The trial is a masterclass in legal horror. Julian’s defence doesn’t deny sex; they reframe the narrative. They suggest Tansy is a “spurned woman” jealous of his success. They bring up her sexual history (consensual) to paint her as promiscuous. They use her own legal brilliance against her, implying that if she were truly raped, she would have known exactly how to act.
This is the play’s central genius: She can map out exactly how her own barrister (if she hires one) would dismantle her testimony. She can hear the cross-examination before it happens: “You didn’t say no loudly enough? You continued to lie there? You texted him ‘goodnight’ the next day to be polite?” Part III: The Trial of the Self The final act follows Tansy’s decision to report the crime and take the stand. In a cruel irony, she has to hire a junior barrister to represent her while she watches from the gallery. She watches a woman—her surrogate—try to do what Tansy used to do: fight the machine. Prima Facie
Tansy loses the case. The jury returns a not-guilty verdict. The trial is a masterclass in legal horror
Miller brilliantly lulls the audience into Tansy’s worldview. We admire her grit. We laugh at her acerbic takedowns of pompous silks. We forget, for a moment, that she is describing real trauma. The hinge of the play is devastatingly simple. Tansy goes on a date with a junior colleague, Julian. They have consensual sex initially. But then, after she says “no” and tries to leave, he doesn’t stop. He holds her down. He penetrates her anally while she stares at a bookshelf, disassociating. They bring up her sexual history (consensual) to
Tansy defends men accused of sexual assault. She is proud of this. She argues that she isn’t defending the act, but the principle. She cross-examines complainants with surgical precision, exploiting gaps in memory, intoxication, or the infamous “lack of resistance.” She believes she is a guardian of justice, ensuring the state doesn’t convict an innocent man on flimsy evidence.