The Truth, The Whole Truth, Nothing But . . .

I cried when I discovered that neither the Tooth Fairy nor the Easter Bunny were real and the betrayal I felt on discovering Santa was in fact Big Dave from the second-hand car dealership bearing his name was almost too much to bear. And although the sandman never actually threw grit in my eyes, my face never stuck when the wind changed and the earth didn’t explode when I stepped on a crack in the pavement, this was cold comfort in a world full of lies and deceit. Painfully I discovered that the most pleasurable beliefs and pastimes in life are likely to be short lived and no one can be completely trusted or relied upon.

As I aged the disappointments continued and my life seems chock-a-block with school friend jokers and cheats; faithless boyfriends; beauty products that promise
much more than they deliver; banks that take advantage, workmen that diddle.  And perhaps the very worst slap in the face; that my favourite film is built on a big fat lie. For despite appearances to the contrary in Oh Brother Where Art Thou? George Clooney CAN’T SING!

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Apologies if all this reads like an excuse. I appreciate that my life has been no worse than most. Yet sitting is this dingy room waiting for the verdict it seems simple. How could anyone, how could I, be expected to be honourable and honest, trustworthy and sincere, with the examples set? Surely the jury will sympathise, empathise even, for they too must have experienced similar insincerity all of their lives. The real issue is how anyone escapes the temptation into a life of dishonesty, trickery and wrong doing.

The guilt is obvious of course. There is ‘no reasonable doubt' despite the cleverness of the scam. In this time of austerity what better than the promise of a higher return on a small investment in the lives of others in the local community.

There is no evidence as such, the mobile phones used to make the calls long gone, the written records non-existent, the disguise effective, the money spent. But there are a heap of testimonies from the old dears the prosecution have rounded up to speak. Yet, the victims were carefully picked; not too vulnerable looking but not all that articulate, no one very elderly and not a world weary cynic amongst them. As a group the most accurate way to describe them is bland; forgettable. A sharp contrast to my perfectly groomed, quick witted presentation of self.

Everyone is back in the courtroom.

The spokesperson for the jury looks suitable solemn.

She stands.

We wait.

'Not guilty,' she says and I let go of the breath I've been holding.

As I leave I'm stopped by the defendant, my client, who is gushing in response to
the acquittal, expressing relief and not surprisingly, given his previous record, a considerable amount of disbelief. I brush his thanks aside, more interested in the next case, the next chance I have to display the skills of deception I have been learning ever since I was a babe in arms.