First in. I was sat alone with coffee, reading The Scum, when Teacher sat next to me, all smiles and morning greetings. As she was only second to arrive, it was clear I was star pupil, so we got talking.
We discussed yesterday’s evidence; where it was attempting to lead us, and how cloudy and disjointed the whole case seemed to be at present. Our opinions on all these matters resonated, so I began to probe with non-committal observations on how some of our number seemed to be well on their way to making up their minds.
As questions go, it was a bit of a dam buster. She gushed about Thicky and Denim; “not only already galvanised in their views” she said, “but attempting to portray it as cut and dried to the rest of us”. I prodded her a bit more with a wry quip about Denim, and whilst not saying it, she implied that her earlier complaint was both annoying and ironic, given that Denim and Thicky were clearly of limited brain power.
I reciprocated this very diplomatically but with a glint in my eye. She knew what I was saying and we were both happy. It had come as a relief that I hadn’t imagined our common ground and bond forming, simply because she was the only thing on the jury I wanted to fuck.
Rover came in next. He high-fived me walking past the back of my seat towards the coffee machine. Football really brings people together.
As if sensing this would be the last opportunity for a private conversation today, Teacher commented on the small cliques forming within the group already. She was trying to probe me and illicit opinions, just as I had her.
After a fairly dispassionate agreement with her, I suggested the experience felt akin to being on a reality TV show. “I’m A Juror Get Me Out Of Here!” I exclaimed to her subsequent mirth. I decided not to run with my follow up line, “For your jury suite challenge tonight, sit opposite Denim Prick for half an hour – and try not to smash his teeth out”.
Mark arrived and sat with us. He was getting on with Teacher as well which was good. I guess the others might be beginning to view us as a clique now.
Of the others, I noticed Puffy’s friend, Carny. She was of a similar troll ilk, but with a visually obvious chav / bohemian past.
I guess that’s all of us. The twelve person jury is….
Me
Mark
Teacher
Officer
Rover
Denim (Prick)
Thicky
Frail Suit
Puffy
Miserable Bloke
Carny
Ketchup – The artist formerly known as Indian Woman
Up for some more mingling after my good start, I entered the fag room. There were the usual suspects; Thicky, Miserable Bloke, Carny, Puffy, Denim Prick and Officer.
Puffy’s friendliness had been growing from yesterday afternoon. I think it was based on our growing familiarity from frequenting this smoking pit. She smiled and we talked for many minutes. Because she’s so ugly, I didn’t take in a single word. But I’m sure it went well.
Denim was a bit more low-key today, and it wasn’t confined to the smoking room. It seemed the events of yesterday had denuded his self belief somewhat. This could only be good.
Our new Usher, a young, close cropped man, took us up to outside the court. Previously we had waited two floors lower in a deliberating room before being ushered into court when the judge was ready. Taking all those flights of stairs in one hit was debilitating for many of the older smokers. We stood cramped outside the big wooden doors; silent, save for gentle wheezing – emanating from flabby, middle aged abdomens.
Boy were we hit hard! It was like being back at school. So much of the prosecution evidence was written statements, read aloud to us. Bafflingly, most of these weren’t in our jury files. Resultantly we spent an hour frantically scribbling names, dates, quotes and descriptions. It was heinous.
Teacher was the first to request new paper. Quelle Surprise! She later revealed she had seventeen pages of notes. A jury lounge straw poll saw me well above average with five.
A break in proceedings gave us all the chance to sit in yet another bland, square room and bitch about the nature of this morning’s events. No one was happy; the prosecution had reeled off all this information at such speed, we hadn’t been able to cope. I’d done my notes in shorthand.
Sadly I don’t know shorthand, so I was making up my own on the spot. It may well be difficult gleaning much from my symbol ridden scrawl.
Officer, Rover, Mark & I decided we should request the statements on a slip of paper, getting the usher to pass it to the judge. ‘Give these fuckers some chance of justice’ I thought.
Denim piped up for a moment, dismissing one area of the evidence as unimportant. This was astoundingly stupid, given the Prosecution was yet to disclose how it was related to the other evidence.
Teacher beat me to it. Coldly clipping the words “I don’t think it’s unimportant”. Oh, the familiar silence…..
