The Baker Street Jurors (4 page)

Nigel took the first available seat he came to, next to a woman in the front row. But there was a brief distraction as several other jurors jockeyed for position, trying to guess whether one seat would make them more likely to be called for service than another.

“Just take a seat please,” said the steward. “No need to be shy.”

The woman next to Nigel turned to him now and said, “Is it safer back there?” Nigel looked at her. It was the woman with the tattoo.

“I mean,” she said, “are you less likely to be called in the back row?”

“No,” said Nigel. “They'll call us at random. And in any case, if you've got any sort of excuse at all, you want to be called earlier rather than later. By the time they get to the final prospects, the court is usually getting desperate—at that point, they wouldn't excuse even the defendant's own mother.”

“Too bad,” laughed the woman. “That's what I was going to claim.”

“No way they'd believe that, unless they've started prosecuting nursery schoolers as adults,” said Nigel. “But you might not be called anyway. They've already got ten of the first-string jurors selected.” He pointed toward the main jury section, where ten permanent chairs were already occupied, and only two were empty.

“Then what are those other chairs for?” She pointed to five empty chairs next to the main jury section.

“Those are bad news,” said Nigel. “It looks like the Crown wants five alternates. That means they expect a trial of several weeks. And that probably means it's the McSweeney trial.”

“Oh my,” said the woman. “Well, there are just gobs of us to choose from. Perhaps you and I will be lucky and get skipped.”

“Perhaps,” said Nigel. “But the Crown is getting desperate; they know they won't find any jurors at all who don't know about the trial, and bloody few who don't worship McSweeney. At this point, I think they'll settle for anyone who will simply confess that they will do their best according to the evidence.”

“What do you mean, ‘confess'?” said the woman.

“I mean, I've seen jury selections where ninety-nine people out of a hundred will insist that they are already prejudiced in favor of either the defense or the prosecution—because they believe that will force the judge to exclude them. But judges are wise to the tactic, of course. And in practice, something magical happens to people when they are put on a jury. Almost invariably they all decide to do their jobs.”

“I expect they will take me,” said a male voice from the row behind them. Nigel turned to look. It was the tall man who'd been behind Nigel in the outside line. In the same row was a woman near seventy in a respectable wool coat, a man in his forties with heavily calloused hands, and a man in his midtwenties with an expensive haircut and even more expensive shoes.

“I've always wanted to be on a jury,” said the tall man. “And the court will appreciate my skills in applying the rule that should be applied in all circumstantial cases.”

Nigel found that remark curious. “Which is?” he said.

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

“I've heard that somewhere before,” said the woman with the tattoo.

“So have I,” said Nigel. “But not as a legal concept, exactly.”

“I want to do my duty, too, of course,” said the woman with the tattoo. “But I rather hope they don't put me on a jury.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Nigel, out loud, and she gave him a quizzical look. “I meant,” said Nigel, “I'm sure you'd be an excellent juror.”

“Hmm,” she said, and then she added, “I've put in for a hardship excuse. But I don't think I'll get it.”

“I don't mind if they take me,” said the older woman seated behind them, “but I don't think they will.” She was of a pensioner's age, less than average height, perhaps an inch or so shorter than she had been in her youth, with a white woolen cap pulled over hair that still had traces of its original red, and alert blue eyes that had lost nothing with the years.

“Why would they not?” said Nigel.

“I'd rather not say,” she replied. And then she added, “As my late husband used to say, never let them see you sweat. And it will be sad if they don't take me, because this will be the last year I can do it—unless they raise the maximum age limit. I think it's foolish to exclude people just because they're over seventy, don't you? We aren't all doddering fools. And some of us dribble only a little.”

“I agree,” said Nigel. “They don't have that restriction in the States. Regarding age or dribbling, either one.”

“Well, I'm not going to move just to serve,” she said. “So they'd better take me while they can.”

“Well,” said the man with the very expensive shoes, “they'd bloody well better not take me. I've put in for an excuse. I'm going to Ibiza next week, for god's sake.”

There was just a bit more bustle now from the back row, and then, finally, the gallery of prospective jurors was full. The steward smiled victoriously and exited through a door behind the judge's bench.

For a moment, Nigel felt as though he was in a public school class with the teacher away. His entire group of prospective jurors was unattended, and free to misbehave. Except, of course, for the presence of the rather large bailiff—two-hundred-fifty-pounds, well over six feet tall, standing stoically at the opposite end of the judge's bench.

And then the steward returned, and the bailiff told everyone to rise.

The judge—tall, thin, and well into his sixties—entered and sat down at his bench. He nodded quickly to the two tables of barristers—defense and prosecution—at the center of the courtroom. Then he turned to face the jury pool with an expression that would have seemed almost avuncular, if not for the formal white wig above it.

“Good morning,” he began. “I am Mr. Justice Allen. The very patient woman who has been assisting you in the corridor is our court steward, Ms. Sreenivasan, and the imposing gentleman to my left is our court bailiff, Mr. Walker. They will be here for the duration of this trial, and I am very grateful to have their assistance; you will be too if you are selected as jurors for this trial.

“In a few moments, I will ask each of you a few basic questions regarding your ability to serve as unbiased jurors in a case that has garnered an inordinate amount of publicity and that involves strong feelings in the public at a national level. But this is not like an American trial, with lawyers haggling forever over who gets to be on the jury and who does not. This is an English trial, and you will be an English jury, chosen at random, the fairest and most objective method in the world—so the court's questions for you will be brief and to the point. And I know that each of you will answer honestly.”

The judge paused for a moment, making eye contact with the group of juror candidates, and added, “You may all now nod in the affirmative.”

