So I got called up for Jury Service at The Old Bailey
By Alice Austin
Part 1.
My first thought was great! No work for up to 3 months! I’ll be sitting around all day under the guise of serving my country! Free lunches!
Then I thought about how easily disturbed I am. I couldn’t sleep for 2 weeks after watching The Village which is a 12A. If I’m really honest, I find The Hunger Games a bit much. The Old Bailey is the Central Criminal Court for England and Wales. I wasn’t going to be settling a dispute over a garden fence.
Not that I agree with generalising, but my mum is Jewish and blew the entire thing out of proportion immediately. “Oh ALI what if you get a MURDER and you’ll have to sit through all that EVIDENCE.”
Cheers mum hadn’t thought of that.
On my first day I was nervous. I arrived early at the daunting building opposite Saint Paul’s Cathedral and went through a vigorous security check. I got used to this as I went in and out every day. It helped that the security guards were friendly prison geezers who bode me a cheery welcome every time I passed through. They looked like they’d seen a thing or two. We became good mates.
I spent the first hour in a court room with about 200 other first-day-jurors. We had to watch a series of videos about how serious this jury service business is.
And jury service is serious business. You can go to jail for taking a selfie in court, speaking to a defendant or discussing a case outside the courtroom. As a result jurors are treated a bit like royalty, ushered in and out of lifts by special Jury Managers and escorted to and from court rooms. We had our own special toilet and canteen.
At the time I was bottom of the pile at a PR Agency so being treated with this eery kind of respect was a shock at first. But then I got used to it and allowed myself to feel important. A few others clearly felt the same way; chests were very puffy in the Jury Room.
So anyway, day 1. I was ushered up to the Jury Room by a buxom Jury Manager called Carol. It looked like a waiting room at a doctors. There was a canteen at the back where we could spend our £5.65 daily allowance. It was a Monday. Clusters of people sat together at different tables, chatting and laughing confidently. These people were currently serving on a jury, had potentially been doing it for a month or more and so were good mates with their fellow jurors. I was fascinated by them and wondered what horrors they had seen so far; what traumas they were masking with their laughter. The rest of us sat awkwardly like it was the first day of school.
After 15 minutes a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair stood with a microphone in front of the room. She cleared her throat.
“Can the following people please make their way to Court Room 4.” The Jury Room waited with baited breathe. The woman paused like Ant and Dec reading out the winners on the X Factor.
“Paul Steadman.”
An over-weight, suited bald man stood up with zeal. Paul Steadman reported for duty. He marched out of the Jury Room, our eyes followed him jealously and then snapped back to the woman with the microphone.
“Jane Baako.”
A woman stood up looking scared, gathered her stuff self-consciously and followed Paul Steadman out of the room. This continued until about 16 names had been called.
“The rest of you will have your names called out over the course of this morning, please be patient.”
I had Anna Karenina and Tinder to keep me busy as I waited but it didn’t stop my imagination from running wild. What would happen when we got into court? What did it mean when we got there? Were we going to be locked in a courtroom and not allowed to leave until we’d solved the crime? Shit. What if I get a rape? I couldn’t handle that. I’d be alright with a murder, but I really can’t handle a rape.
Every time the woman picked up the microphone the entire room would drop everything and stare at her apprehensively. It was all so strange. I felt slightly disappointed every time my name wasn’t called out until
“ALICE AUSTIN. Please make your way down to Court Room 9.”
It felt like she’d said it louder than everyone else but that was probably my imagination.
I waited outside the court with about 15 other nervous people. The Jury Manager ushered us in. I’m short so it took a while for me to hustle to the front and adjust to the scene inside.
We stood in a small, dark courtroom with no windows. All the walls were obscured by empty wooden seats except for the wall directly in front of us. This was occupied by a judge seated on a high throne, and next to him was the defense box protected by thick glass. In there stood two scraggly middle-aged men. I could just make out that one had long, thin hair and the other was almost bald. They were looking down.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury,” the judge addressed us. “Before you stand two men who have been charged with 2 counts of first degree murder.”
A murmured gasp from the people around me. My stomach dropped.
“The trial is estimated to run for approximately 6 weeks. Unless a valid reason is given, you must accept this trial as your civilian duty. Now I will ask for anyone who is unable to complete their jury service to come forward with an explanation.”
A woman on my left pushed forward and walked up to the judge. She stood with her chin pointed up to the ceiling and said audibly “I have flights booked in 3 weeks time.”
“Very well. This lady will not be able to complete this trial and may be excused.”
