chapter Six
There weren’t many people at the court house. Honey had read that over a hundred and twenty people were called each week for jury service, and yet only thirty or so were sitting outside the courtroom when she arrived. Most looked as nervous as she felt. The man nearest her kept fingering the tie at his neck, clearly not used to wearing one. She’d done the same, dressed up for the occasion in a long black skirt, white blouse and black jacket. Some people said dressing down in scruffy clothes guaranteed you wouldn’t get chosen as you looked less trustworthy, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that. Carrying out your civic duty was an honour, one she would be proud to do.
Just not this week, hopefully.
More people came in as it got nearer to nine thirty, and by the time the court assistant called them in, about sixty people filtered through the doorway into the rows of seats behind the glass partition separating the viewing gallery from the courtroom. Honey followed along a row and took a seat, heart racing. Only sixty out of the hundred and twenty or so called had turned up—that gave her a one in five chance of being picked. Not great odds, but not too bad.
The court registrar began checking who was present. Honey remembered this long, drawn out part from last time—the registrar read out the names of everyone on the list and you had to call out if you were there and say how far you’d travelled so they could reimburse expenses. The names were called alphabetically so hers was nearer the end.
“Summers, Honeysuckle?”
She called out, “Yes, thirty-three kilometres,” because she’d checked the distance before she got out of the car.
After that, for a while nothing else happened, and she drew out her book and tried to read for a while, but her mind buzzed and her stomach churned. In the end, she put the book away and tried to think about the weekend.
She was getting married. Married! This time next week, she’d be able to call herself Mrs. Concannon. She’d doodled her signature repeatedly, practising how to link the H and the C with a big loop. Over the past six months, thinking about the wedding had been one of her major joys—she’d whiled away many tedious moments ironing or sitting in the dentist or out walking by daydreaming about the big day, as well as by thinking about what she’d finally do to Dex once she got him into bed.
But for once, thinking about it didn’t settle her. She kept remembering the faraway look he’d had in his eyes, and his tender but rueful smile, as if he was trying to think how he could get out of it without hurting her too badly.
His denial that he’d changed his mind when she questioned him about it the night before had been vehement, though, so she tried to reassure herself that everything was fine. Besides, she had other things to worry about at that moment, because the lawyers had taken their places, and to one side the defendant had entered the court and stood nervously, looking at her feet.
She was medium-height, of medium prettiness, with shoulder-length mousy brown hair. She picked at her nails and refused to look up at the people waiting in the gallery. Honey could understand her fear. How intimidating to come into the courtroom and see all those people looking at you, all judging you before they’ve even heard your story. What had she done? Stolen something? Honey had feared it might be a horrible case, with the defendant accused of being a rapist, or worse, a murderer. She couldn’t believe this young woman had murdered anyone. She knew she shouldn’t draw conclusions before she’d heard the evidence, but then that’s what first impressions were all about, weren’t they? That’s why the woman wore a neat blouse and skirt, and why she’d brushed her hair and put lipstick on. Her lawyer would have instructed her on how to present herself, to ensure the jury’s first impression was a good one.
The door opened for the judge to enter, and everyone rose as he made his way to his seat. He was a tall man with a shock of white hair who scared Honey and she hadn’t even heard him speak yet. But when he finally did speak, his voice was low and reassuring, and he welcomed everyone to the courtroom and asked them to sit.
The registrar read the charges to the defendant. Honey had trouble concentrating, her head buzzing with a hundred different things. Something to do with wounding with intent—the woman had attacked someone?
“How do you plead?” the registrar finished.
The woman cleared her throat. “Not guilty.” She glanced at the judge, then looked away.
The judge nodded and began to explain the jury selection process. He outlined how they should walk into the courtroom if their names were called and pass the two lawyers sitting at tables in the middle of the room. If one of the lawyers called out “challenge,” they were to turn around and walk back to their seat. If they weren’t challenged, they were to walk to the jury box and take their place. They would be sworn in once all twelve jurors had been chosen.
The registrar had a wooden box on a stand in front of her, and she began turning it as if she were going to call out Lotto numbers. Then she pulled a number out and checked it against her list. “Shatner, William,” she announced.
