by H S Chandler
An hour later, Lottie found herself staring around the courtroom, feeling underdressed in her short-sleeved white shirt and navy trousers, and wishing she’d tied up her long hair. The jury service letter hadn’t specified anything more formal, but many of her fellow jurors were in smart work suits and ties, or formal blouses and skirts, in spite of the August heatwave. And if the surroundings weren’t daunting enough, the judge and barristers looked entirely alien in their voluminous black gowns and stiff grey wigs. Her husband, Zain, had been right. Lottie was out of her depth. The only comfort was that the man beside her looked just as uncomfortable, checking his watch every few minutes. Twelve of them had been selected from the jury pool by number, like some ridiculous game of human bingo. Her Honour Judge Downey – a sweet-looking but sharp-eyed woman – had told them to sit down until all the seats were filled. The attention was intimidating.
The man in the seat next to Lottie’s raised his hand, causing a sudden shift in attention towards him. He was one of the few jurors close to Lottie’s age, and physically striking enough to turn heads anywhere. His body language – leaning back in the seat, legs spread wide – said he knew it, too.
‘Yes,’ Her Honour Judge Downey said. ‘Do you have a question, Mr …?’
‘Cameron Ellis. I don’t have the time to be here. I’m self-employed, got a carpentry business. I did phone the court last week and explain,’ the man said.
Lottie was amazed at his boldness, complaining in front of a room full of lawyers and police. He was maybe a couple of years older than her, but at twenty-six the thought of standing out in front of a crowd still made her stomach shrivel.
‘I appreciate your situation,’ the judge replied, ‘but I’m afraid there are a good many self-employed people in the Bristol area. We cannot excuse all of them from jury duty. You will receive a daily financial allowance to assist. Before you are all officially sworn in, does anyone else have a question?’
Lottie took a deep breath, wishing she didn’t have to speak up, but knowing her husband would be furious if she failed to get herself released as he’d instructed. His job was all targets, deadlines and bonuses, which as far as Lottie could make out simply meant endless stress and an expectation that his home-life would operate like a well-oiled machine. Additions like jury duty didn’t fit into that picture anywhere. She raised her hand. The judge nodded at her encouragingly.
‘I’m Charlotte Hiraj. I’ve, um, got a three-year-old to look after so, you know, I should probably not be here and I’m not sure I’m the right person for this anyway,’ Lottie mumbled.
‘Childcare expenses are paid for the hours you’re in court, so you won’t be out of pocket. Jury service can seem ominous but it doesn’t require any special knowledge on your part,’ the judge replied.
Lottie shrunk down in her seat. Next to her, Cameron Ellis was still tutting. Jury service it was for them both, then. Two weeks of stunning weather would be wasted in dark rooms with people she didn’t know, listening to words she wouldn’t understand. Zain was going to be unimpressed by her absence whether or not he had to foot the childcare bill himself.
A woman in the row in front of Lottie was asked to stand, then handed a bible and a card. One by one they took the oath until it was Lottie’s turn. She chose to affirm rather than swear on a holy text. A childhood spent drifting between foster homes had knocked any possible faith out of her. Heat rose in her cheeks as her name was called and she was instructed to read the words on the card.
‘I do solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that I will faithfully try the defendant and give a true verdict according to the evidence,’ Lottie said. The words seemed absurdly antiquated, yet they resonated with the gravity of the task. The idea of judging another person felt unpleasant. Lottie had made enough mistakes in her own life to be uncomfortable passing judgment on anyone else, yet the long-absent buzz of adrenalin through her veins was electrifying. The opportunity to legitimately sift through another person’s dirty washing, to watch them answer questions and figure out who was lying and who was telling the truth, was captivating. It occurred to her that being on a jury might be like watching the most compulsive daytime TV ever, just with less audience heckling.
She pushed the card back towards the usher and retook her seat as the eyes that had been watching her shifted mercifully to the man on her right. Directly across the courtroom from the jury benches were rows of seats filled with curious onlookers. Some were clearly press, their identification lanyards hanging like medals around their necks, as they recorded whatever sliver of misery was to be played out in the courtroom. Behind the press seats was an odd collection of humanity. Two elderly people whispered together behind their hands. A row of four older teenagers who might have been students, practised looks of boredom. A middle-aged woman mopped her face with a handkerchief, clearly not built for the heat the summer had brought. Still wearing his sunglasses, one man was furiously sketching. A few seats down, police officers sat with their arms folded, waiting for the real action to begin.
The woman in the dock was asked to stand, and the court clerk sitting below and in front of the judge read out the charge. There was a moment of silence before the full weight of the case became clear.
Attempted murder.
The silence was stifling. Lottie was amazed at how quickly her sunny Monday morning had darkened. Edward Bloxham was the victim’s name. She recognised it at once. The national news had covered the story extensively, a wife accused of trying to kill her husband. TV reporters had stood outside the scene of the crime clutching microphones and speculating on events, against a background of police officers coming and going. The local papers had been even more full of it, with fewer equally salacious stories to fill their columns. Lottie had read a sample of the victim’s writing in the Bristol Post – something about seagull nesting habits on the south coast. She’d turned the page at that point. Harsh, perhaps, but there were some things she just couldn’t get excited about. Now she was to hear every detail of the man’s life and near death.
