7 am. The accommodation arrangements, daily reporting and curfew would be her new life until the trial, a year or so away. Then there would be more change, change she couldn't even begin to contemplate right now.

The door to the bedroom opened and Grandma shuffled in. The old woman lowered herself awkwardly to sit on the side of the bed and her hand reached out to stroke Jodi's eyelids shut.

‘Sleep now, child. Everything is going to be okay.'

Jodi disagreed on two counts: she wasn't a child and she couldn't see how everything would be okay. But still the soft rhythmic strokes of Grandma's hand soothed her into the welcome respite of sleep.

Jodi went back to university towards the end of September. Whilst Bob's death had been headlined on TV and radio, her name had been withheld so that potential jurors wouldn't be prejudiced. As result, the faculty and its students were utterly unaware that one of their own had been charged with murder. Obviously Alison knew, but she'd kept the shocking truth to herself. Jodi was thankful for her loyalty, and also thankful that nobody had spotted the small newspaper excerpts after the local and Supreme Court bail hearings and equated that Jodi Tyler with the girl in their class.

Once she was back, Jodi attended her lectures religiously, taking copious notes because her memory was shot to bits. She struggled with the assignments, finding it difficult to plan any task that lasted longer than a few minutes. Her concentration wasn't helped by the strain of having to report to the police station every day and the preparations for the trial.

‘We're running two defences,' Prue informed her. ‘Self-defence and diminished responsibility.'

‘What's the difference?'

‘Self-defence is a full defence. If you're found not guilty, then you walk out of the courtroom free. Diminished responsibility is only a partial defence. It would get the charge down from murder to manslaughter. It's our back-up if the jury don't buy self-defence.'

The threat of losing the trial, of prison, was never far away. It underscored every discussion with Prue.

‘Is there a significant chance that self-defence
won't
be successful?' Jodi asked guardedly.

Prue was matter-of-fact. ‘There's a possibility that the jury will find the level of violence you used wasn't reasonable for the circumstances.'

‘Twelve people hearing all the gory details,' murmured Jodi. ‘How humiliating!'

Prue's voice softened a little. ‘The jury will be made up of people just like you. They will put themselves in your shoes, Jodi. They'll be sympathetic.'

The weeks slipped by until it was time for the end-of-year examinations. Jodi spent every waking hour studying. But to no avail. Her mind went completely blank during the first exam, Econometrics, a subject she had once found easy. She stared at the blackboard that had
Exam in Progress
written on it, at the windows with their grey roller blinds, and at the exam supervisors who surveyed the students from the top of the room. Inspiration didn't come.

The Accounting exam the next day was a little better. Until she realised, with a few minutes to spare at the end, that she had misread one of the questions. Frantically, she began to rewrite her
answer, her haste making her handwriting no better than a scribble. But time was called and she was forced to put down her pen.

‘I'm going to fail my first year,' she wailed to Alison.

‘Don't be ridiculous,' Alison chided.

But five weeks later Jodi's dire prediction came true. She had indeed failed her end-of-year exams.

‘What will I do?' she asked Alison on the phone.

‘Resit the papers.'

‘But I'm not sure I'd do any better if they did allow me to repeat. I seem to have lost my ability to concentrate.'

Alison took a moment to consider the dilemma.

‘Go and see the dean,' she suggested eventually. ‘Explain what happened – put yourself at his mercy. He'd have to be a hard ass not to give you a break.'

Much as she hated the idea, Jodi realised that she had no option but to tell the dean the truth. She phoned the university the next day.

‘The dean is only just back from the UK. He's completely booked out this week.'

‘Please,' Jodi begged the secretary, ‘fit me in somewhere.'

The secretary sighed and Jodi heard the sound of a page flicking over. ‘I could slot you in at five-thirty on Tuesday – what shall I say it's about?'

‘I'd like to ask him for special consideration in relation to my exam results.'

‘There's a form you can fill in for that,' the secretary stated, her tone indicating that she believed the dean's limited time would be better spent elsewhere.

Jodi had done her homework. ‘I know. I've filled in the form. I just want the chance to discuss the –
unusual
– circumstances with him in person.'

The secretary begrudgingly agreed to book the appointment and hung up.

Tuesday was the hottest day of the summer so far. The temperature had peaked and was starting to edge its way back down when Jodi caught the bus to the city. Traffic was heavy right from the start and the bus came to a standstill at Spit Bridge. Too many cars filled with beach-goers were heading home at the one time. The bus took fifteen minutes to get past the bottleneck, and the rest of the journey was slow and jerky.

I'm going to be late
, Jodi thought in despair.

The bus finally reached the city centre and Jodi raced up to Castlereagh Street to catch the 422. Sweat glistened on her face and trickled between her breasts. The bus took ages to come. It seemed that everything was working against her today.

It was after 6 pm when she reached the dean's office. The outer and inner doors were ajar. The secretary had left for the day.

‘In here,' the dean called from his office.

In contrast to the bright sunshine outside, it was dark and gloomy in Professor Phelps' office. He sat behind his desk, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his tie loose around his neck.

She wetted her dry lips. ‘I'm so sorry I'm late, Professor. The traffic was terrible.'

‘That's okay.' He didn't seem to be annoyed by her tardiness. He seemed to be relaxed. Reachable.

‘Thank you for seeing me,' she said and sat down on one of the seats.

He shrugged disarmingly. ‘My door is always open for the students of the faculty.'

Unsettled, Jodi dropped her eyes. She noticed the fine dark hairs on his bare forearms. The slender fingers that curled
around his pen. Her old crush returned. The full, unexpected force of it burned her cheeks.

‘Would you like a drink?'

He had mistaken the reason for her heightened colour.

‘Yes, please. Water would be great.'

He rose from his seat. His waist was narrow, his dark trousers belted with thin leather and a flat silver buckle. His body was lean. No fat. Unlike Bob.

He strode into the outer office. A few moments later he returned with two cans of Coke.

‘Sorry. This is all that's left in the fridge. No clean glasses either.'

The icy-cold Coke felt good in Jodi's dry mouth.

‘Well,' he said when he was seated back behind his desk, ‘I presume you want to discuss your exam results.'

‘Yes, Professor,' Jodi stammered. She paused to control the wobble in her voice. ‘I was hoping that you would consider some special circumstances regarding my performance this year.'

He leaned forward, hands clasped, expression businesslike. ‘I must say that I was very surprised to see you'd failed the annual examinations, particularly after the high marks you attained in the first semester. I would imagine that your six-week absence,' he looked down to check the notes in front of him, ‘was not of any help.'

Jodi handed him an envelope. ‘I hope this will help you understand . . .'

She'd written it down. It was all there: what had led up to the night of her eighteenth birthday; what had happened in the kitchen, in the court, in the prison; the bail, the curfew, and why she had found it so hard to concentrate on her studies.

She couldn't bear to look at him while he read the sordid truth
about her life. Her eyes flickered around the room. She noticed an ice-pop wrapper strewn amongst rubbish in the overfull trash can, a reminder of summer in the dismal space that was his office. Over on the left a closet door was slightly ajar, giving a view of the spare shirt and tie hanging inside. Up on the beige-coloured walls, in the gaps between the cluttered bookshelves, there were various framed certificates, testament to the dean's academic achievements. The room seemed to be devoid of any personal photographs. Jodi would have been interested to see what his wife looked like.