Free A Poisoned Mind by Natasha Cooper Page A

scientist.’
    ‘I haven’t done any seriously since school,’ he said, thrusting a plate of crudités at her. ‘Have some of these. Keep up your strength for tomorrow.’

Chapter 6
    Trish prepared as methodically as she always did before court. Her dark hair was blown dry to the flat neatness that would make her wig sit well, and her make-up was discreet. Her black suit was as well pressed as her gown, and her bands were crisply starched. She had the whole case mapped in her mind and could see several different routes to take if Angie Fortwell’s cross-examination enticed any of her witnesses away from the line she’d planned for them.
    When facing other barristers you’d know more or less what they were going to say. You did sometimes get surprises, but usually you’d worked out every possible argument so you could counter any one of them. With an amateur, a litigant in person, you were on much wobblier ground.
    ‘Feeling OK?’ Robert said as he came into her room to collect her.
    ‘Absolutely fine.’ She resisted the temptation to brush the shoulders of her jacket or tweak her hair. ‘Have you got the documents?’
    ‘My pupil’s already gone ahead with two trolleys. Let’s go.’
    Trish slowly got to her feet, testing her reactions. She’d expected to be nervous and was glad to notice nothing out of the ordinary. You needed some apprehension to get the adrenaline flowing and keep your mind sharp.
    She stepped out beside Robert, feeling her ribs expand with every breath she took. He knew better than to talk or offer advice just before a court appearance, and she was grateful for that.
     
    Angie waited by the security guards as Greg fed their bags of documents through the scanner. They rattled towards her over the narrow metal rollers and she hauled them off one by one. Her black suit felt odd: tight around her stomach and yet much less heavy than her usual clothes. She felt exposed, too, with her legs out of trousers for the first time in years.
    Greg, who hadn’t bothered to dress up for court and was wearing his usual saggy jeans and sweater, followed the bags. There were no embarrassing bleeps or hold-ups. He was waved through and they made their way to Court 14.
    The building was intimidatingly churchy, with high gothic arches in the main hall and a floor of inlaid coloured marble. But the court itself was a plain room, not nearly as large as the exterior suggested, with a slightly shabby red carpet, cream-painted walls and mid-brown wooden furniture. In a way it was a bit like a meeting room for hire in a not-very-expensive hotel.
    Greg showed her where to sit and explained who else would be in the room with them. Most of yesterday’s resentment had been overtaken by gratitude. Without him and Fran, she’d have found it hard to get this far, and, if she had, she’d have been fainting with the anxiety by now.
    The double doors from the corridor burst open and a small party fluttered in, with their black gowns streaming out behind them. They looked frighteningly clean. And rich.
    Angie felt her hands brushing down her lapels and forced herself to stop. Unlike Greg’s jeans, her clothes were perfectly clean, and she’d never suffered from dandruff. There was no need to feel at such a disadvantage, even if she didn’t have a wig and gown like theirs. The first was a tall thin woman with glossy black hair, who must be Trish Maguire. Her face was pale but not entirely natural.
    Looking closely as she approached, Angie saw she’d shaped her eyebrows with a dark-brown pencil and smoothed them over with something, maybe hair gel, and she’d lengthened her lashes with mascara. There was a faint apricot coloured stain over her cheekbones and her lips were a little richer than seemed likely to be their natural colour. From far away she wouldn’t look made-up, just defined in a way Angie had failed to achieve. Women barristers were probably taught to do this when they had their first lessons in