I’m only half-listening though as I practically skip my way to the doors ahead of me. Then I whip out my mobile and fire off a text to Bernard:
HAVE BEEN SELECTED. WHICH MEANS AT LEAST I GET TO PLEAD MY CASE TO THE JUDGE. WITH ANY LUCK THEY’LL SEE REASON AND RELEASE ME. HOPE TO BE OUT OF HERE LUNCHTIME AT THE LATEST. TXXXX
‘All mobile phones must remain off from this point onwards,’ is Bridget’s parting shot as I swish by her through the double doors and on into a smaller waiting area, but I’m barely listening. This is a sign from the Universe and for the first time all day, I really feel that if the judge is even a half-reasonable person, that everything might – just might – be well.
That dark-haired guy from earlier is right ahead of me as we all shuffle our way up a flight of stairs.
‘So you’ve been selected then?’ he says, slowing down to switch off his iPhone.
‘That’s right,’ I tell him, ‘which means with any luck they’ll let me out of here in under an hour tops.’
‘You think?’ he says wryly, raising an eyebrow. ‘Dunno if I’d go getting my hopes up, if I were you. That’s not quite the way jury service works, you know.’
But I don’t even bother racking my brains to come up with a smart answer. I even find it in myself to smile angelically back at him.
*
So now we’re all being guided up yet another short flight of carpeted stairs and on through heavy oak double doors that look soundproofed, before we’re led into a jury room, with a conference table and twelve seats dotted around it, boardroom-style. From there, we’re then guided through another door and on into court number seven.
And yet again it seems all my years of binging on legal dramas have completely misinformed me. You’d expect an actual, proper, live courtroom to be scary and intimidating, calculated to make you go weak at the knees and confess all in front of a judge.
But this is absolutely nothing like that at all. It’s ultra-modern in here, warm and airy, with nothing in the slightest bit daunting about it, in spite of the fact that it’s a huge courtroom. For starters, it’s busy and bustling, with barristers looking puffed-up with their own importance swishing in and out of the double doors at the back of the court, chatting amongst themselves and gearing up for the business of the day.
It’s about half-full in here, with people who look like they’re here for a family or friend’s case to be heard sitting in benches, patiently waiting on the kick-off. Meanwhile Sandra, the Court Registrar, the blonde smiley lady I instantly recognise from onscreen a few minutes ago, comes over and addresses us all.
‘We’ll have Judge Simmonds presiding over us today,’ she tells us all warmly. ‘And don’t worry, she’ll talk you through the whole procedure. So if you’ve any questions, you can address the bench directly.’
I shoot my hand up.
‘Sorry about this, but I’m afraid I really do need to speak to the judge,’ I tell her, aware of eleven pairs of eyes burning a hole into my skull. ‘For … erm … personal reasons.’
‘You’re absolutely entitled to do that,’ smiles Sandra. ‘But all in good time.’
‘… And the best of luck with it,’ a crisp woman’s voice comes from directly behind me. I turn around to see a woman in her early forties, at a guess, dressed like she’s just fallen out of bed, in flowery leggings that could almost be pyjamas and a giant oversized sweatshirt. I don’t even have time to react to her though because next thing, there’s a curt ‘all rise!’ from a discreet door behind the judge’s bench and everyone stands as a hush descends.
‘This court is now in session with myself, Judge Ingrid Simmonds presiding,’ says the judge, striding purposely towards the top bench in her wig and gown and taking a seat. Everyone in court follows suit except we jurors, who are all standing pinned in a straight line at the very back of the jury box, with two empty rows of six seats directly ahead of us.
It’s only now I get a look at Judge Simmonds, who yet again is nothing at all like I’d imagined. I’d expected some crusty old man to be presiding, who nodded off during testimonies and kept a bottle of gin handy under his desk. But Ingrid Simmonds turns out to be in her early-fifties, at a guess, with short, cropped salt and pepper hair and a brisk, efficient, no-nonsense manner about her. Like a headmistress in school who won’t tolerate messing on any account.
