The man in the dock makes a doleful exhibit. He is a carpenter in a smart grey suit reserved perhaps for weddings, funerals-and now for court appearances. He has never been in trouble before. He sits behind a glass barrier. It seems permissible-necessary even-to stare at him. But what can a face tell? He has broken the nose of a "friend" at a party, in the suburbs of north London. There is no dispute about the nose or his responsibility for breaking it. But was he acting in self-defence? Or protecting his girlfriend? The story that builds over three days-the carpenter's barrister managing to rise above its bathos-is unrelievedly British. It involves indecent quantities of alcohol and a dog-with a little sexual jealousy on the side. If this case were a play, I'd describe it as an unexpectedly successful tragi-farce with an ingenious narrative structure made up of conflicting voices-a vicious triangle.
I had been wondering if jury service would resemble my job as a part-time theatre critic. I was looking forward to it-and amazed by all the people who asked why I did not try to get out of it.
Admittedly, the first morning at Wood Green Crown Court (a hyperbolically fierce building) was discouraging. The jurors all carried the same expression: a slightly oppressed look, as if about to be found guilty. The atmosphere was penitential, as if there were already an unspoken sympathetic affinity between jury and dock.
But once in the waiting room, I was content to wait. It was like being in an airport in which all planes have been grounded without explanation. (In his excellent book The Juryman's Tale, Trevor Grove points out the attractions of jury service for book readers. He has even recently tried-in vain-to persuade the Old Bailey to open a bookshop.) Wood Green had a canteen, called The Willows, but there was no obvious sign of food. We were handed out fliers promising "Lunchtime Allowance Special: Plain Jacket Potato, Willow's Coffee and One Bar of Confectionery FOR ONLY ?2.25." But Willows staff were seldom roused by the bell to serve us.
Before the case begins, the judge makes a point of correcting each juror who trips over his vows, as if, in his pedagogical way, he thinks sincerity may be secured by correct elocution. Perhaps it is his way of making us focus on the gravity of what it is we are undertaking. And perhaps it does the trick because in that courtroom, I start to worry about the elusiveness of truth. I feel especially wrong-footed by an awareness that barristers often know the persons they are defending to be guilty. What does the defence counsel in this case think as he strides about? He frowns like an angry baby beneath his wig.
Jury service is far more subjective than I had supposed. Hunch, gut reaction, impressions of character and appearance-all count for something. And as for "reasonable doubt," I begin to see how doubts are always more reasonable than certainties.
In the theatre, a performance cannot be "too good"; in court, it can. It is the turn of the carpenter's girlfriend to speak. She works in the tourist industry. She could get a part on Crossroads or EastEnders. She has a good manner, a demure voice with tears on tap. She looks nice, in a little black suit. But is her performance too good?
The law itself is a costume drama. During the lunch hour, I see one of the ushers in Lordship Lane, in her everyday clothes. Without her black gown, she lacks authority. Then it suddenly strikes me how much the disguises matter: the fierce building, the wigs and gowns-theatricality upholds the law while barristers' rhetoric creates a verbal proscenium arch.
But for the audience/jury there is a curious imbalance. Being a juror is anonymous-your name, address, qualifications, private life do not matter. But at the same moment that you are permitted to detach yourself from your own identity, you are likely to become privy to personal information about the lives of those being judged at a time of stress. You are given names, addresses, sexual histories (where relevant) and admitted to a discomfiting formal intimacy.
Leaving court after the first day, my mood was less jaunty. I felt as if the lives inside the courtroom had become my responsibility-as in a limited way they had. I saw why it might be harrowing to sit on a more serious case. I was impressed by the co-operation of the jury (which included an Irish housewife, a university lecturer, a social worker and a crane operator). They were much more alert than many a theatre critic of my acquaintance and took their duties absolutely seriously.
Jury service usually lasts ten days; our case had only lasted three. I was hooked: I hoped the next case would be a long one, like a show that transfers to the west end. The usher summoned us and said she had good news. The good news, she mistakenly supposed, was that the court had no further use for us. As I left Wood Green Crown Court, in brilliant sunshine, there were only two people lingering outside. I saw them but pretended not to-the carpenter and his girlfriend celebrating their freedom on mobile phones.
