Chapter 6
The judge leaves and the jury go out through a door at the side of the court, along a corridor and into a room dominated by a large table.
The familiarity of the scene reassures Matthew.
The courtroom might have fallen short of Witness for the Prosecution, but this is pure Twelve Angry Men, even if there are actually fifteen of them, of whom more than half are women, and no one looks particularly angry. At least not yet.
Unlike the messages that arrive on Matthew’s phone as soon as he switches it on, fury throbbing through the ether, repeated pings of irritation. Everyone is angry.
Where the hell are you?
You can’t be spared.
Why didn’t you tell them you were unavailable?
He sends the same message to Rosalind and Dominic, to the registrar at the hospital. To Olivia.
On a jury for the next two weeks.
After a pause, he types out another message. Sends it.
It’s beyond my control.
His phone starts ringing. It’s Rosalind.
Matthew doesn’t need to answer it to know what she’ll have to say.
She knows him too well. Knows the system, too.
He could hold the line that the court refused to excuse him but she’ll never believe it.
He turns the phone off again without looking at the screen and pushes it back in his jacket pocket.
He never has his phone on at work – they’re used to it by now. They’ll give up calling soon.
Anyway, he doesn’t really care. Perhaps he should, but it’s relentless, the ringing of the phone, the shrillness of Rosalind’s voice, the way she keeps telling him what to do.
It’s her fault, what he’s done. He’d never have been so irrational if she hadn’t been so bossy, dictating to him what his obligations were.
‘Coffee?’ one of the other jurors asks. Roderick. He’s in his forties, wearing jeans and a checked shirt. Matthew will do the same tomorrow, not bother with the suit and tie he’s wearing today, by far the smartest of anyone in the room.
Dressed to impress.
‘Yes, please. Black,’ Matthew says, smiling.
With the interruption, his thoughts do an about-turn. He’s a dick. It’s not Rosalind’s fault. It’s his. He’s in dereliction of his duties. He’s abandoned his family, his work too. It’s unforgivable.
‘What do you think of all that?’ a voice sidling in at his shoulder, sly. He knows without turning it’s that woman. Emma.
‘We shouldn’t discuss it,’ he says. ‘Only when all of us are talking about it together.’
‘They’re all around us. Don’t be such a stick in the mud. You know you’re dying to talk about it.’ Her lips are moist, her eyes blinking fast.
‘We’re not meant to discuss it, not like this. We should just listen at this stage to what they’ve got to tell us.’
‘Ooh, look at you all high and mighty. After the job of foreman, are we? All booted and suited like that.’
She’s leaning in close, her breath stale. There’s something musty coming from her hair and it catches in the back of his throat.
‘Here’s your coffee,’ Roderick says. The interruption is extremely welcome.
‘Thanks,’ Matthew says, as Emma turns to him.
‘What do you reckon? Do you think they killed her? I know who they are. I heard about them on TV.’
Matthew shakes his head, Roderick also. His nose wrinkles, just a little. Matthew moves closer to him.
‘I have no idea,’ he says, ‘and we shouldn’t talk about it.’ He starts to move away from her.
‘They’re the witch girls,’ Emma says. ‘This is the witch trial.’