‘I will, Joseph, I will. Perhaps we shouldn’t be seen together too much in the future. The deputy governor’s getting a bit suspicious. He asked me yesterday if I knew you. I told him I didn’t but I don’t think he believed me.’
‘Is that right? Pass any message through Eugene in future then. He can be trusted. And Dermot, there’ll be something for you when you get out of here if this comes off. You know what I mean?’
‘Thanks, Joseph. That’ll be grand. But I won’t be up for parole for another three years.’
‘Never mind. You’ll need a helping hand when you’re released. And I won’t forget this, you can be sure of it.’
Chapter Twelve
‘Guilty,’ said the woman, looking up from her knitting and glancing at her fellow jurors.
‘Me too’, said the youth with the tattooed arms, ‘Guilty.’
The foreman frowned and added two ‘Gs’ to his list. He now had eight ‘Gs’ and two question marks. There was also a solitary ‘NG’ underlined twice in his notebook. He had not put his own verdict in writing – not yet. Very sensibly, he had chosen to adopt an entirely objective approach as he went through the evidence slowly and carefully, pausing whenever one of the others wished to make a contribution. He looked towards the brash businessman, fidgeting at the other end of the table. He had proved surprisingly difficult throughout the jury’s deliberations. Having initially voted ‘not guilty’, he had spent a great deal of time seeking to persuade the others that the complainant had ‘asked for all he got,’ But he had gradually moved from ‘not guilty’ to’ undecided’ and as he was anxious to get away, his interest in the case was flagging.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘Guilty. Can we get on with it? Some of us have lives to lead you know.’
The foreman, an accountant with a major supermarket, sighed as he altered his note. This was the second occasion he’d been called for jury service but the first time he’d been elected foreman. He had not actively sought the position; it had rather been forced upon him. He would have much preferred if someone else had taken on the job, but no-one else had wanted to do it. But he took his duties very seriously, although he, too, was keen to reach a conclusion.
It had been a difficult fortnight, yet interesting. This was the third trial he’d sat on and he was now well versed in the procedures. His first case had been in Court Number One in front of the Recorder of Nottingham. But just as things started to get interesting, the trial had been stopped. The judge had mentioned ‘administrative difficulties’ but despite speculation afterwards in the jury room, they were really none the wiser. But at least their jury room had been in the modern part of the building. The present trial was taking place in a smaller quite dilapidated courtroom. Several of the ceiling tiles were missing and the seats in the jury box were in need of refurbishment. The retirement room was in a similar state of disrepair and about half the size of the previous location. He glanced around at the cramped conditions he and his fellow jurors were obliged to endure. It had become hot and stuffy and the only window, which overlooked the canal, stubbornly refused to open.The facilities on offer were, in fact, pretty poor given that he and the others had been plucked from their everyday lives to sit in judgment on their fellow citizens whether they wanted to or not. It really wasn’t good enough. The room looked in need of a coat of paint and the equipment they were obliged to use to view the CCTV would not have been given house room by any of them. What was worse, there was only limited catering within the court building and getting any sort of refreshment in the afternoons was simply impossible. The usher had smiled and shaken his head when the request for a drink of some kind was put to him a few days before. There was a machine in the jury assembly area, he had informed them, that was known, occasionally, to supply a beverage of uncertain origin, but it had been out of order for as long as anyone could remember. By the second day of the trial they had resorted to bringing their own sandwiches and drinks. There was no alternative.
This was the third day and the evidence had concluded. They had listened with as much attention as they could muster to counsels’ speeches and the judge’s erudite summing up. But now it was down to them. Guilty or not guilty? It was their decision, no-one else’s. The foreman looked at the clock on the far wall and observed the adjacent damp patch which seemed to have spread since they began their deliberations. It was almost 3.05pm. The hands on the clock seemed to be moving extraordinarily slowly. He sighed again and looked at his fellow jurors. The twelve, chosen by ballot, were unknown to each other until they had assembled in response to their summonses two weeks before. They were a mixed bunch but seemed to get along, with the exception of the businessman. He had managed to offend almost everyone by his assumed superiority. But the others worked well together without too much effort. Most were on first name terms, with one exception.
‘Anyone else want to make a contribution?’ he asked.
Everyone looked at the petite middle-aged woman sitting to his left. Her views were already well known. She smiled but said nothing. She had introduced herself as Miss Duston. The others knew her full name of course –it had been called out by the court clerk when the jury was empanelled. Elizabeth Mary Duston, that was it, but no-one had dared address her other than as Miss Duston. The foreman was most particular. It just didn’t seem right to refer to her as Lizzie or even Elizabeth, so he didn’t and he obligingly ensured that everyone followed his lead. Miss Duston was, they knew, a retired practice manager in her mid-fifties and being the only person on the jury who had any knowledge of shorthand, had taken a very full note of the evidence. That was all the others knew about her, apart from the fact she had declined to act as foreman. She had simply refused when the invitation was extended. She had seemed the logical choice bearing in mind she was in possession of a virtually contemporaneous record of the entire trial. No reason was given. Neither was she one for volunteering information about herself. She was very well dressed, unlike some of the others who had gradually adopted a very casual appearance as the days wore on. But not Miss Duston. The two-piece suit she wore, dark grey in colour, was well cut and obviously expensive. She had worn a similar outfit in an attractive light blue the previous day. Her hair, greying but carefully arranged, was held in place by an elegantly curved French pleat comb. Her hands, although showing some signs of age, were obviously well cared for, her nails carefully manicured but seemingly without varnish. She slowly turned over the pages in her notebook then looked about her as she cleared her throat.