Thicky thought he’d alleviate things with another blockbuster story. Can you guess what it is yet? I should have done – it’s the natural progression from his stories on day one and two. Yep, last night he got back and his car had been taken and he’d had to pay £135 to get it released. ‘Get some new material, cock end’, I thought.
Naturally he dwelled on all obvious junctures in the story: His feeling of foreboding as he approached the spot where he’d parked his car. His shock and amazement when he arrived to find his car wasn’t there. The predictable traumas he’d gone through in recovering the vehicle. Each juncture was accompanied by replica behaviour; a goofish raising of the shoulders, wide eyed incredulousness as his spiv moustache caught the light. I wondered what sort of emotions he was trying to invoke in us all. Was I meant to be sympathetic? Was I meant to be grateful for the injection of this latest instalment to the car parking saga? Surely not. This guy is a fucking cretin.
He concluded with the heart warming boast that he’d get £105 paid for by the court. He’d say he was stuck in traffic and had to park it where he could to avoid contempt of court and a greater fine. I could feel silent sighs around the room.
Miserable Bloke was coming out of his shell today, though still not venturing out from the darkest corner he could find. We were discussing the Shop Owner who’d sold the second hand bed, cooker and TV for £100 in 19##. An amount deemed excessive by all of us. “He should have been on trial for robbery”, was his well received quip.
Going down the stairs for lunch, Denim nipped off for a slash; this being against court rules, as we should not be left to wander the ‘corridors of justice’.
Our mildly agitated usher only realised via a head count at the bottom of the final flight. He asked the group who was missing and Frail Suit by my side, smiled and said “It’s Denim isn’t it”.
He only said it loud enough for me to hear. I was briefly shocked and thrown, before realising Denim was a perfectly obvious nick name for someone who you’d known for three days and had been permanently clad in Denim. All the same, there’s always the chance he’s been reading my mind. Far from focusing on the prosecution case, he may have been absorbing information from my brain; possibly plotting a violent revenge for my ‘Frail Suit’ goading. At this point I made the conscious decision I would get to know him a bit better before the week was out.
I needed some fresh air at lunch, this morning had been an overload in so many ways. With Officer and Puffy pleading for oxygen masks, we ascended the numerous stairs to face more of the same in the afternoon session.
I’d already begun to have my doubts about the jury system before this session; but they were increasingly reinforced as the afternoon wore on. The plot thickened, the Prosecution reeled off at least ten asian names at high speed, we were being told that these new characters were pivotal players in the case. Thanks a bunch! Everybody was scribbling names phonetically and frantically. The names were similar and some people used more than one.
I caught Denim stealing a glance in Ketchup’s direction; no doubt seeing if her ethnicity helped her cope better with the unenviable task.
There we were, the people judging the case, and we didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on. We didn’t know which people had which names or knew directly which other people. Worse still, we had little idea how all these strands of events, names, and dates could be assimilated into an argument that related to the proving of the three charges. Kidnap. False Imprisonment. Murder.
The day concluded with Prosecution informing the court they’d wrap up their case tomorrow. This rather added to our collective feeling of incredulousness.
I was eager to know that others felt the same when we left court. I got the chance to speak to Mark and Rover. They both concurred.
Down in the lounge, Teacher collared me. She wanted to do exactly the same thing and be reassured. I declared that the direction, framework and signposting for the case had thus far been lamentable. She smiled broadly at this and agreed.
At least we’d finished at three. These people sure know how to squander time and resources. I’ve come home feeling rather flat about an ideal I’ve always believed in strongly. I still do believe in it, but it’s definitely on the wane. Aside from the evidence debacle today; and the grave suspicion that jury’s aren’t equipped with it well enough to make good decisions; there’s also the prospect of the clowns who decide your fate. They’re worried about their life, picking up their kids after school, having a fag break again. The second the crucial nuance of evidence that’s going to save your bacon is delivered, they’re probably working out if they can get beans with their pasty, and a coffee, and not exceed their daily allowance on the ‘Rumpoles’ swipecard.
Seriously though; If you go over, they hit you hard with their extortionate retail prices. No one wants that.
