Peter Scott, QC, was almost apoplectic. “I really must object, my Lord! This is totally unprecedented.”
“Well then, please expose your arguments.”
“My Lord, this is really over the top,” replied Scott. “A young jury member thinks he knows better than our esteemed expert. He insults him. You permit him to write down questions nobody understands, least of all our expert. Now you invite him to ask his questions directly. This has never happened in a court of law and should never be allowed to happen. Professional barristers ask the questions, jury members listen and decide later. If the jury starts intervening and cross-examining a key witness, his or her objectivity is immediately compromised, without talking about the impact on the other jurors. Whatever the result of this trial, you are opening the doors for an appeal to quash the verdict.” Sturdee was looking similarly angry.
The judge turned to the defence, “Mr Dawkins, Mr Hill, do either of you wish to comment?”
“My Lord, this is most unusual,” said Dawkins. “Normally it is our job to find any faults in the prosecution expert witness’ testimony. But I would never let my pride get in the way of helping our client to a fair trial. If this young juror can uncover inconsistencies that we have not seen, we are only too willing to let him have a crack at it.” Hill was nodding his assent.
“Thank you, Mr Dawkins,” replied the judge. “Mr Scott, Mr Sturdee, I fully appreciate the precedence that this creates. Let other, future, judges decide whether this is a mistake or new jurisprudence. Meanwhile, although I note your objections, seeing as I have already opened the door to Pandora’s box, I feel I have to go the whole way. I have already decided to let this juror’s questions be aired by asking him for a list for me to read out; however, since no one seems to understand his questions, and given that these statistics seem to be the fundamental core for the prosecution’s arguments, I thus choose to ask him to explain the questions himself, and I’m sure Professor Goodwin will correct any misunderstandings. My decision rests.”
After fifteen minutes outside, we were invited back in. The two prosecution barristers were visibly sulking. The two defence councils, and the defence solicitor, were all smiling.
The judge addressed the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, you are going to witness a legal precedent. As far as I know, this is the first time ever where the judge, that is me, is going to invite a jury member to ask his own questions directly to the witness.”
There was an audible murmur around the courtroom.
“For the record,” continued the judge, “I do this because Professor Goodwin’s testimony seems to be the key element for the prosecution’s case. He is using statistical concepts that only one person so far has shown any apparent mathematical ability to challenge, juror number 6, Mr Fielding. Normally it is my job to ask any necessary questions from a juror, which is in itself an exceptional event. But I admit freely that I do not understand all these questions. I wish this to be a fair trial. Also, for the record, while the defence counsel has no objection to this action, the prosecution counsel has voiced his objection. However, this is the decision I have made.”
He turned to me. “Mr Fielding, you had better demonstrate that you master this subject, or I will stop you immediately. Please ask your questions to the witness, Professor Goodwin, whom I require to answer. Please do take the time necessary to explain to the court any of your reasonings. I do also invite the witness to challenge your reasoning as necessary. Look upon this as two experts challenging each other.”
So that is how I came to be in this unimaginable situation. As I digested those different looks both killing me and pleading with me, my mind simultaneously took in the enormity of it. Here I was, a nervous twenty-six-year-old engineer about to create legal history by being invited, as a member of the jury, to directly cross-examine one of the country’s leading paediatricians, the prosecution’s main witness, to boot; and all this during a murder trial in the Old Bailey. But surely, I can’t be the only person here who understands statistics?
With all eyes looking at me, I stammered out my first question. “Pr-Professor Goodwin, you say that there is only a one in 72 million chance that Mrs Richardson’s children died of natural causes?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I said. Very clearly and several times.”
“So, if I am to understand from your statement,” I continued a little bit more confidently, “the accused was chosen purely at random, pulled in off the street if you like, and only then was it discovered that two of her babies had died in succession?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, young man!” retorted Goodwin. “We all know Mrs Richardson was arrested for murder precisely because her baby boys had died.”
“I agree with the witness, my Lord,” shouted the prosecution. “This is ridiculous. Must we really go on?”
“Mr Fielding,” interrupted the judge, “please get to the point and do not treat the court to facetious remarks.”
“My Lord. From a mathematical point of view, Professor Goodwin’s statement is exactly as if she were pulled in off the street at random,” I replied.
“Well, you had better get on with it and explain yourself then.”
“Professor, please explain again how you reached your calculation.”
“I repeat, again: there is a one in 8,500 chance of the first death being a cot death multiplied by one in 8,500 for the second, thus one in 72 million. Statistically impossible to happen by accident. It had to be murder.”
“But how many births are there in the UK every year?” I asked.
“About 800,000,” he replied.
