Meanwhile, the oil price was also suffering from its own ‘statistical anomaly’, for which you should read that it was currently too low. A few people like me adore high oil prices since this means lots of work for new (and expensive) offshore oil and gas platforms. Our present project was an advanced study to test new concepts, but for the time being there were no oil companies queuing up to build one. Hence my boss’ comment on me being eminently available for jury duty.
So, I arrived at the Central Criminal Court in EC4, commonly called the Old Bailey, at 9am on the Monday morning. The main building dated, I discovered, to 1902, and looked the typical Victorian / Edwardian monstrosity with neo-classic pillars, topped with a dome like a bell tower, and all built out of dirty grey limestone. I read the inscription above the main entrance, ‘Defend the Children of the Poor & Punish the Wrongdoer’. It actually gave me a shiver down my spine; I suppose we all feel guilty about having done something we should not have. ‘I was certainly not over the limit, your honour,’ I imagined myself saying; ‘the breathalyser was certainly malfunctioning.’
The Old Bailey now has no less than eighteen courtrooms inside, thanks to some more recent extensions. I showed my jury summons form to one of the receptionists, and she pointed me in the direction of one of the larger waiting rooms. Soon almost forty potential jurors gathered there, and we were told by one of the black-gowned ushers that there were two major murder trials just starting.
Murder trials? This could be interesting, I thought. Might one of them be the case of Sarah Richardson, charged with the double murder of her baby sons? It was splashed all over the newspapers. ‘Multiple murderer mother finally to be brought to justice’ said one headline on a tabloid, held in the hand of a potential juror not more than five feet from me. ‘Cold killer hiding behind cot deaths?’ asked another headline I had seen opposite me on the tube this morning. So, the press had already made up its mind.
We were each given a jury panel number, from 1 to 40. I was assigned jury panel number 6.
“If you are chosen, you will judge the facts,” said the usher, “and the judge will judge the law. At ten o’clock we will split into two groups of twenty and go to the corresponding courtrooms for jury selection. If you are selected, you will return here every day for the two-to-four weeks we expect each trial to last. If you are not selected, you can return home. Meanwhile please leave anything you have brought with you, particularly mobile phones and laptops, in these lockers to your right. You may only take into the courtroom yourself, the locker key, handkerchiefs and any vital medicines you need during the day. Normally the judge allows you to take notes during the trial – we will provide the pens and notepaper. Do not at any time, at meal breaks, or in the evenings, attempt to do any research into the trial. Any jury member who sees or knows of another doing such research must immediately report it. Anybody doing such research must understand that they are committing an offense and will be immediately relieved of jury duty.”
I looked at the other members of my group. There was a handful of people in their twenties like me, including a particularly striking girl. We were wearing a mixture of clothes from student jeans (a bit casual I thought), simple trousers or skirts with pullovers, to jackets and ties (like me). Then there was a collection of thirty- and forty-somethings. Some looked like agitated executives in their business suits or twinsets (they seemed particularly worried about losing their instantaneous contact to the office; what if an urgent email came up?); others looked more like bus drivers or receptionists wearing their best Friday night clothes (I say Friday, because nobody dresses up on Sundays any longer). There was also a collection of quite old people, in their fifties at least, some of whom might already be retired; they all had jackets and ties or reasonably smart dresses.
We were split into two groups, and at 10.15 twenty of us, numbers 1 to 20, were led into courtroom number 5. Sitting there already was the judge, the prosecution and defence teams, the court clerk, some ushers and already a good number of members of the public and press. There were twenty seats available in the jury box together with an overflow area just next to it.
It was an impressive moment. Here I was, a potential jury member, entering into the wood panelling of one of the fabled Old Bailey court rooms.
The court clerk, who was dressed like the barristers in wig and black gown, stood up. “We will now proceed with jury selection for the case of the Crown against Sarah Richardson,” he said. Yes! It is indeed the double murder trial! I said to myself. This is going to be interesting.
The clerk told us that the case would be judged by the Honourable Mr Justice Braithwaite.
He then handed out to each of us a written notice that ‘undertaking research into a case, communicating with another juror about this research and disclosing details of the deliberations of the jury are criminal offences for which the penalty is imprisonment or a fine, or both, and may be a contempt of court’.
Next he explained that he would read a list of names of witnesses that might be called during the trial. We must put our hand up if we personally knew or had any prior connection to any of these witnesses. The names were read out; I noticed there were several ‘doctors’ and ‘professors’; nobody put their hand up.
After this I was expecting a long grilling for each jury member from the prosecution and defence, who would then use their vetoes strategically. But I’ve probably read too many John Grisham novels – and besides, this is not America. Apparently, counsel, who had our details, could only challenge a jury member under exceptional circumstances; neither the defence nor the prosecution issued any such challenges.
