Chapter 7
Witch trial. Something’s flickering in Matthew’s mind, a glimmer of a memory of a headline he’s glimpsed, beckoning round a corner before fleeing out of sight.
‘You heard what the judge said,’ Roderick says, and turns his back to her, shutting her out from any further conversation. She snorts and walks away in search of easier prey, though none of the other jurors look exactly keen to speak to her.
‘Roderick,’ he says, holding his hand out.
‘Matthew. Matt. Nice to meet you.’ They shake hands. Matthew forces himself not to repeat what Emma has just said. Witch trial. ‘Causing any difficulties for you, being called like this?’
‘My boss isn’t happy,’ Roderick says. ‘Not much he can do about it though. I’ll have to work around it to an extent. I’m an accountant and it’s the end of the tax year. All those returns to wade through.’
‘Unfortunate timing.’
‘I could have tried to put it off, but to be honest, I was interested in what being on a jury would be like.’
Matthew nods. Someone else gets it. ‘I didn’t want to put it off either. Though God knows they all told me to.’ He gestures out wide with his hands at the word they; Roderick looks sympathetic. Perhaps Matthew has found an ally.
The other jurors are chatting to each other, too, everyone standing round the table, only a couple of people choosing to sit down.
‘I hope it doesn’t go over the two weeks though,’ Roderick says. ‘That will cause problems.’
‘Hopefully not.’
‘Can we talk about it now?’ Emma says loudly. ‘It’s only us. I know all about this case.’
Murmurs. They’re all looking any direction but at her. The judge’s warnings are running through Matthew’s head.
‘I just don’t see how they can be saying such terrible things about those wee girls. The one with fair hair – she doesn’t look like a witch.’
Is this what Emma really thinks? Or is she just fishing? Either way, no one replies. She looks around them all, the eager expression in her eyes subsiding as she realises that they’re not going to play.
‘Let’s wait until we’ve heard all the evidence before we leap to judgement,’ Roderick said, his voice not unkind. Matthew bites back a sharper response. It’s as well that just then they are called back into court.
They file to their seats. The same rigmarole but this time Matthew knows the name for it; he asked the court official who brought them back into the jury box.
The macer leads in the judge before placing the mace in the holder on the wall.
A ceremonial function. There was more to it but Matthew loses track of the explanation.
All part of the arcana of it, the ritual.
Like witchcraft. Emma’s words have stuck in Matthew’s head.
Witch trial. He looks over at the girls in the dock again, trying to make sense of it.
Not a wart or hooked nose to be seen. No one is green.
It’s only the judge speaking that stops him from snorting with laughter at the thought.
She’s lecturing them again about who does what, her voice so calm and modulated that it soothes Matthew almost to the point of sleep, his head nodding as she explains it all to them. It’s only at the end he zones back in.
‘The background of this case has attracted some media attention. If you have seen or read anything like that you must ignore it. The internet also carries material about it. You must not access such material throughout the course of this trial.’
She pauses for breath. In other words, don’t fucking google it, dickheads.
A big red button marked DO NOT TOUCH. Matthew’s got the point.
He’s bored now, ready to get on with it, hear the real meat of the case.
It’s a murder – there’s going to be blood and guts.
What he lives for. Not this prissy laying down of the law.
She is the law, motherfuckers, Judge Dredd in a frilly wig.
He folds his hands in his lap, digging his nails in sharp on both sides. Start taking this seriously, for God’s sake. He knows exactly what he’s doing, taking the piss in order to puncture the dignity of the place a little. Matthew’s intimidated by it all, out of water, and he doesn’t like it.
‘As I say, this case must be decided solely on the evidence you hear in court. If you become aware of any fellow jury member who has conducted independent investigations, please inform the Clerk of Court at once.’ She fixes them with a hard stare.
Matthew feels every part of him contract, withering inside.