Another woman walked up to the judge. “I’m a freelancer and I’m not being compensated for my time here.”
“I’m afraid that is not a valid reason. You must serve on this jury.” The woman walked back with her head down. I felt sorry for her.
Then I remembered that I had flights booked in 3 weeks time. I was going to see my cousin in Inverness. I boldly walked up to the judge and told him.
“Yes very well you are excused from this trial.”
I left the court room and went back up to the jury room in a daze. Shit. What had I just done? I didn’t want to go through the trauma of a murder trial but there was no denying it would have been a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
I spent the rest of the morning angry with myself until I got dismissed at midday and was told to come back at 9am tomorrow. I promised myself I would take the next trial I was given, whatever it was.
Part 2.
When I arrived in the Jury Room that morning I waited apprehensively for the announcements. I was worried I wouldn’t be called up again – the trials here usually last 2 months, not 3 weeks.
“Would the following jurors please follow your Jury Manager to the lift.” The woman with the microphone again. Third down the list this time “ALICE AUSTIN. Please make your way to Court Room 4.”
Carol the Jury Manager, dressed in long black court robes, hustled me and 13 others to the special jury lift. As we went down Carol said “Better than being in the office eh?” I knew she probably made that joke every day but God I liked Carol.
We got to the second floor and Carol ushered us like a mother hen down an open, cavernous hall. The floor was made of huge slabs of marble and the walls held large ancient paintings of old Lords and judges. The ceilings were impossibly high and decorated lavishly in gilded patterns. Carol was right, it was better than the office.
It took about ten minutes to get from the Jury Room to Court Room 4. Carol went in while we waited outside. After a few minutes she came out. “We’ll wait here for a short while.” I tried to read her face but it was the same as before – round and happy.
As we waited outside Court Room 4 I took the opportunity to study my fellow jurors faces. The group was diverse. There were 7 women and 7 men, everyone seemingly from a different culture and background. Some of us perched on a hard wooden bench and some leaned faux-casually against the wall. We didn’t communicate except for apprehensive facial expressions whenever we made eye contact. Over the next three weeks I would get to know more about this group of complete strangers than I knew about members of my own family. After thirty minutes Carol went in again.
She poked her head round the door and signalled us inside. Court Room 4 was big and bright. I noticed people in robes sitting on the benches – the lawyers. The judge sat omnipresent on his thrown, fully-wigged, peering down at us through tiny glasses. The defendant box was directly to my left, three men stood inside. I inadvertently made eye contact with one and looked away immediately. Shit. This is hairy.
“Ladies and gentleman of the jury, thank you for your patience.” The judge addressed us in a ludicrously posh accent. “Before you stand three men. They have been accused of” The judge glanced down at some papers, a lawyer coughed. I felt like the defendants were staring straight at me. Don’t be a rape, don’t be a rape, don’t be a rape.
“They have been accused of armed robbery.” Thank Christ. “The trial will last 3 weeks. Come forward now if you have a valid reason not to take part in this trial.”
Two people approached the judge and he excused them. “Ladies and gentleman we will now begin the process of swearing you in.”
After a refreshingly brief and democratic discussion on who preferred which Holy Book, we each stood in the witness box. Most of the jurors laid one hand on the Bible while a beaming Carol stood several feet lower. She told them to say “I swear by almighty God that I will faithfully try the defendants and give a true verdict according to the evidence.”
I felt too weird with that so I went the atheist route: “I solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that I will faithfully try the defendants and give a true verdict according to the evidence.”
We got sent home at 11am that day and told to return the next morning. (I had so much spare time during Jury Service that I watched Breaking Bad from start to finish. I consider it to be one of the happiest periods of my life.)
The next morning Carol accompanied us into the lift. “There’s a juicy one going on in Court Room 12.” She told me, delighted. “Pop your head in if you get the chance.”
As we waited outside Court Room 4 I got chatting to a woman on my jury. Naomi was from Ireland. Late-thirties, good-looking and well-dressed. I wasn’t surprised to find out she sold jewellery on the shopping channel. “It’s ridiculous that all you need to get out of this is buy a 20euro ticket to Dublin.”
We were signalled into Court Room 4 and filed in to two rows of six chairs. We had to sit in the same seat every day, as did everyone else in the court. Each time we came in it felt like the entire thing had just been paused.
“Ladies and gentleman the trial will begin by hearing all evidence from Prosecution.”
“Thank you My Lord.” The prosecution lawyer stood up. She wore long black robes and her hair was covered in a wig. She was ridiculously smug.
