The Baker Street Jurors (9 page)

There were gasps in the courtroom—not just from the jurors, but from the public galleries as well.

The judge hastily added, “Please do not be alarmed. She is already in hospital, X-rays have been taken, and there is no reason not to expect a full recovery. I know that you will all be anxious to extend your kind sympathies and well-wishes, which you cannot do because of our necessary anonymity—but rest assured that the court shall do so for you. But now—to the issue at hand. One alternate juror must now take the place of primary juror seven, so that we will have the requisite dozen. Jury selection for this trial has concluded, and so we cannot add another to the alternate pool—but fortunately we had the foresight to begin with five alternates, and certainly that will last us through the duration. Most certainly it will.”

Now the judge looked directly at the five jurors in the alternates section.

His stare seemed full of portent, and the suspense among the alternates was palpable. The order in which the alternates would be used as replacements had been determined randomly, without regard to the order in which they had initially been selected. The alternates looked at each other and then at the judge, wondering who would become the replacement primary juror. The judge and Mr. Walker and Ms. Sreenivasan all consulted their list—and then the judge looked up.

“Alternate juror number two—please take the empty seat in the primary section. You are now primary juror number seven.”

Lucy sighed in relief. So did Bankstone. Siger looked, if anything, a bit disappointed.

Mrs. Peabody stood and willingly went into the primary section and sat in the empty seat.

“Thank you,” said the judge. Then he looked at another memo he had before him. After a moment's study he looked out at the entire courtroom.

“I mentioned earlier that to protect your anonymity and the judicial process, we might need to take some extraordinary measures regarding the press,” he began. He cast an accusing glance at the area where the media was seated.

“This screen that shields our jurors from the prying eyes and pressure of the media is one of those measures. It is necessary but not sufficient, and I have decided to take some additional steps.”

The judge turned and addressed the jurors. “For every day of this trial, for its entire duration, the court has decided to provide private transportation for each of you, to your homes, or places of business, or the tube, or wherever you choose—in a way that will ensure your anonymity when you leave the courthouse and keep the hounds of the press off your backs. We will begin doing that today; the steward will escort you to the transportation. Also, because of the unfortunate accident in the stairwell this morning, I have decided that we have put you through enough stress for one day, and we will adjourn early.”

The judge turned and looked out at the broader courtroom. “Members of the press and public, you will kindly remain seated in the galleries until after the jurors have departed the courtroom and the stewards have opened the doors for you.”

And then back to the jury. “Court is adjourned. Remember all my admonitions, and I will see you all back here promptly tomorrow morning at ten thirty a.m.”

 

8

“Have you heard the latest about Liam McSweeney?”

“Probably not,” said Nigel. “But no need to tell me.”

Hendricks apparently didn't hear that response. He had
The Daily Sun
open, and he proceeded to read from it.

“‘The chairman of the England and Wales Cricket Board has announced that after a meeting of the full board and consultation with the Discipline Standing Committee, it has been decided that Liam McSweeney
will
play in the opening match, unless convicted of the charges currently pending in Crown Court. The chairman stated in his announcement that Mr. McSweeney has pled his complete innocence and asserted a defense. And to deprive a man of his livelihood before he has had his day in court would violate the very standards of fair play that make cricket and England what they are today. Shortly after the chairman's remarks, the odds in favor of an English victory in the first match improved from even to two to one.'”

“How about that?” said Hendricks, slapping the paper on his desk. “I knew they'd come round to it!”

“And you were right, of course,” said Nigel. “But a small favor—when I sign in over the next few weeks, avoid reading the paper to me if you can?”

This time Hendricks was palpably offended. He started to get up from the chair, nearly shaking with umbrage.

“Well then, Mr. Heath, if you don't want me to share the news with you, then—”

And then he stopped.

“Say—how's that jury thing going?” he said. “Are you on one?”

“Can't talk about it,” said Nigel.

A lightbulb went on for Hendricks. “Aha! So that's—mum's the word, Heath, mum's the word!”

“I've never liked cricket anyway,” said Nigel, heading for the lift. “When I want a game that can go on forever and whose rules are incomprehensible to the layman, I prefer the law.”

That evening, Nigel sat in his office at Baker Street Chambers, tried to focus on his day job, and wondered if perhaps he should have chosen a different specialty of law.

Her Majesty's Courts Service paid jurors a stipend for each day of service. But if you were self-employed, as Nigel was, you still had to keep your clients happy.

And he was having trouble focusing. He would have preferred to be at the corner pub—but the corner pub was a sports bar, with multiple tellys tuned to the sporting news, and many inebriated cricket fans, and it would have been impossible to go there and not run into all sorts of information sources and speculation that he was supposed to be avoiding.

So he stayed in his office. But his mind kept turning back to the trial—partly to the details of it, but even more to the tactics of the opposing barristers.

He was pretty sure he could do a better job.

And when he tried to think of something else, what popped into his mind was not the estate document he was supposed to be working on, with all its obscure prose and provisions, but the glimpse of a rose tattoo—or a heart or a butterfly, whatever it might be—on Lucy's freckled skin in a half-concealed location.

 

9

The following week, each afternoon when the court adjourned, a fleet of unmarked sedans, in different styles from one day to the next, waited in the Lewes Street alley. The street was blocked, the jurors were hustled into the vehicles, two jurors for each car, and then they were driven home by professionals who knew how to lose the salivating media.

All of which would have been fine with Nigel, if Lucy had been in his car.

But she wasn't. Apparently their respective destinations in London were geographically incompatible. And it was never possible to talk to her alone at the lunch break. So the only real opportunity for conversation was while walking down the stairs from the courtroom to the exit, which didn't work, because she was always in a hurry for some reason.

