writer's moll

A nephew of mine once went to Court to give evidence for the defence, causing his step-father to comment that with defence witnesses like that, there was no need for a prosecution. The memory popped into my mind again as I started my stint of jury service last week, not because the defence was bad, just that the police and the prosecution lawyer looked a whole lot dodgier than the defendant. The prosecution lawyer, looking about 18, with a wig and gown from a dressing-up box, constantly misplaced things and had to ask the defence lawyer for copies of documents and managed to make laboratory rhyme with lavatory every time he said it. Observing fellow jurors is as interesting as the trial itself, from our youngest member - a beautiful girl with a porcelain complexion, who provided a little glamour and drama, draping herself seductively around the radiator whilst the rest of us sat round the table enthusing about how much we were looking forward to this duty, by declaring languidly that she’d had to turn down film work to do this, so it certainly wasn’t a joy for her and disputing the randomness of the selection process, because 3 weeks earlier her father had been called, a week later, her mother and now her; to the chronically shy man who didn’t say a single word – not even his verdict, which he wrote on a piece of paper. It’s all very friendly and helpful with a little talk beforehand on what we should do (tell if anyone approached us about the case we were trying, or if we recognised anyone, write a note if we wanted to go to the toilet or felt ill) and shouldn’t do (talk to the judge, loiter on the front steps - that was for the lawyers, take our phone into court – not because it might go off and disturb proceedings, but it’s for the 12 jurors only to consider the evidence and a mobile phone represents the rest of the world) and what expenses we could claim (sadly, not my £14 town centre parking fee). It took an age for things to swing into action on the first day and it was almost one o’clock before the jury was selected and sworn in, when we were promptly sent to lunch. Back at 2 pm and at 3 pm the judge said he was going to be merciful – to the jury that is – and spare us any more technical analysis of black plastic bags and gave us a 15 minute break. At 3.45 he sent us home for the day to rest our over-stretched brains – with less than a 2 hour working day, no wonder the law is such a popular profession! There was a bizarre little ceremony for 3 days of a clerk calling out my name to check if I’d arrived, rather than pointing out on the first day that ticking off your name on the list at reception wasn’t an optional extra. I hadn’t spotted this list, being a rather unobservant sort, but keep wondering if he'd have done that every day for the remainder of my jury service if I hadn’t made enquiries as to why I was being ‘picked on’. Two surprising new changes in the law were both relevant to the case I was on – that of a guy charged with possession of heroin with intent to supply. Firstly, the jury can now be told about previous convictions, in this case three, for possession only and secondly, the police are now eligible for jury service and we had a policeman on our jury. I’m almost ok with the first one, but not at all comfortable with the second – especially as the defence’s main argument centred around whether the police, in testing only one of the heroin bags for DNA (the heroin wasn’t found at his house), had done a thorough enough job. As you can imagine, our policeman was keen to emphasise the effort the police would have gone to to secure a successful prosecution, so no surprise that he found the defendant “guilty as sin”! But since so many cases rely on police testimony, I’m not convinced that another policeman can be totally impartial.

We're out and about and see a cute dog or cat and no matter that their paws, jaws and bums have been in contact with all sorts of things, we're happy to stroke them and make a fuss of them; we have a little terracotta pot on our patio with a terracotta mouse eating a piece of terracotta cheese - ah, that's so cute. Yet I go to the cleaning cupboard yesterday, where I find evidence of a mouse's recent visit and what do I do - I freak out, take everything out, throw out anything that's obviously been nibbled (for God's sake it's only disinfectant impregnanted floor cloths), scrub, bleach and my loved one comes back with a mouse trap. I think I have a problem with perspective here.