Then she thought about Harold Shipman, the harmless-looking bearded and bespectacled family doctor who was estimated to have murdered over three hundred of his patients. Appearances sure were deceptive.
Richard Jupp studied the twelve jurors in the box, privately assessing them. Eight men and four women. A few of them looked quite bright. One man looked to him like a cop — or a retired one. And the fellow in the suit with the grand name looked like a man used to being in charge. No doubt he would consider he should be the foreman.
He addressed them the way he always did, to try to put them at ease, leaning towards them with a warm, avuncular smile. ‘I’d like to welcome you all to the jury,’ he said. ‘It’s you and me who will be trying this case together. The first thing I’d like to say to you, as I see many of you have your pens out, is please do not be distracted by taking notes.’
He paused then went on. ‘Of course, some details and timelines will be significant and may be complex, but I’ll be doing a thorough summing-up at the end of the trial before you go out to consider your verdict, and you’ll have a full recap then. What is important for you as jurors is to concentrate on listening to all the arguments for and against the defence of the man standing in the dock. It is your assessment of the evidence that is crucial. Will you believe the evidence of the prosecution against this man, or the evidence of the defence? You twelve people alone will have to make that decision. I want you to arrive at your decision based on what you see and hear, on body language and on the verbal evidence. I don’t want you distracted by feeling you must write down notes — and perhaps in doing so miss something crucial.’
He paused again. ‘I do also want to emphasize that, as jurors, you are forbidden to talk about this case to anyone other than your fellow jurors. You must not say a word to your wives, husbands, partners, friends or business colleagues. And you must not attempt to google the defendant. If any of you have any concerns about the trial, if you realize you know the defendant personally, or have had any professional dealings with him, please send me a note via the clerk of the court.’
He stopped to sip a glass of water. ‘The most important thing for you as jurors is your eyes and ears. You must watch and assess for yourselves each person giving evidence for or against the defendant. I want to remind you that under English law this man standing before you, accused of these crimes, is currently innocent until — and unless — proved guilty. That is the question for you alone. It is not a question of maybe he did it, or even that he probably did it. You need to be sure that he committed these offences, in order to convict. So, your role, as fellow human beings, is to assess both the credibility of the defendant and the witnesses both for and against him. I hope that is clear.’
30
Thursday 9 May
‘Very clear, Your Honour!’ Rio Zambrano said loudly, with a grin.
Sixty miles away from Lewes Crown Court, on the tenth floor of a high-rise office building in Hoxton in East London, Zambrano, a thirty-eight-year-old computer programmer, originally from Quito in Ecuador, sat in front of his large computer screen. He was listening intently to the court proceedings being relayed to him through his headphones by Jeff Pringle’s concealed video camera. He had pulled off stills of each of the faces of the twelve jurors, which he saved into individual files.
Beside him sat Paul Constantinidi, a private investigator and disgruntled former Met Police detective who had been forced into early retirement following an accusation — not for the first time — of excessive violence during an arrest. He had been for some months in the lucrative pay of Mickey Starr and, as it appeared now, ultimately the top boss, Terence Gready. Paul Constantinidi had retained many friends within the Met, one of whom was proving particularly helpful in checking the backgrounds of each of the jurors as he relayed them to him, whilst at the same time — along with two techies who ran the county lines network for Starr — doing a google search on each of them.
Juries, if they could not agree a unanimous verdict, could reach a majority verdict as directed by the judge either on an 11–1 or 10–2 basis. If a jury could not agree then they would be discharged by the judge and, in normal circumstances, there would be a retrial. But the clear plan, outlined by Gready’s solicitor, Nick Fox, was to do better than that. Much better.
So far three names had produced hits. The first was potentially interesting: Mike Roberts, a retired Hampshire Police Detective Superintendent and former Senior Investigating Officer on the Major Crime Team. A stocky, silver-haired man of sixty-two, who left the police a decade ago as part of the government’s A19 programme. Highly unpopular, it had forced officers to retire at thirty years’ service, regardless of their rank or experience, to be replaced with new recruits, so the government could claim the salary saving and at the same time claim they had kept police numbers up. He could be a potential, Paul Constantinidi thought. An aggrieved former cop, like himself?
The second was an obese guy, Hugo Pink. His search showed that he was in deep financial trouble. Definitely a potential target. Terence Gready would be more than happy to bail him out.
The third was very interesting. A forty-two-year-old widow, Meg Magellan. Her husband and teenage son had been killed in a car crash five years ago. Now her teenage daughter, Laura, was on her gap year, backpacking through South America, and from her latest posts, currently near Quito, in Ecuador.
He turned to Rio. ‘You must have friends back in Ecuador?’
‘Sure, many. Why?’
Paul Constantinidi nodded. ‘Good to know. Might be useful.’
31
Thursday 9 May
In the court, Richard Jupp gave the jurors another we’re all in this together smile of reassurance and silently hoped that was the case. Then he shot a glance at the defendant. Terence Gready sat behind the glass shield, all nicely shaven, with his neat blue suit and butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth expression. Wrongfully accused. Fitted-up. The police getting their own back on the legal profession. Only the flimsiest circumstantial evidence to link him to any of the crimes for which he was standing trial.
Jupp had read through all the documents, every word. He’d read the evidence stacked against the accused solicitor and studied the defence’s arguments. He was confident Stephen Cork, the prosecutor, would drive a coach and horses through those.
He gave Gready, who was staring, deadpan, straight ahead, another quick look. The man disgusted him. Not only a traitor to his profession but actually, in doing what he was accused of, in many ways a traitor to his country. In Jupp’s view, laws were the glue that held civilized society together. When legal practitioners perverted them, they were committing a far worse sin than lining their pockets through greed. They were threatening the very fabric of the nation they fed off. They were like leeches that attached themselves to their host.
That leech in the dock, Jupp had a feeling, by the time this court had finished with him, would not be harming anyone again for very many years. With luck, maybe even forever. Just so long as, he hoped fervently, this wasn’t going to turn out to be a jury dominated by numpties.
32
Thursday 9 May
Roy Grace was hoping he would get a bright, attentive jury, and not a bunch of numpties, too. Next week, Brighton’s biggest ever serial killer, family doctor Edward Crisp, was in Court 2 at Lewes Crown Court facing seven counts of murder and a host of other offences. From all he had done, the doctor deserved never to see the outside of a prison cell again. And Grace was determined to make sure that happened.