Chapter 23
Isla January 2005 Salisbury Crown Court is neither the High Court of Justiciary nor the Old Bailey. Yet, regardless of the contemporary glass and pale block of the engineering, it is as yet scaring for somebody like me, raised as I was on a dread of power – God's, particularly – and briefly I could be eight years of age, strolling into the chapel, the expectation of shaking in my seat an old muscle memory. There is a little grasp of journalists outside; however, when they've twigged what our identity is, we are everything except inside. Our packs are looked. We are approached to taste from our individual plastic water bottles, to announce any sharp items. Abigail passes on me to stand by with different observers; I advance toward the court and sit in the public display at the back,
- Writer
