Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury (WIP)
So, this is my attempt at a "missing scene" story, with a little extra. It's basically the backstories behind the jurors on Moriarty's trial, and my plan was to have it continue through the actual deliberation, but I kinda lost steam and need a kick in ass to get it finished. Also, I tried researching the British system of jury duty and found that government websites in the UK are just as vague and useless as ones in the US. So this is based mainly on my own experience as a juror in NYC.
Title: Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury
Characters: OFCs and OMCs, Moran
Rating: PG
Length: ~1700 words so far
Philbert Price was a curmudgeon. There was simply no other way to describe him, and he rather reveled in the fact. He had taken great pains to establish himself in the neighborhood as an unfriendly, irritable man, who cared for no one and preferred to keep to himself, thank you very much. He was only fifty-seven, but years spent on oil rigs in bad weather and an old back injury had meant early retirement, and now he spent his days between the sofa and his local.
He lived alone-never married, never saw the point. He had a sister in Bristol, but he didn’t give a donkey’s arse about her. He liked watching reality television shows and laughing at the idiots on screen. It made him feel better to know that there were people more miserable than himself out there. He was, in other words, a typical, bitter old bastard, but he wasn’t unhappy that way.
When he got his first jury duty notice, he threw it in the bin without even opening it. The second followed. When the third came, accompanied by the threat of a fine and even gaol time, he grumbled that the country was going to the dogs. Had been ever since Thatcher left office. Whatever case they put him on, the perp better be guilty, he thought mulishly.
At least the courts paid.
*
Gabriella Mendoza’s gourmet deli and café wasn’t doing well. It hadn’t been doing well for quite some time, in fact, even though The Independent rated it “among the best Peruvian restaurants in London.” She and her husband had taken out a second mortgage they couldn’t afford just two months ago, and the money was already wearing thin.
When Gabriella told Miguel that she’d been called up for jury duty, he nearly cried.
“But how I open without you, preciosa?” he said, running his hands through her prematurely greying hair as they lay in bed that night. “My English is not so good, los clientes no me entienden.”
Gabriella sighed, leaning into his touch. “Sé, cariño,” she said, slipping back into her native Spanish. “Pero no hay nada que podamos hacer.” She had to go. They couldn’t afford unnecessary government attention.
She closed her eyes as he continued to massage her scalp, and pretended she was back in Lima. The warm sun of her memory beat upon her cheeks, and she tried to imagine the soft breeze and the sky painted red, orange and pink like a ripe tamarillo. The most beautiful sunset in the world.
*
“Dinner’s in the fridge, just heat it up in the microwave if I’m late tonight. The sitter should know what to do. Angelica, only one hour of telly, and none of those horrible reality shows-don’t give me that look, you know the rules. And don’t forget to do your homework, Freddie.”
“I won’t, Mum, stop nagging,” the boy said, rolling his eyes. “You’re such a worry wort.”
“Well, if you listened to me, I wouldn’t have to worry so much,” his mother replied, glancing down at her watch. “Oh, pots, look at the time!”
She hustled the kids out the door and into the car, strapping baby Michael into his car seat. He gurgled cheerfully, distracted by toys dangling over the dashboard.
It was always a rush to get everything ready in time for school, what with her job and three children, and no one else to share the work. But Janet Fisher was happily divorced, and, to her, that bit of freedom was worth all the busy mornings in the world. Her ex-husband had been such a prick, she hadn’t even cared that he’d gotten away with “murder” (as her over-dramatic lawyer had put it) during the divorce. She didn’t need his money anyway; all she wanted was full custody of the kids, and that was what she got.
In the backseat, Freddie teased Angelica about her hair, and she told him he was stupid. He stuck out his tongue. She pinched him, and he howled. Janet sighed to herself. It was times like this that she wished she had someone to depend on, other than the babysitter. Jury duty-what a waste of time. Most likely, she would just sit around the courtroom for the day waiting, and then get sent home. If she were lucky, she’d be back by dinner.
*
Angeline Thomson and Ted MacAuley met for the first time in line as they waited to turn in their jury information forms. She was tall and ash blonde, with a slightly horsey face; he was quiet and serious-looking, with severe steel-rimmed spectacles. They took one look at each other, and both knew how they’d end the day.
“I’m Ted,” he said, extending his right hand. The left had a ring on it, but there was no point in hiding it. She had one, too.
“Annie.”
They shook hands-an absurdly formal ritual-and held on a little too long, because it had been some time since either had wanted to feel another person’s skin against their own. It felt a bit naughty to be standing in public shaking hands, when both knew the desire hidden behind their bland expressions.
