This is our truth, tell us yours
We see Ana, her face in closeup. The camera moves back to reveal that she is in a bed that folds out of the wall in a small bedsitting room. There is a large CRT TV in the corner. On the screen the Teletubbies are playing in their alien, unworldly way. Ana stares at the screen, obviously confused.There is a knock at the door and a woman enters with a mug of coffee and a plate of toast.
BROOKE: Hi Ana. I brought you some breakfast.
ANA: What’s that on the…
BROOKE: Oh, the Teletubbies. We use the TVs in the rooms like alarm clocks, because single women have to be out by eight am, … well, I say single, I mean women without kids, and it’s less cruel having them wake up to Teletubbies than the news, you know?
ANA: I, I think I’m a little…
BROOKE: Disoriented? Yes, that’s to be expected. DCI Kellogg will be here at eight o’clock, and she sent some clothes and underwear for you. You’re safe now Ana.
Ana takes hold of the mug of cofee in both hands, and stares at the Teletubbies, Brook leaves the room.
The screen shimmers again, and we see Rumpole and Christian in the interview room. They are drinking tea from plastic cups. Christian’s clothes have been replaced by a paper witness suit.
CHRISTIAN: If you’re such a good trial lawyer, how come you’ve ended up here?
RUMPOLE: It’s a young man’s game Mr Grey. They don’t need old hacks like me endlessly ruminating about typewriters and ribbon wear patterns or bloodstains – they want thrusting young men who understand CCTV and text messaging. So you slip from being an Old Bailey hack to the outer circle of purgatory that is Uxbridge Magistrates Court.
CHRISTIAN: Typewriter ribbons?
RUMPOLE: You see? The little darlings today take forensic evidence on trust.
CHRISTIAN: But what about me Mr Rumpole? Am I guilty?
RUMPOLE: For pity’s sake Mr Grey, don’t ask me that. You need a priest or a confessor for that, not an Old Bailey Hack. The only thing worse than asking me if you’re guilty is telling me you are, and we all know the most unreliable evidence is a confession.
CHRISTIAN: So what are my chances?
RUMPOLE: Well, the Mad Old Bull has left the ring, so you’ve got more chance of getting some lovely old darling on the bench who likes the cut of your jib, and a few ladies in the jury who feel neglected at home will do your cause no harm Mr Grey, but I have to say we’ll be travelling more in hope than expectation. But never despair, something will turn up.
CHRISTIAN:But what about the power of positive thought Mr Rumpole? I didn’t get where I am today by being negative.
RUMPOLE: Take in your surroundings Mr Grey. After a long and fruitful and occasionally successful life at the bar helping the likes of the Timsons get away with their misdemeanours I’m reduced to sitting here watching people incriminate themselves or parrot the insane blank poetry of No comment as if it means they can make up an alibi later when they’re sober or of sound mind or have found a friend who’s equally vague about where they were at the time in question.
CHRISTIAN: I need a better lawyer.I must get someone who knows what they’re doing.
RUMPOLE: Nosce te ipsum.
RUMPOLE: Latin Mr Grey. It translates as ‘If you don’t know where you’ve travelled you’ll never know where you are.’
RUMPOLE: Something like that.