‘I may say that after this warning, if I become aware of any juror carrying out such investigations, I shall take a very serious view of it. It may very well result in the trial collapsing with all the attendant cost that would involve. It likewise may constitute a contempt of court. If it did constitute a contempt of court, all sentencing options are open to me.’
Matthew stares up at her, the rest of the jury too. All sentencing options? Meaning?
‘Prison.’ She adds one word in clarification, seemingly annoyed by the blank stares she’s receiving from all fifteen of the jury.
He blinks. She’s not messing around here. He glances at Emma, to see if she’s taking the point. Her head is bowed, her hands moving in her lap, a repetitive motion like she’s working through a rosary, or worry beads, though her fingers are empty.
There’s more to the speech. Way more. It goes on for about half an hour.
Matthew is doing his best to listen, but it’s difficult.
The wine he drank last night to let go of the strain of the tricky operation he’d carried out that afternoon, the fact he’d woken at three, excited as a child at the prospect of getting picked for a jury; all of it is catching up with him now.
He’d thought he’d be witnessing the cut and thrust of a cross-examination, shouts of my learned friend and I put it to you, not this droning on about rules and housekeeping, not to talk to anyone about it or allow anything to influence his decision.
To report any strangers who approach them outside court and attempt to discuss the case with them.
Come off it, this is hardly a spy story. They’re not in fifties Berlin. The caution is over-egged – pettifogging, procedure-heavy. All the things he wants to leave behind in the reality of his day job. This is meant to be swashbuckling fun, the stuff of movies. But it’s dull. Dull, dull, dull.
His head nods down once, twice; if he doesn’t watch it he’s going to fall asleep, start snoring before the case has even begun.
When he thought he was foreman material, too – what a joke.
That’s clearly going to be Roderick, all neatly combed hair, pen in his right hand, as he scribbles down furiously while the judge keeps on and on.
Matthew picks up his pen and starts doodling on the paper in front of him to try to keep himself awake, birds taking flight across the page surrounded by a constellation of rough, five-pointed stars.
But this can only hold his attention for a few moments.
Soon he puts his pen down, hoping to God it’s going to finish soon.
Surely there can’t be much more to say? The faces in the public gallery look the same as he’s feeling, tense and bored.
No one in the room is hearing what they really want to know.
Who’s dead, how did she die, and did these girls in the dock really kill her?
Now the judge is introducing the jury to the main players. Matthew’s ears prick up; he turns the page to a clean piece of paper. Something worth noting at last.
‘The prosecution is brought by the Crown. That’s the name given to the public prosecutor in Scotland.
The Crown has to prove the charges and it seeks to do so by presenting evidence.
The case for the Crown is presented by the Advocate Depute, Mr Alexander, and he is assisted by Mr McLeod and they are sitting at the table to my right.
You have already been introduced to Miss Brodie who represents Eliza Lawson and Miss Goodly who represents Isobel Smyth, who are sitting at the table to my left.
In Scotland there are no opening speeches—’
Matthew puts his pen down, stifles a cheer. He’s been dreading another lengthy session. Although having said that, they need to get on with telling them what this is all about.
Not yet though. Still more speech. Details of evidence, of legal procedure.
What time lunch will be served. The fact that the trial is being recorded.
At this moment the judge waves her hand in the general direction of the side of the court where the blonde woman is sitting.
Matthew glances over at her. Her hair’s twisted up into a bun at the back of her head, an elegant sweep of it away from her face.
Her head’s downturned, intent on the notebook on her lap, a beige trench coat on the seat next to her, but as he gazes at her she looks up, catches his eye; red lipstick, a blue-green gaze.
A pulse beats hard at Matthew’s neck. He sits tight, swallows. She smiles, turns away.
Another ripple in the air. He’s not confronted by a monster, though, no crone here. A melody from a half-remembered Lloyd Cole song plays in his head, about an actress in a black and white film. He understands the pull of the words now.
No Marlene Dietrich, but he’s found a film noir star.