“I work as a solicitor,” Ted continued. “Corporate law, not criminal. Mergers and acquisitions, mostly.”
“Really? I own a gallery with my husband,” Annie dared to say, just to see how he’d react. He didn’t flinch.
“What kind of art?”
“Contemporary,” she admitted. “It’s mostly crap, actually.”
He cracked a smile. “I’m a lawyer. You don’t need to warn me about bullshit.”
They shared a laugh, and then their mobile numbers. By the time they reached the desk, both were smiling and planning what excuse they’d give to their respective spouses.
*
Deanna Briggs was seventy years old, and probably could have gotten out of jury duty if she wanted. Seventy was the upper limit of service, the court official told her pleasantly.
“We can excuse you from the jury pool on medical grounds, if you like.”
But she’d already packed her knitting, and asked a neighbor to feed her cats. Besides, it was boring back at the flat. Her husband was dead, and her daughter never called. Even the cats-they’d been her husband’s darlings-were dull. She couldn’t be bothered to remember their names.
The last time she’d been selected for a jury, back in 1982, she’d sat on the panel for a fraud trial and quite enjoyed it. Who knows-maybe she’d get a murder this time.
“No thank you, young man,” she replied, drawing herself up to her full height of five foot two. “This might be my last opportunity to serve my queen and country.”
You won’t get rid of me that easily, is what she thought.
*
The court official cleared his throat and pressed the intercom button. “Ladies and gentlemen, the following announcement concerns jury selection. If your number is called, please proceed silently to the front of the room, where an officer will provide further direction.” There was a hush as the room stilled, several hundred people all leaning forward to catch his words. All desperately hoping, probably, that their number wouldn’t be called-but still. The official couldn’t help prolonging the moment, if only for a few extra minutes. So he paused, shuffling the papers unnecessarily on his desk before drawing up the relevant stack of jury forms.
“Numbers 5, 17, 67, 68, 134, 140, 197, 201, 204, 209, 222, 230, and 245.”
There was a great scraping of plastic chairs, and a general sigh of relief from those remaining seated. The court official took in the disgruntled expressions of the twelve selected. One older man was grumbling out loud to himself, whilst a woman of Hispanic background looked anxious. Another woman with the tired under-eye circles of a working mother was chewing her lip as she tapped away on a mobile.
The old man approached the desk, bushy eyebrows drawn close together in an intimidating frown. “What kind of trial is it?” he growled. “‘Cause I don’t want to sit through some bloody stupid civil lawsuit.”
The official sighed. “I am not party to that information, sir,” he intoned with an air of practiced calm. “Once you have been brought to the courtroom, the judge will debrief you on the case.”
“Fat lot of good that’ll do!” the man exclaimed, banging a fist on the desk.
“Sir, if you do not calm yourself, I will be forced to call security,” the court official said. He rather hoped he would have to-it would be the most exciting thing to happen thus far this year.
But the old man backed off, muttering something sullenly under his breath about Thatcher, and the official slumped back in his chair, disappointed.
“Henry?” It was one of the court secretaries, but not a pretty one. “Do you have the jury forms?”
“Yeah, one moment Dolores.” He passed the stack over to her, and she gave him a nervous smile in thanks. He watched as she walked away, bottom switching back and forth in her staid pencil skirt with every step. Actually, she was rather attractive when she smiled.
*
The other side of London, in a flat rented under a false name, a man lay awake in bed. He was fully dressed, even wearing shoes, but his pose was relaxed: hands tucked under his head, eyes closed, legs crossed. He hadn’t slept much in the past few days, and he wasn’t planning to sleep now, either. He was waiting.
The object of his attention was a silver mobile, currently lying silent on the bedside table. In a few minutes, the mobile would ring, and a voice on the other end would give him names. Twelve names, twelve victims and, soon, twelve colluders. Not that they would have any choice in the matter.
The man shifted minutely on the bed and something clinked against his watch. Beside him, propped against the pillows like a lover, was a gun. He laid a gentle hand against the barrel, stroking the silky plastic and metal with the pad of his thumb.
His mobile buzzed. The man sat up quickly, cutting the phone off before the second ring. “Give me the names,” he spoke without preamble.
The woman on the other end of the line was nervous, breathing heavily through her mouth. “This is secret, right? And I get paid? Because it’ll cost me my job if you-”
“The names.”
The woman swallowed audibly. “Right. Yes. Umm, here goes…Philbert Price. Gabriella Mendoza. Janet Fisher. Ted MacAuley…”
Criticism and motivational ass-kicking encouraged!