Excerpt from Prima Facie by Suzie Miller, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The court officer calls out:

All rise.

We all leap to our feet. Nodding our respect as the judge arrives. He takes his seat, and we take ours. The prosecutor and I, pumped, both in our own lane, both utterly aware of each breath the other takes, but never acknowledging each other unless, 'I refer to my friend, the prosecutor, Your Honor.' No eye contact.

We are out of the stalls and it's on. It's a long race so I hold back, know when to have restraint. Nothing worse than jumping in too early out of a desire to win a point that ultimately undermines your case. The prosecution opens, stands, and looks at the jury. The best chance for Tony is if the prosecution case can't be made, where the evidence can be undermined by the defense and there's the chance to make an argument for no case to answer. That means the case fails, Tony 'walks.' I have the whole course mapped in my mind, yet ready to tear it up at the first surprise. The prosecutor stands and lists the charges. At the bar table my eyes graze the bench, performing practiced nonchalance at the prosecution's accusations. My face gives nothing away, sit still, straight back, focus on what's before me, poised, watching, waiting, nerves taut. Every word uttered I am processing, interrogating, filing away, all the while feigning boredom. Breathe. Eyes gentle but listen to every word, interpret every physical signal, looking for an opening. The theater is not just to impress the clients, not just to show who is in charge, it's part of the game. I sit slightly back, head cocked to one side, leaning on the back of my chair, but all my muscles are tightly wound, waiting to spring.

Then I spy an opening: the prosecution witness is drifting away from just answering questions and is elaborating in ways that he isn't asked to. I can see Arthur, the prosecutor, is tempted to ask something he knows is ambiguous. His hesitation is key. It's starting to open up, wait, wait … let some more open up. This is the measure of my skill set, the waiting, the calm before.

And there it is, instinct pushes me forward, I leap to my feet. Measured, but clear.

Your Honor.

I hold everything in one place, and eyes, eyes are all looking at me. I can't see anyone, but I feel the shift. Standing tall, waiting, and the judge focuses in on me. I hear my own voice.

I'm so sorry to rise, sir, but I believe my friend at the bar table, counsel for the prosecution, is leading the evidence from his witness. The prosecution case rests solely on the evidence of this man, this witness here. A witness, the defense will argue, is severely compromised.

Strong and sure, explaining my objection, making my application to disallow a line of questioning. The prosecutor tries to maintain his momentum, I feel the urge to say more but rein it in. Less is more, I've made my point, keep them guessing. The judge momentarily pauses, like he has just felt the energy of the game, his eyes resting on me again; he knows me, he has seen me in action before. Is that respect? He hasn't been on this side of the bench for a long time, but he loves the fight, he loves a muscular argument, and this one is shaping up. He leans forward. Application granted.

Yes! In my mind I am cheering, but anyone watching me won't see it. My instructing solicitor sits in a chair near mine at the bar table. He is a man almost as young as Tony, from a nice private school, with the neatest haircut in the room. I don't need him at all, but he thinks I do, so he pores over his notes just to be ready. I see Tony look at me from the dock as I turn back to take my seat. He doesn't quite know that I have won a significant point, but he feels it, a subtle shift. The witness in the box is someone Tony once knew well, but after this there is no friendship left. This man has moved a long way from when he and Tony played football together. He wears sharp cologne and works in property now, some sort of estate agent. He is the 'bastard' that the Tonys of this world always lose to. To Tony this man is everything wrong with his life, a lifetime of built-up hostilities leading to this moment where the witness sits in court trying to get Tony sent to jail. For me, though, the witness is just the witness, a pawn in the bigger game. I sit down while the prosecutor continues to examine his witness, he has botched something, and he is patching it up as best he can. There are other barristers in court, sitting in the gallery as they await their own court matters, alert to the arguments, curious to see how another one of their own uses their skills. The judge speaks.

Excerpted from Prima Facie by Suzie Miller. Copyright © 2024 by Suzie Miller. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.