So damn cold. Yet despite this, it was the same routine. Hitting the snooze button several times, first again to arrive. Owing to the temperature I’d succumbed to Greggs’ charms via a small city centre detour. With cheese and onion goodness inside me, I trudged into the Court lobby.
Today I’d decided not to wear a belt. I was certain it was the only item on my person that could be setting off the alarm. The only other possibility was the Tenerife lump in my left leg being metal. Thankfully I passed through the detectors un-feted, saving myself the degrading rigmarole of a more personal check at the hands of a policeman.
The Court Lounge was hopelessly empty when I shuffled my frozen frame into its warm embrace. I was even earlier than usual. My path to the coffee machine unopposed, I made straight for its caffeine welcome. Rumpoles had dispensed of the hags this week and employed a couple of savoury looking young ladies in their place. Possibly to pacify potential complainants.
One was blonde and always smiling and being cheeky. The other was a very cute looking half cast with big brown eyes and reckless hair. She was easily the best thing on the menu in here.
I don’t know her name yet, as Rumpoles don’t believe in badges. Anyhow, she comes over all smiles to replenish the cups, so we exchange “mornings” as I pick up the milk jug to pour into my coffee. Owing to it being full, and the clumsy nature of my frozen digits; I manage to pour a cups worth over the coffee table top. This she clocked immediately. I mumbled an apology and looked around for something to mop it up with. There was a bin by the table, so all I needed was something absorbent with which to redeem myself.
There was nothing to hand, not even in the bin, but I didn’t want to walk off and leave the milk puddle there like an arsehole. How best to convey to her my concern for the situation, but inability to rectify it – prior to my departing the scene?
I turned round to face her, and said “Sorry. I’m on crack”.
Now that’s pretty bad; even by my standards. How had I made that leap? If I knew I could possibly go about correcting it.
Luckily for me, Café Girl proceeded to do a lot of giggling and smiling. Barely keeping a straight face, she produced a paper towel from nowhere, said “don’t worry” and mopped up the milk before my eyes. Her colleague being occupied with incoming toast demands, Café Girl had to come round to the till so I could swipe card the transaction. She was still laughing. As she handed my swipe card back I toyed with the idea of mocking her hair. Something along the lines of, ‘I thought only judges were allowed to wear wigs in here?’ Her look of feigned indignation would be undeniably cute, but I thought better of it. She looked impressed enough as it was.
Carny joined me in the Smoke Pit. I was treated to her “Asian insights”, gleaned from her messy and failed marriage. Naturally they shone no light on the case we were to decide, but they added to my feeling that deliberations could be protracted.
Mark had joined us midway through her story; and it noticeably dried up in its more personal details upon his arrival. Even so, Carny didn’t deviate from, or modify her conclusion; that Asians couldn’t be trusted. Mark discreetly glanced at me smiling, and said quietly; “Oh dear”. This proved to be a recurring catchphrase of his as the day progressed. It followed several instances when someone said something ‘controversial’, be it racist, insane or just thick.
I found solace in Ketchup. Sucking in the clean air of the Lounge I sat down next to her small, beaming frame and got talking. Ketchup is a Hindu. She was born in Kenya and moved to England when she was eleven. Her job is to package up orders for mail delivery. She loves it; “always keeps me on the go” she said. Going off on a sudden tangent, she declared her dislike for Muslims. Pertinent adjectives involved, included “scheming”, “lying” and “manipulative”.
Mark had once more arrived to the tail end of my conversation. It was another “oh dear” moment. It was becoming increasingly apparent that everyone was a catalyst for controversy and strong ripostes. Any lingering hopes that deliberations would be concluded smoothly had long since dissipated. Aside from the manual task of pouring over a hundred witness statements and absorbing the content of a plethora of evidence forms; we would have to endure the inevitable bloodbath of debate.
With a glance, Mark conveyed that he knew what was coming. We probably all did. It was getting close to deliberating time, and people were starting to expose themselves. There were lots of strong ‘personalities’, and lots of strong opinions in a veritable kaleidoscope of personal politics.
Whilst we were occupied with the theatre before us in the courtroom, we would shortly be deciding the nature of the final curtain. All that listening, sitting and note taking – that was going to stop. We’d be stuck in a room together, and all our gripes with each other would come out. We’d have Denim, and Teacher, and all shades of stubbornness and bigotry that lie between, represented.
