She looked apprehensively at the largely uninterested faces in front of her. The young man picked up his book and sat down. Perhaps his turn would come on Tuesday? He was disappointed he had not yet been chosen. He was a university student reading politics and criminology at Nottingham Trent University. He regarded serving on a jury as an unlooked for bonus which would contribute to the dissertation he was preparing for his degree. He had attended court every day for almost a fortnight and trudged down to a courtroom three or four times, but his name had not been called, so he had busied himself reading Tolstoy’s masterpiece until he was told he could leave for the day. He had been held back this day because a problem had been anticipated with a jury in Court Seven but whatever the issue may have been it had been resolved by the middle of the afternoon. Others were not so enthusiastic. The hum of renewed conversation failed to mask the voice of Bob Tyler.
‘Not me,’ he declared. ‘I’ve done my bit.’ He smiled and rushed towards the door, followed, more slowly, by most of the others. Some made half-hearted excuses as they departed. They pleaded work commitments or child care issues. About five or six remained including Miss Duston, her capacious handbag, firmly gripped in her left hand.
‘How long will this trial last?’ asked the youth with the tattoos who had, surprisingly, stayed behind too. He had enjoyed his two weeks sitting as a juror and found the experience very rewarding.
‘It has an estimate of two to three weeks,’ replied the jury officer. ‘We have a panel of jurors coming in, but there are reasons why we will need a larger panel than usual.’
‘May we be told what those reasons are?’ asked Miss Duston. ‘I suppose it’s a particularly important case, is it?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say. But the chances are you won’t be chosen. It’s just a precaution really, you know, to make up the numbers. The trial judge wants a bigger panel than we had arranged. But it will probably only involve you being here on Tuesday.’
‘Well, I have nothing else to do, so I’m willing to serve.’ She looked at the young man with the large book. He nodded his agreement. ‘Thank you Mr Green,’ said the jury officer. Three of the others, including the youth with the tattoos did likewise.
‘See you on Tuesday.’
Chapter Thirteen
Marcus Beamer was the most experienced clerk employed at Nottingham Crown Court. The Court Manager had assigned to him the responsibility of organising everything for the trial of Julia Hamilton as well as clerking throughout the proceedings. Although he had agreed – indeed he had fully expected to be given the role - he had pointed out that he always took leave during the Cheltenham Festival and nothing would stop him attending Gold Cup day on the seventeenth of the month. He would forego the first day of the meeting, if necessary, but the rest of the week was sacrosanct. He just had to be there – no inducement could make him change his mind. Besides, he had a solid tip for the big race which he was keeping very much to himself. He fully intended to make this his biggest bet of the year. See More Business was the ante-post favourite and had won the race the year before, but Marcus had studied the form with care. Looks like Trouble was his pick and he fully intended to be there when the race was run and his bets laid.
The court manager reluctantly agreed and arranged for one of the other clerks to take over on the Tuesday of the second week of the trial. But the burden of sorting everything out fell on Marcus. There was enormous Press interest in the case and additional space had to be made available to accommodate the journalists and television reporters. Reserved seating had to be provided for various individuals and one of the larger conference rooms made available for the prosecution. The training suite on the top floor was set up for the Press and additional security officers acquired. At least he was not responsible for the armed police officers who were to patrol the building and the group of specialist firearms officers who were already setting up camp in the car park.
He also had to meet with the judge. The Honourable Sir John Reginald Harrington Hornbeam had never sat at Nottingham before. He had once appeared in Nottingham as a junior barrister in the days when the court sat at the Old Shire Hall on High Pavement, but he was not impressed when he arrived with the facilities available in the present building. Described by one architectural critic as ‘The ugliest modern building in Nottingham’, it had not endeared itself to those who worked within it either. A fortune had been spent curing the leaking roof but the facilities within the building still left a lot to be desired. The judge’s exasperation was tempered when he arrived at the lodgings in the Park, about three-quarters of a mile from the court. They comprised a large and comfortable Victorian house and the chef who would be preparing his meals was skilled and approachable. Better still, he would not be obliged to share with another judge. He would be the only High Court Judge in residence. Perhaps his three or four weeks in Nottingham would not be as irksome as he had anticipated? The one cloud on the judicial horizon was his wife, Lady Hornbeam. She had announced at breakfast on the day he left their home in Cheshire that she fancied spending a few days in Nottingham and would be arriving at the lodgings in the middle of his second week. She had heard that the shopping in Nottingham was excellent and suggested that it would be appropriate for his Lordship to organise a dinner party during her stay. She gave him detailed instructions as to the guest list. Her old school friend, Frances Massingham, was married to a gentleman farmer in the county who just happened to be this year’s High Sheriff, a coincidence she had decided was to be exploited to her advantage. The judge had emitted a slight groan as he put down his newspaper and continued his breakfast but promised to make the necessary arrangements.
Marcus knocked on the door of the judge’s chambers with a degree of trepidation. He had never met Mr Justice Hornbeam before but had taken the sensible precaution of looking him up in Who’s Who and been delighted to note that his stated leisure interests included racing. Perhaps they would get on after all? Confirmation was speedy. As he entered the room he was pleased to see the judge’s head buried in a copy of the Racing Post. He looked up and smiled as Marcus introduced himself.
