The weekend seemed to have gone on forever. I’d had no difficulty in removing all thoughts of court from my mind; the result had been renewed enthusiasm for proceedings when I awoke this morning.
Perversely I was even earlier than usual; this allowed me to purchase and scoff bananas at Sainsburys. I’d not enjoyed the times last week when I’d found myself thinking about food on the jury bench. Thus I ensured I was prepared for a morning of foul evidence by devouring this slow energy releasing fruit.
When I arrived, Frail was at the coffee machine, trying to make sense of its modern day machinations. I bade him good morning and waited in line, with a patience normally reserved for cripples alighting a bus.
Frail’s real name is John, (one of three on the jury). This is his fourth time on jury service. Whilst it surprised me at the time, perhaps it shouldn’t of. His behaviour now made a lot more sense. You’d never see him without a book, he brought his own sarnies (presumably knowing that catering would be disgraceful), and he positively shunned discussions of the case thus far, particularly in square room exchanges. I began to wonder if he was laughing at everyone else’s histrionics – calmed by the wisdom of experience, seeing no need for our heated mid-case dissections. If this was the case then he’d almost certainly have some idea of the horrors that lay ahead.
I was glad we’d had this chat and laughed inwardly over the fact that it had taken a week of us sitting together before it happened. Frail was, obviously, retired. He’d been in manufacturing nearly all his life, (his abattoir stint was as a lad). When not on jury service he looked after his little grandsons as he had an extended family nearby.
He’s a sweet man really, and I made a mental note that I should ask him for insights as to how the deliberating process usually ‘works’.
Across the lounge, I noticed Teacher had arrived well in time from France.
She sat down at our table, looking wide-eyed and positive as ever. Naturally, French tales ensued; mainly obvious ones about drinking shit loads of wine, the nightmare of having fourteen teachers together drunk and all trying to be in charge. A couple of stories after these however, gave cause for consternation.
One particular tale was about the bus ticket machines they had to employ, owing to their hour of arrival back in London. The buses were hopelessly sporadic, and when one eventually came; several of their number were still attempting to purchase tickets with their correct change. As one should expect from a London driver, there was to be no waiting around, and once all parties with tickets boarded, he made to set off without Teacher and several of her friends. Now you or I might alight the vehicle and distract him with some rummaging before explaining the situation promptly. By this time your friends should have fucking sorted themselves out, and be close to, if not already, boarding the vehicle themselves. Minimum embarrassment, verbal discourse or protestation. Job’s a good ‘un. Not Teacher. She stood with one foot on the ground and one foot on the bus. Told the Driver he’d be waiting till all the people behind her were ready, and challenged him to drive off with her partially aboard his vehicle.
She’s effective, I’ll give her that. But it was the glee with which she despatched her punch line that concerned me. It echoed that of stories she’d told me last week; stories that also ended in a humiliating come down for some poor sod cast against her.
There was the Night Club owner who’d rejected the suggestion that several of his clientele were fourteen year old pupils of Teacher. He got all his bouncers on the job of removing them when Teacher revealed her links to the local press. Glee.
There was the verbal abuse she dished out to an able bodied citizen driving into a disabled parking bay. Glee again.
It was obvious this lady enjoys confrontation and winning. I can’t believe it took me so long to realise. You can speculate yourself as to why that may have been. It begins with a P
Needing a break, I left Teacher and Frail together like a hopeless mismatch. Time for another coffee. As I joined the Rumpoles procession line, I enjoyed scouting the mass of new jurors that Monday had brought with it. Give P something else to think about….
The smoke pit had a lighter atmosphere this morning. True, the fraud jury were at the central table as ever; but even they looked amiable, no doubt owing to their two day break. I made a note of their faces, their expressions, some smiling as they told weekend stories. Others were crinkled with empathy and attachment – real warmth showing now, having been with one another so long. I particularly looked at Debbie. She’d broken down in tears on Friday; now she was sucking her Lambert whilst trying not to laugh, as others in her group quipped and chuckled. I would re-examine them at lunch; see how much damage a single morning of fraud can do to a visage.
Miserable Bloke was puffing his pipe, and even he looked like he wanted to laugh – though one suspected he was out of practice.
Denim Prick had arrived incognito in so far as he didn’t look like the fifth member of Status Quo. For the first day thus far, he had clothed himself in non-denim attire. It’s impossible to say if this owes to a laundry routine mishap or a change of tack. Either way he’s still Denim. You can take the prick out the denim, but you can’t take the denim out the prick.
Carny and Puffy were friendly as ever. They would always have three or four female friends from other jurys in close proximity. Naturally these companions were Carny and Puffyesque in appearance.
I say naturally as I’ve seen this phenomena before. If you take any large scale social setting or event, the ugliest women invariably amalgamate. Whether it’s to avoid competition with the more attractive members of their sex, I don’t know. I’m not David Attenborough.
Anyhow, I settled down on a chair at the edge of this herd and sparked up. Luckily, Mark came in and saved me from any further unnatural contemplation of them. He was absurdly chirpy and happily he made me so too. After general banter and bitching we finished our fags to the tinny tones of the Tannoy, advising us we were going up.
This was the real deal! The accused was finally at the stand; examination and cross examination ensued.
