All She Ever Wished For. Claudia Carroll

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       TESS

       The present

      Come the following Monday morning and it’s D-Day. Otherwise known as the day I’m due to pitch up at the courts for jury service, then see how long it takes for me to wangle my way out of it.

      But by God, am I ready for them or what. I’m briefed, prepped and primed to within an inch of my life so I can get out of this and get back to planning the wedding ASAP. I’ve done my research back to front and thanks to a lovely barrister called Jackie, who’s a client of mine at the gym, I’m reasonably confident – and I’m saying this with fingers and toes crossed – that I might just have stumbled on one or two ‘outs’.

      ‘The thing to remember about jury service,’ Jackie panted at me from a treadmill at Smash Fitness during one of her lunchtime training sessions last week, ‘is that many are called, but few are chosen. For every nine hundred summons the courts send out, roughly only three hundred actually turn out to be eligible.’

      ‘I’m liking that statistic,’ I told her gratefully, ‘and there’s a whole list of reasons as to why you can plead that you’re not up to serve. I figure my best shot is to go in armed with a letter from my boss to say I’m invaluable at work and can’t possibly be spared the time off.’

      ‘But is that true, strictly speaking?’ she asked me a bit worriedly.

      ‘Well … maybe I’ve exaggerated just the tiniest little bit,’ I told her. ‘But come on, I mean how many times in my life am I going to get married? The wedding is just weeks away. Being locked away from the world to sit in on some court case is out of the question. I can’t do it, Jackie, it’s just not a runner.’

      ‘Then let me give you a bit of free legal advice,’ she panted, slowing the treadmill down to a walking pace, so she could catch her breath. ‘The thing about the courts is that you think it’s all designed to intimidate you, but really nothing could be further from the truth. Admittedly, it can be terrifying actually stepping into court and having to plead your case in front of a judge, but it happens all the time. I see it every day in work.’

      ‘Really?’ I asked hopefully.

      ‘Absolutely. So just go right in there and if the Jury Selection Officer won’t release you and you do actually get selected, then you’ll get to go to court and can tell the judge exactly what you’ve just told me. That you’re getting married in a few weeks, and you just can’t possibly give them the commitment that they need. If you’re lucky, he or she may even dismiss you there and then. But if not, remember that you’ve always got a second ace up your sleeve. Because even if you are called to serve, a barrister from either the Defence or the Prosecution has the right to object to you, for some reason that you may not even be aware of.’

      ‘Yeah but like what?’ I asked her, feeling lighter about all this than I have done ever since that blasted letter arrived. After all my stressing and fretting and driving Bernard mad with it, this might not be as bad as I think it will be.

      ‘The thing is that appearances can say an awful lot about us without our even knowing it,’ she tells me, in between gulping from a bottle of water. ‘I remember being in court one time and an opposing barrister objecting to a juror because they happened to be wearing the tiniest little Pioneer pin. You barely even noticed it. But it was a drunk and disorderly case, so they felt because this particular juror was teetotal, clearly they might be biased.’

      ‘So you mean look the part of “woman you’d least like to be deciding the fate of a prisoner in the dock” and I might just be home and dry?’

      ‘Can’t hurt,’ she shrugged back. ‘Though you certainly didn’t hear it from me.’

      *

      So it’s 8.45 a.m. on Monday morning outside the Criminal Courts of Justice. And you want to see how I’m dressed, I look like I’m about to either mug you or else ask if you’ve any spare change for a hostel. I’m wearing the scraggiest pair of jeans that I own, with a knackered-looking parka jacket about three sizes too big that Gracie lent me for the day.

      Ah, Gracie. Bless her, she came into my room this morning, still a bit shame-faced from our blow-out in The Bridal Room on Saturday and after a whole Sunday of completely blanking me, finally looked like she was ready to make peace.

      ‘You still annoyed with me?’ she asked, direct and to the point, in that sort of shorthand that sisters seem to have.

      ‘Mmm … what? What did you say? What time is it?’ I mumbled from under the duvet cover, still in that halfway house between sleep and wakefulness.

      ‘I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry,’ she said, plonking down on the edge of my bed. ‘You know, for being a total arse at that bridal shop place. So there. I said it. So are we mates again?’

      ‘Ehh … yeah … course we are,’ I say, to be honest, still groggy from sleep and only half-taking this in.

      ‘So … I’m really forgiven? You know, for ruining wedding-dress-fitting day, etc.?’

      ‘Gracie,’ I say, hauling myself up onto one elbow, so I can look her square in the face. ‘You’re my only sister. Of course you’re forgiven.’

      She winks and grins at me and just like that she and I are back to being OK again.

      ‘Good, because I really need a lend of your cream jumper. There’s a new girl in work I’ve my eye on and I want to dress to impress. You know yourself, my clothes look like, well they look like what they are, which is straight out of a second-hand shop. And the thing is, Tess, you always look so … clean.’

      She’s looking to borrow clothes. Which means it’s Monday morning. Which can only mean one thing. Court.

      Suddenly I’m wide awake.

      ‘Ehh … sure Gracie,’ I tell her. ‘Take whatever you like.’

      ‘Great, ta,’ she says, heading straight for my wardrobe.

      ‘But in return,’ I add, just as she’s starting to rip my wardrobe apart, ‘there’s something you can do for me.’

      And that was to ‘style’ me in her own unique way, the brief being, ‘make me look like the last person alive you’d ever want serving on a jury’.

      So now here I am, dressed a la Gracie; with manky, unwashed hair sticking out sideways, that looks like I stuck two fingers into a plug socket before I left home, jeans with more holes in them than there is denim and a t-shirt that says, See You All At My Intervention. All in all, I’d confidently say that I’m looking like the least likely person you’d ever want deciding whether you’re guilty or not guilty.

      About an hour later, walking down Parkgate Street and stepping in out of the chilly April wind, I’m immediately taken aback at just how different the Criminal Courts of Justice are from what I’d expected. I’d thought it would be like something off the set of The Good Wife, or else СКАЧАТЬ