TODAY, WE FEATURE OUR GUEST AUTHOR, NICK BOREHAM, WHO SHARES A CHAPTER FROM HIS NOVEL, 'JURYMEN MAY DINE'
- Eva Bielby
- May 13
- 8 min read
JURYMEN MAY DINE
CHAPTER 1 (EXTRACT)
Flanked by prison officers, the defendant stood in the dock with his head bowed. It was probably only nervousness, but it made him look ashamed to show his face. The trial had been less than kind to that face. At the start it had been as fresh and trusting as a baby’s. Now it was pinched and grey, as if its owner had spent years in prison already. He was dressed in a light blue suit and an open-necked shirt, he was twenty-nine years of age and his name was Conrad Connor.
I was the last to emerge into the full view of the court. I took my usual seat on the back row of the jury box, nearest the dock and furthest from the judge. The Honourable Mrs Justice Ede, eye-catching in her gaudy robes of red and black silk, was already sitting at her massive wooden bench high above us all. Behind her, the gigantic royal coat of arms lent an additional sense of theatre to the occasion, if one was needed. In her hand she held the slip of paper on which our verdict had been recorded. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking – her face, topped by the ridiculous horsehair wig, was as stony as ever. I was so tired and dismayed by the futile arguments and antiquated rituals of the last couple of weeks that I felt like walking out.
Down in the well of the court, the black-gowned barristers and pinstriped solicitors conversed in low tones, shuffled papers and threw searching stares at the jury. I’d been told that lawyers can predict the verdict from the way jurors behave when they return to court. If we think the defendant is guilty, we turn our eyes away from him. I looked at him. A long time seemed to pass. The judge picked up her pen and wrote with it. There was a minor disturbance in the public gallery, followed by an urgent shushing and scraping of shoes on bare boards. If they’d wanted to prolong the defendant’s agony, this was a good way of going about it. But at last Mrs Justice Ede put down her pen, the clerk of the court rose to his feet and an expectant hush fell on the varnished wooden benches. Conrad Connor, the loneliest man in the world at that moment, kept his eyes on the floor.
‘Will the foreman please stand?’
Stan Tuffin was sitting in the front row of the jury box. He stood up obediently, clutching his notebook to his chest.
‘Please answer yes or no to the question I put to you,’ the clerk intoned. ‘Has the jury reached a verdict on which at least ten of you are agreed?’
‘Yes.’
‘On the count of murder, do you find the defendant Conrad Connor guilty or not guilty?’
There was a long silence. As the court waited for his reply, my opinion of Stan Tuffin sank even lower. He didn’t seem to understand the question.
‘For God’s sake, out with it,’ the juror beside me muttered under her breath.
The clerk put the question again. Stan looked round apprehensively, as if he was the one on trial, then in a far-from-confident voice said, ‘Guilty.’
For a split second nothing happened. Then everything did. The defendant clutched at the dock as if someone had shoved him from behind. A woman screamed. A man shouted, ‘He didn’t do it – ask Miss Prim.’
Apart from that, the verdict was a popular one. A sustained burst of clapping and cheering from the public gallery soon drowned out the defendant’s few supporters.
‘Silence!’ shouted the clerk.
The judge glowered as if she was going to pass sentence on the public as well as on the defendant.
‘Is that the verdict of you all, or a majority?’
‘A majority.’ Stan’s voice had faded to a whisper.
‘How many agreed?’
There was another pause. The judge waited. Stan opened his notebook as if to remind himself, then snapped it shut. I got the impression he was attempting a mental head count.
‘Eleven,’ he said.
‘How many dissented?’
‘One.’
I looked at the defendant again but he had disappeared from view. The officers hauled him off the floor, sat him on a chair and clamped their hands on his shoulders. Mrs Justice Ede glared at him with undisguised contempt, then spoke in a voice that chilled the air.
‘Stand up.’
The officers pulled him to his feet.
‘Conrad Connor,’ she said, ‘you have been convicted of a cowardly and despicable crime. I have no doubt whatsoever that the jury have returned the correct verdict. For some time, you had been sharing a flat with a talented young artist, Douglas Hamilton. Earlier this year, on the morning of Saturday the sixth of February, you killed him with a single shot to the chest. There is no doubt in my mind that your motive was jealousy of your flatmate’s success. I have heard convincing evidence of this. As Douglas’s body lay bleeding at your feet, you fled in panic and went to the railway station, where you boarded a train. Your intention was to provide yourself with an alibi. But you were not careful enough. You left three live cartridges in the top drawer of your bedside cabinet, cartridges which fitted the gun that ended Douglas’s blameless life. The weapon itself was discovered when the police conducted a search of the back yard. Your defence that you were on the train when the murder was committed is spurious. I am convinced that it was possible for you to kill Douglas, conceal the gun and get to the station in good time to catch your train.