One by one the clerk randomly took jury numbers written on pieces of paper out of the little box in front of him. The first was number 16 – this was one of the forty something lady executives. She was told that she would be the jury foreperson, unless the jury wished to elect someone else. Several other jury members were then selected – numbers 3, 17, 11… We were well into the last third when I heard my number 6. At least I was in! In total, twelve jurors and two reserves were selected. The other six people were asked to leave. Well, I hoped this was going to be an interesting experience, after all it’s not every day that you get to witness a real murder trial, let alone as a juror.
The court clerk spoke to the defendant. “Sarah Richardson, the names you are about to hear are the names of the jurors who will try you. If therefore you wish to object to them, or any of them, you must do so as they come to the book to be sworn, and before they are sworn, and your objection will be heard.”
One by one the clerk came up to each juror. We had been told that we could adapt the oath to our specific faith or use a secular affirmation. When it came to my turn, I read out from the paper, “I swear by almighty God that I will faithfully try the defendant and give a true verdict according to the evidence.” Most used the same oath. One person said, “I swear by Allah…”, and two decided that they preferred the secular, “I solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm…” Meanwhile the defendant did not object to anybody.
While the others were being sworn in, I mused about why I and others used the Christian oath rather than the secular affirmation. I am not exactly a practising churchgoer, but I had at least been christened. I decided it was because we all instinctively use ‘Pascal’s wager’. But surely Pascal invented the original concept of an ‘option’ well before the financial world did? You invest a small amount of effort (the price of the option) pretending to be religious, just in case God exists, all the time being pretty sure that he doesn’t (the option is out of the money). When you eventually die you might find he does exist (the option is in the money), and so you go to heaven rather than to hell (a good payback); or you might find he doesn’t exist (in which case you have only lost the modest price of the option). You see, engineers can read philosophy – although they might prefer the financial press; this is London, after all.
I was sha
ken out of my reveries when the very pretty girl I had spotted earlier sat down next to me after being sworn in. She was juror number 9, and I think the clerk had just called her Stephanie something.
The judge looked impressive in his scarlet robe with bits of fur sticking out, a black scarf and black band around his middle, a bit like those worn by people with backache. He also had a scarlet sash over his left shoulder, and he wore an old-fashioned white wing collar and white bands, which seemed to contrast with his rather yellowing wig, as if to illustrate the ‘before and after’ of being washed with Ariel washing powder.
“Ladies and gentlemen members of the jury, good morning,” said the judge addressing us. “The evidence upon which you will decide the case is the evidence that will be presented to you here in court. As such, you should only discuss the case among yourselves and not with anyone else who may give a view but will not have heard the evidence. You should also not be influenced by any media reporting of the case and should not attempt to obtain further information about the case from anyone outside court, including using social media and the internet to contact witnesses or to otherwise conduct research.
“You have a collective responsibility as jurors to ensure you all act appropriately according to your oath or affirmation. As such, if you have any concerns during the trial, either relating to the improper conduct of another juror (for example, internet research) or to some other external factor (such as being approached by a third party regarding the case who attempts to influence you), you should immediately inform an usher who will notify me.”
This was the third time in the same morning we were told that we were not allowed to do any research. Mobile phones, social media and Google searches must have really thrown a spanner in the works of court functioning for them to insist on this so much. Yet when you see all the conspiracy theories and fake news (the real fake news, not Trump’s ‘I don’t like this news’ version) that is floating around, you can understand that they prefer to avoid secondhand hearsay and to keep to the facts, or at least to people’s version of the facts under oath.
The judge continued. “Matters of law are for me alone, as judge, to consider; so, if any legal applications are made during the trial, I will ask the jury to leave court while they are dealt with. Do not try to speak with or contact anyone in the courtroom. If you are unsure about anything, and if you think it’s important, I ask you to write it down in a concise manner, then catch the eye of the court clerk here, Mr Jonathan Granger, who will pass the message to me.” The clerk nodded to us. “Finally, we estimate that this trial could last approximately two weeks, but it might take longer. The court will sit every weekday from 10am to 1pm, and then from 2pm to 4.30pm.
“My name is Justice Braithwaite. Since this is the Old Bailey, there is a tradition here that counsel calls all judges ‘My Lord’; but I can assure you I am a common mortal and I am certainly not a Lord. At least not yet.” There was a ripple of laughter around the courtroom. So, the judge seemed human; but he probably always said that. “I will introduce the counsel for the Crown, Mr Peter Scott, QC, assisted by Mr Timothy Sturdee; and the counsel for the defence, Mr Eugene Dawkins, assisted by Mr Gordon Hill.” Each of the barristers turned and nodded towards us in turn in their rather ridiculous wigs. Ah, so the prosecution could afford a ‘silk’ – a Queen’s Counsellor – a very senior rank of barrister, but not the defendant. Was that fair?
“Now that these preliminaries have been dealt with,” continued the judge, “we will break for lunch, and afterwards the prosecution will open its case.”
We all stood up as he left the courtroom.
