insisted that he open the boot of his car. He did so, and a baseball bat was revealed. Although he had already told them the nature of his work, one of the policemen asked him what he used the bat for. He was astonished, and in his astonishment risked a joke. ‘For hitting people like you,’ he replied with a smile. He was instantly arrested and later charged with being in possession of a dangerous weapon.
The defendant smiled throughout his day-long trial. The policemen appeared, separately, in the witness box. Each said that the other had ordered the man to open the boot, and each announced that he had asked the question that led to the man’s arrest.
The principal of the college spoke glowingly of the teacher’s achievements. His sunny disposition made him immensely popular with the students. He could never resist a joke, and that was the reason he was in court. If he had a failing, it was his inability to curb his tongue.
We, the jury, adjourned to deliberate. Eleven of us, including an eloquently persuasive Indian, agreed that the case was farcical. There was a solitary dissident – a grey-faced woman who kept insisting that if you couldn’t trust the police you couldn’t trust anyone. The fact that the policemen had only brought the young man to trial with their own promotion in mind had to be spelt out to her for a wearying hour or so. If he’d been white, he would have been fined for speeding, his excuse would have been believed, and the boot never opened.
‘You have to have faith in the police,’ she reiterated. ‘I was brought up to have faith in the police.’
On this particular occasion, the Indian observed sweetly, her faith was misplaced. Hadn’t she noticed that the men’s statements differed? The defence counsel had seized on this obvious truth. We had to bring in a unanimous verdict.
The woman, complaining that she wasn’t pleased with what she was doing, finally relented. I was elected to speak for my fellow jurors.
The judge congratulated us on our decision. He accused the police of wasting the court’s time and of humiliating a patently innocent man. He ended by advising the teacher of baseball to refrain from making a joke if he was ever apprehended again. The teacher’s smile was now fulsome.
The second trial I attended was brief and bizarre. The defendant was an elegantly dressed man in his thirties who was arrested on his return to England from America, where he had been working for five years. His case was therefore history. The charge against him was that he and another man had committed an act of gross indecency in the cemetery adjoining Brompton Oratory at three in the morning. It was alleged that he and his partner had indulged in mutual masturbation whilst seated on a tomb. A titter ran through the court when the prosecuting counsel declared that the men had caused grave offence to the public. The man in the dock allowed himself the trace of a smile.
Before our deliberations were over – the Indian wondering precisely who was being offended at three in the morning – we were instructed to return to the courtroom. The man had been advised to plead guilty, as the other man in the case had done, and was consequently fined £50 and cautioned. I thought of the ‘law’s delay’ and the ‘insolence of office’ on my way home to Circe, who would be desperate for exercise.
I arrived at Acton Crown Court the following Monday, happily anticipating another week of intense human interest. I was to be disappointed. A major trial was about to begin, the defendants were four black men who were charged with drug-dealing, affray, and grievous bodily harm, as I later discovered. I was among the eighteen who were called into court for the selection of a jury. I can’t recall why, but on that morning I was carrying a copy of the
Daily Telegraph
, a paper I have written for but seldom read. A solicitor representing the four advised his clients to reject me on the grounds that
The defendant smiled throughout his day-long trial. The policemen appeared, separately, in the witness box. Each said that the other had ordered the man to open the boot, and each announced that he had asked the question that led to the man’s arrest.
The principal of the college spoke glowingly of the teacher’s achievements. His sunny disposition made him immensely popular with the students. He could never resist a joke, and that was the reason he was in court. If he had a failing, it was his inability to curb his tongue.
We, the jury, adjourned to deliberate. Eleven of us, including an eloquently persuasive Indian, agreed that the case was farcical. There was a solitary dissident – a grey-faced woman who kept insisting that if you couldn’t trust the police you couldn’t trust anyone. The fact that the policemen had only brought the young man to trial with their own promotion in mind had to be spelt out to her for a wearying hour or so. If he’d been white, he would have been fined for speeding, his excuse would have been believed, and the boot never opened.
‘You have to have faith in the police,’ she reiterated. ‘I was brought up to have faith in the police.’
On this particular occasion, the Indian observed sweetly, her faith was misplaced. Hadn’t she noticed that the men’s statements differed? The defence counsel had seized on this obvious truth. We had to bring in a unanimous verdict.
The woman, complaining that she wasn’t pleased with what she was doing, finally relented. I was elected to speak for my fellow jurors.
The judge congratulated us on our decision. He accused the police of wasting the court’s time and of humiliating a patently innocent man. He ended by advising the teacher of baseball to refrain from making a joke if he was ever apprehended again. The teacher’s smile was now fulsome.
The second trial I attended was brief and bizarre. The defendant was an elegantly dressed man in his thirties who was arrested on his return to England from America, where he had been working for five years. His case was therefore history. The charge against him was that he and another man had committed an act of gross indecency in the cemetery adjoining Brompton Oratory at three in the morning. It was alleged that he and his partner had indulged in mutual masturbation whilst seated on a tomb. A titter ran through the court when the prosecuting counsel declared that the men had caused grave offence to the public. The man in the dock allowed himself the trace of a smile.
Before our deliberations were over – the Indian wondering precisely who was being offended at three in the morning – we were instructed to return to the courtroom. The man had been advised to plead guilty, as the other man in the case had done, and was consequently fined £50 and cautioned. I thought of the ‘law’s delay’ and the ‘insolence of office’ on my way home to Circe, who would be desperate for exercise.
I arrived at Acton Crown Court the following Monday, happily anticipating another week of intense human interest. I was to be disappointed. A major trial was about to begin, the defendants were four black men who were charged with drug-dealing, affray, and grievous bodily harm, as I later discovered. I was among the eighteen who were called into court for the selection of a jury. I can’t recall why, but on that morning I was carrying a copy of the
Daily Telegraph
, a paper I have written for but seldom read. A solicitor representing the four advised his clients to reject me on the grounds that
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