Broken Country (Reese’s Book Club)

56. The Verdict

The Verdict

“All parties in the Crown versus Frank Johnson trial to Court Seven.”

We have been waiting for a verdict for almost twenty-four hours. Yesterday, Judge Miskin summarized the essence of the case for the jury. The Crown contests Frank Johnson was provoked into shooting his brother in a flash of white-hot rage. The defense claims it was self-defense: Frank was trying to protect himself and his brother. To be convicted of murder, Judge Miskin said, the jury must believe, beyond reasonable doubt, that Frank Johnson intended to cause his brother serious harm when the gun was fired. For a manslaughter conviction, the jury must agree an unlawful act took place, namely the unlawful use of the weapon which killed him. If they believed Frank was holding the gun, with his finger on the trigger when it unintentionally went off, that would amount to manslaughter.

“Please take as long as you need to consider the evidence,” he told them. “And I must urge you, once again, to disregard the press coverage which has accompanied this case.”

Robert told us juries can come to a decision within an hour. Often a good sign when they do, he said. As the afternoon dragged by without a verdict, we felt more and more despondent. We were exhausted by waiting and the days of tension leading up to it; I just wanted it over and done with.

Now, with the decision upon us, my body freezes in rebellion. My limbs refuse to move. Blood-rush in my brain. All the fear and anxiety I have tried to suppress rising up to crush me.

“I can’t do it.” I gasp the words.

“Yes, you can.” My father puts an arm around my shoulders. “Frank needs you there, now more than ever.”

My mother, on my other side, urges me to look at her.

“Remember, my love, we are here, every step of the way. And we always will be. You are not alone.”

“Frank’s not guilty. He’ll be walking out of here a free man,” Eleanor says, in a confident tone that doesn’t fool me. “You’ll see.”

There is a sickening quiet within court today, the air thick with expectation. No one seems to be talking, not the journalists on the press bench, nor counsel, nor the people who have queued for their spot in the gallery since eight o’clock this morning for the final day of this trial. I look at the faces around me and wonder what it is that brings them here. This snippet of human drama, a husband and wife whose lives have been wrecked not once, but twice, by death. A well-known author in the mix. A secret love affair which became a national talking point. When the trial is over, they will return to their lives and forget all about us.

The jury files in, one by one, and I am so tense it is all I can do not to scream. I examine their faces as they take their seats. Do they look grimmer than usual? They are dressed smartly for their last, and most significant, day in court. A day when all the power lies with them. Even the young hippy has put on a jacket and tie. City Gent, who has been elected foreman, is wearing a striped shirt with a white collar. Electric-Blue Specs is wearing a dress with a big floppy bow on each shoulder.

Not a single one glances at Frank in the dock. It feels sinister to me, as if they cannot bear to look at the man they are about to find guilty. Then again, they have scarcely looked at him throughout the whole trial, apart from when he was on the witness stand.

The foreman stands up. My heart folds in on itself.

“Members of the jury,” the court clerk says. “Have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?”

“Yes,” the foreman answers.

“Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of count one, the charge of murder?”

The pause can last no more than a second. But you don’t know how long a second can feel when your husband stands accused of murder.

“Not guilty.”

I must have been holding my breath. It rushes out of me, an outpouring of relief. Beside me, Eleanor shouts, “Yes,” and my father turns to me and says: “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

It sounds like an incantation the way he says it.

A buzz of conversation rises from the press bench.

“May we have quiet in the court, please,” the judge says. The clerk waits for the noise to settle before he speaks again.

“Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of count two, the charge of manslaughter?”

Another fragment of time passes. There are lifetimes, whole worlds within it.

“Guilty.”

The word is a pistol fired in the courtroom.

“No! Noooooo!” My cool, collected sister is screaming into the silence.

There is the roar of shock around me, from Eleanor, from my father, from my mother, and from all these people for whom the verdict does not matter at all.

I’m on my feet, crying his name, batting away my parents and sister, who are trying to drag me back to my seat. I lean over the balcony, my father still tugging at my wrist and, at last, Frank looks up at me. He is already standing, two prison officers on either side of him, but he holds my gaze for as long as he can. He even smiles—how does he manage to do that?—and gives me a single nod before he is led away.