‘The judge said we had to be sure before we could convict, and I don’t think I can honestly say I have reached that degree of certainty.’ She smiled again. ‘And this man has no previous convictions – unlike the fellow he punched.’
She glanced at the other jurors one after the other, reserving a particularly severe scowl for the portly man sitting opposite her. She then looked down at her notes.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said the subject of her resolute look.
He had introduced himself as Bob Tyler, a retired heavy goods vehicle driver. He was grossly overweight and his shirt seemed to have difficulty remaining tucked into his trousers. He had removed his jacket which hung on the back of his chair thus revealing the sweat which had accumulated under his arm pits. ‘I need a fag,’ he insisted, taking a packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket. But he placed them on the table after noticing the reaction of the foreman. It had been decided, at the outset, that there should be no smoking within the jury room. That decision had been by a straight majority but had been insisted on by Miss Duston. She did not see how she could possibly serve if smoking were permitted in the jury room. The prohibition rankled with the three who were in the minority but had been reluctantly accepted. Miss Duston was not one to brook dissent and no-one had been prepared to argue the point further with her. But that was three days ago and time was getting on. Bob Tyler was growing increasingly impatient.
‘If this go
es on much longer…’
He did not finish his sentence but got up and walked to the water dispenser in the corner. The other jurors watched as he clumsily placed a transparent beaker under the tap and pressed upwards. The machine gurgled but no water emerged.
‘Now this bloody thing isn’t working.’
‘Give it time,’ said the foreman, eyeing Miss Duston who simply raised an eyebrow.
He pushed again and cold water gushed into the beaker.
‘There you are. All it takes is a bit of patience.’
Tyler said nothing but walked towards the window which overlooked the canal, taking the beaker with him. He lifted the dusty and broken blind and looked out. Two Canada geese were squawking and flapping their wings, fighting over a morsel of bread thrown into the water by a passing pedestrian. He turned and faced the others before taking a gulp from the beaker. He realised there was little point in addressing the foreman so he concentrated his gaze on Miss Duston.
‘What did the judge say about a majority verdict?’ he asked. His tone was anything but friendly. ‘On my count that’s ten of us in agreement.’
‘Nine, I think,’ corrected Miss Duston. ‘We haven’t received the foreman’s vote yet.’
The foreman nodded in agreement but said nothing. She looked at Tyler, her eyes displaying a dogged determination which began to unsettle him. He looked away as she placed her spectacles on the end of her nose.
‘What the judge said was that we should forget about majority verdicts and try and reach a verdict upon which all of us were agreed.’ She checked her comprehensive note of the summing up. ‘He said he would have us back and give us further directions when the time was right.’
Tyler turned and faced her again.
‘Well the time is right, isn’t it? We’ve been stuck in here since before lunch and this chap is obviously guilty. The CCTV proves that.’
She shook her head as she adjusted her glasses. ‘Well I’m not sure the prosecution has proved he was not acting in self defence.’ She smiled benignly. ‘The CCTV doesn’t show what was happening immediately before the punch was thrown. We have to rely for that on what the complainant says. And then there’s the defendant’s evidence to consider too. Speaking only for myself, I found his account more credible than the so-called victim.’
She smiled that sweet smile of hers again as she removed her glasses.
The youth with the tattoos intervened.
‘Well he ain’t proved he was, has he? You know, acting in self-defence, like. He knocked the bloke clean out and caused his head to split when he hit the pavement. Bit over the top if you ask me.’
‘He doesn’t have to,’ sighed the foreman, shaking his head. ‘The prosecution has to prove he wasn’t acting in reasonable self defence. The judge made that very clear.’
Miss Duston nodded approvingly. ‘Neither did the judge say anything about him not defending himself effectively. He’s permitted to do that, you know. You can’t convict him just because the other fellow split his head open when he hit the kerb. The real question is whether he was justified in punching him.’
‘But he didn’t have to hit him so hard, did he?’ said the now red-faced Tyler, his frustration only too obvious.
She put on her spectacles and looked at her notes again.
‘But the judge directed us that you can’t expect him to “weigh to a nicety” – yes, that’s how he put it – “weigh to a nicety” - the amount of force he should use. After all, he’d never punched anyone before.’
‘So he says!’ Tyler retrieved his cigarettes but remained standing.
‘Yeah,’ grunted the youth. ‘If it had been me, I’d have hit him as hard as I could. You know, to make sure he didn’t come at me again.’ He sniggered and pushed his chair back.
‘Isn’t that exactly what the defendant said?’
