Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

Simon was in a cell below the court, dressed in the ironed shirt, suit and tie that Sarah had bought for him. The sleeves were tight over his biceps, and a little too short. Sarah tried to tug them down, but he drew back irritably.

‘Mum, I’m fine. It’s OK.’

‘Yes. You look great, Simon. Anyway, all you’ve got to do is say you’re not guilty, and then sit there, looking sensible.’

‘Yeah, okay, I’ll try. But it’s shit scarey, Mum. What if the jury’s crap?’

‘This isn’t America, I can’t choose the jurors for you. But don’t worry.’ She looked at him firmly. ‘You’re not guilty and that’s it. Say it loud and clear and look the judge straight in the eye. We’re going to win, Simon.’

‘Yeah. I bloody well hope we are, anyhow.’

‘We are. But don’t swear — not if the jury can hear you. These things matter now, Simon.’

‘Yeah, okay. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m going upstairs to put on my battle gear now. Lucy will stay with you. See you in court.’ She smiled, and banged for the guard to open the door. Lucy was patting a spot under Simon’s chin where he’d cut himself shaving. Oh no, not blood on his throat, please, Sarah thought. Then the door opened and she walked briskly upstairs to the robing room.

Where her opponent, the bluff, charming Phil Turner, was waiting for her.

The court was, as she had always known, a theatre. Usually, however, they played to a few relatives, idlers, and an aged court reporter sleeping off his liquid lunch. Today the public gallery was packed. Not a single seat was left free. A buzz of conversation echoed from the stucco pillars and the decorated ceiling of the dome. Sarah had to bend her head to catch what Lucy was saying.

‘ … like a football match …’

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Why are they here?’

Lucy jerked her thumb towards the crowded Press bench. ‘Because of them. And you. A dreadful murder, a mother defending her son …’

Sarah shuddered, then stiffened herself instantly. It was not the eyes of the press and public that mattered, but those of the prospective jurors, seated immediately behind the dock. She must try to look confident for them.

And for Simon.

There was a hush, then a further swell in conversation as Simon entered the dock, with two security men beside him. He looked around, amazed, and everywhere conversations died, then rose again as his look passed on. Sarah walked back, stood on a bench and leaned in over the side of the dock.

‘You never said it would be like this, mum.’ His face, already pale from months on remand, had gone, if anything, even whiter.

‘It isn’t, usually. Probably they’ll lose interest after an hour or two. Court proceedings are very slow, you know, and often boring. Just try to look calm and serious. And remember, the jury are the important people. If they like you, that’s half our case won.’

As she regained her seat the clerk called out, in her loudest voice: ‘All stand!’ Judge Mookerjee entered from the door beneath the royal coat of arms, bowed to Sarah and Phil Turner, and sat down. The audience did the same.

‘Her Majesty’s Court of York is now in Session, his lordship P. J. Mookerjee presiding. All those who have business with this court are hereby required to draw nigh and give attendance!’ the clerk proclaimed. ‘Is Simon Newby in court?’

Sarah rose to her feet. ‘He is, my lord.’

The clerk directed her gaze to the dock, behind Sarah. ‘Stand up, please.’

Simon stood, nervously clasping his hands.

‘Are you Simon Newby, of 23 Bramham Street, York?’

‘Er, yeah.’

Sarah groaned. Make a better effort than that, Simon, please .

‘Simon Newby, you are hereby indicted before this court on one count, namely: on count 1, on the night of 13/14th May this year, you did murder Jasmine Antonia Hurst, of 8a Stillingfleet Road, York, contrary to Section 1 of the Homicide Act 1957. How do you plead? Guilty, or not guilty?’

There was a pause. Not a long pause, perhaps, but to Sarah it seemed to last for ever. Oh my God, Simon, come on, you can understand plain English, can’t you? Lucy was supposed to have coached him in this but probably like many first-time defendants he was overwhelmed by the high-flown language, the sheer terror of a public trial for murder.

‘Not guilty.’ There was a sigh from the public gallery, who had collectively been holding their breath. Sarah turned round to smile encouragement.

‘Very well,’ said the clerk smoothly. ‘Sit down, Simon. We will move to empanel a jury.’

Seven men were chosen as jurors, and five women. A minuscule advantage to Simon, Sarah thought speculatively, watching them take the oath. Two were young men with short hair like her son. One wore an earring. But three others wore suits and ties, an unusual proportion nowadays. The women, she noticed — two over thirty, three under — all studied Simon intently. None of the looks were friendly.

In America, she thought, Lucy and I would have spent hours interviewing these people to ascertain their views and suitability to serve. As it is I have to take pot luck. I can object to no one without cause, and since I know nothing about any of them the only possible cause is if one of them can’t read the oath or admits to being Jasmine’s best friend.

Oh well, justice is blind, like the statue outside.

Phil Turner rose to his feet. In his old wig and gown, he looked just as Sarah had feared. The ancient wig was shoved back a little and to the side, like the flat cap of a farmer. His gown and suit were comfortable rather than smooth or ostentatious. He turned his rugged, dependable face towards the jury, and began.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the case you are to try is a murder. All murders are serious, but this was a particularly horrible and brutal one, and it will be my duty to present you with some very unpleasant and upsetting evidence. I am sorry for that, but it cannot be helped. It is my duty to prove that the man who committed this awful crime, the murderer, is the young man whom you see sitting in the dock — Simon Newby. It is the job of my learned colleague Mrs Newby here — who, most unusually, you may think, happens to be Simon’s mother — to defend him against this charge.’

He paused, while the jury examined Sarah with interest. A hushed murmur came from the public gallery.

‘And it is your job — the most important job of all — to listen carefully to all the evidence put before you, and then to decide on one simple question: does this evidence prove, beyond all reasonable doubt, that Simon Newby committed this murder, or not?’

Wonderful, Sarah thought, as several jurors nodded solemnly. They’re eating out of his hand already. The moment that man opened his mouth they had him placed; as a decent, dependable Yorkshireman, one of their own. And he’s telling them my son’s a murderer.

‘It’s as simple as that,’ Phil Turner continued calmly. ‘And my answer is equally simple: does the evidence prove that Simon Newby is guilty? Yes, it does.’

He lifted one foot comfortably onto the bench beside him, like a countryman leaning on a fence, telling a story to a group of friends.

‘Let me outline it for you. Firstly, the murder itself. You will hear police officers and forensic scientists describe it all in great detail. But the basics are these. Early on the morning of Friday 14th May a man was walking his dog on a footpath near the river Ouse south of York, when the dog found something in the bushes. When the man looked he saw the body of a young woman. He called the police and later that day they identified the body as that of Jasmine Hurst, a young woman of 23 who lived with her current boyfriend David Brodie about half a mile from where her body was found.