He was clearly articulate and intelligent. He was also extremely suspicious. He’d had to stop work shortly before the case’s events, owing to a black out at work. He had Tuberculosis. The black outs have continued throughout his life and an unenviable side effect has been a hopeless memory. This, the defence seeks to prove tomorrow with some medical expert witness.
In the meantime, we had to endure virtually the same answer to every question. Each carefully worded and aligned verbal volley from the prosecution; despatched with the words, “I don’t remember”. Occasionally the accused would say “I don’t remember, I may have done”, when the stakes appeared not high.
Of course, he would occasionally be asked simple questions that didn’t require the use of memory, and he would answer these. These questions and answers reflected badly on him. They implicated him further, though not close to conclusively. They aroused more suspicion, as dubious storylines were found lurking beneath the defence’s rosy and simplistic narration. But despite all this; the real answers we wanted to hear, the ones that would really test the defendant and get us closer to the truth – they were the ones constantly rebuffed by the defendants’ hopeless memory.
On occasions he’d go off on a tangent, declaring “peace and love”, not violence, as the key to achieving his political aims. Opening his palms imploringly, he flatly denied any involvement a couple of times, and stated his desire to clear his name.
Minutes later he’d dry wretch for twenty seconds, disrupting what little flow Prosecution had mustered at that point.
He’d gone to #### to arrange for his recently divorced sister to have another marriage. As he has no brothers, this responsibility falls on him alone. This took a couple of months to achieve, by which time he was running a business and earning. This was key to him not returning to England. He was on disability benefits over here, but quite the entrepreneur over there. He had heard of the #### community in #### being under siege from the Police. He had been too scared to come back.
Prosecution did at least prove his memory to be very selective. Obviously grave doubts were expressed about the validity of leaving his family for so many years, but the defendant wasn’t here to win a popularity contest.
When court was adjourned for lunch, we all knew it was Smoke Pit discussion time.
Miserable Bloke resonated with me the most. We noticed the same little slip ups and inaccuracies. We still felt the same way, we needed much more to convince us that guilty was the right verdict.
Mark was quick to remind people that anyone’s life could look strange or suspicious under a microscope. If you had to explain in court for all the decisions you’ve made, you’d find that for many, there really wasn’t a great or compelling reason behind them.
Carny asked him how many times he’d made a decision to leave his family and live abroad for #### years? It was well received; middle aged cackling, and Mark’s resigned smile.
Carny did understand and accept his point though. This she made clear once her herd had quietened, realising their laughter was a waste of their current cigarettes.
Thicky’s contribution was this. He’d wanted to stand up in court and shout at the defendant “Just tell us the fucking answer!” I sincerely empathised, whilst cringing slightly at his all round crudity. It has to be said though, we’re getting on much better. He is honest and straight forward, and now that he’s not trying to impress everyone – I find it easier to bear his mild excesses in return for these admirable qualities.
At least two thirds of the fraud jury looked like they wanted to vomit and / or cry.
Everybody else was keeping their powder dry. We were all vocalising degrees of agreement with each other; but I was certain that some surprising and controversial opinions would later be revealed.
Denim hinted at it whilst badgering me at the Coffee Machine. He stank of booze, this being the end of lunch. A tirade of gripes, accusations and derision relating to the accused flowed forth. He was frothing like a latte. I shut him up and walked away as politely as I could, looking out the window as I did so.
‘Oh the weather outside is frightful, and the Denim Prick so spiteful. There’s simply no place to go, let it go let it go let it snow….’
Afternoon evidence saw a daughter and cousin of the accused in the stand. Heart warming stories of him blacking out; how he doesn’t remember anything much, and how his appearance has always been the same. You get the idea. Thankfully the accused’s daughter wasn’t the Honey I’d been playing with yesterday. She was good though. All questions were answered diligently and without any dubiousness.
It appeared we’d have to wait for the medical expert tomorrow before deciding how much we believed this well woven story. As he’s being called by the defence, I don’t expect any surprises; but who knows? If Prosecution could get their act together….
Dismissed at half three, with no witnesses left to call; I thought I’d immerse myself in Puffy and Carny’s warmth before facing the blizzard outside. Time for the final ‘dissection cigarette’ of the day. It turned out that we’d all noticed a slip up by the cousin of the accused. A nearby Denim was visibly distraught this had passed him by.
The cousin had claimed to have helped the accused fill in all his DSS paperwork when his command of English was poor. Numerous questions later, referring to a time after this; he declared he didn’t go the #### meetings as he couldn’t read. Puffy, Carny and I had all thought we’d been mistaken – as no one else, least of all the prosecution, had so much as murmured. We agreed that we would put the question on a piece of paper for the usher to give to the Judge, first thing tomorrow morning.
Puffy sits behind my right shoulder on the bench. She had seen me note this fact on my paper and surround it in a quadruple line rectangle. She laughed and remarked that she needed only to use a star in the margin. I chuckled and said that my notes were too messy for that. I needed all the help I can get.
I think Puffy and Carny may have found me a bit aloof early doors. We rather enjoy each other’s relaxed and dry company now. Stubbing out our fags, the three of us left Denim for our journeys home. Taking it in turns to bitch about the weather and evening commitments.
In the harsh winter wind, it occurred to me that we’d need at least two, probably three days to deliberate. If the defence didn’t finish tomorrow, there was a distinct possibility this could go into a third week.
