Black Gloves

Chapter 1

Present day, interview room

“Iva? Iva, are you listening to me?”

My mind jerked back to the present, taking in the cold, grey metal of the table top beneath my fingers, the bare, grey walls, the stern, grey eyes that were now boring into mine.

“This is serious.” said Mr. Fitzhugh. “Very, very serious.”

I said nothing. Henry Fitzhugh QC was my defense lawyer and I had been listening to him. Indeed, it must have been very, very serious for them to have drafted in Silk. Fitzhugh was practically courtroom royalty; the wisdom-induced lines etched into his face frightened prosecutors, his cutthroat cross-examination frightened witnesses. He did not frighten me.

“You’ve been charged with suspected murder. You’re looking at 18 years, minimum. So for God’s sake girl, find your tongue.”

“Have you got a newspaper with you?”

His eyebrows ascended. “I beg your pardon?”

“A newspaper” I repeated. “You know, a paper consisting of news? Preferably broadsheet, I don’t understand how anyone can voluntarily read tabloids.”

“Are you serious?!”

“Very, very serious, Mr Fitzhugh.”

“I’m sorry” said Mr Fitzhugh, disbelieving. “You’re looking at quite possibly, a lifetime in prison. You will be old and grey by the time you come out. Your name will be dragged through the mud, you will not experience any of the experiences normal people have, you will not, in short, have lived Miss Nyx. And yet, you’re making jokes?”

I was silent for a moment. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“WHAT CAN I SAY TO MAKE YOU UNDERSTAND THE SEVERITY OF YOUR CRIME?” he exploded.

“I don’t consider it to be a crime.”

“You don’t?” asked Mr Fitzhugh.

“No.”

He sat back. “Why not?”

After several minutes of silence, Mr. Fitzhugh sighed heavily. He pulled a large black file towards him and opened it. I could make out my photo on the first page. It was my mug-shot, I chose to smile in it.

“What’s that, my biography?”

He looked up. “Yes I suppose. Are you interested in what it says?”

I shrugged.

“Iva Nyx. Born on the 15th September 1994, aged seventeen years old. Mixed heritage, Italian mother, English father. Mother deceased, father in early retirement due to ill-health. Only child.”

“Fascinating” I murmured, examining the ends of my hair.

“You’ve moved house and school on numerous occasions since your mother’s death, which your past psychiatric assessments seem to indicate have impacted negatively upon you, even more so your mother’s passing. Also, psychiatrists largely describe you as introverted and quiet, lacking of human empathy etc. One even goes as far as to identify you at serious risk of developing sociopathic characteristics, if they do not exist already.

Your classmates and teachers describe you as distant, aloof, mysterious and somewhat condescending. Upon arriving at St Benedict’s High in September 2011, you made little to no effort in forging connections with your peers and in turn spurned any attempts made by them to include you in their circle. No boyfriend, no extra-curricular club attendances and the only friend – and I use the term loosely – you’ve ever had, you have been accused of murdering. Shall I tell you what this looks like, Iva?”

“Please.”

“Well, let’s put it this way. If I were prosecuting you, I would be sitting at home and watching TV.”

I laughed.

“I’m glad you find it amusing. You scream ‘sociopath’ to the jury and the judge. I mean, the foundations are all here, detrimental psychiatric assessments, terrible childhood, terminated maternal bond, friendless.. All can be used to determine some kind of trigger that pushed you to commit your crime-“

“It wasn’t a crime.”

“Then tell me!” his face reddened. “If it weren’t a crime, then tell me what it was. Iva, how can I defend you if you won’t tell me what happened?”

“Then don’t!” I shouted. “I never asked for you, I never asked for anyone! I killed Cassandra, yes? I’m guilty.” I rose.

“Iva” said Mr. Fitzhugh gently. “Iva, sit down.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Fitzhugh, however I don’t think I will need your services. I’m sorry if you have been told otherwise. Goodbye.”

I signaled to the officer that I was ready to go, allowing him to escort me through the door and leave Mr. Fitzhugh gazing after me, a look of intense concentration clouding his face.