Find Them Dead

29 Thursday 9 May

Moments after the clerk left Richard Jupp’s chambers, an usher knocked and entered. Thirty-year-old Matt Croucher, neatly turned out in a grey suit beneath a black cloak, his ID card hung on a lanyard around his neck, said, ‘Ready, Your Honour? Don’t forget your wig!’

Jupp grinned a thank-you, removed the short, grey wig from the tin and, checking in the mirror, aligned it on his head, then followed him out of the room and up the short flight of carpeted stairs to his entrance door to the court.

Croucher knocked loudly, twice, as was the tradition, then opened it with a bold sweep, announcing, ‘All rise!’

As everyone stood, silent, Jupp walked past the screened-off area for vulnerable witnesses, revelling in the expectant atmosphere, the same as at the start of every major case. It often felt to him similar to the moment the curtain rose at the start of a play, and indeed in his view, to some considerable extent, court cases were theatre. Both in the antiquated costumes worn by some of the players, and the fact that many barristers were, in secret, frustrated actors.

But courts were theatres where, unlike make-believe tragedies such as Hamlet, the bodies on the stage were often all too real. A theatre where, when the final curtain descended, there were no bows. Just the grim reality of the sometimes-crushing verdict. Theatre in which a legally innocent person — at the time of the trial — might be fighting for their reputation, career and liberty.

As was the defendant facing him now, in the enclosed glass dock, accompanied by a security guard. A short, harmless-looking man, wearing a blue suit, white shirt and dark tie — no doubt as instructed by his barrister, Jupp thought with a smile. Ensuring clients dressed in a manner to make them look as innocent as possible was something he had always emphasized during his time at the Bar, when briefing clients for their court appearance. Navy blue was the friendliest suit colour. Theatrical costume, again.

In the front row below Jupp was the formally wigged and gowned prosecutor, Stephen Cork, with his junior, Paul Williams, behind. The other side of the court there was Primrose Brown QC, and her junior, Crispin Sykes, behind her. A formidable QC from the same Inn of Court as himself, Primrose and he once both belonged to the same chambers. But their friendly acquaintance would play no part in this trial.

Immediately behind them was a suited woman sitting on her own, the Crown Prosecution solicitor, and separated by a wide gap, a woman in her thirties conferring earnestly with a tall, silver fox of a man in his fifties — the defence solicitors. Seated again, all of them on both benches were busy with last-minute preparations, checking through files or jotting notes. And the defence, no doubt, dealing with the late arrival of the financial report.

To Jupp’s left were a number of reporters in the press box and, below them, to the side of the dock, the usher was seated, with two police officers in smart business attire behind him — the Senior Investigating Officer who he recognized as DI Glenn Branson and another detective, the Exhibits Officer, one or the other of whom would be present for much of the trial.

Behind the dock was the public gallery, full but not packed, and to Jupp’s right were the two empty rows of the jury box, soon to be filled by a motley crew of people who had received their summons and were now here, reluctantly or otherwise, to carry out their civic duty. They sat currently at the rear of the court, with the jury bailiff.

Jupp cast a brief eye over his potential jurors. Fifteen of them waiting, some looking expectant, some nervous, some bored. Twelve, plus three spares in case of valid objections by the defendant. He spent some moments logging on to the computer in front of him, as well as checking his printed notes, before nodding to the clerk to begin the proceedings.

Maureen Sapsed stood up, just below him, and addressed the man in the dock. ‘Are you Terence Gready?’

His voice was quiet but calm. ‘I am.’

Jupp then said to the clerk, but addressing the whole court, ‘May we have the jury panel in, please.’

Meg, along with the other fourteen jurors who had been called, sat waiting. Keeping her fingers crossed that she made the cut. But a little jittery at the same time.

The clerk addressed the defendant again. ‘Terence Gready, the names you are about to hear called are the names of the jurors who are to try you. If you wish to object to any of them, you must do so as they come to be sworn, and before they are sworn, and your objections shall be heard.’

Gready gave a single polite nod in response.

Then Jupp addressed the would-be jurors, as he liked to do to help put them at ease. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, twelve of you will be selected randomly from the fifteen of you present. When you hear your name called out, answer “yes” and make your way to the jury box.’ He pointed to it. ‘Fill the front row first and then the rear.’

The jury bailiff, Jacobi Whyte, at the rear of the court, shuffled the fifteen cards he held, each bearing the name of a juror, selected one from the pack and read out the name: ‘Sophie Eaton.’

A casually dressed woman in her mid-thirties replied a hesitant ‘Yes,’ then stood up and walked self-consciously to the box, taking the far end position.

‘Edmond O’Reilly Hyland.’

A charismatic man in his fifties, with a big, open face, dressed like a lawyer himself in a chalk-striped three-piece suit, said, ‘Yes,’ stood up and strode confidently across towards the jury box as if he owned the place.

‘Megan Magellan.’

It took her a second to realize it was her name.

She jumped up like a startled rabbit. No need to be nervous, she tried to calm herself. You are here out of civic duty. Relax. Enjoy! ‘Yes,’ she said, trying to project, but the word seemed to catch in her throat. She was blushing as she walked the short distance to the jury box, well aware that every eye in the court was on her at this moment.

