It’s 9.30am on a Monday and there
is barely anyone here.
No black crows flapping
about the social detritus and picking at the tired washed out living carcases
that normally congregate within the foyer of the court, no aggressive threats
malevolently hanging in the air crashing like thunder against equally
aggressive colloquial greetings.
Apart from the distant clicking
of heels on a staircase and the scratching of the nub of a pen against paper
all is an oasis of calm.
It turns out that my first day of
jury duty is a bust.
There will be no selection
process and after an apology from the clerk followed rapidly with a request to
return at 2pm tomorrow I am set free.
It’s a damp squib of a day.
2pm on a Tuesday and I am adrift
in a sea of bodies.
My eyes dart between reading the
signs on the walls to reading the legends emblazoned in indian ink on necks.
Leaning against a spare space of
wall I look at the paperwork that was sent to me and the dress code
notification isn't there.
A heads up to tell me that casual
is acceptable, but tracksuits are preferable, would have been appreciated, but
I suspect when they have loaded up the envelopes with citations and further
information the sheet of paper with the dress code neatly typed on it slipped
off the end of the desk leaving me looking like a slightly eccentric businessman
lost in a throng of casual sportswear aficionados.
Beside me some legal professional
is stage whispering at a very young man who appears calmly bored.
She wants to know if he will
change his plea to guilty and he casually asks how much evidence and witness
statements there are against him.
She doesn’t say a mountainous shit
load, but he gets the idea and grudgingly accepts that his options are limited.
Meanwhile his mother stands at
his shoulder and contemplates having a nervous breakdown as she bites her nails
down to the knuckle.
The different attitudes between
the two generations are an infinite gulf.
One her part she considers that
her sons future hangs precariously on a cliff edge, while for him it’s just
another day.
For a few minutes I eavesdrop in
on the Ayrshire equivalent of the Three Stooges as Baldy, Scarface and Squinty comment
on how they haven’t seen the court so busy and then corroborate the story they
are going to tell.
Conversations are at similar
stages all around me.
None of the participants seem to
realize that they are conducting their nefariously imbecilic plans to bypass
justice within earshot of prospective jurors and in doing so are making the job of
deciding on their guilt an easy one.
Unsurprisingly the flow of
humanity that are collectively known as the accused in this instance are
largely made up of individuals who may have a degree of feral intelligence, but
not much else.
They exist in a no mans land
between those who are considered socially unable to get through the day without
practical support and guidance, and the rest of us.
Left to their own devices they
gravitate towards dysfunction, drug and alcohol abuse - rather than use, and
ultimately antisocial behaviour as that is their norm.
They weave through the court
building completely comfortable in its environs as they are so familiar to the
beating heart of it all that it is for some their second home.
It’s ultimately a tragedy that
sits within a conundrum that few want to acknowledge.
Just as it looks like a fight
will break out between the comedown kid in the Adidas sponsored corner and delirium
tremens in the Nike sponsored corner a woman directs all of us prospective
jurors into the courtroom and they are swept apart in the stampede.
Once seated in the court
conversations drifts towards the responsibilities of being a juror.
“I’ll just decide if they look
guilty or not. I'm not bothered about the evidence.”
“My memory is rubbish so I will
just do the same.”
This conversation is carried out
between two middle aged sounding women a couple of rows behind me.
The urge to turn around, pinpoint
them, and then scream something about acting responsibly is immense, but before
I can whip my head around faster than Linda Blair could a court official begins
to eloquently explained why we are there, what we should expect and what is
expected from us and then we are told to return the next day at 10am.
Two days down. Nothing has
happened.
The wheels of justice may turn
slower than most would consider.
10am on Wednesday.
It’s groundhog day.
Only the constellations of stars
and names on necks have changed.
Within the courtroom the process
of being picked for jury duty is explained.
Our names go in a goldfish bowl.
If you even find yourself in the
dock there is no comfort can be found in considering that those picked will be
a group of individuals who will listen to all the evidence and come to a fair
conclusion based on it.
Pot luck is what is on offer.
The possibility of drawing the
short straw and having a jury made up of right leaning Daily Mail reading reactionary
compassion vacuums, with a smattering of EDL sympathizing Sun reading white van
drivers, topped by a couple of people who list watching celebrity Big Brother
and TOWIE as their intellectual pursuits, can scarily happen I suppose.
Equally if you are the victim of
an assault the jury could be made up of Guardian reading social apologists who
think the drunken lout who used your head to break his bottle of Buckfast is simply
misunderstood, misguided, and worthy of yet another chance to prove to us all
that they just need a cuddle.
Everything just appears to lie in
the laps of the Gods and as an atheist that just isn't something I want to subscribe
to.
Next episode – The case, the
swivel eyed loon and the Teflon toughtie.
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