Lie ins or not, this jury service was beginning to take it’s toll. I felt a bit flat going in, we’d already had twenty-five witnesses and the prospect of a solid day hearing more, whilst still arranging the framework of the case in my mind, was daunting.
This mood seemed to be shared by all, as we supped our coffees in the Trisha Lounge, and a palpable shift in attitude was tangible within the group.
Eager exchanges of views, doubts and concerns littered this early morning gathering. My stint in the Smoke Pit, allowed me to witness it even in Denim and Thicky. We all knew the Prosecution was in the final straight, and we all recognised that what little concrete evidence we had, could not in itself convince anyone to delivery a guilty verdict. The accused was up to his neck in it, embroiled in just about every part of the story – but the waters were too muddy. None of us were looking forward to an accelerated procession of prosecution witnesses. It was like being half way through a long film and only just getting to grips with the cast. Like completing the frame of a jigsaw, but looking hopelessly at the bits that fill the middle.
After my fag, I joined Teacher on the sofa. She also began vocalising her concerns about the Prosecution, and more pertinently her feeling that Denim and friends were naturally inclined to giving a guilty verdict. Indeed they had been on the first day; rather subverting justice and approaching the case in a ‘guilty till proven innocent’ mode. Mark and I still joke about Denim’s comment after the Prosecution’s introduction on day one, “well it looks pretty cut and dried to me…” I knew this had got under Teacher’s skin so I felt it fair to relay my improving discussions with said jurors. I assured her that they too were of the thinking that the guilt could not be proved beyond reasonable doubt at this time.
Mark and Officer joined us. The former was typically sarcastic as he saddled up on the sofa, asking if I’d “been lying awake at night worrying about the trial.” This was a dig at Thicky who’d concluded on day one, that that’s what we’d all end up doing. It had been one of several occasions when Thicky destroyed a square room’s silence, and Mark and I exchanged smirks of contempt.
Anyhow, Officer, Teacher, Mark and I formulated our appraisal of the defendant so far. Yes, the diplomat had been kidnapped, imprisoned on #### Road and murdered. Yes, witnesses had given ‘vague Asian descriptions’ that linked him to the kidnap scene. Yes he’d almost certainly bought the items for the hostage house and his fingerprints were all over it. Yes he had been alone when mysteriously finding the ransom note at #### on #### Road. Yes he had delivered himself unannounced to a friends place in #### when the heat cranked up over here. Yes he had fled abroad and left his family for #### years the second the arrests began.
Could any right-minded individual delivery a guilty verdict on any of the three charges, based on the evidence we’ve seen? No.
Fuck – this is just what I didn’t want.
A morning of more mudding of waters ensued in court. Pleasingly Frail Suit was beginning to open up though, and we whispered questions and thoughts to each other as the evidence was shovelled onto us.
Late morning, we had a ten minute interval in a square room whilst Prosecution and the Judge discussed a legal technicality. Everyone seemed relaxed with everyone else and this pleased me. In the first couple of days, underneath the ‘getting to know you, facade’; we’d been annoying each other and doubting the suitability of our own particular foes for the jury bench. I think it was the collective bafflement we’d suffered at the hands of the Prosecution that helped this frost thaw. This could only be good.
I felt the last thing we needed was people at loggerheads before we began deliberating for a verdict. That would be a recipe for complete, fucking disaster.
It was partly because of this that I’d advised Teacher of the shifting attitudes of Denim and Thicky. Whilst I’d laughed when she’d been terse with him yesterday, an escalation in such antics would be damaging. Speaking to Teacher it was obvious she takes no shit from anyone, and enjoys speaking her mind – particularly when affronted. Dampening this powder keg by reducing the distance she felt between herself and Denim in particular, was desirable.
In a change of tack, Mark and I had dominated square room discussion thus far. It was a tag team effort, reinforcing the new mood – we were bouncing lines with nearly everyone. Smiles all round.
Trust Denim to fuck it all up.
He did his usual trick of using an in situ newspaper to provoke a debate that enabled him to reel off distressingly inaccurate information.
What with 24 hour drinking coming in, he predicted an anti-social apocalypse, and suggested the age for consumption should rise to 21. Plenty of people politely came back with sane arguments that bitch slapped him back down to 18. I myself showed considerable restraint, seemingly wanting to promote the new mood of tolerance. Sadly it wasn’t enough. Denim had a Plan B, an escape route argument to evade realisation of his cranial deficiencies.
He changed focus to the Cirrhosis angle of the news story. The rise in the disease amongst young people was alarming.
“The problem was” he said, “all down to people not exercising off booze these days”. No one could interject before the farce rolled on. “I did manual labour and we used to drink twenty pints a day. None of my friends from back then have had liver problems”.