“The three men who stand before you have been accused of the armed robbery of a branch of Kentucky Fried Chicken in North London.”
R u joking.
Part 3.
Day 3. The smug prosecution lawyer introduced the three men standing in the defence box.
“Standing furthest away from you is Mr. Osayinka. He has been accused of breaking in to the Edmonton branch of Kentucky Fried Chicken and using a firearm to hold the manager hostage and rob the safe.” Mr Osayinka was mixed race and about 6 foot 8. He had cornrows and wore glasses and a shirt with a thin white tie. He kept his eyes to the floor.
The lawyer continued “Next to him stands Mr Camsalki, who has been accused of attempted armed robbery and perverting the course of justice.” Mr Camsalki was small and dark-skinned. He wore a shirt without a tie and a translator sat next to him. He would nod intermittently as the translator spoke.
“And the defendant standing closes to you is Mr Kamal. He has been accused of conspiracy to commit armed robbery and perverting the course of justice.” This was the one I’d made eye contact with. He was small with sharp features. His eyes darted around the room. He looked like an intelligent guy.
“Now I would like to present our first witness, Ms. Diaz.” An overweight Hispanic woman walked up to the stand. She put her hand on the Bible and was sworn in by good old Carol. “I promise to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God.” This God stuff seemed weird. Might as well be saying “Swear on my mum’s life.”
Ms. Diaz was visibly upset as she described what happened. She’d arrived at the usual time of 7am to the KFC in Edmonton. She’d opened the doors and 5 minutes later Mr. Camsalki arrived to begin his shift.
It slowly dawned on me that this armed KFC robbery was an inside job. Ffs.
At about 8am Ms. Diaz was in the office when she heard shouts from the kitchen. She looked to see Mr Camsalki lying face down on the floor with the accused Mr Osayinka standing over him with a gun. When Mr Osayinka saw her he walked over and said “Open the safe.” He pointed the gun into the small of her back as she walked to the office. The safe had been emptied the day before so there was only petty cash. Mr Osayinka took the money and left the establishment. Ms Diaz called the police immediately. Her and Mr Camsalki were taken into the police station for questioning.
The lawyer asked Ms. Diaz if she still worked at the KFC. “I do but I am scared to go in and out so my husband picks me up and drops me off every day.” She was shaking. My heart broke for her.
After Ms Diaz had left we were handed a wad of papers. I’ll summarise 3 days of evidence in one sentence – in the days ahead of the robbery all three defendants had been phoning and texting each other on a regs. Mr Kamal appeared to be the brains behind the robbery.
We weren’t supposed to discuss the case outside of the court room but Naomi from the jewellery channel just happened to be the worlds biggest gossip. Every time we walked out the court room she’d elbow me sharply and hiss into my ear “I bet they did it!!! Did you see the way they looked at each other??? And what about those phone calls??? They look so guilty!!!” I’d bite my lip and nod, hoping to the good lord Naomi would shut the fuck up before we were the ones on trial at The Old Bailey.
Part 4
Day 6. I was late. I walked into the Jury Room as Carol called out my name over the microphone.
I’d spent the last 3 days listening to maddeningly dull phone evidence. Most days we were sent home at 1pm, which meant I was well into season 2 of Breaking Bad and fully in love with Jesse Pinkman.
My jurors and I had become good mates. As well as Naomi the gossip there was Joe, an absolute geeze from Essex who adored his wife and two young kids. Most mornings he’d show me pictures of their latest achievements.
I had a small crush on Sam, a well-spoken black-haired blue-eyed young man who wore boat shoes and Barbour jackets every day without fail. Over the course of those 3 weeks I convinced myself we had something of a vibe, although with hindsight he seemed permanently unimpressed by me and as soon as the trial ended simply said “BYE” and walked out the court room and my life forever.
I became good mates with Sonja, an unassuming lady from Trinidad. We got along well, probably because she was the only one who laughed at my courtroom puns and listened to me talk at length about why Breaking Bad was better than The Wire.
I became increasingly delighted with Carol the Jury Manager. She positively bounced around The Old Bailey, her face nearly split in two, beaming with joy at the concept of life itself.
We assembled in our usual seats in the courtoom. We’d finally finished the phone evidence and could move on to CCTV.The smug Prosecution lawyer who’s absurd white lawyer wig framed her face in a perfectly smug snapshot pulled out an old Pioneer TV from a wooden panel in the wall. “Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I’d like you to watch this very carefully.”