‘You’ll be with me throughout the trial will you?’ asked the judge.
‘This week and Monday of next week,’ replied Marcus, ‘I’m on leave during the Cheltenham festival.’
The judge smiled. ‘You’re going are you? Lucky you.’
Marcus nodded. ‘I go every year, well most years. Yvette will be taking over from me, but I should be back for the verdict.’
‘Yvette? She’s that attractive young women who welcomed me with the court manager?’
‘Yes, my Lord. Yvette Robertson.’
‘Married is she?’
‘Engaged.’
‘Is she?’ There was a touch of disappointment in the judge’s voice.
‘Yes, my Lord. Her fiancé plays for Leicester Tigers. He’s their loose- head prop, I believe.’
The judge nodded. ‘Big chap, I suppose?’
‘Huge. I saw him at the staff Christmas party. She might be able to get a free ticket if you’re interested in seeing them play.’
The judge pushed the racing paper to one side and looked down at the trial papers underneath. He appeared to have lost interest in Yvette Robertson.
‘I don’t think so. But an afternoon at the races, if that could be organised, would go down a treat. My wife tells me that your High Sheriff is a racing man. And I noticed there’s a meeting at Nottingham in a couple of Saturdays’ time.’
‘Yes, my Lord. Mr Massingham has a few horses, one of them with some ability, but he finishes as High Sheriff soon. Hands over the reigns to someone else at the beginning of April.’
‘Well we must get him here before he finishes.’
‘I believe he’s proposing to sit with you on Thursday.’
‘Good. Should be an interesting day on Thursday, always assuming things go to plan. And he an
d his wife are coming for dinner next week at the lodgings. Now, have you studied the form for the Gold Cup? I suppose See More Business has to be given serious consideration?’
Marcus could see they were going to get on. Their shared interest in the turf soon had them discussing the form of the several horses entered for the big race. The judge’s clerk, dressed in a black morning coat and striped trousers coughed – and it was not to clear his throat. He obviously didn’t approve. The judge ignored him as Marcus pondered the attributes of the form horses.
‘He won the race last year, but I have a fancy of my own. See More will probably go off favourite at too short a price. My horse should give a better return – always assuming he runs and wins.’
The judge smiled. ‘Care to share it with me? No pressure of course.’
Marcus looked towards the judge’s clerk who was now busying himself with his Lordship’s robes. The judge shook his head.
‘Don’t worry about Keith. He has no interest in the horses. Thinks it quite disreputable, don’t you Keith?’
The clerk turned and faced the judge. ‘It’s not for me to comment, my Lord,’ he said, bowing his head as he continued brushing down the red judicial robe with his hand, before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. After he had gone, Marcus and the judge turned once again to the subject of the Cheltenham Festival.
‘Take no account of my clerk,’ said the judge. ‘He simply doesn’t understand. I’ve tried to get him to the races a dozen times, but he says it’s not for him.’
‘The Queen’s very keen on the horses,’ said Marcus, wryly. ‘I’ve seen her at Cheltenham several times. And the Queen Mum, well she’s hardly away from the place. If it’s good enough for the royals…’
‘Exactly,’ said the judge, an amused expression on his face. ‘Keith’s very reliable when it comes to organising things but he draws the line at accompanying me to the races. He’s a lay preacher you know, and I have a feeling he doesn’t really approve of me. Now what’s this tip of yours?’
Marcus had been quite determined to keep his analysis of the form to himself but he supposed he could make an exception for the judge.
‘I don’t want it to get about,’ he whispered, ‘but Looks like Trouble, he’s the one for me.’
‘Noel Chance’s horse,’ mused the judge, nodding his head and stroking his chin. ‘You may be on to something there. Fits with the case I’m about to try too. I foresee a great deal of trouble on the horizon. I might make a small investment in him.’ He laughed. ‘If you’re going to the meeting you can put a bet on for me. I won’t have to pay the off-course betting tax then and I don’t want to risk an ante-post bet, just in case he isn’t declared to run.’
He took out his wallet and handed Marcus five crisp twenty pound notes.
‘That should do it,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. I shan’t hold you responsible if he doesn’t come in. Now, what have you heard about the trial? I take it is still a trial, no suggestion of a late plea?’
‘No, my Lord. No chance of that, I’m afraid. But it should be an interesting case. There’s hordes of Press people out there. And the Attorney-General is supposed to be on his way.’
The judge sighed. ‘Is he? He paused. ‘I hear the Defendant’s of rather fetching appearance?’
‘Yes, sir. I saw her at the hearing before the Recorder when the final directions were given. She’s a real looker.’