I was beginning to enjoy this. “So, within a time frame of, say, ten years – since fortunately we don’t often hear about double baby murders – we could, conceptually, have pulled in from the streets ten times 800,000, that’s 8 million women, who have recently given birth. Let’s say half of them, 4 million, were second or third births. Then we ask them if two of their babies had died in a row? And yes, it so happens that one of them, Mrs Richardson, fits that profile. My point is that we had 4 million different chances to find someone guilty. So, Professor Goodwin, your probability is not one in 72 million, it’s one in 72 million divided by 4 million which is exactly one in eighteen. Not one in eighteen hundred or one eighteen thousand, but one in eighteen!”
“But for her individually, the probability is indeed one in 72 million!” Goodwin countered.
I was theatrically shaking my head. “Professor Goodwin, I think we can all agree that we did not pull Mrs Richardson in off the street at random. She is sitting accused in this court, out of all the millions of mothers giving birth, precisely because a rare event happened to her. Let me illustrate this with another question. If 50 million people bought a lottery ticket, and one of them won the £30 million prize, would you have him arrested because he only had a one in 50 million chance of winning and thus must have cheated?”
“No, of course not, somebody had to win.”
“Yes, somebody had to win the lottery, and there were 50 million independent tries to do so. Precisely. Like in our case, 4 million second babies being born.”
“But even with your warped logic,” said Goodwin defensively, “it was still only a one in 18 chance of those being natural deaths. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“My logic is not warped,” I countered, “it is the correct statistical treatment of your very own data and your own premises. And believe me, I will be questioning these next. You simply forgot to take into account the sheer number of events. Yes, with your data, if it were correct, an individual may only have a one in 72 million chance of witnessing a double tragedy, but you completely ignored that over ten years there are 4 million second births in Britain, so 4 million chances for different individuals to experience this tragic rare event. As a result, we are down from your incorrectly stated proof of one in 72 million, to only one in 18, a full six per
cent chance of having bad luck. And who says you can predict exactly when and where a rare bad luck event is going to happen? For example, how many births are there in the world per year, Professor Goodwin?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have your phone on you?”
“Yes.”
I turned to the judge. “My Lord, may I ask the witness to go on Google to get this information?”
“Yes, you may,” he answered.
“Professor, please Google the number of births in the world each year.”
Goodwin, pulled out his phone, went onto his Google app, typed in a few key words and then selected the link that came up and scrolled down. “Let me see. It says there are 131 million births per year worldwide.”
“So,” I continued, “it seems that every year, again using your very own questionable numbers, there would be 131 divided by two, that’s about 66 million births a year of second, or third or more, babies, divided by 72 million, almost one case of double cot deaths per year, or about nine cases over our ten-year period. OK, statistically this is more likely to happen in highly populated countries like China or India. But who are you to say, Professor Goodwin, that this cannot happen in Britain?”
“But,” insisted Goodwin, “you’re forgetting the corroborative evidence – the marks that suggest smothering.”
“Is it probable that an innocent mother, with advanced first-aid training, would try to resuscitate her baby if she sees he is no longer breathing?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Can you prove to the court that those marks were not made by the mother trying to resuscitate her child?” I was beginning to sound just like one of these lawyers.
“No,” admitted Goodwin, “but it is strong corroborative evidence against her; I personally am convinced it was smothering.”
“What is more likely,” I asked, “that a mother tries to resuscitate her child, or that a mother deliberately kills her child?”
Mr Scott, QC, was on his feet again. “My Lord, the juror is asking a rhetorical question!”
“I agree,” said the judge. “Mr Fielding, be more careful. I assume you wish to ask your other questions?”
“Yes, indeed I do, my Lord.”
“Well then, we will break the court at this juncture. Tomorrow you may continue to ask your questions to Professor Goodwin. But I warn you, Mr Fielding, to be very careful in your insinuations and to avoid your flippant remarks. Otherwise, I will shut you down. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“The court is adjourned.”
Everyone followed the court clerk’s lead of getting to their feet. The judge stood up and then disappeared in his funny wig, one without curlers on it.
Chapter Seven
We jurors were led out to the jury room by our two jury keepers. They said we were free to leave whenever we wanted too. They also told us to leave any notes taken inside the jury room, and they provided us with a stack of card folders with our jury numbers on the front to put them in.
But nobody was in a hurry to leave; suddenly it seemed that everybody was talking at the same time. Most seemed to disapprove of my actions.
“Our job is to listen, not to interrupt. What the hell do you think you are doing?” commented one.
“Do you really think at your age you know more than this guy who’s published more than 200 papers? Trying to be the hero, are you?” asked another.
“If that mother ’as murdered ’er sons, she deserves to be put away, and it’s not your job to undermine the prosecution with airy fairy questions. I agree, it’s our job to listen,” said a third.
“I’ve never heard of a judge letting a member of the jury ask questions directly to a witness,” said another. “I’m not even sure he’s allowed to do that. This will probably result in a mis-trial.”
