A/N: If possible, please listen to the following two pieces of music whilst reading this chapter. First, Chopin's Nocturn in D flat major: Op.27 no.2, followed by Chopin's Nocturne in E minor: Op.72 No.1.
Part Eighty Three
On the Tuesday evening, George was sitting at her piano, trying to mould her slightly unco-operative hands around one of Chopin's Nocturnes. Her father had always loved hearing her play the piano and so had bought her the baby grand as a wedding present. With the odd lapse here and there, George had kept up with her playing. She used it as a form of relaxation, a way to unwind her tensely knotted brain after a day of wrestling with the finer points of various judicial Acts and the Civil Procedure Rules. She occasionally found that if she knew a piece well enough, looking at the music would be more of a hindrance than a help, her hands would know it better than she did. In more recent times, it would be her way of calming down after an argument with Neil. He would storm out to his club, and she would retreat to her piano. In playing a fairly hefty piece of Beethoven or Brahms, she could let out all the frustration that a verbal fight with Neil never alleviated. In finding the verbal expression of her real feelings on occasions frightening, her playing would allow her to release the pent up hurt or anger. In the old days when she was married to John, they would have shouted at each other long enough to tie themselves in knots with their arguments, and follow it up with some of the best love making they'd ever had. But neither of those things had ever been accomplished with Neil. He thought of arguing as pointless, simply walking away from it because he couldn't deal with any kind of confrontation, just or otherwise. As for the other, he simply couldn't satisfy her. George almost craved that furious battle of wills followed by the intense release that a good orgasm provided. They almost went hand in hand for her, the fight and the fuck, the one almost being a precursor to the other. But then Neil had taken it one step too far. He'd used on her the one thing she could never throw back at him. He'd hit her. In a moment of blind fury, which she had to admit to herself she'd driven him to, he'd used his advantage of physical strength. At the time, the physical pain and humiliation had been uppermost in her mind. But on reflection, she knew it was the fact that he'd finally found a way to break down all her defenses that had irked her. John had never once done that to her. He'd only ever fought with her on an equal level. John had been everything she'd wanted, everything she could ever have wanted. Sure, the arrival of their daughter Charlie had without a doubt started the breakdown of their marriage, mainly because George hadn't been ready for a child. But then she doubted whether or not she'd ever have been ready for the full-time responsibility of another human being. It had terrified her to realise that this little person depended on her for everything. But even when she'd totally failed at being a decent mother to Charlie, John hadn't ever raised his hand to her.
On impulse, George turned to a piece she hadn't played for far too long. It began with a soft, slow build up, both her hands moving in drifting, languorous patterns. The beautiful, haunting modulations of D-flat major gradually took her hands through ever-increasing speed and crescendo. As George reached the peak of her playing, she was filled with the memory of exactly what had made this particular piece so special. She'd married John in November of 77, a few months after graduating from university. It'd been about a year later, not long after their first wedding anniversary, and they'd been lying entwined on the sofa in front of the open fire, listening to soft music and simply enjoying one another's company. John had expressed a wish to see her play the piano naked. Never one to pass up the opportunity of trying anything new, she'd complied. She could remember the way his eyes had followed the firelight as it played over her beautiful body, transforming her in to the incarnation of one of Botticelli's angels. Her hair had been long in those days, cascading down her back like a never-ending waterfall. From the gradual slope of her shoulders, to her small heavy breasts, to her extremely slender waist, his eyes had traced every inch of her. She had been looking at the music, but she could feel his eyes on her like branding irons. She'd also known that simply gazing at her wouldn't be enough for him for long. She'd been dimly aware of his drawing ever nearer, but had remained utterly absorbed in her playing as he'd gently caressed her shoulders. As his hands had begun to wander over her curves, she'd concentrated resolutely on not reacting to his touch, on playing the voluptuously resonant chords of Chopin's Nocturne in D flat major: Op.27 no.2. It was almost a test, to see how focussed she could stay, how well she could play these notes that, if she wasn't careful, could forever entangle her long, tapered fingers. As she'd reached the middle of the piece, some may even call it its climax, with the broken chord octave F-sharps marked forticimo, he'd slipped his hands under her slightly raised arms to tease the slightly darker skin that surrounded her nipples. She'd been unable to suppress a gasp as he did this, but she still kept on going, determined not to give in until the end. When she'd eventually achieved the last few lingering chords, he'd dropped light, feathery kisses over her shoulders and murmured,
"This thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes.
