The Baker Street Jurors (5 page)

“No,” said the man.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Because newspapers are an annoyance you can't afford?”

“No, I can afford them well enough. I see pages of the
Sun,
and the
Mirror,
and the
Globe
and all the others flitting along the ground with every gust of wind. But I don't get my hands dirty by picking them up and reading them. I just glance at the headlines as they drift by.”

“I see,” said the judge. “Well, I'm going to mark that one as a yes. Glancing at the headlines is all that many people do anyway, which is even more problematic than reading the stories, because the headlines are twisted to begin with, and then one fills in the rest of the stories out of one's own imagination. So I'll just ask you the same question that I will ask of every juror: Can you ignore anything you have already read and/or imagined regarding this case and decide the issues submitted to you according to the evidence presented at trial, and nothing else?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. Please take a seat in the alternate jury box.”

The tall man got up and walked to the alternate jury box. The judge nodded to Ms. Sreenivasan, who called out another number.

The widowed pensioner raised her hand, and without even being asked, she volunteered that she had seen both television coverage and newspaper articles, which she had read most thoroughly.

“Understood,” said the judge. “And my only question for you is this: Can you ignore anything you have already read and/or imagined regarding this case and decide the issues submitted to you according to the evidence presented at trial, and nothing else?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I always do. I've been a juror three times in six years, and I've done that every time.”

The judge took a moment. Probably wondering whether she was telling the truth or merely bragging, thought Nigel. And it's probably both.

“Thank you,” said the judge to the pensioner. “Please take a seat in the alternate jury box.”

She did so, taking a seat next to the tall man.

Ms. Sreenivasan called out another number, and a man in a salmon-colored Lacoste polo shirt stood up. He was almost certainly an insurance agent—Nigel had seen him passing out cards in the corridor. He said nothing that the judge found objectionable, and he was quickly seated as the third alternate.

Ms. Sreenivasan called out another number. The woman with the tattoo stood. “I have applied to be excused,” she said.

The judge found her application among his papers. He pursed his lips. “Denied,” he said. “You should be able to manage it. You may take your seat in the alternates section.”

Nigel did not have time to wonder what the young woman would have to manage—because the next number called was his. Nigel stood and said nothing.

“And what is your excuse?” said the judge.

“None.”

“Well, that's refreshing. You may take a seat…” The judge stopped. One of the barristers was as antsy as a child needing to pee.

“Mr. Slattery, do you have something to say?”

Henry Slattery, Q.C., was representing the Crown Prosecution Service. He was a portly man, fighting hard against middle age, and so proud of the hair that he still had growing in a crescent shape at the back of his head that he had let it get a bit too long, and locks of it got loose in little tufts that peeked out from the lower hem of his white wig.

Slattery stood, and said, “My lord, I believe I recognize this gentleman from previous contacts in court.”

“Oh?” said the judge. “In what capacity? Are you a lawyer, jury candidate two-oh-five? Or just a criminal?”

“The former,” said Nigel.

The judge frowned. “Solicitor or barrister?”

“He's merely a solicitor,” said Slattery. “However, even so…”

“Yes, just a solicitor,” nodded Nigel. “I merely know the law, I don't feel obliged to talk about it all that much.” Nigel hoped that this remark would be taken in the spirit in which it was offered—and that the prosecutor would therefore try to excuse him from service.

And indeed, Slattery repeated his objection.

“Let's take this in chambers,” said the judge.

The judge and barristers stood, and moments later, Nigel was summoned to join them in their private meeting.

Nigel was allowed to sit in one of the leather chairs in front of the judge's desk. The two opposing barristers stood on either side of him.

The barrister for the defense was William Langdon. He had a sharp face and a thin build, and a manner that colleagues had described as being that of an innocent ferret. He tried to remain silent and maintain that innocent expression right now, as he enjoyed the discomfiture of his opponent.

The judge spoke first to the prosecutor.

“Under normal circumstances,” said the judge, “I would simply grant your request, Mr. Slattery, and excuse this juror. No barrister wants some other lawyer on his jury. For one thing, they think they know the law better themselves, and for another, they have a tendency to focus on the process more than the case. So I would no more put a solicitor on a jury than I would someone actively involved in law enforcement. But these are not normal circumstances. We are having the devil of a time assembling a panel of jurors who have not already made up their minds based on what they've seen in the tabloids. We are down to our final candidates for the week and each of them, as you know, has some issue, or we would not be having this meeting.”

“Yes,” said Slattery. “But are you familiar with this particular candidate's history?”

“Enlighten me,” said the judge.

“Nigel Heath was suspended two years ago by the Law Society, my lord. He has been reinstated since then, but even so…”

“And the reason for the suspension?”

“My lord, I hardly know how to put it.”

“Give it a go, Mr. Slattery.”

“He attempted to return a client's fee.”

There was stunned silence in the room. The judge rubbed his forehead. He looked at Nigel. “All right then. Mr. Heath, you bollixed up a case and then you gave your client his money back, is that it?”

Nigel shook his head and was about to speak, but Slattery interrupted. “No, my lord,” said Slattery. “It's much worse than that. He won his tort case, but after it was done, he attempted to return the commission he made to the opposing attorney's client.”

Now the judge looked much more sternly at Nigel. “Is this true?”

“Yes,” said Nigel. “It was a workman's slip-and-fall on fluid from a thawing chicken in the defendant's kitchen. I represented the workman, who presented himself as being incapacitated by his injuries. But one week after the case was done and the damages awarded, I ran across my client at a golf course in Scotland. He was in the foursome ahead of me, and he hit a drive that would have been remarkable even for a professional, much less a duffer with an alleged back injury. I realized then that I had won a bad case.”