‘Pity that. The case against her looks pretty solid to me – and I never like sending women to prison, especially the good-looking ones. Terrible waste, but if I have to…’
‘There’s a large jury panel being assembled, as you requested. It’s going to be a bit of a squeeze to get them all in, but no doubt we’ll manage. I’d better go and check that everything is ready. We’ll be sitting in half an hour.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Keith, re-entering the room bearing the expression of a discontented undertaker. ‘The usher has just informed me that the Defendant is not expected to arrive much before a quarter to twelve. She’s coming from Holloway and there’s a hold up on the motorway. Mr Everdene needs to see her as well.’
He bowed to the judge as he spoke, dripping with deference, but at the same time retaining a look of utter disapproval as he eyed the banknotes in Marcus’ hands.
The judge shook his head in despair. ‘They’ll have to find somewhere nearer to Nottingham to accommodate her. We can’t have this happening every day.’
He pushed his case papers aside and stood up. ‘Marcus, get the leaders in here. Tell them I need to see them about an administrative matter and that includes the Attorney-General, assuming he’s arrived.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’ Marcus thrust the cash into his pocket, glanced at the still disapproving Keith and made his way to the courtroom.
* * * *
After a brief discussion with Cronshaw and Everdene - the Attorney had not yet arrived at court – it was agreed that Julia Hamilton would have to be moved somewhere nearer to Nottingham.
‘Otherwise I shall have to consider granting her bail,’ said the judge, eyeing Cronshaw. ‘We can’t have this performance on a daily basis. Holloway is simply too far away.’
Although Cronshaw agreed that the distance was impractical, he was concerned that the most suitable prison was Foston Hall, about fifty minutes from Nottingham, but Kelly Maguire was detained there and the last thing he wanted was any communication between her and Hamilton. But anything was better than bailing her. The judge was not sympathetic when this potential problem was raised.
‘Arrangements will have to be made,’ he insisted. ‘It must be perfectly possible to keep them apart. After all, it is supposed to be a prison – not a hotel!’
Cronshaw had his doubts but he assured the judge that suitable arrangements would be put in hand for the following day.
‘We can’t swear the jury in without the defendant, I suppose.’
The judge looked at both counsel.
‘No, judge,’ said Everdene. ‘She used to work in the courts around here – as a sort of outdoor clerk, if you know what I mean? We don’t want to take any risks to arise by empanelling someone who may know her.’
‘You’re not pursuing a change of venue any more?’
‘No. I don’t think that is necessary. I’m sure we can empanel a jury which has no knowledge of her. There’s about sixty been summoned.’
‘As many as that? Very well. I’ll come into court and explain matters to the jury in waiting. We can’t keep them hanging about until after mid-day. Then I shall adjourn until two-fifteen. I never believe these indications as to time of arrival. If she gets here any earlier, it will give you the opportunity of speaking with her. Perhaps we can then proceed without further interruption? No chance of a plea, I suppose?’
Everdene shook his head.
‘By the way,’ added the judge, mischievously. ‘What’s happened to the Attorney? Had second thoughts has he?’
Cronshaw smiled.
‘Unfortunately not. He’s intending to arrive for the opening speech this afternoon. He’s leaving the legal argument as to the admissibility of the intercept to me!”
The judge grinned.
‘Very wise of him. I take it you prepared the opening note? I’ve read it, of course.’
‘Yes. He’s had it for over a week. Let’s hope he’s studied it.’
All three of them smiled, knowingly.
‘No doubt he has other demands on his time but I want to make it clear that there will be no adjournments granted to accommodate him. If he’s not here when he should be I shall expect you to proceed in his absence.’
Cronshaw nodded as the judge continued.
‘I take it there’s no question of calling Judge Campion or his wife? I see they have both made statements.’
‘No.’ replied Cronshaw. ‘That will not be neces
sary. We have agreed a number of admissions which will be put before the jury. The judge’s statement will be read in full. It’s pretty powerful stuff; I believe he wrote it himself. And as Hanlon is now being called, he can fill in any further details should it be necessary.’
Everdene nodded his agreement.
‘It will remove some of the drama from the case and the Press will be disappointed but there is no dispute about what happened in the judge’s home.’
‘Or the circumstances of Mrs. Campion’s detention?’
‘All agreed,’ said Cronshaw.
The judge smiled. ‘Good.
‘Could I mention the question of the intercept, judge? I haven’t yet discussed it with Hal, but in view of the late service of the additional evidence – and subject to taking instructions from my client - we might want it in anyway. The Crown’s decision to call Hanlon in support of its case rather changes things.’
He gave Cronshaw a slightly disapproving look. The judge nodded.
‘That doesn’t altogether surprise me. But I shall still have to rule on the matter, won’t I? If it is inadmissible as a matter of law, it shouldn’t go before the jury whatever the Crown’s view or yours for that matter.’
He cast a telling glance towards Cronshaw then looked at Everdene.
‘Perhaps Edwin and I could consider it and let you know our views after the short adjournment?’
‘An excellent idea. If you can agree something, I’ll probably go along with it.’
‘If the call is to be admitted, I shall have to amend the opening,’ added Cronshaw, ‘and make sure the Attorney understands.’
‘Time enough for that,’ said the judge. ‘Now one final matter. I see the indictment has been amended. That’s all agreed is it?’
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