She turns to address the jury bench first.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she says, ‘we have a busy day ahead of us, so allow me to get directly to the point. When the Court Registrar calls out your name, step forward and present yourself to both the Prosecuting and Defending barristers. They may at this point object to you, in which case you’ll be asked to stand down and return to the jury holding area.
‘Please take no offence if there’s an objection to you serving, as none is intended,’ she goes on, smoothly and clearly, a woman well used to being in control.
Take offence? I think to myself. If they objected to me, I’d probably lead a conga line out of here.
The court stays quiet as our names are called out individually.
‘Edith Mooney,’
‘Yes! Present!’ says the elderly lady who’d been so engrossed in the racing pages earlier.
‘May I ask if you’re over the age of sixty-five?’ the judge asks.
‘Seventy-four last birthday,’ she says proudly.
‘In that case I can excuse you by right of age if you wish, but it’s your decision.’
‘Oh no!’ she beams back. ‘I wouldn’t want to miss this for the world … sure it’s like the best free entertainment you can get! I hope it’s a good juicy case, mind you, I don’t want to be stuck here all day for a parking fine or something boring.’
‘Any objections?’ the judge asks a cluster of barristers milling around the front of the court. There don’t appear to be any though, just a lot of head shaking.
‘Then take a seat please,’ the judge adds, moving swiftly along.
Another three jurors are called and no one seems to have any objection to them, so again they take their seats in the jury box. One is a fifty-something woman, power dressed in a suit I recognise as L.K. Bennett, one is a much older man about my dad’s vintage and the third is a lady who looks at least seventy and who’s hobbling around on a walking stick.
‘Will Kearns,’ says the Court Registrar, reading out another name on her list and it’s that guy who was having a go at my musical taste earlier, slinging a manbag over his shoulders and ambling casually into his seat, like he hasn’t a care in the world. So that’s your name then, I think, Will Kearns. Good luck on jury service because I for one will certainly not be joining you.
‘Tess Taylor,’ and I almost jump as my name is read out.
‘Permission to approach the bench, Your Honour,’ I ask, delighted that at least TV taught me that small bit of useful legalese.
‘Go right ahead,’ smiles Sandra, waving me out of the jury box.
I stumble up two steps to where the judge is looking beadily back down at me, aware that not only my fellow jurors, but now it seems the entire court have stopped whatever they’re all doing to pay attention.
‘I really am so sorry about this, Your Honour,’ I say in a low voice, ‘but I’m afraid I need to be excused. I really hope you understand, but you see I’ve an extraordinary set of circumstances going on in my life right now, so it’s just not possible for me to be here today. Or any day at all, in fact.’
‘What’s the problem?’ asks Judge Simmonds politely.
‘Well you see I’m getting married. In less than a month, to be exact. And I’m having the wedding at home and you just have no idea how much work there’s still to do.’
With that, I break off and start to fumble around my bag for all the back-up material I brought with me as proof: my to-do lists and yet more lists, a letter from our Parish Priest confirming the date of the wedding, the receipt for my wedding dress which flaps out and falls down onto the carpeted floor beneath. I even
produce my mood board in all its cream and white simplicity, which Judge Simmonds looks distinctly uninterested in.
‘In fact only this morning, Your Honour, I had to cancel three really important meetings with our musician and florist and make-up artist, just so I could be here today,’ I tell her, getting red-faced and flustered as the words just spill out. ‘We’re having a marquee in our back garden and hand on heart, I had absolutely no idea just how much work would be involved, you see. I mean, look at this, here’s a list of just what I’ve got to do this week alone—’
I’m just about to show her sample menus from the catering company’s brochure, when Judge Simmonds waves me silent right in the middle of my spiel about gluten-free starters and vegetarian options for mains.
‘Will the barrister for the Prosecution kindly inform the court how long this case is expected to take?’ she asks brusquely.
