Professor Hale stops pacing. He turns slowly toward me.
“That,” the professor argues, voice pitching higher, “is going to be your defence? That youdidn’t mean to do it?”
“Yes.”
He scoffs, loud and theatrical. “Miss Hale, intent is the cornerstone of criminal liability. You don’t get to shrug your shoulders and say “oops” when a man ends up dead.”
I feel heat rise up my neck. It’s not exactly nerves. More like indignation.
“With respect,” I say, evenly, “intent is not the only cornerstone. Mens rea is contextual. So is causation.”
A few heads turn. Angus’s smile spreads.
Professor Hale’s eyes flash. “Oh, please. You poison your husband, he dies, and you want a jury to believe it was an accident?”
“I didn’t say accident,” I reply. “I said I didn’t mean to kill him.”
There’s a difference, and he knows it.
I lean forward, hands still flat on the stand. “By the end of this trial, I will have convinced everyone in this room that I lacked intent to kill, that the act itself does not meet the threshold for murder, and that the appropriate verdict isnot guilty.”
Silence.
The professor stares at me like I’ve personally offended him.
For a moment, I think he’s going to shut it down. Fail me on the spot. Call it unrealistic, irresponsible, naïve. He looks like he’d enjoy doing that. Instead, his lips thin.
“Fine,” he snaps. “Proceed. But don’t expect leniency when your argument collapses.”
I don’t smile, even though I know I’ve just scored the first point and put myself ahead of everyone else.
The prosecution begins with confidence and volume.
Angus Shear rises from his seat like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. He straightens his jacket, smooths a hand through his hair, flashes the room a grin that plays well at parties and terribly in court.
He’s going to make such a bad lawyer. Jerk.
“Miss Hale,” he steps closer. Too close. “Isn’t it true that your husband was abusive?”
“Yes.”
“And isn’t it also true that on the night of his death, you administered a substance to his drink?”
“Yes.”
“A substance known to be toxic in high doses?”
“Yes.”
A murmur ripples through the mock jury.
Angus pounces. “So you expect us to believe that this was all some tragic coincidence? That you just happened to poison your husband to death?”
I meet his eyes and hold them, letting the silence stretch fora few beats before I answer. Because suspense has a way of making things stick.
“No,” I say. “I expect you to believe that I intended to sedate him. Not kill him.”
He laughs. “That’s convenient.”