They all did so.

“Now,” said the judge, “I mentioned the tremendous publicity surrounding this trial, and although I am quite reluctant to yield to such fuss, I have learned through hard experience that I must now take it into consideration. We have already had one mistrial due to juror misconduct with a member of the press, and one before that due to an allegation of juror intimidation. We will not have such annoyances in this trial. We are taking some precautions to make sure of it. And the first of those is that this jury shall remain anonymous. Your names have been recorded on the list that I have in front of me, which I share only with my bailiff and our steward. No one else has access to them, most especially the media. From this point forward, you will be identified only by the number that has been assigned to you. I cannot stop you from using your own names in conversations between each other, and so I won't try. But if you are selected for this jury, you will be under strict instructions not to reveal that fact to the public, and not to communicate with the media in any way whatsoever. Doing so could, in certain circumstances, cause you to be charged with contempt of court. Am I making myself clear?”

The jurors, having caught on to the routine, all nodded in the affirmative.

“Very good,” said the judge. “As you can see, we have already selected ten of our twelve primary jurors. Let's see how quickly we can select the remaining two. Ms. Sreenivasan will now read a random number from the candidate jury pool, and I will ask one or two simple questions. Nothing to worry about, I assure you—just answer honestly.”

There was as much suspense now as if it were the lottery.

“Jury candidate number one-ninety-seven,” announced Ms. Sreenivasan.

The fortyish man with the calloused hands stood up in the row behind Nigel.

“Candidate one-ninety-seven,” said the judge, “Have you seen coverage of the case of Crown versus McSweeney in the newspapers, or the television, or other media?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Can you ignore anything you have already read or heard regarding this case and decide the issues submitted to you according to the evidence presented at trial, and nothing else?”

“I would do my best,” said the man.

“That's good enough. Please take a seat in the primary jury section.”

The man did so, and Ms. Sreenivasan selected another number.

“Jury candidate two-oh-eight,” she announced.

The man with the very expensive shoes stood up from the back row.

“I have applied to be excused,” he said, before the judge could even ask a question.

“Won't do him any good,” whispered Nigel to the woman with the tattoo. “He'll be a juror.”

“Why?” she said. “Because he doesn't want to be?”

“Exactly,” said Nigel.

The judge shuffled some papers, got some assistance from Ms. Sreenivasan, and found the document he was looking for. He looked at the written request for perhaps two seconds.

“Denied,” said the judge. “You may take a seat in the primary section.”

“But…”

The judge looked up, and the man stopped in mid-sentence

“Denied,” said the judge again.

Ms. Sreenivasan escorted the man with the expensive shoes to the twelfth seat in the primary jury section.

“At this point,” whispered Nigel, “They're settling for pretty much anyone with a pulse.”

“Now then,” said the judge. “We have selected our twelve primary jurors. But we need alternates as well. So in a moment we shall call numbers for five possible alternates. But first, in the interests of time, I'm going to ask the remaining candidates for a show of hands. You are all being considered for a trial that is listed on the docket as the Crown versus McSweeney. Have any of you seen anything on the telly or in the newspapers related to accusations against Liam McSweeney?”

Several hands went clearly up, and several more were tentative.

“Don't be shy,” said the judge. “It's not a crime if you have.”

Now hands went up for every juror except two—the tall man sitting behind Nigel, and a man in the back row, who was still wearing his raincoat in the warm courtroom.

The judge looked in that direction, and then he looked at his list.

“Jury candidate number … one-eighty-nine?” said the judge, looking at the man in the back row. “You have not seen any news coverage regarding the matter at hand?”

“No, my lord. Not one bit.”

“Have you been out of the country, then? Or off the planet in some way?”

“I … no, my lord. I have simply been very careful to avoid such information.”

“Why?”

“On the chance that I might be called for jury duty.”

“So you have been preserving your … jury virginity, as it were … on the random chance that you might be called for this specific case?”

“Ah … yes. I suppose you could put it that way.”

“I see,” said the judge. “Rather unusual. Let me just ask you this: Do you believe that you can be a fair and impartial juror in this case and perform your deliberations, should we reach that stage, based solely on the evidence and rules of law presented to you in this courtroom?”

“Absolutely.”

“Very well,” said the judge. But then he sighed deeply—and hesitated.

The tall juror candidate seated immediately behind Nigel leaned forward between Nigel and the woman with the tattoo, and whispered to them. “That one's going to be rejected,” he said.

Nigel nodded in agreement.

“Jury candidate one-eighty-nine—would you mind very much?” said the judge. “Could you please unzip your mac?”

The man reluctantly unzipped his raincoat—to reveal a pullover jersey with the colors and logo of the England cricket team.

“That will do it,” said Nigel to the woman with the tattoo. “The more you want to be on a jury for any specific case, whether to convict or acquit, the less the court wants you.”

“But if the court rejects everyone who is favorably disposed toward Liam McSweeney, they'll never get a jury,” said the woman.

“Very true. But this rejection won't be for the juror's predisposition. It will be because he tried so hard to conceal it.”

And now the judge looked up from his list and said, quite matter-of-factly, “Jury candidate number one-eighty-nine, you are excused, with the thanks of the court.”

The man in the England cricket team jersey sighed with disappointment and exited the jury gallery.

Now the judge looked at his list again, and he looked up at the tall man behind Nigel. “Jury candidate number … two-oh-six?” said the judge. “You did not raise your hand, either?”

“I don't own a telly, my lord. It's an annoyance I can't afford.”

“Oh. Well, my sympathies. Or congratulations on your good sense, as the case may be. But you have read newspaper stories about the subject, I suppose?”