Chapter Two
Two of the ushers had meanwhile morphed into being the jury keepers, basically our babysitters. They led us out to the jury room where an outside caterer had laid out our lunch on a side table. ‘Lunch’ was not the right word. They were sandwiches followed by fruit yoghurt.
I sat down with a plateful next to Stephanie. “I hate sandwiches,” I said to break the ice. “They make you fat by combining the carbohydrates with the saturated fats; at least that’s what the French expert Michel Montignac says in his book Eat Yourself Slim. Have you read it?”
“No,” she replied. “But I think there’s is some truth in that.”
“Montignac became a millionaire selling his books, basically because he allows you to gorge on greasy steaks, as long as you eat it with a salad and not with chips. But I think his millions really came from him saying you can drink half a litre of wine a day without putting on weight; that’s certainly what attracted me to his books.”
“Well, I don’t think you need to worry about your weight, you look pretty healthy.” She said. This is a good start, I thought. “So, you can eat your sandwiches like a grown man!” Ouch. “Did your Mr Montignac follow his own advice?”
“I assume he did. He lived all the way to the great age of sixty-six.” That got a smile out of her. “Anyway, I’m sure French juries have a lunch of boeuf bourguignon with haricots verts, washed down with a good Côte de Beaune…”
“And then sleep all through the afternoon court session.”
“What do you do when you’re not judging murderers?” I asked her.
“I’m a nurse in intensive care in Saint Bartholomew’s, well, a sister, actually.”
“I’m impressed. You must have moved fast to become a sister at your age.”
“Well, I do have to be quick; most of our intensive care patients are men. And most have had heart surgery, because they ate too many saturated fats. So apart from eating steaks, what do you do?” she asked me.
“I’m an engineer who designs offshore oil platforms.” Normally a good line with the girls.
Her eyes sort of glazed over. “Well, somebody has to do it, I suppose,” she said.
By one o’clock everyone had been to the loo and we were back in our jury box.
All the court players were sitting in their places, ready to play their parts and look important. The judge, the court clerk, the barristers all in their wigs, winged collars, bands and robes; the ushers also in their robes. It reminded me a bit of my undergraduate days in Cambridge where we had to wear our gowns for candle-lit formal hall, even if we only had jeans and sweatshirts on underneath. (It certainly helped keep your clothes clean when the serving staff spilt the soup down your back, which happened rather often.)
The defence solicitor was sitting behind the defence barristers – no robe or anything, very much a second-class citizen; and I assume it was his opposite number, also in civvies, from the Crown Prosecution Service sitting behind his barristers. In the American films the lawyers do everything, the paperwork and the court drama. Here it is split up between the solicitor, who is paid by the client, who then must find, brief and pay a barrister and his junior. That nicely triples the size of the defence team and the legal fees. I wondered if important information got lost with this rather cumbersome chain of instruction.
Mr Peter Scott, QC, stood up. His robes looked impressive, but then they were made out of black silk.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. The defendant, Sarah Richardson, is accused of murder. She is only formally charged with one count of murder of her second son, George Richardson, who died on the 14th of April of this year at the age of four weeks. However, there is evidence to suggest she also killed her first son, Andrew Richardson, in June 2017, when he was six weeks old.”
“The case is quite simple,” he continued, and at the same time hooked his thumbs behind the lapels of his robe. I could not believe he was really doing that; too classic, the gesture must have been burnt into him as a boy watching his schoolmasters. I supposed he was trying to impress us. “One unexplained infant death due to natural causes can happen. It is called S.I.D.S., sudden infant death syndrome, more commonly known as cot death. Our expert witness – a leading paediatrics professor – will testify that there is a small possibility for this
to happen. Once. He will also show you that the chance, the probability, of it happening a second time is so small that it is impossible to happen by accident.
“Furthermore, the post-mortem examination shows signs around the mouth consistent with smothering. Then, there is the suspicious behaviour of the defendant who, once the incident has happened, first calls her husband but not an ambulance.
“As to why, we will learn that Mrs Richardson is diagnosed with a pathology called F.D.I.A. – factitious disorder imposed on another. This is where a mother creates the appearance of health problems in her child in order to gain sympathy. Serious sufferers of this disorder are known to have gone so far as to kill their children.
“By Mrs Richardson’s own admissions, she hadn’t wanted children so fast, because they interfered with her career. Furthermore, she was exhausted beyond breaking point by looking after them. These are two very clear motives to go from inventing health problems to the full act of committing murder.”
I saw the defendant look up sharply while these comments were being made and she shook her head. Either she was pained to hear them, I thought, or she was genuinely concerned that her words had been twisted out of context; or maybe she was just putting on a good act.
At this juncture the lead defence council also shook his head in dismay and tried standing up to object. But he was put down by the Judge, who said, “Mr Dawkins, please do not interrupt the prosecution’s summary. First, you can give any counter-arguments in a few minutes when you give your defence summary. More importantly the jury will hear the evidence from witnesses that either corroborates or not these statements.” He nodded to the prosecution to continue.
The Mathematical Murder of Innocence Page 2