The Court

The judge looked about ninety six years old and straight from ‘comedy judge’ central casting. He was an antiquated specimen - posh, self-important and a serial interrupter.

We got led into the courtroom and told to line up.

‘Now they’re standing in exactly the wrong place for what I want them to do,’ the judge said, querulously. ‘I need them to see the defendant and say whether they recognise him or not.’

I was startled to see that there, in a huge glass box behind us, stood the defendant. A small, slight, dark haired young man, who seemed to come straight out of ‘little, scrotey villain’ central casting. He had very dark hair, an olive complexion, a slightly pockmarked face and small, furtive eyes.

Our quandary was how to look at him and make it seem as if we weren’t looking at him?

We were asked - did any of us recognise him?

No - we all shook our heads.

Did any of us know the _ estate in _?

No, once again a collective shaking of heads.

Did the defendant recognise any of us?

‘No, your honour,’ the defendant replied, sounding surprisingly deferential. He had a slightly high, slightly nasal voice. Dickensian villain.

‘He is accused of being in possession of a firearm,’ the judge said.

I flinched, involuntarily.

But he’s so small and slight and deferential! I thought.

‘Did any of the jurors recognise any of the other names in the case?’ The judge asked.

The first barrister looked surprised.

‘Ah, I wasn’t going to name the individual names connected with the case but the arresting officers were…’

This barrister reeled off a list of names. He was presumably the lawyer for the prosecution. He was slightly plump and middle aged with close cropped hair (just visible beneath his wig). He had a kind, humane-looking face. How can a person give the impression of kindness and humanity? I don’t know, but he did. Wouldn’t someone like that be better suited as a defence lawyer? I thought.

The defence lawyer himself was younger than the one for the prosecution and fiercely attractive, with sharp cheekbones. He was lounging arrogantly in a chair. Perhaps he’d done modelling to support himself through university and law school. He did not look kind.

The court clerk was very pretty. She had long, one length, straight black hair and sculpted eyebrows and she looked remarkably similar to one of the jurors. I wondered if she was alarmed to meet another of her species in here.

There were fifteen of us prospective jury members and, as they read out the names and assigned everyone a jury number, I realised that I hadn’t been picked. After all those days of interminable waiting around, being searched and that horrible feeling of confinement, I was disappointed. I never got to see the machinations of the trial and I never got to decide whether _ was guilty or innocent. 

Back up in the lift, along the endless, prosaic corridors and back into the hideous holding pen, which was like a combination of an airport lounge and a hospital waiting room. A Science Fiction purgatory.

A snapshot of the legal system.