‘Oh Dear’ I thought. ‘Here comes the verbal equivalent of Operation Shock And Awe.’
But no. Just as I sensed people’s comebacks swelling up through their chests for impending utterance, Denim really turned the screw.
“We exercised at work and it helps the liver process the alcohol. It’s no wonder young people are getting Cirrhosis when all they do is sit at desks all day long.”
Now you can see what I mean. The above quote could set several new world records. ‘Highest inaccuracies to syllables ratio’ being my personal favourite. Even Thicky had been silent on this one.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Frail Suit of all people entered the arena. His weak voice only just overpowering the simmering silence, he recalled drinking twenty-two pints a day whilst working at an abattoirs.
Fuck me. These dinosaurs have turned it into a bragging rights competition!
Before Denim had a chance to revise his earlier drinking estimation, Teacher set about slaying him. In a cold and semi furious voice she no doubt normally saves for her pupils, she stated that Liver size and efficiency were the key determinates in whether a liver could handle its owners alcohol intake.
It was the tone of the riposte, which saw her become unopposed in challenging Denim’s standpoint. Previously, most of the room had looked set to deflate his theories.
Denim, continued to retort, Frail Suit had withdrawn from the fray even more suddenly than he’d entered it. I doubted he’d talk again till next week.
Excruciating. Teacher began talking over Denim’s flustering protestations with a single line mantra – “Exercise has no effect on a livers function”. Each repetition cranked up the discomfort another notch. People were beginning to flush, when finally Denim petered out.
Teacher had crushed and ground him under her heel like a bug.
Lunchtime saw me chatting with Officer and Miserable Bloke in the Smoke Pit.
Officer and I were increasingly finding each other amusing, and she’d taken to tapping my knee and saying “sorry babes” on the frequent occasions her ample frame clattered me on its way to the ashtray.
Miserable Bloke was avidly engrossed in the racing pages of a red top, and smoking a pipe. He had two buttons undone on his shirt today, exposing his red leather neck and chest. Once the form had been checked out, I got him talking about the latest submissions of evidence. We found a lot of common ground, whilst also raising salient thoughts the other hadn’t considered fully. I’d suspected he was probably sound, due to his cold repelling of Denim and Thicky’s buffoon like charms, earlier in the week. He struck me as one of those people that takes a lot in; maybe it comes from sitting in corners all the time and watching the others.
Carny and Puffy soon entered the fray. Puffy’s constant warmness was winning me over, I felt like I might be able to listen to her today. As it was, Carny made all the running. She was convinced an Asian witness from this morning’s proceedings had been lying.
The basis for this? “I was married to an Asian, I know when they’re lying.”
‘Fuck me, you bitter old carny’, I thought. ‘If you had this special power why didn’t you tell us all at the start of the fucking trial? It could have been so much easier!’
I didn’t vocalise these thoughts.
I was beginning to realise that we were still in our early days as a jury. Anyone of us could yet reveal our true, insane colours.
Back in the Tricia lounge, I couldn’t help but tease Teacher about her confrontation. She reaffirmed that she’d never sit and listen to shit, whatever the circumstances. I’m not sure if I was frightened, horny or both.
Prosecution couldn’t finish their case in the afternoon, so we still haven’t seen one complete side to the argument. I’d noticed Denim had sat next to Teacher in a couple of waiting situations on the way up to the courtroom. It was nice that he didn’t want rifts and would try and heal them. My big fear was that he’d make them much worse. Like everything else in this experience, only time will tell.
Dismissed from court, the collective feeling that the Prosecution wasn’t good enough, had been strengthened.
I had a home time fag with Thicky, Carny and Puffy. I’d joked a bit with Thicky earlier, and we were beginning to have short exchanges. He talked of his nerves about coming to jury service, how he’d been excitable and on edge over the first couple of days. It could have been my conscience, or his delivery; but I took his remark as a sign that he knew I thought of him as a bit of a prick, owing to this earlier behaviour. I joked about fears that my sweaty palms would lead to The New Testament slipping from my grasp as I was sworn in.
He declared his desire to be confident in the decision he makes at the end. For his conscience’s sake. I feel exactly the same way so we bonded. This man may have a spivy moustache and numerous characteristics I deplore, but he’s got some sort of moral code.
Carny declared to me that her overriding feeling was that the defendant was guilty, and though we couldn’t prove it; he should be spending time inside with the other people who’ve already gone down for their involvement. “That’s my opinion, I know some people probably won’t agree with me” she stoically said.
‘I can’t fucking wait for the deliberations’, I thought.
Out the front doors I said goodbye to Puffy as we dovetailed away for the night. She, Christmas shopping. Me, for the hell of the bus.
