A Game of Proof

Outside the Crown Court was a wide circle of grass, the Eye of York, with a circular road running round it. The eighteenth century court building, with its stone pillars and the blind statue of justice with her spear and scales, faced in towards this grassy circle. On two mores sides was the old prison, now the Castle Museum. On the northern side, on a high mound, was the keep of the Norman castle, Clifford’s Tower.

On a normal morning this area was largely empty. Schoolchildren might queue for the museum; the black windowed prison bus would park outside the court; the judges’ limousine would pull up smoothly at the court steps. Witnesses and jurors would mill uncertainly in the entrance. And that was all.

But today, Sarah saw in horror, the Eye of York was packed. There were four TV vans, each with camera crew, news reporters and fluffy microphones on sticks. The court steps and terrace swarmed with reporters, with microphone or cameras in their hands. Cars were parked indiscriminately all around the grass; the outnumbered security men had retreated, trying only to control entrance to the court itself. Sarah paused, stunned at the sight.

‘Mother of God, Luce, why didn’t you warn me about this?’

‘I did, lovey, I did,’ Lucy muttered, awestruck. ‘But I never thought it would be this bad. Come on, heads down, let’s get through it quick.’

‘But why are they here?’

Sarah found out soon enough. They were twenty yards from the entrance when the first reporters rushed towards them. Cameras flashed and questions battered their ears.

‘Mrs Newby, what’s it like to defend your son?’

‘How do you feel about this murder? Did you know the victim?’

‘Had she ever visited your house?’

‘Do you feel guilty, Mrs Newby? Isn’t it a bit like defending yourself?’

Lucy gripped her friend’s arm firmly, dragging her forwards through the scrum.

‘Don’t say a word, just keep walking. Come on, we’re nearly there.’

As they reached the foot of the steps two security men reached them, elbowing media people out of the way. But to Sarah it seemed an age before the assault from cameras and questions ceased, and they were safe inside.

‘My God! I never expected that. Those questions were so personal.’

‘Yes, they were, weren’t they?’ Lucy looked at her anxiously. ‘But it doesn’t matter, Sarah, you don’t have to answer them.’

‘No.’ Sarah breathed deeply, then smiled. A shaky, nervous smile, but a smile for all that. ‘Anyway, this trial isn’t about me, it’s about Simon. Come on, we’ve got work to do.’

Simon was in a cell below the court, dressed in the ironed shirt, suit and tie that Sarah had bought for him. The sleeves were tight over his biceps, and a little too short. Sarah tried to tug them down, but he drew back irritably.

‘Mum, I’m fine. It’s OK.’

‘Yes. You look great, Simon. Anyway, all you’ve got to do is say you’re not guilty, and then sit there, looking sensible.’

‘Yeah, okay, I’ll try. But it’s shit scarey, Mum. What if the jury’s crap?’

‘This isn’t America, I can’t choose the jurors for you. But don’t worry.’ She looked at him firmly. ‘You’re not guilty and that’s it. Say it loud and clear and look the judge straight in the eye. We’re going to win, Simon.’

‘Yeah. I bloody well hope we are, anyhow.’

‘We are. But don’t swear — not if the jury can hear you. These things matter now, Simon.’

‘Yeah, okay. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m going upstairs to put on my battle gear now. Lucy will stay with you. See you in court.’ She smiled, and banged for the guard to open the door. Lucy was patting a spot under Simon’s chin where he’d cut himself shaving. Oh no, not blood on his throat, please, Sarah thought. Then the door opened and she walked briskly upstairs to the robing room.

Where her opponent, the bluff, charming Phil Turner, was waiting for her.

The court was, as she had always known, a theatre. Usually, however, they played to a few relatives, idlers, and an aged court reporter sleeping off his liquid lunch. Today the public gallery was packed. Not a single seat was left free. A buzz of conversation echoed from the stucco pillars and the decorated ceiling of the dome. Sarah had to bend her head to catch what Lucy was saying.

‘ … like a football match …’

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Why are they here?’

Lucy jerked her thumb towards the crowded Press bench. ‘Because of them. And you. A dreadful murder, a mother defending her son …’

Sarah shuddered, then stiffened herself instantly. It was not the eyes of the press and public that mattered, but those of the prospective jurors, seated immediately behind the dock. She must try to look confident for them.

And for Simon.

There was a hush, then a further swell in conversation as Simon entered the dock, with two security men beside him. He looked around, amazed, and everywhere conversations died, then rose again as his look passed on. Sarah walked back, stood on a bench and leaned in over the side of the dock.

‘You never said it would be like this, mum.’ His face, already pale from months on remand, had gone, if anything, even whiter.

‘It isn’t, usually. Probably they’ll lose interest after an hour or two. Court proceedings are very slow, you know, and often boring. Just try to look calm and serious. And remember, the jury are the important people. If they like you, that’s half our case won.’

As she regained her seat the clerk called out, in her loudest voice: ‘All stand!’ Judge Mookerjee entered from the door beneath the royal coat of arms, bowed to Sarah and Phil Turner, and sat down. The audience did the same.

‘Her Majesty’s Court of York is now in Session, his lordship P. J. Mookerjee presiding. All those who have business with this court are hereby required to draw nigh and give attendance!’ the clerk proclaimed. ‘Is Simon Newby in court?’

Sarah rose to her feet. ‘He is, my lord.’

The clerk directed her gaze to the dock, behind Sarah. ‘Stand up, please.’

Simon stood, nervously clasping his hands.

‘Are you Simon Newby, of 23 Bramham Street, York?’

‘Er, yeah.’

Sarah groaned. Make a better effort than that, Simon, please.

‘Simon Newby, you are hereby indicted before this court on one count, namely: on count 1, on the night of 13/14th May this year, you did murder Jasmine Antonia Hurst, of 8a Stillingfleet Road, York, contrary to Section 1 of the Homicide Act 1957. How do you plead? Guilty, or not guilty?’

There was a pause. Not a long pause, perhaps, but to Sarah it seemed to last for ever. Oh my God, Simon, come on, you can understand plain English, can’t you? Lucy was supposed to have coached him in this but probably like many first-time defendants he was overwhelmed by the high-flown language, the sheer terror of a public trial for murder.

‘Not guilty.’ There was a sigh from the public gallery, who had collectively been holding their breath. Sarah turned round to smile encouragement.

‘Very well,’ said the clerk smoothly. ‘Sit down, Simon. We will move to empanel a jury.’

Seven men were chosen as jurors, and five women. A minuscule advantage to Simon, Sarah thought speculatively, watching them take the oath. Two were young men with short hair like her son. One wore an earring. But three others wore suits and ties, an unusual proportion nowadays. The women, she noticed — two over thirty, three under — all studied Simon intently. None of the looks were friendly.

In America, she thought, Lucy and I would have spent hours interviewing these people to ascertain their views and suitability to serve. As it is I have to take pot luck. I can object to no one without cause, and since I know nothing about any of them the only possible cause is if one of them can’t read the oath or admits to being