‘To the charge of attempted murder, do you plead guilty or not guilty?’ the court clerk asked.
‘Not guilty,’ the defendant replied, eyes cast downwards. No fuss.
‘Just goes to show you never can tell,’ an older female juror muttered.
Lottie allowed herself a glance at the defendant’s glass box, situated in the rear of the courtroom, where the woman who was about to face trial sat listless, shoulders hunched. She looked not dissimilar to the lady who ran the bakery section of Lottie’s local supermarket. A background person, Lottie thought, briefly ashamed at how quickly she’d formed an opinion, but there it was. In a line-up of likely suspects, the female in the dock would surely be the last chosen. Perhaps that was the brilliance of her criminality, her air of dull, mid-life irrelevance.
The prosecuting barrister got to her feet. She was tall and incredibly thin, with stick-like legs and a suit so well tailored to her flat body that she looked like a posh ironing board. Her brown hair was tied up beneath her wig, and she wore square-sided black glasses that screamed control freak to Lottie.
‘Miss Pascal,’ the judge said. ‘Is the prosecution ready to proceed with the trial?’
‘I gather from my learned friend defending, Mr Newell, that there is some legal argument before the case can be opened to the jury,’ Miss Pascal replied, sounding both terse and bored. The defence barrister – Newell – was sitting closer to the jury, writing notes and keeping his expression carefully neutral.
‘Is that correct, Mr Newell?’ the judge asked.
Newell got to his feet slowly and smiled at the judge. ‘It is, Your Honour, although I’m afraid I can’t say quite how long it will take. I suspect the jury will not be required until after lunch.’
He was in his fifties, Lottie guessed, with smile lines creasing out from the corners of his eyes, and fingertips stained blue with ink that might never be entirely erased. He reminded her of Mr Willoughby, a fav
ourite teacher who had made the most disruptive elements in her class believe that physics really could be interesting. He’d never needed to raise his voice to make a point or quieten his students. Being respected was a side effect of being liked, Lottie decided, as Mr Newell pulled up his gown, which had been making a slow escape down his shoulders.
‘Very well,’ Judge Downey replied. She turned to face the jury. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, in your room you will have access to the necessities to make your waiting time bearable, but you cannot leave the court building while the trial is in session. There will be times when I have to ask you to leave the courtroom. Sometimes we must undertake work without you present. Much of it is administrative and I’m sure you’d all rather be drinking coffee and reading newspapers while it takes place.’ There was a ripple of laughter as the judge paused. ‘This case will attract media attention.’ Lottie redirected her gaze to the members of the press, pens poised. ‘You must disregard anything you hear save for the evidence presented in court,’ the judge continued. ‘Do not discuss the case outside the jury room when all twelve of you are gathered together. You must also not use social media to comment on the trial or you may find yourselves in contempt of court which can result in imprisonment.’
‘Might as well just lock us all up right now,’ Cameron muttered.
The judge turned over a sheet of paper and continued. ‘Should you be approached regarding this case, whether by a witness, a member of the press or anyone else, decline to speak with them and report it to a member of court staff. Please now retire to your jury room. This would be a good opportunity to elect one of you as foreperson, to speak for you in the courtroom. You will be informed as soon as the case is ready to restart.’
A male juror in a pin-striped business suit, who had been attached to his laptop and mobile from the second they’d arrived that morning, raised his hand. He didn’t bother to introduce himself.
‘How long’s the trial likely to take? I have to schedule meetings later this month,’ he explained.
Miss Pascal the prosecutor stood up. ‘Your Honour, the current time estimate is two weeks.’
The judge put the lid on her pen, a gesture that clearly indicated she was ready to do something else. ‘The jury should make no plans for the next fortnight, and it would be wise to ensure there is nothing in anyone’s diary for a week after that which cannot be cancelled if necessary. That will be all for now.’
The court usher motioned for them to follow her. The defence barrister, James Newell, sent a half smile back towards Maria Bloxham who met it with a blank gaze. Lottie tried to imagine being in her shoes, trusting her fate to twelve strangers. Everything about the courtroom was unnerving. There was nowhere to hide. It was designed like an inward-looking box. The jury seats lined a wall directly opposite the press and public seating. The dock where the defendant sat was at the back and to the right of the jury’s line of vision. At the front of the court was the judge’s desk, elevated several feet higher than anyone else. In the centre were the lawyers’ benches, with the defence seated closest to the jury and the prosecution on the far side. Everyone could see everyone. Even with the high ceiling and grand scale of the room, it felt claustrophobic. The furnishings were modern enough, but there was no mistaking the sense that crime and punishment was an age-old business that hadn’t really changed in centuries. It was like theatre in the round, with the outcome dependent on who gave the most compelling performance.