I said, I will go up to the palm tree, I will take hold of the boughs thereof: now also thy breasts shall be as clusters of the vine."
"Why are you quoting the songs of Solomon to me?" She'd asked, her voice deepened by extreme arousal. She'd been fairly noncommittal about his suggestion that seeing her play the piano wearing nothing whatsoever would be incredibly erotic, but now she had to agree that the torture of not being able to give in to his advances until the end of the piece had been fantastic.
"They could have been written about you," He replied, running his fingers through her hair and turning her face towards him.
"Trust you to know the only erotic part of the bible by heart," She said fondly as he began to kiss her. They'd ended up making love on the thick rug before the open fire, their bed upstairs seeming too far away to satisfy their immediate, desperate need for each other.
George smiled as this memory invaded her brain, and briefly wondered if she would ever feel that happy again. Those two years before she discovered she was pregnant had been thoroughly intoxicating. John and she could never get enough of each other, their passion hardly decreasing from the first time they'd sampled the delights of each other's bodies. It was such a shame that from that day on which she realised another human being was growing inside her, everything had changed. John had been overjoyed at the prospect of being a father, and he couldn't possibly have been more attentive or more wonderful to her. But his happiness at their creation had made her retreat in to herself. She couldn't voice her fears to him, so she kept them hidden, constantly eating away at her, only to increase a thousand fold once Charlie arrived.
As Jo drove towards George's house, she couldn't stop berating herself for having made such a spectacular mistake with Karen's case. She should have known that Helen Stewart wouldn't want to get involved. After all, Karen hadn't exactly shown Helen the greatest amount of support when she'd needed it, so why should Helen feel she had to return the favour. But Helen had been their one real hope, their one firm witness apart from Karen. But it wasn't to be. Whilst clearly feeling some sympathy for Karen, Helen wanted nothing whatsoever to do with any eventual trial. That was the point, Jo thought bleakly, without Helen's testimony, she doubted whether this would ever get anywhere near a courtroom. But perhaps the gravest of all her mistakes in the last week had been not to tell Karen that she was attempting to get Helen Stewart's support. In doing this, Jo had tested Karen's trust in her, something which she knew in retrospect should never have happened. The thought that really irked her was that George had very possibly been right. When they'd talked a week ago about this case, George had warned her not to get too emotionally involved, and Jo was honest enough to admit that this was precisely what she had done. As she pulled in to George's driveway, she wondered just why she'd come here. She locked the car and walked up the steps to the front door. She was about to press the doorbell, when she clearly heard the beautifully hypnotic sound of a piano being skillfully manipulated. Assuming that George was listening to a CD, Jo jabbed the doorbell once. She got the surprise of her life when the music immediately stopped, signifying that it must have been George doing the playing. When the door opened, Jo thought that George looked slightly wistful, as if she'd been dragged from the contemplation of a fond memory.
"Was that you playing the piano?" She asked, half regretting having interrupted her.
"Yes, it was," Replied George, standing aside to allow Jo to enter. As they walked in to the lounge, Jo caught sight of the open piano, with an open book on the stand, the page liberally dotted with felt tip where George had altered the fingering to compensate for her small hands. Jo walked over and looked at what George had been playing.
"Rather you than me," She said on noting the sincere difficulty of the piece.
"Yes," George agreed, "I do tend to tie my hands in knots playing that one. Would you like a drink?"
"Please. I've made a fairly hefty blunder with Karen Betts' case and need to drown my sorrows." After pouring Jo a scotch and herself a large martini, George sat on the sofa and Jo took the armchair she'd sat in last time she was here.
"What did you do that is so catastrophic?"
"I talked to Helen Stewart, without Karen's knowledge, and was told in no uncertain terms by both Helen and Karen once she found out, that Helen would never act as a witness and that it was pointless to ask her." Reserving any judgment until she was fully aware of the facts, George said,
"Why didn't you tell her you were talking to Helen?"
"I didn't want to get her hopes up. I knew I was clutching at straws, but I thought it was worth a try."
"If I was Helen Stewart," Observed George, "I probably wouldn't want to get involved either. You can't really blame her." Jo was outraged.