Via a Smoke Pit detour, Mark and I arrived to sandwich an unusually late Teacher on the sofas. Public transport got the blame.
Mark and I were hyped by the atmosphere of impending doom, so we set about getting Teacher in the mood too. It was simple really; just voicing suspicions that certain members of the jury were predisposed to a guilty verdict. Like pouring white spirit on a cub scout camp fire.
Teacher immediately brought up Denim Prick. Mocking his first week protestation that he “couldn’t tell Asians apart”. Her cute face was flustered and agitated, so I fanned those flames some more. I derided his unfounded claim that people can more easily identify people of their own ethnicity. (Secretly, I think Denim might have a point – but his delivery and reasoning of it were so lamentable at the time, he was unworthy of rescue). Teacher frothed some more, eventually branding Denim and several others as “scary bigots”. Mark voiced his agreement. I just smiled. I’m non-committal. I’m here for the fun.
Going up the stairs for morning evidence, I was dwelling upon the nature of deliberations. If Mark, Teacher and I were still harbouring resentment over Denim’s comments last week, surely the others were too? Aside from taking in the trial, we’d all been collating our own ‘evidence’ on fellow jurors. When we didn’t agree with each other in deliberations; it would all become apparent – the reasons for our intense dislike of each other; flopped out on the table like freshly extricated guts.
‘Oh dear’, I thought to myself.
It was medical expert time. Only medical expert couldn’t confirm anything. The absence of medical records from Defendant’s first black out in 1977, being pivotal. Hearing the vague and inconsistent symptoms, their hideous yet convenient inconveniences – it reminded me of a bogus insurance claim. As the clock ticked on, the unhelpfulness of the evidence became apparent to even the slowest of jurors. Earlier we’d been hunched forward on the bench, scribbling notes; the letters after this pricks name, the lot. Like a Mexican wave of despair, we eventually slouched back – arms folded. A legal technicality needed to be discussed between Defence and Judge. We were to leave Court for ten minutes, and sit in a Square Room whilst the matter was settled.
It was tense in there. Denim Prick was vocal once more. Crude assertions, the likes of which we hadn’t heard since day one. The silence was deafening; I’d missed this thrill. It had been a while since we’d had a mid morning break in a Square Room. Everyone present and attentive to the rancid nonsense polluting each other’s minds.
Mark and I quickly blew Denim off sail and started to lighten the tone. The usual banter bollocks. We were just trying to keep a lid on what was increasingly looking like simmering hatred between members of the group. What had happened today was like a chemical reaction. Yesterday we were all relatively stable molecules; some moving in different directions – but together, forming a jurors liquid. Adding a dash of impending responsibility today, and suddenly the group looks like it’s going to shatter the test tube.
Denim raised the tired issue of Foreman. We’d put it to bed last week when we declared we’d wait for the Judge to instruct us, or a verdict to be reached. Denim was keen on an election now.
Officer was cold. “I don’t agree” she clearly stated. She repeated herself, thus engineering Denim’s slightly flustered response before referencing me in her reply. It was something I’d said last week when he’d last raised this issue.
I’d pointed out that the Foreman themself, must agree with the verdict they deliver. Given we’re unlikely to be unanimous, an election now would be sheer folly. We should wait and see who’s happy to deliver the verdict we decide on. I’d said this last week to exactly the same group response. Agreement. Teacher, Officer, Mark and Miserable Bloke being particularly vocal.
Unabashed, he continued, and stated that he would be happy to assume responsibility. I wasn’t going to let this prick try and steal the job by default. He’s clearly coveted it for some time. I nonchalantly threw my hat into the ring, stating my readiness to assume the role if I agree with the verdict. I noted an approving smile from Teacher and a general warmth about the room.
Mark interrupted the stand off, proposing we should also have an ‘organiser’ in place for deliberations. They could help the Foreman adjudicate who speaks when and be a bit of a referee when it came to discussions. We would need structure to be effective.
He volunteered himself and asked if people were happy. Myself, Teacher, Officer, Thicky, Ketchup and Miserable Bloke all “ayed” over the following seconds. The majority carried it, whilst the others continued to ponder.
Officer finally made Denim drop the idea of an immediate election for Foreman. She stated both he and I had volunteered for the job, and somebody else might too. We would have a vote when we needed to.
