We then lapse into a familiar routine for the rest of the day. Starting with the newspaper stories where he believed Harry’s claims of illegality were weakest. The time when his mother, Princess Diana, had come to visit him at school. His phone couldn’t possibly have been hacked for that one because he hadn’t even had a phone then. “Well someone else’s could have been,” Harry mumbled. He wasn’t at his best being faced with barbed questions. And had he actually read the story in the paper? Probably not. But his friends had. In any case, he had trust issues.
On we went. The time when Harry went off for a pizza. The time he had lunch with a bodyguard. The Highgrove gardener. The glandular fever. The drugs. Always the same.
Had he actually read any of the MGN stories? Then how could they have caused distress? And was it just coincidence that the same stories had already appeared in other papers. And if they had hacked phones to get them, it was no skin off their nose. They were just there to copy. So much easier than getting any stories of their own. And always Green took us back to the proof. He didn’t care what things looked like or what Harry felt. Just prove that MGN hacked. Or shove it.
Harry rarely raised his voice above a whisper. He never lost his temper. Never lapsed into therapy speak. But he never looked entirely comfortable. Whatever he had been hoping for out of his day in court, he wasn’t getting. There was no catharsis. No magic moment when the scales of justice came swinging down in his favour.