"But apart from Karen, Helen Stewart is the only reliable witness we might have had. If nothing else, surely it's her duty to help put Fenner behind bars."
"How ridiculous can you get," Said George scornfully, "It isn't her duty to do anything of the sort. The decision to drag up bits of what is clearly her past, had to be her choice. After all, that's what this case is all about, choice."
"It's pure vindictiveness that made Helen Stewart say no."
"Well, at least this time she had the opportunity to say no. Wouldn't you be vindictive if you were in her place? Admittedly I haven't spoken to the woman myself, but after reading everything I have on this case, Helen Stewart did her damnedest to warn Karen off Fenner. By the sounds of it, she couldn't possibly have done any more, and all Karen could do was to ignore and castigate her every word on him. Yet now that Karen has had a dose of the real Fenner, she wants Helen's support as if none of that had ever happened. If I was in Helen Stewart's place, a little act of revenge might be the only thing I'd have left."
"That's you all over, isn't it, George."
"Maybe it is, but I still say that neither you nor Karen had the right to expect that Helen Stewart would automatically want to become involved in this case."
"Karen didn't. I went to see her today, and she said that if it had been up to her, she would never have contacted Helen."
"That's something, I suppose."
"You think Karen Betts got everything she deserved, don't you," Jo said in a tone that could only be described as defeated.
"No, of course not," Said George furiously. "But you've got to admit that she isn't entirely blameless in what happened to her."
"How do you work that one out? She was raped, what more is there to it."
"I know she was raped," Said George quietly, "And I have every sympathy for her in that respect. But there were things she did, that in hindsight, might have led to her being in that situation. I am in no way condoning what Fenner did," She said as Jo took a breath to respond, "But you do not go to bed with someone who you don't intend to sleep with."
"Things aren't always that cut and dried."
"Oh, get a grip, Jo. No woman should ever do anything as thoroughly stupid, as to take her clothes off and get in to bed with a man she doesn't want to have sex with. You just don't do it! If, without Helen Stewart's evidence, you manage to get Fenner in to court and achieve a conviction, you would be bringing justice down on one of the most loathsome human beings I've ever encountered, but I cannot agree that Karen Betts was one hundred percent innocent in the crime that was perpetrated against her." Jo stared at her and then grinned broadly.
"You sound just like John," She said. Now it was George's turn to look affronted.
"Rubbish," She said, scorn dripping from each syllable. Then, looking back on what she'd said, she also smiled. "God, I really am going senile," She said, lighting a cigarette. After taking a long drag, she added, "I know you think I'm being unduly harsh about what happened to Karen, but she made the mistake of provoking Fenner more than she should of done. Pushing men a little too far is something me and her have in common. The only reason Neil gave me a black-eye was because I'd said one thing too many."
"What was it?"
"I can't remember, something about his sexual stamina. But it pushed him that little bit further than he otherwise would have gone."
"But that's no reason to do what he did."
"No, and Karen voluntarily going as far as she did with Fenner is no reason for him to force her to have sex with him. All I'm saying is that if either of us had given a thought to what we were doing, Neil wouldn't have hit me and Karen wouldn't have been raped." George refilled their drinks.
"How can you look at this so objectively?" Asked Jo, after lighting a cigarette of her own.
"It's simple, I'm not as close to the case as you are. When you came here last week, I could already see it. You've been far too emotionally involved from the start."
"I don't agree," Said Jo, knowing that George was right but loathed to say so.
"The only reason you ploughed ahead with attempting to get Helen Stewart on board, without your client's consent I might add, is because you wanted the conviction too much."
"I didn't tell Karen Betts in advance because I didn't want to get her hopes up," Responded Jo, now really riled.
"Precisely. Jo, if you are to remain slightly aloof and detached with a case, you absolutely can not get in to the habit of allowing concern for their feelings to cloud your professional judgment. You did exactly the same thing with the Diana Halsey case."
"That isn't relevant to this discussion," Put in Jo, knowing that for once, George had a stronger line up of evidence to call on.
"It's about as relevant as you can get," Countered back George. "Again, you wanted the result too badly."
"As a prosecutor that's my job."
