Stories from the Edge

Mona Lisa

The courtroom erupted when the judge handed down the sentence. The crowd around me stood as one and surged forward, as if to accost the woman in the dock. People cheered; others hurled abuse.

"Not long enough," a man yelled.

"Monster!" shouted another.

I looked at the prisoner. Mona gazed at the floor, her face framed by her dark straight hair. A small figure, dwarfed by the guards behind her. She appeared unaware of the commotion and verbal assault directed at her. As I watched her, she lifted her head, looked toward me and our eyes met. My heart missed a beat. Her face took on the coy, enigmatic expression I had come to know so well – was it a smile, or not? Her Mona Lisa face, as I thought of it. Holding my gaze, she nodded, a message meant only for me. I smiled in return, and glanced right and left. No one in the crowd gave any sign of having noticed. My eyes followed her as she turned away, accompanied by the guards. When the door closed behind her my heart sank. Would I ever see her again, other than in my dreams?

I grabbed my handbag and struggled through the crowd for the exit. In the foyer I heard a familiar voice call my name.

"Barb." It was Joyce, an acquaintance among my group of friends. She was also a newspaper journalist. She elbowed her large frame through the crowd and bent close to talk above the din. Her eyelids narrowed and she peered at me. "Are you ok?" she said.

I nodded, attempting a smile. "Yes, fine," I said.

"We've missed you. You haven't been to the pub for ages," Joyce said. "Some of the girls say they're worried about you. You haven't been answering their calls. What's up?"

"I've been flat out at work recently." I was flustered. I'd been busy and perhaps I'd not got back to one or two callers, but surely not as bad as Joyce implied? "I guess this case got under my skin, too." In reality Mona had, but I wasn't ready to confide that to anyone.

"Well," said Joyce, "it's over now." She leaned closer and spoke near my left ear. "Any more ideas about," she inclined her head toward the courtroom, "her? What made her mutilate those men? Off the record, if you like."

I shook my head. Mona had said very little during her interrogations. I had my own intuitive ideas, though, which I wasn't going to tell anyone. "Let's catch up for a coffee soon. I'll give you a ring, ok?"

Joyce pursed her lips and frowned a little, but then flashed a smile. "Ok, will do. See ya." She headed off into the crush. TV and newspaper reporters surrounded Mona's victims' relatives who had attended court. I slipped outside and leaned against the sandstone wall. I took my mobile phone from my bag and held it up, pretending to read a message. A shadow loomed and I looked up to see the sergeant who had driven me from Police Headquarters.

"You ready to go back now, ma'am?" he said.

"Sure," I said, gathering myself. I put my phone away and followed him to the patrol car. The heavy traffic slowed our drive. I should have walked, I reflected. I watched the passing streetscape and the people on the footpaths. Everywhere I looked I saw Mona's eyes or her coy almost-smile. Her quiet, diffident voice drifted through my mind. By the time the sergeant pulled up to let me out, I was in a daydream, thinking of her. I became aware of him looking at me, eyebrows raised. I muttered thanks, climbed out and as I closed the car door my coat was caught in it. I heard him laugh as I opened the door and freed it.

I took the lift and walked to my office past the detectives at their desks. As I appeared the male talk and laughter stopped and they nodded to me. Through the glass wall of my office I watched them bend toward their computer monitors. The sergeant's laugh rankled me. I had worked hard to get into a senior position in the police, pushing my way past the subtle and not-so-subtle misogyny. I hated appearing weak in front of the men. I could sense their criticism, their watching for any mistake, despite the banter and the bon homi. I enjoyed the work but sometimes I wondered if I had made the right choice; perhaps it was all taking too much out of me. I couldn't remember the last night I'd had a good night's sleep. Too many men in the job, too, reminded me of my step-father, who I hated for his abuse of my mother. There was a fragmented feeling in my head that was slowly growing. Making it all worse was my longing to see Mona again and the knowledge that I almost certainly would not. I hung up my coat and slumped into the chair behind my desk. I slipped off my shoes and flexed my toes. A pile of cases awaited my attention, but I didn't know how I would get through the rest of the day.