Free The Baker Street Jurors by Michael Robertson

something down as the cashier rang up his lunch.
    â€œHim?”
    â€œYes,” she said. “He smells like pipe smoke. He ran to catch up with me on the stairs, and he keeps trying to talk to me for some reason. And he says he has lots of questions for the judge. See, there he is, writing them out right now. Is he allowed to do that?”
    â€œHe shouldn’t be writing notes except in the courtroom, and he has to leave them there on our breaks. Perhaps he’s writing something else. But yes, when opening arguments are completed and we get to the witness testimony, the judge can allow questions. And I expect there will be some.”
    â€œWhen he followed me in the stairway, he was talking about how he’s going to want to see the witnesses’ hands, and their hats, and their shoes, and their watch fobs.”
    â€œWatch fobs?”
    â€œYes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a real-life watch fob. Have you?”
    â€œNot since my great-grandfather died.”
    â€œAnd he keeps staring at me.”
    â€œYes. Well. Regarding staring—”
    â€œI mean in a weird way.”
    â€œJust for my own future reference, how do you distinguish between staring in a weird way and staring—”
    â€œOmigod, he’s coming over. Don’t look!”
    And yes, indeed, the tall alternate juror was coming over.
    â€œI said not to look!” said Lucy.
    â€œWell,” said Nigel, who had looked, “you should have said that first, and then said that he was coming over. I can take instructions, but they need to be in the proper order.”
    Now the man was only a few feet from their table. And now he was right next to them.
    And now he kept walking, with his tray, right on by.
    â€œOh,” said Lucy.
    â€œDisappointed?” said Nigel.
    â€œI’ll bet he was coming to our table, but then you looked, and so he didn’t.”
    â€œYes,” said Nigel. “I sometimes have that effect on people.”
    Then suddenly, at the last moment, just as they were settling in, the tall man turned and came back to join them.
    â€œWhat did you two get?” he said, pulling up a chair.
    As he put his tray down on the table, other jurors from the lunch queue, seeing a group begin to form, brought their trays over as well.
    â€œI got fish-and-chips,” said the tall man. “Hope they have the same next week. I mean, if it goes that long. Do you think it will?”
    The pensioner widow and the man with the calloused hands sat down at the table now. They introduced themselves as Armstrong and Mrs. Peabody.
    â€œI don’t think we’re supposed to talk about the trial, are we?” said Mrs. Peabody.
    â€œNo,” said Nigel, trying to hide his disappointment at the arrival of a crowd. “We’re not.”
    â€œA technicality,” said the man with the expensive shoes, who joined them now. “Everyone does talk.” He introduced himself as Bankstone, and he took the chair on the other side of Lucy.
    â€œI wish we weren’t on a murder case though,” said Lucy. “I had a friend who was on a brutal rape case—they detailed each of the several counts, and everything that led up to them. When she went home at night, she wanted to tell her husband about it, but you’re not allowed to talk about the case. She had to go in for counseling after.”
    â€œIf it’s graphic medical testimony you’re concerned about,” said Mrs. Peabody, “I was on a civil case involving a malfunctioning wood chipper that was as awful as anything you can imagine.”
    â€œBut the stakes are so high,” said Lucy. “What if we get the verdict wrong?”
    â€œThe police and the lawyers and the judge have to do their jobs first,” said Nigel. “Then we decide based on what they present to us.”
    â€œYes, but if the lawyers say it’s really up to the jury, and we say it’s really up to the