She took her place next to the man who smelled, not unpleasantly, of aftershave, unsure where to look. She shot a glance first at the judge, who was studying his computer screen, then at the dock at the defendant, a wretched, miserable-looking man who didn’t look like he was capable of committing any crime. He caught her sympathetic eye and gave a wan smile back.

The next name was called. ‘Hari Singh.’

A tubby Indian man in a smart suit and tie and with a nervous, almost apologetic smile, made his way to the box, seating himself beside Meg.

Another name was called and an instant later the older woman she had exchanged a smile with earlier sat down on the bench.

‘Maisy Waller.’

‘Yes.’ It came out as a timid squeak. A tight-faced, terrified-looking mouse of a woman in her fifties with limp grey hair and wearing an old-fashioned floral-print summer frock followed, approaching the jury box as if it were a cage full of lions, then almost tiptoed to her place.

Next up was Harold Trout, a rather intellectual-looking man in his early seventies, in a tweed suit and a golf club tie.

The litany of names continued, whilst Meg looked around the court, trying to figure out what the roles were of everyone present, occasionally shooting glances at the dock, but each time quickly looking away as the defendant was staring directly at them. She glanced up at the sea of faces in the nearly full public gallery, almost all of whom were looking down towards her and her fellow jurors. In the front row, she clocked a denim-jacketed, ponytailed man, who looked like a rough diamond, sitting a little stiffly and too far away for her to have noticed the pen clipped to his breast pocket. He seemed to be taking a particularly keen interest in them all, and she wondered if he was perhaps a relative of the defendant.

When the two rows were filled, three potential jurors remained behind, looking like lost little Billy-No-Mates.

Maureen Sapsed then turned to the jury box. ‘Members of the jury, the defendant, Terence Arthur Gready, stands charged on this indictment containing six counts.’

She proceeded to read out all of the counts in full, before pausing for a moment to glance down at her notes. Then she looked at the jury again. ‘To each count the defendant has pleaded not guilty, and it is your charge to say, having heard all the evidence, whether he is guilty or not.’

She paused to let this sink in. Then she looked at the three jurors left behind in the selection area. ‘Would those remaining jurors who have not been selected please leave now with the jury bailiff.’

There was a brief, expectant silence as they filed out.

Meg looked back at the defendant, who was sitting impassively, staring ahead, with a guard behind him. The dock looked like the loneliest place in the world. It was a very strange feeling being here, being a juror. This wasn’t some party game. Over the coming days — weeks — she and the other eleven randoms would be deciding on this man’s future. The charges sounded very serious, and no doubt would not have been brought without good reason, she assumed. The trafficking of the drugs particularly revulsed her. But could that mild little man really have been behind all that?

Then she thought about Harold Shipman, the harmless-looking bearded and bespectacled family doctor who was estimated to have murdered over three hundred of his patients. Appearances sure were deceptive.

Richard Jupp studied the twelve jurors in the box, privately assessing them. Eight men and four women. A few of them looked quite bright. One man looked to him like a cop — or a retired one. And the fellow in the suit with the grand name looked like a man used to being in charge. No doubt he would consider he should be the foreman.

He addressed them the way he always did, to try to put them at ease, leaning towards them with a warm, avuncular smile. ‘I’d like to welcome you all to the jury,’ he said. ‘It’s you and me who will be trying this case together. The first thing I’d like to say to you, as I see many of you have your pens out, is please do not be distracted by taking notes.’

He paused then went on. ‘Of course, some details and timelines will be significant and may be complex, but I’ll be doing a thorough summing-up at the end of the trial before you go out to consider your verdict, and you’ll have a full recap then. What is important for you as jurors is to concentrate on listening to all the arguments for and against the defence of the man standing in the dock. It is your assessment of the evidence that is crucial. Will you believe the evidence of the prosecution against this man, or the evidence of the defence? You twelve people alone will have to make that decision. I want you to arrive at your decision based on what you see and hear, on body language and on the verbal evidence. I don’t want you distracted by feeling you must write down notes — and perhaps in doing so miss something crucial.’

He paused again. ‘I do also want to emphasize that, as jurors, you are forbidden to talk about this case to anyone other than your fellow jurors. You must not say a word to your wives, husbands, partners, friends or business colleagues. And you must not attempt to google the defendant. If any of you have any concerns about the trial, if you realize you know the defendant personally, or have had any professional dealings with him, please send me a note via the clerk of the court.’

He stopped to sip a glass of water. ‘The most important thing for you as jurors is your eyes and ears. You must watch and assess for yourselves each person giving evidence for or against the defendant. I want to remind you that under English law this man standing before you, accused of these crimes, is currently innocent until — and unless — proved guilty. That is the question for you alone. It is not a question of maybe he did it, or even that he probably did it. You need to be sure that he committed these offences, in order to convict. So, your role, as fellow human beings, is to assess both the credibility of the defendant and the witnesses both for and against him. I hope that is clear.’