Grey footage flickered on to the screen.
Video 1: A huge man, around 6 foot 8 and wearing a balaclava, climbed over the gate at the back of the KFC.
Video 2: Inside the KFC, the man in the balaclava stands, pauses, fiddles with something on his clothing and then moves further into the shop.
Video 3: Mr Camsalki is lying face down on the floor with the balaclava man standing over him, with what looks like a gun pointed at the back of his head.
Video 4: Ms. Diaz is led by the man with the balaclava to the office where she tries to open the safe. She tries several times, eventually opens it.
Video 5: The large man runs out the back of the shop with a box in his hand.
Video 6: The large man climbs back over the gate, drops the weapon and the money and runs away.
The Prosecution lawyer called Mr. Osayinka up to the stand for questioning. He was 19 and from Belgium. He’d moved to the UK when he was 17 to go to college. He stood to the right of me, facing forward so I was able to get a good look at him. It was shocking that he was only 19. He could have been in his 30s. He fumbled with his hands as he spoke. He had a deep voice and a strong Belgian accent.
He explained he had nothing to do with the robbery. He only knew Mr Kamal vaguely from college. I wanted to believe him. He seemed nice and I wanted to prove Naomi wrong.
Prosecution said to Mr. Osayinka: “People don’t always commit crimes for money, do they? Sometimes they commit crimes for other reasons. For respect, for example.”
The extremely nervous and very quiet defence lawyer piped up “Objection!” She dropped it.
“Ladies and gentleman of the jury I’m about to pass you some evidence. Please be very careful. This is the fire arm that was used to hold Ms Diaz hostage.”
JESUS CHRIST. I sat next to Naomi from the Jewellery channel. I had no doubt in my mind she’d get over-excited and execute me by accident. “Oh GOSH sorry Alice!” she’d say to my decapitated head as it rolled over Carol’s foot.
Which was why I was really surprised when the clear bag I received from Naomi contained a barbell and a sock.
Part 5
“Mr Kamal do you recognise this barbell?”
“Yes.”
“And is that because it is yours?”
“It used to be mine. I gave it to my cousin a year ago.”
(Mr. Kamal throwing his cousin directly under the bus.)
“And what does K. Stand for, Mr Kamal? Does it stand for a gang name. Perhaps something like Kaos?”
“OBJECTION!” Piped up the defence lawyer but it was too late – prosecution had just told us that Mr Kamal was part of a gang.
Mr Kamal said that he barely knew Osayinka and did not know Camsalki. It was his cousins phone and his cousins old barbell.
“It’s interesting that you gave it to your cousin a year ago, Mr Kamal, because it has your DNA on it.”
“DNA sticks around init.”
“And the sock also has your DNA on it.”
No response. I wondered what kind of DNA was in the sock.
Every piece of evidence I’d heard pointed at their guilt. I realised that the reason this had been escalated from local courts to The Old Bailey was to try and waste as much public time and money as possible. They must be pissed off. I didn’t judge them for it.
As the trial continued Naomi from the jewellery channel became increasingly determined to try and make the jury make a decision outside of the courtroom. She would wildly nudge Sonja as she queued for a coffee in the canteen and hiss “but they did do it, didn’t they?” Sonja would look up, slightly startled and nod her head without being quite sure what she was agreeing to.
But there wasn’t actually any proof planting them at the scene. Just a lot of coincidences. I still wasn’t totally convinced it was them.
Mr Camsalki’s turn on the stand. He needed a Baoulé translator, a language from the Ivory Coast. There aren’t many Baoulé translators in London. One day the translator wasn’t available so we all went home at 10am. (I was deep in Breaking Bad Season 4 and it was the best news I’d ever received.)
Mr Camsalki said he didn’t do it. He thought he was being attacked for reals. When the barbell was held to his back he thought it was a real gun. He’d been living in London for 6 months and didn’t know anybody in the city. He’d moved alone from The Ivory Coast. He’d never seen Mr Kamal before in his life.
The entire time Mr Camsalki spoke he was looking at the smug prosecution lawyer as if he wanted to rip her head off with his bare hands. I’d never seen evils like it.
The thing is though, the thing is, his phone had made calls to Mr Kamal. He’d made a phone call of 2 seconds the moment Ms Diaz arrived at work. Mr Kamal had then made a phone call of 2 seconds to Mr Osayinka. Signals to say ‘she’s here, let’s go.’
The other thing that bothered me was the robber. How many people are 6 foot 8? It’s an uncommon height. The robber certainly had an identical build to Mr Osayinka. But still, his DNA was nowhere at the scene.