The jurors looked at each other in turn, then at Miss Dunston. That, indeed, was what the defendant had said. The youth screwed his face up. The effort of recalling the defendant’s evidence was almost too much for him.
‘I suppose he did. Oh, well, if that’s the case, I don’t think I’m too sure either.’ He sniffed and wiped his nose on his arm. Miss Duston looked at the foreman, knowingly, over her spectacles as he amended his note. One of the other jurors, who had remained silent throughout, added his assent.
‘I think that must be right. We should ignore the fact he hit his head on the kerb and ask ourselves whether he had no option but to strike out in self defence in the first place.’
‘Exactly.’
‘For God’s sake,’ exclaimed Tyler, his face turning almost purple, ‘we’re going to be here all day at this rate. I don’t know about you, but I’ve got things to do.’
‘Me too,’ repeated the businessman, although he remained seated.
The foreman shook his head and asked the retired lorry driver to sit down. He declined, turning away and throwing his now empty beaker in the direction of the overflowing waste bin. It missed. He didn’t bother to pick it up.
‘Shall we go through the evidence again? From the beginning…or shall we take a short break?’
Two middle-aged men, who had discovered they shared a mutual interest in breeding budgerigars looked at each other, pushed their chairs back and made for the water dispenser. The other jurors started to talk amongst themselves and either stood up or thrust their note pads away and placed their pencils on the table. Their decision, at least on this question, seemed unanimous.
‘All right. We’ll take five minutes,’ said the foreman, closing his notebook and looking across to Miss Duston who smiled, took a thermos flask from her capacious handbag and poured herself a hot drink.
* * * *
‘Will the Defendant please stand,’ said the court clerk, a woman in her late thirties with short dark hair.
The defendant shuffled to his feet, understandably anxious to learn his fate. She turned to her left and looked towards the jury. ‘Will the foreman please stand.’
The foreman stood somewhat wearily. The jury had been out for over three and a half hours. No majority direction had been given by the judge. Having heard nothing from the jury by way of a note, he had simply left them to it. Two and a half hours after they retired, he had come back into court and discussed the matter with counsel. Looking at the clock at the back of the court and noticing it was already well past three o’clock, he had decided to defer a majority direction until the following morning if no verdict were reached before the court rose for the day. Happily, it seemed that would no longer be necessary.
‘Mr. Foreman,’ asked the clerk, ‘Please answer my first question either yes or no. Has the jury reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’
‘Yes we have, your Honour.’
‘Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of unlawful wounding?’
The foreman paused. The defendant looked down. The judge took up his pen.
‘Not guilty.’
A youth in the public gallery stood and shouted in protest. He was, as the jurors recognised, the complainant, whose evidence they had, eventually, rejected. The judge glared at him.
‘Silence,’ he ordered. ‘There must be no interruption while the jury is delivering its verdict.’
The youth pushed past the person sitting next to him and left the courtroom, slamming the door behind him.
‘Do continue,’ said the judge to the clerk, who smiled knowingly before turning to face the foreman again.
‘And is that the verdict of you all?’
‘It is,’ confirmed the foreman. Miss Duston looked very pleased with herself. Several of the other jurors shifted in their uncomfortable seats, anxious to get away.
‘Thank you Mr Foreman,’ said the judge. ‘Do sit down.’ He looked towards the dock and discharged the defendant. ‘You are free to go, Mr. Johnson
.’
He went on to thank the jury for their close attention to the evidence in what had been ‘a far from straight-forward case.’
‘If you go with the jury bailiff you will receive further instructions…’
Several of the jurors looked concerned. They were at the end of their second week of service. Bob Tyler whispered to the woman sitting next to him.
‘Does that mean we have to go through another trial? I thought that was us done!’
The woman did not reply. Prosecution counsel turned to whisper a few words to the CPS representative crouching behind him. The defence advocate could not resist grinning and nodding in gratitude towards the jurors as they trundled out of the cramped jury box and followed the jury bailiff out of the courtroom. He then turned and raised his hand to his client who had already stumbled out of the dock and was heading quickly towards the exit door before they changed their minds.
‘What did I tell you?’ he drawled to his instructing solicitor in a clearly audible voice. ‘Never plead guilty!’
* * * *
By the time the jurors returned to the assembly area on the top floor of the Crown Court building it was approaching 4.25pm. Bob Tyler was already pulling on his coat and nodding his goodbyes when the jury summoning officer called for silence. There were well over forty-five jurors in the room, one or two of whom had not been called in the almost two weeks they had spent at the court. Jurors from another trial were also arriving, their duties for the day completed. A young man with untidy long hair who had not yet been chosen to serve, was sitting in a quiet corner reading War and Peace which he had sensibly brought with him. He placed the large volume to his side and stood up.
‘We shall not require any of you further today or tomorrow,’ said the jury officer. ‘There are no more trials due to start this week’. Sighs of relief came from the jurors. ‘But there’s a big trial due to start on Tuesday next and we may be short of a few jurors. Although you have completed your service and are free to leave, any of you who are prepared to join the panel on Tuesday should remain and speak to me before you go. Thank-you.’
A Private and Convenient Place Page 12