rip my wardrobe apart, ‘there’s something you can do for me.’
And that was to ‘style’ me in her own unique way, the brief being, ‘make me look like the last person alive you’d ever want serving on a jury’.
So now here I am, dressed a la Gracie; with manky, unwashed hair sticking out sideways, that looks like I stuck two fingers into a plug socket before I left home, jeans with more holes in them than there is denim and a t-shirt that says, See You All At My Intervention. All in all, I’d confidently say that I’m looking like the least likely person you’d ever want deciding whether you’re guilty or not guilty.
About an hour later, walking down Parkgate Street and stepping in out of the chilly April wind, I’m immediately taken aback at just how different the Criminal Courts of Justice are from what I’d expected. I’d thought it would be like something off the set of The Good Wife, or else Law and Order. You know, a huge, Palladian-style building, with imposingly tall columns and ice-cold marble floors, with police leading handcuffed criminals to and from court. The kind of place designed to intimidate you practically from the minute you step through the door, whether you’re guilty or not.
But it’s nothing like that at all in here. Turns out there are twenty-two courts housed together in this brand new building, eleven-storeys high, and as soon as you step inside, completely full of light and air. The foyer is huge, circular in shape with overhanging balconies looking down at us, where each courtroom is clearly marked.
Most surprising of all is that it’s actually warm and welcoming in here, so yet again it seems I’ve been misinformed by watching too many legal dramas on telly. I could even be in the foyer of a five-star hotel, the layout is that luxurious looking. The only giveaway of where I really am is the sight of important-looking barristers swishing around in wigs and gowns, trailing wheelie bags behind them stuffed full of case notes as they clip briskly about their business.
The foyer is packed out even though it’s just before nine in the morning, as if every juror was summoned to appear at the same time and on the same date. Which is actually good news for me; after all, the more people that they have to choose from, the more likely it is that I can skive out of here early. Just like at the airport though, there’s a security check to clear first, where you half-undress, then put shoes, bag, jacket etc. into a bucket while you’re screened.
I set off the alarm, so next thing a beefy-looking security guy who’s all shoulders with hardly any neck pulls me aside to pat me down. There’s no time to waste, so I nab my chance.
‘Hi there,’ I smile brightly, ‘can you tell me who I need to speak to about being excused from jury service?’
‘You want to be excused?’ he says disinterestedly, patting down my back and shoulders.
‘Yes, that’s right. I have a letter from work explaining that I can’t possibly be spared this week, you see. Or any week for the foreseeable future.’
‘Ha! Good luck with that,’ he snorts, making me stand like a starfish, while he pats down the sides of my arms and legs. For God’s sake, what does he imagine I’m trying to smuggle in here anyway? A nail file for some prisoner to file off handcuffs? An illegal sandwich?
‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell him firmly, ‘but it’s actually really important that I speak to whoever is in charge here. I shouldn’t even be here you see—’
‘OK, you’re clear to go,’ he says, totally ignoring what I just said. ‘Here’s your security pass. You need to wear it around your neck at all times. Take a right turn at reception for the Jury Selection Office, then wait there till you’re assigned a number. Next!’
‘Thanks, but there’s absolutely no need for the security tag,’ I insist, handing it straight back to him. ‘Like I say, I’ll be out of here in no time, so it’s just a waste really.’
‘Madam,’ he says a bit more sternly, ‘you need to wear your pass at all times. Now can you move along, please?’
‘Honestly, I really won’t be needing it,’ I say firmly.
‘Ehh, here’s a tip,’ says a tallish guy about my own age, who’s standing right behind me in the queue to reclaim coats, shoes etc. from the security buckets. ‘It might be a whole lot easier if you just took the badge.’
I don’t even answer him though. Instead I just sum up as much dignity as I possibly can given that I only have one shoe on and am still fumbling for the other one, and stomp off in the direction of the Jury Selection Office.
Where my luck doesn’t improve. There’s a long, snaking queue ahead of me, because apparently it’s not enough to just turn up here, you’ve got to register too. When I eventually weave my way up to the top of it, turns out there’s an older, hassled-looking lady with a pinched face sitting inside a little office with a glass window and a hatch who seems to be in sole charge around here. Her name badge says Bridget, so I call her by name, hoping against hope we get off on the right foot.
‘Good morning, Bridget,’ I beam through the tiny hatch, bending down so she’ll hear me loud and clear. ‘I’m Tess Taylor and I’m afraid I’m ineligible to serve today.’
‘Summons papers, please,’ she says briskly, glasses wobbling on the edge of her nose.
‘I’m afraid I’m indispensable in work and I even have a letter from my boss to say that I can’t possibly help you out. I’m needed back at my job, you see. The next few weeks are crazy for us.’
She does a brief, cursory scan of the letter I thrust at her through the hatch – the one I had to beg my boss for, then stand over him and practically dictate. Anyway, by the time he was finished writing it, you’d swear I was an open-heart surgeon with a list of quadruple cardiac bypasses to perform this week, and not a humble fitness instructor with a rota of spin classes, yogalates and piloxing, plus appointments with despairing clients; distraught because they ate too many takeaways at the weekend.
Bridget scans down through the letter while I hold my breath.
‘Chilly morning, isn’t it?’ I ask lightly, in a wan attempt to win her over.
Silence.
‘That’s a gorgeous suit you’re wearing. Reiss, is it? The colour really suits you.’
More silence.
‘Sorry,’ Bridget says flatly, ‘but I’m afraid your field of employment doesn’t come under the category of important community service.’
‘But it is an important community service!’ I insist, reddening in the face. ‘I’ve a whole list of clients depending on me this week. People who really need me! And I’m sure everyone that turns up here says that to you, but trust me, no one else can do my job—’
‘You work as a fitness instructor in a gym?’ she asks disinterestedly, referring back down to the letter.
‘Yeah … but I was promoted to Assistant Manager only recently,’ I throw in for good measure.
‘You’re not a guard, you’re not a pilot, you don’t work in the medical profession and you certainly don’t work for the Director of Public Prosecutions either.’
‘Well no, but you see I’ve a whole rota of clients this week who I can’t possibly cancel on, it wouldn’t be fair on them, you see—’
‘Therefore you don’t perform an essential civic duty. Take this number, and make your way through the door on the left. And move along, please, there’s a long queue behind you,’ she adds, busying herself stamping a form with a number on it.
‘I’m sorry, Bridget,’ I insist, panic starting to rise now, ‘but I don’t think you’re really hearing me properly. The thing is I really can’t be here today, or any day for the next few weeks. I have to leave. Now. Look, you’ve got plenty of other people here to choose a jury from, so why can’t I just be excused? I’d be happy to come back in another