“Are we to accept then,” said the judge, “that all this fuss was because you felt the outcome of the case was unjust to the opposing litigant?”

“Spot-on, my lord.”

“We are an adversarial system, Mr. Heath. What do you suppose will become of the legal profession if all lawyers begin to take your approach to things?”

“I don't know, my lord.”

The judge sighed and sat back in his chair. “Well,” he said after a moment, “this is most unusual. But I don't see how it disqualifies Mr. Heath from jury duty.”

Slattery did not seem satisfied. “My lord, I didn't want to mention this, but there is something more. I once opposed this man's brother, Reggie Heath, Q.C., in court, and juror two-oh-five here was present as solicitor on the case, and during the trial…”

“Yes?”

“And during the trial … during the trial, juror two-oh-five here…”

“Yes?”

“He made fun of me, my lord.”

The judge looked at Nigel and then back at Slattery.

“He did … what, precisely?”

“He wrote notes during my opening and passed them to his brother, and—”

“That's allowed, Mr. Slattery, as you well know. So long as he didn't interrupt, the solicitor on the case is certainly permitted to communicate with his barrister.”

“Yes, my lord, but…”

“But what?”

“After he passed one particular note, his brother looked in my direction and started to laugh, and only at the last possible moment managed to cover his mouth with his hand so that it was not audible.”

“And?”

“The jurors saw this, my lord, looked at me, and then several of them covered their mouths as well. They were clearly stifling, my lord.”

“I see,” said the judge. “And you believe all this restrained mirth was at your expense?”

“I know it was.”

“And that this man caused it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

The judge drummed his fingers and looked at Nigel. “Well?” he said. “What about it, Heath—I mean, juror two-oh-five?”

“It's all true, my lord,” said Nigel. “I am sorry about it, and if the court feels obliged to dismiss me from consideration for jury duty until next year, I will humbly accept that as my just deserts.”

Slattery looked at the judge victoriously, and Nigel began to get up from his chair.

“Sit down, juror two-oh-five,” said the judge. “I have two more questions for you.”

Nigel sat back down.

“First—what was it that you wrote in your note that made fun of Mr. Slattery?”

“I truly was not trying to make fun, my lord. I was merely pointing out a minor flaw in his presentation.”

“Which was?”

“That his fly was open.”

“Ah,” said the judge. “Then you were not the actual source of the mirth. You were merely the bearer of the tidings. So now—my second question. Do you, in your capacity as solicitor, currently have any pending cases scheduled before this court or that involve either Mr. Slattery or Mr. Langdon or any other participating barristers?”

Nigel sighed. He knew what this meant. “No, my lord, I do not.”

“Then you are seated as alternate juror number five. And if, during this trial, you see any instances of barristers with their flies open, or wigs askew, or shoes untied, kindly do not point them out.”

Back in the courtroom, the twelve primary jurors were seated in a section of permanent chairs, set apart in the courtroom by a mahogany banister. On the other side of the banister were five movable chairs for the alternate jurors. Only the seat next to the woman with the tattoo was empty. Nigel sat down next to her. With the stern bailiff standing right there, there was no more whispering.

Now the panel of jurors and alternates was complete, and the judge turned to solemnly face the entire group. “You are very special people. You are English jurors,” he began. “And you have been selected for a case that has been dubbed ‘the trial of the century,' which is perhaps an exaggeration, because there has already been a completely different trial of the century in this century, and I'm sure there will be more before the century is out. But the fact is that the publicity is enormous. It is overwhelming. And even though trials should not be conducted through the media, and we do what we can under our British law to prevent it, it happens anyway. We have already had one mistrial in which a juror was discovered to be running off to the pub across the street and meeting with a journalist during every lunch break. You must not do that. This is not America; our jurors should not look upon a trial as their opportunity for fifteen minutes of fame. If this trial gets to the deliberation stage and you decide to write a book about those deliberations after the trial is over, you can be held in contempt. There must be no jury nobbling. That is to say, if anyone in the media attempts to get information from you about the trial while it is taking place, or if any person should attempt to influence you, that person will be prosecuted and you will of course be tossed from the jury. And I would be forced to declare another mistrial. I don't want that; we are going to some lengths to prevent it from happening. So, please—if you are impaneled on this jury, whether as an alternate or a primary—do not under any circumstances let anyone nobble you.

“Also remember that you are an anonymous jury. This is for your own protection, both from the press, and from outside influences of all sorts. Do not tell anyone that you are on this jury. Do not tell anyone the subject matter of the trial you are on.

“And finally—and this is something that not all judges care about, but I sometimes find it a concern in my courtrooms—please remember that the Royal Courts of Justice are not a social introduction service. Jury duty is not speed dating. I'm sure by the end of this, you will all agree that the trial is not a speedy anything, but please, do not endeavor to entertain yourselves by becoming overly familiar with one another. I can't stop you, of course. There's no law against it, and I vaguely remember that it's tough out there for single people. But I can beg, and I do so now. Don't complicate things.”

The bailiff nodded in silent agreement as the judge gave the jurors a stern look.

“Now I realize it has been a long morning, and it is getting close to the noon hour—but we are already running quite behind schedule, and the sooner we get started, the sooner we can conclude. So I will ask you to be content right now with just a ten-minute break for the loo—and then we'll see how far along we can get with opening statements before lunch. But remember my cautions.

“Do not discuss what you hear in this courtroom with the media. Or your friends. Or your spouses. Or your parents. Or your children. Or your dogs or your cats. Or your budgies. Do not talk to yourself on the tube on the way in. And, until such time as I may tell you to retire to the jury room and begin deliberations, if it comes to that, do not discuss this case in any way with your fellow jurors. Are there any questions?”