"You got so close to her little boy. I remember the first afternoon of the pretrial hearing. You were playing noughts and crosses with him whilst I was arguing with John. All through that case, your underlying, desperate need was to achieve justice for him and his mother. When she died halfway through, you felt like you'd failed. I suspect you think you've failed Karen Betts."
"Haven't I?"
"No. If anything has failed her, it's area management and the justice system, not you. You have a habit of putting yourself far too successfully in to the claimant's or defendant's shoes, and you only end up getting hurt." The phone rang. George had half a mind to leave it, but her curiosity wouldn't let her. Reaching for the cordless that lay on the coffee table, she said,
"George Channing?"
"Is Jo with you?" Asked John.
"Yes, she is. Why?"
"I just wondered."
"Please go away, John. I'm in the middle of giving Jo what I think she came looking for."
"What?"
"A fight, something you're clearly incapable of giving her or I doubt she would have come looking to me for it." Switching the phone off before he could answer and putting it back on the table, George prepared to resume where she'd left off.
"Was it that obvious?" Asked Jo quietly, all the fight seeming to have gone out of her.
"A little."
"I'm sorry," Said Jo, realising with a shock that this was probably the first time she'd said such a thing to George.
"Don't be," Was George's response. "A verbal tussle never did anyone any harm. When I was married to John, he discovered that the quickest way to shut me up was to ignore me. It was utterly infuriating. It took him a few years to learn that, though." Remembering the time she'd demanded to know why he was so maddeningly reasonable, Jo smiled. After a few moment's silence where they both took refuge in alcohol and nicotine, Jo asked,
"Would you play something for me?" At first, George simply stared at her, not knowing if she was really ready to reveal part of her soul to this woman.
"Okay," She said, stubbing out her cigarette and moving to the piano. It would not after all do for Georgia Channing to refuse a challenge.
As she perched on the piano stool and rested her feet on the brass pedals, she flipped through her book of Chopin until she found one that suited both her mood and the level of skill she was prepared to risk in front of Jo. She finally settled on Chopin's Nocturn in E minor: Op. 72 no.1. The piece began in the haunting key of E minor, the six-eight rhythm of the left hand wandering languorously up and down the bass clef. The two bars introduction were followed by a lilting melody consisting of either single notes or full-bodied suspension chords, leading the piece fairly quickly in to B minor. The music soon returned to its tonic key though often modulated back and forth to the dominant. Every crescendo and corresponding diminuendo was executed perfectly by George as her slight nervousness dissipated. Jo leant back in the armchair, her head resting against the upholstery, her legs stretched out in front of her and her eyes shut. Every one of Chopin's notes gradually unknotted her senses, allowing her brain to set itself free from all the recrimination. George's perfectly manicured hands took the music through a soft, sleepy section in E major, though this was only the calm before the storm. Once the piece returned to its former heading, the music took on the appearance of tinkling glass, each precisely picked out run of notes sounding like the shattering of a window pane or the seductively pattering raindrops in a rapidly approaching storm. Here, the piece moved again to B minor, crescendoing to the very height of the furure, the rain and hail depicted in the right hand and the rumbling thunder in the left. With her eyes closed, Jo could almost visualise each flash of lightening with the melody played as it was, partly in octaves, adding an extra depth to the force behind it. On reaching its peak, both the storm and the music gradually decreased, taking with them every last shred of tension present in both mind and body. It ended with a few simple E major chords in the right hand, together with the ever quietening rumble in the bass, as if the thunder had finally decided to move onwards.
George sat watching Jo when her hands had stilled, thinking she looked wholly at peace.
"That was incredible," Said Jo softly, finally opening her eyes and looking at George across the room. Utterly unused to receiving any kind of praise from this woman, George simply shrugged. "I'm serious," insisted Jo. "It was wonderful."
"Thank you," Replied George, thoroughly unsettled by Jo's words. George had turned to face Jo, but still remained on her piano stool. After a moment's contemplation, Jo said,
"Will you take over Karen Betts' case?" George waited for some clarification. "There's absolutely no chance of getting Fenner in to court at the moment, at least I don't think there is. But she almost certainly has a civil case against area management for never having investigated Fenner properly. If a civil case were successful, that might provide more backing for a criminal trial." Mulling over the idea for a moment, George said,
"Of course. I'm not in court this week, so bring her to see me on Friday morning, and I'll see what I can come up with." Not long after this, Jo drove home, feeling that whilst she might have figuratively screwed up with Karen, she'd just made a lifetime's progress with George.