At last it was the defence lawyers turn to speak. He seemed inexperienced and palpably nervous as he stood before the very posh judge. I was hoping he would say something to sway my opinion but he only stammered his way through the defence, reiterating what the accused had already said. The three men standing in the box looked at their feet for the duration.
Then our smug prosecution lawyer stood up. “Your Honour I’d like to address the jury one more time and draw their attention to a specific detail in the CCTV evidence.”
The judge looked surprised. Clearly this didn’t happen often. But he concurred. The Panasonic TV was dragged out from its hole in the wall and the CCTV flickered on the screen again.
Part 6
“Ladies and gentleman of the jury. If you look at the defendant Mr Osayinka you will notice that he wears glasses. I want you to re-watch this part of the video very closely.” She pressed play.
Video 2: Inside the KFC, the man in the balaclava stands, pauses, fiddles with something on his clothing and then moves further into the shop.
“Look – he’s taking off his glasses. Watch again.”
The man in the balaclava stands, pauses, fiddles with something on his clothing.
“He’s closing his glasses on his body and putting them in his pocket.”
It was true what she said. My heart sank and I felt a sharp elbow in my side. It was Naomi from the Jewellery channel celebrating. She’d been proven gloriously correct. Prejudice and annoying, but correct.
There was something heartbreaking and vulnerable about the fact that Osayinka had been proven guilty because he had to take his glasses off in order to commit the armed robbery.
After lunch Carol called us back into the jury room. The big posh judge addressed us with the utmost respect, as usual, as if we were kings and queens of England. (He always said “You understand.” “I’m sorry we’ve had to keep you waiting jurors but we’ve had some complications in court. You understand.”)
It was time for a volunteer from the jury to come forward as the person to deliver the verdict. Joe the good-hearted legend put his hand up. This grinning family man would be the one to tell these three men whether they would go to jail or not.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury I want you to take as much time as you like in coming to your decision. Before your jury manager leads you to the deliberation room, I want you to take into account that Mr Camsalki has no previous criminal record.”
It took me a second to realise that this meant that the other two already had criminal records.
Going to the deliberation room was exhilarating. After 3 weeks of identical routine – going up and down in the same lift, through the same door and sitting on the same seats we were led by Carol in the opposite direction to usual. She opened a door I’d never noticed before and we were led through to the warrens of The Old Bailey.
We walked through long, thin oak corridors. We twisted and turned through the wooden veins of the Crown Court, passing deliberation room 10, 11, 20, 30. Each door was shut tight. I wondered what kind of awful decisions had been made behind those doors, what evidence had been witnessed and lives changed and justice served or not served. It felt like I was backstage behind the scenes of a horrible real-life revenge tragedy.
I mean it would’ve felt that way if Naomi wasn’t squawking in my left ear about how they’d clearly done it. “We’re nearly there Naomi, we can talk about it very soon” I hissed back.
Carol opened the door to Deliberation Room 14 and we filed in. A huge square table, water in the centre, a fireplace that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. Green velvet chairs, a colossal chandelier, two large windows facing out to a quiet courtyard I hadn’t seen before, oak everywhere. Carol handed us a sheet of paper to read. It was the deliberation rules, but we all knew them already.
It didn’t take long but it took longer than expected. We were in there for 2 hours in total. Maybe because we wanted to give some weight to the trial we’d been living and breathing for three weeks. Sam, the one I was convinced was about to ask me out for a coffee, played a good devils advocate but he got shut down hard and fast by a pent-up Naomi finally allowed to let rip.
We filed back into the court room, led by Joe. As he delivered the verdict the three men didn’t flinch. Kamal looked up, probably at his family who were sitting above us. Camsalki and Osayinka kept their eyes to the floor.
We didn’t find out the length of their sentence but the judge told us we were welcome to come back in two weeks to hear it. I didn’t attend that hearing.
Carol led us out of the courtroom and escorted us to the lift one more time. We looked at each other as if adjusting our eyes to bright sunlight after being in a dim room for 3 weeks. We had to go back to the real world now. We’d never see each other again, probably, although I still look out for Naomi on the jewellery channel.
We said our goodbyes and I stepped out of The Old Bailey into the crisp October air. I didn’t know what to do so I bought a hot chocolate from Pret and walked aimlessly to the steps of St Paul’s cathedral. I flicked through Tinder distractedly and, realising I wasn’t going to find much peace there, I made my way back to the PR Agency.
THE END.
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