Lottie wondered what would happen if she called in sick the next day. The judge would surely just replace her. Her normal home routine would continue unbroken. Shopping, cleaning, cooking, childcare. Without her at home during the day, it would all just pile up to be rushed in the evenings. With Zain already so pressured, feigning illness was looking like the best solution for an easy life. The problem was that no one had told them what to do if they were ill. Presumably the absence of a clearly set out procedure implied that such a situation was supposed never to arise. Worse than that, she’d already asked to be released from jury duty, so an unforeseen sickness was bound to be viewed with scepticism. It suddenly seemed probable that a police officer would end up knocking her door and escorting her back to court whether she liked it or not. It was no good. She was stuck with it. Zain would just have to understand. Now that the decision had been made for her, Lottie found herself more excited by the prospect than she’d anticipated. A younger her would have loved it, she thought. Perhaps it was a chance to find that girl again.
3
They were shown to their jury room and told to settle in. In the centre was a long wooden table around which twelve chairs were positioned. Having ascertained lunch preferences, the court usher left them to their own devices. Lottie made herself a cup of tea and went to sit at the far end of the table next to one of the other younger jurors. His head was already in a book, and she left him reading quietly as she used her mobile to avoid the awkwardness of sitting silently. There were no messages. She hoped that meant her son Daniyal had settled okay at the childminder’s. Lottie glanced up briefly. Everyone else seemed perfectly at ease, a group of five already putting the world to rights across the table as if they’d known each other for years. Wandering over to sit with them would mean they’d expect her to join in, which seemed pointless given that she had nothing to contribute. She stayed where she was and flicked through the photos of Daniyal in her phone gallery instead. The man who had sat beside her in court – Cameron Ellis – threw himself into a chair opposite and began making a phone call.
‘Excuse me everyone, my name is Tabitha Lock,’ an older woman bedecked with perm and pearls said. ‘Can I suggest we all put away our mobile devices and get on with business as the judge directed.’ Her request was met with silence. ‘I would like to offer myself as jury foreperson. I’ve chaired a number of committees in my time and I’m very good at assimilating information and organising people. I must say, I think the case is going to be fascinating.’ Lottie figured Tabitha was in her mid sixties and unused to hearing the word no.
‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves,’ the suited businessman who had asked the judge for the trial time estimate replied. He adjusted his watch as he spoke. ‘So we have some idea who we all are, and who we want to represent us.’
‘Well, if you really think that’s necessary. Perhaps anyone else interested in the post could indicate as much during their introduction,’ Tabitha sniffed.
There was a muttering across the table from Lottie that escaped the jurors at the far end, but it was a clear ‘For fuck’s sake’ from Cameron. Lottie concentrated on stirring her tea.
The businessman took the reins. ‘My name is Panagiotis Carras. My friends call me Pan. I’m a fine art auctioneer, and I have no desire to be jury foreman but I think it’s a job that’ll require someone taking the middle ground. I’ve got a lot of work to do when we’re not in court, so forgive me if I don’t socialise.’ He looked at the next person around the table.
‘Gregory Smythe, retired civil servant,’ a well-spoken older gentleman said. Lottie thought she spotted some food dripped down his tie. Probably single, she thought. If he’d had a wife at home, she’d never have let him go out like that. ‘If Mrs Lock would like to be foreperson, that’s fine with me.’
‘It’s Miss Lock,’ Tabitha interjected, ‘but thank you.’
‘Jennifer Curry,’ a quiet voice continued. ‘Or Jen. I’m just a housewife. I don’t think I should be foreperson, so probably Tabitha, Miss Lock, is okay for me if no one else wants to do it. The judge talked about lots of rules. I’m not sure I caught them all. Can we go through those, too?’
Lottie sat up straighter in her seat. Just a housewife? How depressing to hear it said like that. Jennifer Curry looked to be in her early fifties, perhaps her late forties if she wasn’t taking good care of herself. Lottie hated the thought of getting to the point where she referred to herself as ‘just’ an anything. She stared down at her own hands, that for the last three years had done little
except change nappies and prepare food, recalling the girl she had been, full of ambition. At school, at several schools in fact, she’d been the prettiest there. Popularity had made her bold. When everyone wanted to sit next to you, the world felt like a wonderful place. Teenage life was scored in terms of numbers of friends and the extent of their admiration. Where other girls were getting better grades, she was confident that her looks and personality would bring her the things she wanted in life – some sort of unquantified success involving money, travel and glamour.
She’d moved schools too often to make long-term friends, but during each brief episode she’d been sought-after in the pecking order of good-looking boys. Shifting between carers and homes had meant that little else was achieved during her education. Lottie left school with few qualifications but happy in the knowledge that her cheeky grin and self-assurance would win the day. It had taken no more than a year for reality to dull her smile. Good looks got her positions in retail and hospitality, but not much else. She found a job, and got bored. Went to parties and got drunk. When that got tired, she went to other parties where the doors were locked early and not opened again until dawn, and illegal highs came as a side order with your drink. She’d avoided a variety of addictions only because of the toll they would have taken on her looks, and from the need to pay her rent. By the time she understood that the rails were necessary to progress steadily in life, she was already off them – until Zain came along. Now she was married to a pharmaceutical company area manager, but without much else to say for herself. She, too, was nothing more than a housewife.