A tall, imposing barrister stands up – and somehow he’s familiar looking. It’s only when he speaks in that incredibly distinctive, cut-glass accent though, that the penny drops.
‘The Prosecution can confidently predict this to be an open-and-shut case, Your Honour,’ he says, and I think, bloody hell, that’s Oliver Daniels. The Oliver Daniels. I know next to nothing about law and less still about the courts, but every dog on the street has heard of Oliver Daniels. He’s one of the most senior barristers we have in this country and he’s forever in the papers and on the news spouting on about this case or that which he’s just won.
And that’s another thing about him. To date, he’s never yet lost a case, not in thirty years practicing here. Even I know that much.
‘Can you give me a rough time span, please?’ asks the judge, peering down at him.
‘I would confidently aim to have this wrapped up in two weeks or less, Your Honour,’ he says in an accent that wouldn’t sound out of place in the Pritchards’ drawing room, with all those clipped, crisp consonants.
‘What say the Defence?’
‘We would agree, Your Honour,’ says the opposing barrister, a forty-something woman with short brown spikey hair peeping out from under her wig. God love you, I think, suddenly feeling sympathetic towards her. Whatever this case is, the very fact that she’s up against the mighty Oliver Daniels would be enough to make me throw in the towel and run screaming for the hills.
‘And you say your wedding is a full month away?’ asks Judge Simmonds, turning back to me.
‘Yes, that’s right, so you see it’s completely impossible for me—’
‘Nonsense. As you see, the case shouldn’t last any longer than two weeks max, so you’re cleared to serve. Unless either the Prosecution or Defence have any objections?’
None though, worst luck.
‘Kindly return to the jury box, please,’ says the judge briskly.
‘What?’ I say, looking at her dumbfounded. ‘But no, I can’t! You don’t seem to understand!’
‘Please step down and re-join the other jurors.’
‘But … but … in the UK, you’re allowed to be excused if you’re getting married,’ I insist, clutching frantically at straws.
‘Sadly, that is not the case in this jurisdiction.’
‘Please! You have to release me!’
‘You are aware of the penalties imposed for failing to serve?’ she says sternly, raising her voice just the tiniest bit, which I have to say is very intimidating and which completely shuts me up. Seconds later, Sandra gently links my arm and steers me into a seat in the back row of the jury box, as the judge clears her throat and addresses us.
‘Next, you’re all required to be sworn in, which the Court Registrar will do momentarily. First though, can the Registrar read out the details of the case you’re about to hear, please?’
‘Certainly, Your Honour,’ says Sandra, slipping back to her desk which is directly in front of the judge, but graded down a level. Then she shuffles around a big sheaf of papers and stands up to address the court.
‘Court number seven at the Criminal Courts of Justice is now in session, with Judge Ingrid Simmonds presiding.’
There’s pin-drop silence in the court as everyone, barristers, solicitors and anyone lingering around the public benches, focuses on the bench.
‘And the case you’re about to hear is that of King versus King.’
KATE
The Chronicle
May 2006
KATE AND DAMIEN ‘PROUD TO BE GODPARENTS’
This hot off the press and exclusive to readers of The Chronicle; the pitter-patter of tiny feet is soon to resonate throughout the grand corridors of Castletown House at last. But no, lest readers jump to the conclusion that Kate and Damien are soon to expect a little addition to the King family, let’s put this straight for the record.
Mo Kennedy, wife of Globtech’s high-flying CFO Joe Kennedy, has just given birth to fraternal twins, to be called Ella and Joshua. So who better to ask to be Godparents than Damien and Kate King?
The Chronicle can exclusively reveal that the Christening ceremony took place yesterday at St Patrick’s Church in Avoca, County Wicklow and the proud Godmother looked utterly stunning in an elegant, cream lace Alice Temperley suit, as she posed proudly for our cameraman holding her brand-new Godson. Her husband Damien told reporters at the scene how ‘besotted’ he was with his new Godchildren and how at two-months-old, they already have him wrapped around their little fingers.
