Free The Baker Street Jurors by Michael Robertson Page A

lawyers, then who is really responsible?”
    â€œIt’s just like raising children to adulthood, dear,” said Mrs. Peabody. “There are some things that are up to you—and there are some other things that just aren’t, no matter how sad they might make you.”
    â€œEven so,” said Lucy. “I’m glad I’m an alternate and not one of the regular jurors. I don’t want to have to decide someone’s fate.”
    â€œYou won’t be doing it by yourself, dear,” said Mrs. Peabody. “We’ll all do it together. It is rather tricky, I admit—you have to be independent enough to have your own point of view, and cooperative enough to listen to everyone else’s. In every one of the juries I’ve been on, we reached a verdict. Either there never was any real doubt—or else there was plenty of it—and we all felt the same way. Perhaps we were just lucky, though.”
    â€œI saw one fellow get dismissed from the jury pool because he said he wouldn’t convict no matter what the evidence showed,” said Armstrong. “He said he thought everyone is entitled to one mistake.”
    â€œThat’s what he said, but it’s not what he meant,” said Nigel. “What he meant was that he wouldn’t convict because he was willing to give his hero a pass.”
    â€œTrue,” nodded the tall juror.
    â€œDon’t either of you believe in second chances?” said Mrs. Peabody.
    The tall juror raised an eyebrow at that, but didn’t answer immediately. He took a moment to douse his fish-and-chips generously with vinegar and inhale the scent of it striking the still-hot deep-fried batter. Then he said, “I very much believe in second chances. But that doesn’t mean you don’t pay a price. You make your one mistake, and then you are lucky or unlucky in the consequences of it, and then you recover from it as best you are able, and then you repeat the process. With new mistakes. And with some correct choices as well, probably, but of course it’s not always easy to tell one from the other.”
    â€œSo we’re talking about life here, or the law?” said Nigel.
    â€œOh, sorry,” said the tall juror, and then he bit into the flaky white fish with obvious satisfaction. “In my opinion, the food here is better than its reputation.”
    Nigel took that remark as an invitation to talk about something else, but Mrs. Peabody wasn’t willing to let it go quite yet.
    â€œHow did you know that the man in the back row would get dismissed?”
    â€œSimple,” said the tall juror. “It was warm in the courtroom, and everyone else had removed their macs and sweaters. But not him. He kept his mac on, zipped up to the neck. Now, this could have been either because he was wearing a McSweeney cricket jersey underneath, or because he had an England cricket team tattoo on his neck or forearms, but because he was actually sweating from too much clothing, I concluded it was a jersey that he was trying to conceal. He wore it to the courthouse to proclaim his support for McSweeney, but he covered it up with his jacket when it looked like he had a chance of getting on the jury. It was obvious and I knew the judge would dismiss him.”
    â€œThat’s a lot from a zipped jacket,” said Mrs. Peabody.
    â€œNo,” said the tall juror, “not within the context. You can tell quite a lot about anyone from their appearance, and that information is amplified exponentially if you know just the slightest bit of their current or past circumstances.”
    â€œFor example?” said Bankstone.
    The tall juror put down his fork and glanced at all four of the alternate jurors seated around him.
    First he looked at Nigel and at Lucy.
    â€œNo, I don’t think I should do yours at the moment,” he said to Nigel. “Or yours,” he said to Lucy.
    â€œWell, if you don’t do someone,