As was the defendant facing him now, in the enclosed glass dock, accompanied by a security guard. A short, harmless-looking man, wearing a blue suit, white shirt and dark tie — no doubt as instructed by his barrister, Jupp thought with a smile. Ensuring clients dressed in a manner to make them look as innocent as possible was something he had always emphasized during his time at the Bar, when briefing clients for their court appearance. Navy blue was the friendliest suit colour. Theatrical costume, again.
In the front row below Jupp was the formally wigged and gowned prosecutor, Stephen Cork, with his junior, Paul Williams, behind. The other side of the court there was Primrose Brown QC, and her junior, Crispin Sykes, behind her. A formidable QC from the same Inn of Court as himself, Primrose and he once both belonged to the same chambers. But their friendly acquaintance would play no part in this trial.
Immediately behind them was a suited woman sitting on her own, the Crown Prosecution solicitor, and separated by a wide gap, a woman in her thirties conferring earnestly with a tall, silver fox of a man in his fifties — the defence solicitors. Seated again, all of them on both benches were busy with last-minute preparations, checking through files or jotting notes. And the defence, no doubt, dealing with the late arrival of the financial report.
To Jupp’s left were a number of reporters in the press box and, below them, to the side of the dock, the usher was seated, with two police officers in smart business attire behind him — the Senior Investigating Officer who he recognized as DI Glenn Branson and another detective, the Exhibits Officer, one or the other of whom would be present for much of the trial.
Behind the dock was the public gallery, full but not packed, and to Jupp’s right were the two empty rows of the jury box, soon to be filled by a motley crew of people who had received their summons and were now here, reluctantly or otherwise, to carry out their civic duty. They sat currently at the rear of the court, with the jury bailiff.
Jupp cast a brief eye over his potential jurors. Fifteen of them waiting, some looking expectant, some nervous, some bored. Twelve, plus three spares in case of valid objections by the defendant. He spent some moments logging on to the computer in front of him, as well as checking his printed notes, before nodding to the clerk to begin the proceedings.
Maureen Sapsed stood up, just below him, and addressed the man in the dock. ‘Are you Terence Gready?’
His voice was quiet but calm. ‘I am.’
Jupp then said to the clerk, but addressing the whole court, ‘May we have the jury panel in, please.’
Meg, along with the other fourteen jurors who had been called, sat waiting. Keeping her fingers crossed that she made the cut. But a little jittery at the same time.
The clerk addressed the defendant again. ‘Terence Gready, the names you are about to hear called are the names of the jurors who are to try you. If you wish to object to any of them, you must do so as they come to be sworn, and before they are sworn, and your objections shall be heard.’
Gready gave a single polite nod in response.
Then Jupp addressed the would-be jurors, as he liked to do to help put them at ease. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, twelve of you will be selected randomly from the fifteen of you present. When you hear your name called out, answer “yes” and make your way to the jury box.’ He pointed to it. ‘Fill the front row first and then the rear.’
The jury bailiff, Jacobi Whyte, at the rear of the court, shuffled the fifteen cards he held, each bearing the name of a juror, selected one from the pack and read out the name: ‘Sophie Eaton.’
A casually dressed woman in her mid-thirties replied a hesitant ‘Yes,’ then stood up and walked self-consciously to the box, taking the far end position.
‘Edmond O’Reilly Hyland.’
A charismatic man in his fifties, with a big, open face, dressed like a lawyer himself in a chalk-striped three-piece suit, said, ‘Yes,’ stood up and strode confidently across towards the jury box as if he owned the place.
‘Megan Magellan.’
It took her a second to realize it was her name.
She jumped up like a startled rabbit. No need to be nervous, she tried to calm herself. You are here out of civic duty. Relax. Enjoy! ‘Yes,’ she said, trying to project, but the word seemed to catch in her throat. She was blushing as she walked the short distance to the jury box, well aware that every eye in the court was on her at this moment.
She took her place next to the man who smelled, not unpleasantly, of aftershave, unsure where to look. She shot a glance first at the judge, who was studying his computer screen, then at the dock at the defendant, a wretched, miserable-looking man who didn’t look like he was capable of committing any crime. He caught her sympathetic eye and gave a wan smile back.
The next name was called. ‘Hari Singh.’
A tubby Indian man in a smart suit and tie and with a nervous, almost apologetic smile, made his way to the box, seating himself beside Meg.
Another name was called and an instant later the older woman she had exchanged a smile with earlier sat down on the bench.
‘Maisy Waller.’
‘Yes.’ It came out as a timid squeak. A tight-faced, terrified-looking mouse of a woman in her fifties with limp grey hair and wearing an old-fashioned floral-print summer frock followed, approaching the jury box as if it were a cage full of lions, then almost tiptoed to her place.
Next up was Harold Trout, a rather intellectual-looking man in his early seventies, in a tweed suit and a golf club tie.
The litany of names continued, whilst Meg looked around the court, trying to figure out what the roles were of everyone present, occasionally shooting glances at the dock, but each time quickly looking away as the defendant was staring directly at them. She glanced up at the sea of faces in the nearly full public gallery, almost all of whom were looking down towards her and her fellow jurors. In the front row, she clocked a denim-jacketed, ponytailed man, who looked like a rough diamond, sitting a little stiffly and too far away for her to have noticed the pen clipped to his breast pocket. He seemed to be taking a particularly keen interest in them all, and she wondered if he was perhaps a relative of the defendant.
When the two rows were filled, three potential jurors remained behind, looking like lost little Billy-No-Mates.
Maureen Sapsed then turned to the jury box. ‘Members of the jury, the defendant, Terence Arthur Gready, stands charged on this indictment containing six counts.’
She proceeded to read out all of the counts in full, before pausing for a moment to glance down at her notes. Then she looked at the jury again. ‘To each count the defendant has pleaded not guilty, and it is your charge to say, having heard all the evidence, whether he is guilty or not.’
She paused to let this sink in. Then she looked at the three jurors left behind in the selection area. ‘Would those remaining jurors who have not been selected please leave now with the jury bailiff.’
There was a brief, expectant silence as they filed out.
Meg looked back at the defendant, who was sitting impassively, staring ahead, with a guard behind him. The dock looked like the loneliest place in the world. It was a very strange feeling being here, being a juror. This wasn’t some party game. Over the coming days — weeks — she and the other eleven randoms would be deciding on this man’s future. The charges sounded very serious, and no doubt would not have been brought without good reason, she assumed. The trafficking of the drugs particularly revulsed her. But could that mild little man really have been behind all that?