When the couple were asked if they planned to start adding to their own family, Damien looked thoughtful and told us, ‘we’re working on it’. Kate meanwhile remained tight-lipped, as she bundled her Godson into a waiting car and climbed in after him.
‘Any plans to become a mum yourself soon?’ our reporter called after her.
‘I think that’s quite enough questions for now, thanks’, was her reply, firmly slamming the car door shut behind her.
TESS
The present
Officially, you’re not supposed to talk to anyone about the case you’re sitting in on. Or ‘the case you’re presiding over’ as Judge Simmonds keeps saying time and again. With apologies for littering this with all the legal references, but some of it is bound to rub off on me, M’Lud, my learned friend, etc., etc.
For all that I’m still mightily pissed off at being manacled to the King case, all in all, our first day actually turns out to be a complete doddle. Which I’d say comes as a huge relief to my fellow jurors, because looking around the jury box now, the majority of them have to be sixty plus. Apart from the Granny Brigade, there’s that woman dressed in what could pass for PJs who looks about forty-something, a guy in his early-twenties who’s wearing bright red jeans and a lot of man-bracelets and a much younger, fresh-faced girl who can only be about eighteen at most.
Poor kid, I think, looking over at her in her studenty parka jacket with a thick chunky jumper under it. She looks barely old enough to vote and here she is, snared into doing jury service. And then there’s that guy Will, who I’d guess is mid-thirties at most. But apart from us younger ones, the vast majority of the jury look like they’re only able to listen to this for a few hours max, before it’s time for them to toddle back to their nursing homes for a nice afternoon snooze.
‘Firstly, I’d just like to roughly outline the format this case will take,’ says Judge Simmonds, speaking imperiously to us from her high bench dominating the court. ‘To begin with, you’ll hear opening statements from both the Prosecution and Defence, and each side will clearly outline their case to you. The Prosecution will then present their case first and a number of witnesses may be called, which the Defence has a right to cross-examine. Once the Prosecution has concluded, then the Defence will present their case, again, with the right to call witnesses who may be cross-examined. Finally both sides will make brief summation speeches and then you’ll be escorted into the jury room in order to deliberate and reach a verdict. If any of you have any questions at any time,’ she adds, ‘then all you need do is raise your hand and speak directl
y to me.’
‘Oh yes, I have a question, please!’ pipes up a voice from directly behind me. We all turn around to see that white-haired elderly lady who was sitting beside me in the jury holding area earlier, who I think is called Edith. The same one who was busily picking out winners from the racing pages of today’s Chronicle.
‘Yes?’ says the judge.
‘When do we get lunch? It’s just I only had tea and toast for breakfast and my stomach is starting to rumble.’
Titters from around the court at that, which the judge silences with a quick bang of the gavel in front of her.
‘Food breaks will of course be provided for you, you need have no worries on that account.’
The court settles down again and the morning starts with a few brief introductions from each of the barristers representing both sides, which takes no more than a half-hour tops.
The mighty Oliver Daniels is up first for the Prosecution and you could nearly hear a pin drop as he rises to his feet, instantly putting me in mind of Winston Churchill addressing a war cabinet. Although maybe that’s just the sight of Oliver’s brandy and port gut that sits on the desk in front of him all by itself, he’s that morbidly overweight.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ he begins, taking care to make full-on eye contact with each and every one of us, the effect of which I have to say is utterly mesmerising. ‘Firstly, on behalf of the Prosecution, may I thank you in advance for serving on this case.’
‘Five grand a day in legal fees,’ another old lady sitting beside me hisses to no one in particular. ‘That’s what he’s costing Damien King apparently. It said so in the Daily Star.’
‘I’m afraid I must ask members of the jury to remain silent,’ says Judge Simmonds sternly, peering down at us from over her glasses.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Your Honour, but you’ll have a right job getting me to shut up,’ she says by way of apology, to more titters from around the packed courtroom. ‘This is just like a real-life drama, only much, much better.’
All She Ever Wished For Page 10