Part Eighty Three
On the Tuesday evening, George was sitting at her piano, trying to mould her slightly unco-operative hands around one of Chopin's Nocturnes. Her father had always loved hearing her play the piano and so had bought her the baby grand as a wedding present. With the odd lapse here and there, George had kept up with her playing. She used it as a form of relaxation, a way to unwind her tensely knotted brain after a day of wrestling with the finer points of various judicial Acts and the Civil Procedure Rules. She occasionally found that if she knew a piece well enough, looking at the music would be more of a hindrance than a help, her hands would know it better than she did. In more recent times, it would be her way of calming down after an argument with Neil. He would storm out to his club, and she would retreat to her piano. In playing a fairly hefty piece of Beethoven or Brahms, she could let out all the frustration that a verbal fight with Neil never alleviated. In finding the verbal expression of her real feelings on occasions frightening, her playing would allow her to release the pent up hurt or anger. In the old days when she was married to John, they would have shouted at each other long enough to tie themselves in knots with their arguments, and follow it up with some of the best love making they'd ever had. But neither of those things had ever been accomplished with Neil. He thought of arguing as pointless, simply walking away from it because he couldn't deal with any kind of confrontation, just or otherwise. As for the other, he simply couldn't satisfy her. George almost craved that furious battle of wills followed by the intense release that a good orgasm provided. They almost went hand in hand for her, the fight and the fuck, the one almost being a precursor to the other. But then Neil had taken it one step too far. He'd used on her the one thing she could never throw back at him. He'd hit her. In a moment of blind fury, which she had to admit to herself she'd driven him to, he'd used his advantage of physical strength. At the time, the physical pain and humiliation had been uppermost in her mind. But on reflection, she knew it was the fact that he'd finally found a way to break down all her defenses that had irked her. John had never once done that to her. He'd only ever fought with her on an equal level. John had been everything she'd wanted, everything she could ever have wanted. Sure, the arrival of their daughter Charlie had without a doubt started the breakdown of their marriage, mainly because George hadn't been ready for a child. But then she doubted whether or not she'd ever have been ready for the full-time responsibility of another human being. It had terrified her to realise that this little person depended on her for everything. But even when she'd totally failed at being a decent mother to Charlie, John hadn't ever raised his hand to her.
On impulse, George turned to a piece she hadn't played for far too long. It began with a soft, slow build up, both her hands moving in drifting, languorous patterns. The beautiful, haunting modulations of D-flat major gradually took her hands through ever-increasing speed and crescendo. As George reached the peak of her playing, she was filled with the memory of exactly what had made this particular piece so special. She'd married John in November of 77, a few months after graduating from university. It'd been about a year later, not long after their first wedding anniversary, and they'd been lying entwined on the sofa in front of the open fire, listening to soft music and simply enjoying one another's company. John had expressed a wish to see her play the piano naked. Never one to pass up the opportunity of trying anything new, she'd complied. She could remember the way his eyes had followed the firelight as it played over her beautiful body, transforming her in to the incarnation of one of Botticelli's angels. Her hair had been long in those days, cascading down her back like a never-ending waterfall. From the gradual slope of her shoulders, to her small heavy breasts, to her extremely slender waist, his eyes had traced every inch of her. She had been looking at the music, but she could feel his eyes on her like branding irons. She'd also known that simply gazing at her wouldn't be enough for him for long. She'd been dimly aware of his drawing ever nearer, but had remained utterly absorbed in her playing as he'd gently caressed her shoulders. As his hands had begun to wander over her curves, she'd concentrated resolutely on not reacting to his touch, on playing the voluptuously resonant chords of Chopin's Nocturne in D flat major: Op.27 no.2. It was almost a test, to see how focussed she could stay, how well she could play these notes that, if she wasn't careful, could forever entangle her long, tapered fingers. As she'd reached the middle of the piece, some may even call it its climax, with the broken chord octave F-sharps marked forticimo, he'd slipped his hands under her slightly raised arms to tease the slightly darker skin that surrounded her nipples. She'd been unable to suppress a gasp as he did this, but she still kept on going, determined not to give in until the end. When she'd eventually achieved the last few lingering chords, he'd dropped light, feathery kisses over her shoulders and murmured,
"This thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes.