Honey blinked, a bizarre image flitting through her head of Captain Kirk walking toward the jury box as he asked Scotty to beam him up. It was a young man who came forward, though, smartly dressed, a look of irritation sweeping briefly across his face as he entered the courtroom. He walked past the lawyers, who looked him up and down.
“Challenge,” said the defending lawyer.
The young man stopped, turned and walked back, rolling his eyes. Why had the lawyer challenged him? Presumably because he thought the guy may be overly sympathetic toward the prosecution. Interesting.
She watched the next names come out of the barrel. Another man, slightly older, this time allowed to pass. A young woman, younger than herself, challenged by the prosecuting lawyer. An older woman, unchallenged, who took her place on the stand. A very old man, white-haired, unchallenged. Then another younger man followed by a younger woman, both challenged.
Honey’s heart began to sink. The more challenges, the more likely it was she’d be called.
And sure enough, with only three places left to fill, the registrar said, “Summers, Honeysuckle.”
She got to her feet and squeezed awkwardly past the others in her row, clamped her handbag underneath her arm and walked into the main courtroom. She fixed her gaze on the floor, saying in her head over and over again Please challenge! Please challenge! She felt the lawyers’ eyes on her, but her feet kept walking and nothing was said, and then she was at the jury box, and the woman standing there asked her whether she wanted to swear on the Bible or take an oath. She took the Bible, climbed the steps into the jury box and took her seat.
Crap.
Why hadn’t she been challenged? All the other young women—anyone who looked remotely like they might sympathise for the defendant—had been. Her head ached and she felt sick. Why hadn’t she returned her form saying she was getting married at the weekend?
Two middle-aged men filled the final two places in the box and that was it—they were done. The judge told them they were to make their way to the jury room and choose a foreperson, and that they should inform the registrar if they knew the defendant or were aware of the case in any way.
They all shuffled out of the box and followed the registrar out the courtroom, down a carpeted hallway and into a room at the end. The room had a long table with twelve seats around it, a coffee machine, a water cooler, a door to a tiny garden and a bathroom off one end.
The registrar gave them all a note pad and a pen, and told them to take a seat and choose a foreperson to speak for them in court. Then she left the room, shutting the door behind her.
“God damn it,” said one of the men. “I really didn’t want to do this today. I’m right in the middle of an important project.”
“Me neither.” An older woman sat in one of the chairs with a long sigh. “I was going to Auckland to visit my daughter if I wasn’t chosen.”
The elderly man with white hair also sat, and gradually they all took their places.
“Where do we start?” someone asked.
“Why don’t we go around and introduce ourselves,” suggested the elderly man. “I’m Tom. I’m retired, but I used to be a gardener.”
They went around the table, each saying their name and their occupation. When her turn came, Honey said, “I make sweet pastries in a café—I guess that’s why I’m called Honey.” She’d meant it as a joke. Nobody laughed. Everyone looked nervous. She bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t bothered.
When the introductions were finished, one of the men said, “Okay, so how do we choose a foreperson?”
The impatient man who’d been the first to speak—who’d told them his name was Matt and that he worked in investment—snorted. “It used to be foreman. Bloody political correctness.” He tapped his pen on the paper in front of him. “I’ll do it.”
The woman next to him gave a wry laugh. “I don’t think so. With an attitude like that?”
“What attitude?”
“Somebody else might like to do it too,” one of the men said resentfully.
Matt glared around the table. “Okay, who else wants to do it?”
“Not me,” said one of the women. “I hate that sort of thing.”
Nobody else said anything. Most looked at the table.
Shit, though Honey. If the misogynistic idiot did it, they might as well lock up the defendant and throw away the key now.
“There,” Matt said triumphantly.
Could she bring herself to do it? She swallowed, the words teetering on the edge of her lips. She wanted to say it badly, but then Matt looked at her and the words faded. She didn’t have the strength to do something like this, to argue with others who would no doubt be vehement in their opinions. Shame flooded her, and she looked away.
“I’ll put myself forward.” Tom spoke.
Matt frowned, but Honey felt a surge of relief.
“Okay,” said one of the men, “let’s take a vote.”
Six of the women and one man voted for Tom. The other two men voted for Matt, and so did the youngest woman there—who was already making eyes at the moderately handsome banker. How frickin’ predictable.
“Right,” Tom said. “Let’s tell the court we can get started.”