Witness for the prosecution

How I hate sitting in the witness box. The stupid, misleading, impossible to answer questions.  Answer “yes” or “no”. Truth and justice are hidden, overlooked, ignored, twisted.

And it´s the innocent who pays the price.

There are questions that cannot be answered with a simple “yes” or “no”. And the “where were you on Monday, 13th September 1999 at half past four in the afternoon?”. No one remembers that, unless it was their wedding day.

“Is your name Alexandra Cohen, and do you live in number 8, Green Valley, Pineforest?”

That´s an easy one. “Yes”.

“Are you a close friend of the defendant, George Castairs?”

That´s a tricky one. If I say “yes”, the truth will become worthless, unbelievable, superfluous. The truth will be twisted, broken and buried under meaningless words. And those words will be used to crucify the defendant.

George and I,  lying on my bed, crying and wailing over loneliness and lost love. George, driving with me sitting beside him, while I phoned his lover from my untraceable mobile. George and I, sharing a hotel room for a week while we fought to understand how to plan loadsheets. “Alex, do you remember what´s the zero fuel weight for a seven-forty-seven?” “Oh, my! Did we have a seven forty seven?” George, arriving home with giant boxes full of delicatessen and presents for me and the kids.  George, just arrived from Beijing, opening his suitcase on the terminal floor, clothes and shoes and toothpaste flying about “I bought this for you, it´s here somewhere. It´s just like you. Beautiful”. George and I, planning the most absurd and illogical revenges against our ex-lovers, laughing and drinking and agreeing that it is impossible to understand men. “Come on, George. If you can´t understand men, how can I?”. George, whose laptop I am using now.

I looked right into the barrister´s eyes.

“No, I am not a close friend of the defendant. He´s a workmate”.