I said, I will go up to the palm tree, I will take hold of the boughs thereof: now also thy breasts shall be as clusters of the vine."
"Why are you quoting the songs of Solomon to me?" She'd asked, her voice deepened by extreme arousal. She'd been fairly noncommittal about his suggestion that seeing her play the piano wearing nothing whatsoever would be incredibly erotic, but now she had to agree that the torture of not being able to give in to his advances until the end of the piece had been fantastic.
"They could have been written about you," He replied, running his fingers through her hair and turning her face towards him.
"Trust you to know the only erotic part of the bible by heart," She said fondly as he began to kiss her. They'd ended up making love on the thick rug before the open fire, their bed upstairs seeming too far away to satisfy their immediate, desperate need for each other.
George smiled as this memory invaded her brain, and briefly wondered if she would ever feel that happy again. Those two years before she discovered she was pregnant had been thoroughly intoxicating. John and she could never get enough of each other, their passion hardly decreasing from the first time they'd sampled the delights of each other's bodies. It was such a shame that from that day on which she realised another human being was growing inside her, everything had changed. John had been overjoyed at the prospect of being a father, and he couldn't possibly have been more attentive or more wonderful to her. But his happiness at their creation had made her retreat in to herself. She couldn't voice her fears to him, so she kept them hidden, constantly eating away at her, only to increase a thousand fold once Charlie arrived.
As Jo drove towards George's house, she couldn't stop berating herself for having made such a spectacular mistake with Karen's case. She should have known that Helen Stewart wouldn't want to get involved. After all, Karen hadn't exactly shown Helen the greatest amount of support when she'd needed it, so why should Helen feel she had to return the favour. But Helen had been their one real hope, their one firm witness apart from Karen. But it wasn't to be. Whilst clearly feeling some sympathy for Karen, Helen wanted nothing whatsoever to do with any eventual trial. That was the point, Jo thought bleakly, without Helen's testimony, she doubted whether this would ever get anywhere near a courtroom. But perhaps the gravest of all her mistakes in the last week had been not to tell Karen that she was attempting to get Helen Stewart's support. In doing this, Jo had tested Karen's trust in her, something which she knew in retrospect should never have happened. The thought that really irked her was that George had very possibly been right. When they'd talked a week ago about this case, George had warned her not to get too emotionally involved, and Jo was honest enough to admit that this was precisely what she had done. As she pulled in to George's driveway, she wondered just why she'd come here. She locked the car and walked up the steps to the front door. She was about to press the doorbell, when she clearly heard the beautifully hypnotic sound of a piano being skillfully manipulated. Assuming that George was listening to a CD, Jo jabbed the doorbell once. She got the surprise of her life when the music immediately stopped, signifying that it must have been George doing the playing. When the door opened, Jo thought that George looked slightly wistful, as if she'd been dragged from the contemplation of a fond memory.
"Was that you playing the piano?" She asked, half regretting having interrupted her.
"Yes, it was," Replied George, standing aside to allow Jo to enter. As they walked in to the lounge, Jo caught sight of the open piano, with an open book on the stand, the page liberally dotted with felt tip where George had altered the fingering to compensate for her small hands. Jo walked over and looked at what George had been playing.
"Rather you than me," She said on noting the sincere difficulty of the piece.
"Yes," George agreed, "I do tend to tie my hands in knots playing that one. Would you like a drink?"
"Please. I've made a fairly hefty blunder with Karen Betts' case and need to drown my sorrows." After pouring Jo a scotch and herself a large martini, George sat on the sofa and Jo took the armchair she'd sat in last time she was here.
"What did you do that is so catastrophic?"
"I talked to Helen Stewart, without Karen's knowledge, and was told in no uncertain terms by both Helen and Karen once she found out, that Helen would never act as a witness and that it was pointless to ask her." Reserving any judgment until she was fully aware of the facts, George said,
"Why didn't you tell her you were talking to Helen?"
"I didn't want to get her hopes up. I knew I was clutching at straws, but I thought it was worth a try."
"If I was Helen Stewart," Observed George, "I probably wouldn't want to get involved either. You can't really blame her." Jo was outraged.
"But apart from Karen, Helen Stewart is the only reliable witness we might have had. If nothing else, surely it's her duty to help put Fenner behind bars."