And so even though Nigel was perfectly willing to ignore the judge's injunction against fraternizing, no fraternization was taking place anyway.

There was nothing to do but focus on the trial.

The first witness to take the stand was Chief Inspector Wembley. All eyes followed him as he took his place in the box.

Or, at least, most eyes did. Of the twelve primary jurors, the only one who did not seem to be paying close attention was the annoyed Bankstone. Nigel and the alternates were, if anything, more attentive than the primary jurors—like junior varsity hoping to move up to the main team. Siger, in particular, leaned forward, hunching his narrow shoulders in concentration.

As Wembley was sworn in, Siger nudged Lucy with his elbow. “Notice the heavyset shoulders,” he whispered, though loudly. “Rounded a bit now with middle age, but he clearly played sports back in the day. Rugby though, not cricket—your typical police officer comes from a background that can't afford the pricier sports—and this one is no exception to the rule, judging from his worn dress shoes—on an occasion when he surely is wearing the best that he has.”

Lucy, trying not to encourage him, only nodded slightly and said nothing.

“Shhh,” said Mrs. Peabody, leaning toward them.

And now the judge looked over.

“Is there something you would like to share with us all … alternate juror one?” said the judge, and the bailiff reinforced it by glowering.

“No,” said Siger. “I apologize, my lord.”

The judge nodded quickly and dismissively, and told the prosecuting attorney to proceed.

Mr. Slattery began by asking Chief Inspector Wembley to describe the crime scene at McSweeney's home—but then stopped him.

“Sorry, one moment, chief inspector—my lord, I had hoped that we might mention first to the jury that counseling will be available for them, should they find these rather graphic details and accompanying photos upsetting—”

“Objection, my lord!” Langdon was on his feet. “The jurors know full well about the available counseling, and my learned friend is bringing it up now only for the purpose of telling them how they should feel about what they are about to see!”

“Yes, a fair point,” said the judge. “The counseling is mentioned in our brochures, after all.”

He turned toward the jury. “The jury will disregard—well, the jury will not disregard that the counseling is available—but will disregard the apparent attempt by the prosecution to tell them what to feel about testimony still to be presented.” And then back to the lawyers, “There, I think that covers it. Now, please let us proceed.”

Slattery continued with his questions, letting Wembley walk the jurors mentally through the crime scene, and previewing the photo exhibits that would come from the forensics team's testimony.

And then, when asked to describe the blood on the cricket bat, Wembley paused.

Most of the jury probably thought this was because of the gore, but Nigel knew Wembley better than that. He was too seasoned to falter at the notion of blood on a weapon. What gave Wembley pause was that he simply couldn't bear to say what he was going to have to say next. He was too much of a sports fan for that—whether or not he played cricket himself.

“Is there anything special about that particular cricket bat?” said the prosecutor.

Wembley took a deep breath, and the defense attorney took advantage of the pause to jump in.

“Objection, my lord,” said Langdon. “The witness is not an expert on cricket bats.”

Mistake, thought Nigel. The witness is already reluctant. By challenging him, you just make his testimony more convincing.

“I'll rephrase,” said Slattery, quickly. “Inspector Wembley, does this particular cricket bat have any identifying marks on it that might cause you, even with your limited knowledge of cricket bats, to form an opinion as to whom the bat might belong?”

“Objection—”

“Please,” said the judge. “Anyone with even modest knowledge of cricket will know what those marks are. Let's save some time and allow this witness to state it. If you think there is any expert who will challenge his testimony, you will have your opportunity later.”

Wembley proceeded with his answer. “The bat has three international cricket championship emblems on it, with the England team as champions, for each of those years. There is only one player in England who was on each of those teams.”

“And who is that?” said the prosecutor.

“Liam McSweeney.” Inspector Wembley sighed; he seemed on the verge of tears over it.

“Did the Scotland Yard forensics lab perform tests on this bat?”

“Yes. It was tested for blood. And for fingerprints.”

“What did the blood test show?”

“The blood on the bat was Marlie McSweeney's. No other blood was found.”

“Did this bat—this bat with Marlie McSweeney's blood on it—have any fingerprints on it?”

“Yes. The tests showed Liam McSweeney's fingerprints.”

Of course it did, thought Nigel. It was his own cricket bat.

“Did the tests show anyone else's prints?”

“No,” said Wembley. “The only prints found on the bat were from Liam McSweeney.”

“Thank you,” said the prosecutor. “Nothing further.”

Langdon, Q.C., stood up for the defense. He approached Wembley with an expression that could only be described as a sympathetic smile.

“Do you follow the sport of cricket fairly closely, Inspector Wembley?” said the defense barrister.

“As much as the next man,” said Wembley. “Perhaps a little more.”

“In your opinion, is it within Liam McSweeney's character to have committed this crime?”

“Objection,” said Slattery. “The inspector surely cannot speculate as to—”

“Sustained,” said the judge. “You know better, Mr. Langdon.”

“I apologize, my lord. Inspector, does it surprise you that the bat that Liam McSweeney used in three championship games would have his fingerprints on it?”

“No.”

“Nothing further, my lord,” said Langdon.

“Redirect?” said the judge to the prosecution.

“No, my lord,” said Slattery.

Wembley started to get up from the witness box, and the judge was about to officially excuse him, and the barristers for both sides were getting ready to move on—when they all caught sight of sudden motion within the alternate jury section.

Siger was standing, and waving his arms as if a bus was about to pass him by. And as soon as the judge and barristers looked in his direction, he spoke. “Do the McSweeneys employ a cleaning service at the house?” he said, quite loudly.

“Alternate juror one, if you continue these interruptions, I might have to hold you in contempt.”

“Oh. I am sorry, my lord. I thought that we would be allowed to ask questions, and so—”