Finally, there was one relatively positive comment from one of the more middle-aged jurors, “There’s something about that professor’s superior attitude I don’t like; at least you put him in his place!”
The appointed foreperson spoke out. I remember thinking, what do we call her? Madame Foreman, or Madame Foreperson? In the end we just called her by her first name, Hilary. “Do we want to rapidly debrief this evening, or do you wish to leave?” she asked. The consensus was that we could all spare a few minutes to discuss, so we sat down at the large oval table.
“Who wants to go first?” asked Hilary.
One of the business suits answered. “I’d like to know what was in the list that Fielding – sorry what was your first name again…?”
“Martin.”
“…that Martin here gave to the judge.” Several others agreed.
So, I told them line by line what I had written.
“I’m afraid that goes over my head,” said one of the bus drivers’ brigade.
“Me too,” said another.
Business suit carried on. “I can guess what you’re trying to get at on some of those points. But just reassure me. Do you actually know what you are talking about?”
“Yes, it’s only basic GCSE maths.”
“I did maths to GCSE and got a B, but still I’m not sure I understand. How come you’re such a hotshot then?”
“Well, I had to do a lot of maths for four years at university as part of my engineering degree, and then a fifth year for my MSc.” I then explained how wave analysis for offshore engineering was largely based on statistical probability concepts. “So, although I’m not a statistician, I do have a good grounding in the subject.”
“Are you really saying that this professor is telling porkies?” asked another.
“I don’t think he is deliberately,” I replied. “Generally, doctors study maths to A-level only – and then not all. Afterwards they are in their own medical world of how the body functions, diseases, surgery, you name it. This guy did his A-levels well over forty years ago. He probably never had to learn probability from first principles like I had to, and if he did, he’s probably forgotten it. I think he believes what he’s saying, it’s just that he’s missing out some key elements.”
“What would those be, then?” asked someone.
“Well, they’re on my list. I think the main one he’s missing is statistical dependence rather than independence. If a cot death has already happened, who’s to say it’s not more likely to happen again? That’s one of the key questions I will ask him tomorrow. He said there was clear evidence of no cot death gene. That is semantical bullshit. You just can’t say that.”
Some people round the table looked dubious. “I’d have thought he would know more about genes than you do!” said one.
“Yes,” I said, “but it seems I know more about maths, and right now that’s more important.”
“Your funeral!”
Hilary fore-whatsit took back the lead. “Personally, I’m whacked, so I would like to head home. Maybe we should all just listen to Martin’s questions tomorrow, and then listen to Professor Goodwin’s responses. After that we might be a little wiser.”
“Sounds like a plan!”
“Yup, good idea.”
“See you tomorrow!”
So, we got up, knocked on the door to summon our babysitters, and started leaving the room. Soon people had gathered their smartphones from their lockers, and suddenly they were busy answering extremely important messages and emails. Or was it just cat pictures on Instagram?
“Thanks for your moral support,” I said to Stephanie on the way out. “It was just what I needed. I was really nervous.”
“Yes, I could see. You did pretty well; you’re going up against an icon of the medical profession – I’m impressed! But you need to watch yourself, you must have better control of your outbursts or comments. If the judge shuts you down, your questions won’t be answered.”
“I guess you�
�re right. Fancy a drink? I could murder a pint!”
“Me to. Let’s find a nearby pub.”
As we came out of the building, two photographers took our photo.
“That looks ominous,” I said to Stephanie. Fortunately, they did not follow us, and we soon found ourselves in the Magpie and Stump down a little cobbled street right opposite the Old Bailey’s entrance. Although it was only early evening, there were already a lot of lawyer types around us, obviously one of the favourite watering holes for the Central Criminal Court.
“Hope we don’t bump into the prosecution team,” I said. “They would probably lace my beer with arsenic.”
“Then they would become the defendants and claim that it is statistically probable that you died a natural death!”
I bought a couple of pints of real ale chosen at random amongst the large choice available along the bar counter. (Ah but, I thought, it never is totally random, is it?) I also chose two packets of cheese and onion crisps (my favourite flavour, therefore not random).
“Cheers!” I said.
“Cheers!” We both drank heartily.
“Oh, I forgot,” I added, “Montignac strictly forbids beers in his diet, too many carbohydrates. That’s why he likes wine.”
“Maybe that’s because he’s French?” suggested Stephanie. “So, you like waves, do you? Both the offshore and onshore variety?”
“Onshore?” I looked into my beer to see if in my thirst I had created a tidal wave.
“Yes. You certainly made waves in the courtroom today! And you’ve made waves with most of the rest of the jury – they gave you a lot of flak tonight. I guess that ‘one in 72 million’ chance of it not being a murder got to them. They’ve already decided she’s guilty and so nobody should pick holes.”
The Mathematical Murder of Innocence Page 6