"How ridiculous can you get," Said George scornfully, "It isn't her duty to do anything of the sort. The decision to drag up bits of what is clearly her past, had to be her choice. After all, that's what this case is all about, choice."
"It's pure vindictiveness that made Helen Stewart say no."
"Well, at least this time she had the opportunity to say no. Wouldn't you be vindictive if you were in her place? Admittedly I haven't spoken to the woman myself, but after reading everything I have on this case, Helen Stewart did her damnedest to warn Karen off Fenner. By the sounds of it, she couldn't possibly have done any more, and all Karen could do was to ignore and castigate her every word on him. Yet now that Karen has had a dose of the real Fenner, she wants Helen's support as if none of that had ever happened. If I was in Helen Stewart's place, a little act of revenge might be the only thing I'd have left."
"That's you all over, isn't it, George."
"Maybe it is, but I still say that neither you nor Karen had the right to expect that Helen Stewart would automatically want to become involved in this case."
"Karen didn't. I went to see her today, and she said that if it had been up to her, she would never have contacted Helen."
"That's something, I suppose."
"You think Karen Betts got everything she deserved, don't you," Jo said in a tone that could only be described as defeated.
"No, of course not," Said George furiously. "But you've got to admit that she isn't entirely blameless in what happened to her."
"How do you work that one out? She was raped, what more is there to it."
"I know she was raped," Said George quietly, "And I have every sympathy for her in that respect. But there were things she did, that in hindsight, might have led to her being in that situation. I am in no way condoning what Fenner did," She said as Jo took a breath to respond, "But you do not go to bed with someone who you don't intend to sleep with."
"Things aren't always that cut and dried."
"Oh, get a grip, Jo. No woman should ever do anything as thoroughly stupid, as to take her clothes off and get in to bed with a man she doesn't want to have sex with. You just don't do it! If, without Helen Stewart's evidence, you manage to get Fenner in to court and achieve a conviction, you would be bringing justice down on one of the most loathsome human beings I've ever encountered, but I cannot agree that Karen Betts was one hundred percent innocent in the crime that was perpetrated against her." Jo stared at her and then grinned broadly.
"You sound just like John," She said. Now it was George's turn to look affronted.
"Rubbish," She said, scorn dripping from each syllable. Then, looking back on what she'd said, she also smiled. "God, I really am going senile," She said, lighting a cigarette. After taking a long drag, she added, "I know you think I'm being unduly harsh about what happened to Karen, but she made the mistake of provoking Fenner more than she should of done. Pushing men a little too far is something me and her have in common. The only reason Neil gave me a black-eye was because I'd said one thing too many."
"What was it?"
"I can't remember, something about his sexual stamina. But it pushed him that little bit further than he otherwise would have gone."
"But that's no reason to do what he did."
"No, and Karen voluntarily going as far as she did with Fenner is no reason for him to force her to have sex with him. All I'm saying is that if either of us had given a thought to what we were doing, Neil wouldn't have hit me and Karen wouldn't have been raped." George refilled their drinks.
"How can you look at this so objectively?" Asked Jo, after lighting a cigarette of her own.
"It's simple, I'm not as close to the case as you are. When you came here last week, I could already see it. You've been far too emotionally involved from the start."
"I don't agree," Said Jo, knowing that George was right but loathed to say so.
"The only reason you ploughed ahead with attempting to get Helen Stewart on board, without your client's consent I might add, is because you wanted the conviction too much."
"I didn't tell Karen Betts in advance because I didn't want to get her hopes up," Responded Jo, now really riled.
"Precisely. Jo, if you are to remain slightly aloof and detached with a case, you absolutely can not get in to the habit of allowing concern for their feelings to cloud your professional judgment. You did exactly the same thing with the Diana Halsey case."
"That isn't relevant to this discussion," Put in Jo, knowing that for once, George had a stronger line up of evidence to call on.
"It's about as relevant as you can get," Countered back George. "Again, you wanted the result too badly."
"As a prosecutor that's my job."
"You got so close to her little boy. I remember the first afternoon of the pretrial hearing. You were playing noughts and crosses with him whilst I was arguing with John. All through that case, your underlying, desperate need was to achieve justice for him and his mother. When she died halfway through, you felt like you'd failed. I suspect you think you've failed Karen Betts."