I’m not particularly fussed about doing it; but I know he wants it, and I know I’ll destroy him in a group vote. But it’s not about hatred with Denim Prick. I want him neutered for the benefit of the group. Whatsmore, I’ve begun to notice he’s scared of me. He knows I’ve got too much.
A drab fifteen minutes in court preceded lunch. Only Miserable Bloke and I saw fit to postpone the hardship of the Rumpoles queue for a chat in the Smoke Pit. I partly put this down to the chance we’d all had to air our views in the Square Room.
Alone together, Miserable Bloke was backing me in a low-key way. He too, was joking at Denim’s expense, laughing ruefully at his bigoted approach to evidence analysis.
He went on to tell me of his previous jury experience; at #### Crown Court, some twenty years ago. A “fucking stunning” woman was up for habitually stealing underwear from M&S. “She was fucking gorgeous”, he recalled with a leathery grin. The jury had been split. All the women thought she was guilty; the blokes were all up for a not guilty verdict. There was no backing down and a retrial had to be instructed. Miserable Bloke laughed dirtily; exposing his nicotine stained teeth; each one like a gravestone, dark and rank round the edges.
“Fucking stunning she was”
Afternoon saw the Defence concluding, and the Prosecution summing up.
It was excellent. It was what I’d wanted from the beginning. The barrister reeled off his key evidence in chronological order. It all made so much more sense. The significance of some elements to the case was greatly enhanced by this back to basics approach. One aspect of the evidence however, could not be disputed. It was circumstantial. There was literally fuck loads of good circumstantial evidence. We were permitted to draw conclusions from this circumstantial evidence. We were allowed to use it in conjunction with the evidence file’s ‘Agreed Facts’ section. Use it to go beyond ‘reasonable doubt’, quite comfortably, and deliver the guilty verdict this man deserves.
Still, it nagged. Nothing concrete, an ocean of quite convincing circumstantial evidence, and pithy, convenient defence. Deep down, I think he’s guilty. But I swore to judge this on the evidence put in front of me. As Mark says, some of our number will need forcefully reminding of that. Personally speaking, I need that deliberation. I really need to sit down and pour through this shit, bouncing things off others. Like Thicky, I need to do this so I can sleep at night.
Defence summing up was postponed till tomorrow morning; walking down the stairs a mood swing was apparent. Prosecution had been compelling; punching holes in the Defence like I’d hoped for in cross examination. This Barrister had unwittingly kept his powder dry, simply by presenting his case till now in such a hap hazard manner. I’d assumed that intelligent lawyers would lay out their case in a structured and ordered way; enabling clarity and understanding for those they sort to sway. I’d been hopelessly wrong. But at last, here we were with a real decision to make, and I was really torn.
Mark doused the staircase procession slightly, by predicting Defence summing up would be equally compelling. I agreed. It’s the nature of the speech. A final plea. A terminal soliloquy preceding the terminal words our Foreman would deliver.
Carny was by my side, cackling softly and predicting the deliberations would be explosive. “Some people won’t like it at all” she exclaimed fervently. “I’ll be like a pig in shit” I replied, smiling. She cackled louder; more excitedly.
Mark was just behind us; I turned round to grin at his now familiar exclamation. “Oh dear!”
At the bottom of the stairs and into the Court Lounge, our number soon dwindled. People were eager to avoid rush hour, and any further elongation of this draining day.
Carny, Puffy, Mark, Thicky, Denim and I, congregated in the Smoke Pit for final analysis. I prompted us to assume the central table. Fraud Jury nor nobody else was present. The strength of the prosecution, in digestible form, had swayed us all. Unfortunately, we’d all had different starting points. Mark and I, were moving from a comfortable ‘not guilty’ stance to one of needing real deliberation and further analysis. For Thicky, Denim and maybe Carny, this afternoon’s events were in their minds, the ‘smoking gun’ they’d been looking for from the start.
Whilst dubious reactions to each others opinions was obvious, and unconcealed; none of us pressed, argued or sought verbal conflict then and there. We were tired and packing up our smoking apparatus for home. More keenly, I felt we were saving ourselves. It was an unspoken agreement. We knew we’d be bitching at each other like cats and dogs tomorrow. Why start it now?
So that’s what tomorrow brings. Defence Summing Up, Judge directions, lunch – then deliberations.
On our way out the door, invariably in light of the Smoke Pit discussion, Mark mouthed his final “oh dear” of the day to me.
Tags: Comedy, Fiction, Humor, Humour, True Stories