‘Conrad Connor, your actions were evil beyond imagination. Douglas Hamilton was a well-liked young man who was building a fine reputation as an artist, a profession for which both of you had trained. He was beginning a new stage in his career. Success beckoned, the fruit of his undoubted ability and hard work. But you, Conrad Connor, cut him down on the threshold of the recognition he so richly deserved. It was a wicked, senseless act that deserves the highest penalty. In passing the mandatory sentence for the crime of murder, I have to consider when it will be safe for you to be released from prison. I find it difficult to believe that it will ever be safe to release a man such as you. Nonetheless, Conrad Connor, I pass on you the sentence of imprisonment for life on the count of murder, and recommend that you serve a minimum of twenty years.’
And that was that. I watched as Conrad was half-led, half-carried through a door at the back of the court to a dark place from which he could not expect to return for decades. The court was called upon to stand as the judge made her stately exit. Then we, the men and women of the jury, were free to go. A court official gave us back our mobile phones and handed us our claim forms. All such business done, we filed out of the courtroom, avoiding each other’s eyes and the stares of the onlookers. I headed straight for the gents. A couple of young men I’d noticed in the public gallery were standing in adjacent stalls, excitedly discussing the verdict. I chose a stall as far away from them as possible, but I could not avoid hearing what they said. They were friends of the victim, it seemed.
‘Held the gun close, the firearms expert said.’
‘That’s why there were burn marks on his skin.’
‘Bat-shit crazy.’
‘And all he got was twenty years. He’ll be out again in ten.’
‘No, he got life. Twenty’s the tariff. That means he has to do twenty before they consider him for parole. Might not get it even then. Could be inside for ever.’
‘Should have hung him. Would’ve been cheaper.’
Outside the court, the narrow street was packed with reporters, photographers and a restless crowd of spectators. The air of celebration disgusted me. Jubilant police officers were gathering on the courthouse steps, shaking hands with each other as if they’d won a major sporting competition. In their midst Theresa Hamilton, the murdered man’s mother, a tall and strikingly beautiful woman whose testimony had been so damaging to the defendant, stood in front of a microphone. She waited for a technician to adjust it, then read out a statement on behalf of the family.
‘Douglas was our only son,’ her voice crackled from the speakers. ‘All we have left of him is memories, wonderful memories which we will keep in our hearts for ever. We have suffered a devastating loss – Douggie was our best friend as well as our hope and joy. Our lives have changed for ever. But the family’s pain is lessened by the knowledge that justice has been done. We will leave others to pass moral judgement on the twisted individual who took Douglas from us. As his family, we will limit ourselves to expressing our gratitude to the police for their determination to see the case through. And to thanking the jury for their courageous decision.’
I could have laughed out loud. Our courageous decision? It was supposed to be beyond reasonable doubt, but there were more doubts in this case than hairs in Mrs Justice Ede’s wig. In the all-too-short period we spent in the jury room, I’d pointed out weakness after weakness in the prosecution case. I’d begged my fellow jurors to consider what it could do to Conrad if we made a hasty decision. But they’d ignored me and returned a majority verdict of guilty in record time. If I’d had the guts to grab the microphone from Mrs Hamilton and tell the world there was another side to the case, something that had not been mentioned in court, things might have turned out differently. But I pushed my way through the crowd and set off for my hotel.
‘Sir – excuse me, sir – please—’
Turning to see who was yelling, I saw a young woman racing after me. She was short and slim, not much more than five feet tall. Strands of blonde hair blew across her face as she ran. The way she hunched her
shoulders gave the impression she was running for her life.
‘You were at the trial,’ she said, brushing the hair away as she arrived breathless at my side. She wore a long navy coat with a red beret. She was pretty but her cheeks were unnaturally pale, like a full moon on
a cold winter night. It made her dark grey lipstick stand out all the more.
‘You were on the jury, weren’t you?’ she said.
It was more of an accusation than a question. We’d been warned not to tell anyone how we came to our decision. Not even our families, and certainly not the press. At first, I thought she was a reporter after a cheap story.
‘What if I was?’ I said.
‘And you were the one?’
She grabbed my arm. This is no reporter, I said to myself. She’s too upset for that.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘What do you mean, “the one”?’
‘The one who wanted to acquit Conrad.’
A gust of chilly September wind blew down the street, lifting the hem of her coat and wafting more strands of hair across her face. This time she didn’t bother to brush them away. She moved closer to me, as if she needed my protection.
‘What makes you think I wanted to acquit him?’ I said.
‘I saw the look on your face when the foreman said “guilty”. Then, when I heard that the jury was divided eleven-to-one, I was sure of it.’
‘I was the one, yes. But the other eleven didn’t agree with me. They were convinced of his guilt. Right or wrong, that’s all that matters. It’s the way the system works.’
‘But he’s innocent.’
If she hadn’t looked so miserable, I would have turned my back on her. No one could have known whether Conrad Connor was innocent or guilty. The case was wreathed in uncertainty. There was a great deal of evidence against him, but it was all circumstantial. To my mind, that left plenty of room for doubt. It was what we’d argued about in the jury room. I’d said there wasn’t enough to convict him, the others had said there was.
‘What makes you think he’s innocent?’ I said.
The young woman’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Because I’m his sister.’
COMING SOON: On Friday 16th May, our team member, author Eva Bielby, shares a chapter from the second book in 'The Hurt' trilogy, 'The Healing'.
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