"Haven't I?"
"No. If anything has failed her, it's area management and the justice system, not you. You have a habit of putting yourself far too successfully in to the claimant's or defendant's shoes, and you only end up getting hurt." The phone rang. George had half a mind to leave it, but her curiosity wouldn't let her. Reaching for the cordless that lay on the coffee table, she said,
"George Channing?"
"Is Jo with you?" Asked John.
"Yes, she is. Why?"
"I just wondered."
"Please go away, John. I'm in the middle of giving Jo what I think she came looking for."
"What?"
"A fight, something you're clearly incapable of giving her or I doubt she would have come looking to me for it." Switching the phone off before he could answer and putting it back on the table, George prepared to resume where she'd left off.
"Was it that obvious?" Asked Jo quietly, all the fight seeming to have gone out of her.
"A little."
"I'm sorry," Said Jo, realising with a shock that this was probably the first time she'd said such a thing to George.
"Don't be," Was George's response. "A verbal tussle never did anyone any harm. When I was married to John, he discovered that the quickest way to shut me up was to ignore me. It was utterly infuriating. It took him a few years to learn that, though." Remembering the time she'd demanded to know why he was so maddeningly reasonable, Jo smiled. After a few moment's silence where they both took refuge in alcohol and nicotine, Jo asked,
"Would you play something for me?" At first, George simply stared at her, not knowing if she was really ready to reveal part of her soul to this woman.
"Okay," She said, stubbing out her cigarette and moving to the piano. It would not after all do for Georgia Channing to refuse a challenge.
As she perched on the piano stool and rested her feet on the brass pedals, she flipped through her book of Chopin until she found one that suited both her mood and the level of skill she was prepared to risk in front of Jo. She finally settled on Chopin's Nocturn in E minor: Op. 72 no.1. The piece began in the haunting key of E minor, the six-eight rhythm of the left hand wandering languorously up and down the bass clef. The two bars introduction were followed by a lilting melody consisting of either single notes or full-bodied suspension chords, leading the piece fairly quickly in to B minor. The music soon returned to its tonic key though often modulated back and forth to the dominant. Every crescendo and corresponding diminuendo was executed perfectly by George as her slight nervousness dissipated. Jo leant back in the armchair, her head resting against the upholstery, her legs stretched out in front of her and her eyes shut. Every one of Chopin's notes gradually unknotted her senses, allowing her brain to set itself free from all the recrimination. George's perfectly manicured hands took the music through a soft, sleepy section in E major, though this was only the calm before the storm. Once the piece returned to its former heading, the music took on the appearance of tinkling glass, each precisely picked out run of notes sounding like the shattering of a window pane or the seductively pattering raindrops in a rapidly approaching storm. Here, the piece moved again to B minor, crescendoing to the very height of the furure, the rain and hail depicted in the right hand and the rumbling thunder in the left. With her eyes closed, Jo could almost visualise each flash of lightening with the melody played as it was, partly in octaves, adding an extra depth to the force behind it. On reaching its peak, both the storm and the music gradually decreased, taking with them every last shred of tension present in both mind and body. It ended with a few simple E major chords in the right hand, together with the ever quietening rumble in the bass, as if the thunder had finally decided to move onwards.
George sat watching Jo when her hands had stilled, thinking she looked wholly at peace.
"That was incredible," Said Jo softly, finally opening her eyes and looking at George across the room. Utterly unused to receiving any kind of praise from this woman, George simply shrugged. "I'm serious," insisted Jo. "It was wonderful."
"Thank you," Replied George, thoroughly unsettled by Jo's words. George had turned to face Jo, but still remained on her piano stool. After a moment's contemplation, Jo said,
"Will you take over Karen Betts' case?" George waited for some clarification. "There's absolutely no chance of getting Fenner in to court at the moment, at least I don't think there is. But she almost certainly has a civil case against area management for never having investigated Fenner properly. If a civil case were successful, that might provide more backing for a criminal trial." Mulling over the idea for a moment, George said,
"Of course. I'm not in court this week, so bring her to see me on Friday morning, and I'll see what I can come up with." Not long after this, Jo drove home, feeling that whilst she might have figuratively screwed up with Karen, she'd just made a lifetime's progress with George.