James Follett Crown Court

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affected were her nerves.
The clerk rose to address Sinclair. He was holding the jury
time sheet.
"My Lord, the jury retired at 4:30pm and returned at 6:35.
They then retired for another fifteen minutes from 6:37 until
6:52 and for a further three minutes from 6:55, and have
therefore been deliberating for a total of two hours and twenty-
three minutes."
Sinclair nodded. When a judge had directed the jury on the
method in which a majority verdict could be returned it was
mandatory for the clerk to read out to the court how long the
jury had been in retirement.
"Prisoners at the Bar," said the clerk. "You will please stand."
Again the policewoman had to nudge Rosemary. She climbed
wearily to her feet and stood holding the front of the dock.
The clerk approached the jury for the third time.
"Members of the Jury, will your foreman please stand." All it
needs now, thought the clerk, is for two of them to stand and
Crusher will burst a blood-vessel.
The foreman stood.
"Please answer this question yes or no. Have at least ten of
you agreed upon your verdict?"
"Yes."
"Do you find the defendants guilty or not guilty of the murder
of Sven Richards?"
"Not guilty."
The foreman's last word was drowned in the sudden uproar as
two reporters jammed themselves in the doorway in their haste
to reach the one telephone and two solicitor's clerks started
pounding each other on the back. Rosemary sat down abruptly and had
to be told to stand again.
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"I've a good mind," said Sinclair glaring at the jury, "to make
a major contribution to the smooth-running of justice in this
country by discharging all of you from jury service for the rest
of your lives."
There was a transformed atmosphere in the courtroom as
Golding's application for costs was granted and the judge
Formally discharged the prisoners.
Everyone rose as Sinclair swept out of the courtroom.
Martin remained in the box as the rest of his fellow jurors
filed out. He watched the gathering round the dock. Anders and
Golding were in animated conversation with Colin Freeman and
the solicitors on both sides. Rosemary and Freeman did not fall
into each others arms as Martin had predicted they would when
he had been persuaded to change his mind in the jurors retiring
room. Instead, a curious thing happened: Golding offered his
hand to Rosemary which she ignored by walking out of the
courtroom without speaking to anyone.
"Well you can't blame her, Marcus," said Anders grinning at
his colleague's surprised expression. "She probably thought you
had changed sides."
Golding nodded. "I rather wish I had."
Carrie smiled weakly up at Martin. "Hallo, stranger. I thought
they were going to keep you in for good." Her voice was a
whisper.
Martin gathered up Carrie's hands and pressed them to his
cheeks. Her palms felt damp. "Aint no gaol built that kin hold
me, Miss Carrie," Martin drawled. Carrie's face frightened him.
The nurse had said that she had been asleep for most of the day
and yet there were dark shadows under her eyes and her skin
was drawn pale and shiny over her cheekbones.
Carrie forced another smile. "How did the shoot-out go?"
"Critters got clean away." Martin released Carrie's hands and
sat down. He couldn't think of anything to say for the moment
so he rummaged in his carrier-bag and produced a nightdress. "I
thought you might need another one."
Carrie took it. "Thanks. But they're now making me wear this
ghastly thing." She touched the front of the lace-up
institutional
smock. "It makes me easier to get at."
A woman was watching Martin from the next bed. She caught
Martin's glance and grinned toothily. "Tell her not to worry,
love. Had two myself. Nothing to it."
"Mrs. Wade," whispered Carrie. "She tries hard to make me
cheerful. It's awfully depressing."
"Have they said when?" asked Martin, finally getting round to
the question that had been uppermost in his mind all the time.
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Carrie turned her head away but her hand slid into Martin's.
"Tomorrow morning. A Mr. Cassidy's going to do it. He's some
sort of consultant." Then she giggled and turned her face back
to Martin. "Butcher Cassidy and his hole in the turn gang."
Martin gripped her hand tightly. "Don't joke about it. Please."
"He's stopped kicking me about an hour ago."
"Maybe he's asleep."
Carrie looked at him seriously. "Do they sleep? Unborn
babies?"
Martin shrugged. "I don't know. Does anyone?"
"We don't know much about them, do we?"
"We haven't thought about it."
"I have, Martin. I've been lying here thinking about nothing
else. Poor little bastard. He's not going to have much of a start
is he?"
She fell silent for a minute, then: "How much have we got in
the post office?"
"One pound sixty-five pence."
"Christ."
"Why?"
"Why? Because I'll need some things for him, that's why.
They said they'd be able to let me have some stuff from here,
but we'll need a cot."
"I'll look at the ads in the paper," Martin promised.
"Have you been to the Social Security?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Martin felt anger prickling under his collar. "Because I've
been stuck in a bloody courtroom all day I"
'Shhh!"
Visitors and prospective mothers looked up disapprovingly.
For their benefit Martin said in a loud voice: "The judge said
I can expect the next fine to be much harsher than fifty pee if I
don't stop raping and robbing old ladies!"
Carrie turned sharply away from Martin. She buried her face
in her pillow. Martin put a hand on her heaving shoulder and
roundly cursed himself.
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"Carrie, I'm sorry."
Muffled from the depths of the pillow: "Go away."
He shook her gently.
"I'm sorry. Really I am."
"Just go away."
"Carrie "
She sat up suddenly, tears streaming down her face. "Just piss
off and leave me alone!" Carrie threw her face back into the
pillow.
Twenty pairs of eyes watched Martin back away from the bed.
They followed him as he walked between the beds towards the
ward entrance.
He turned at the door and faced them. He made an obscene
gesture at the whole ward and blew an extremely violent and
vulgar raspberry which flushed the ward sister from her
cubbyhole.
"Are you all right?"
"No," snapped Martin striding off down the corridor.
"I thought you sounded ill," she called after him.
Martin stopped and turned. "I am sick. Sick of everything
and everyone. And if it wasn't for the fact that you'd end up as
a customer in that dump of a ward, I'd tell you to get screwed."
He was trembling as he mounted the bicycle and pedalled out
of the hospital entrance. It was all so stupid; his childish,
immature
tantrum hadn't made him feel any better. All he had [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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