Mightier Than the Sword

As the taxi made its way through the morning traffic, he kept checking his watch, hoping he’d get there before the jury returned.

He was paying the cabbie when he spotted Virginia. He froze on the spot. Even with her back to him, it couldn’t have been anyone else. That confident air of generations past, the style, the class, would have made her stand out in any crowd. But what was she doing hiding away in a back alley talking to Desmond Mellor of all people? Seb didn’t even realize they knew each other, but why wasn’t he surprised? He would immediately tell Uncle Giles and leave it for him to decide if they should let Emma know. Perhaps not until after the trial was over.

He slipstreamed in among a tide of pedestrians to make sure neither of them spotted him. As he entered the Royal Courts of Justice, he ran up the wide staircase, dodging in and out of bewigged barristers as well as witnesses and defendants who wished they weren’t there, until at last he reached the lobby outside court fourteen.

“Over here, Seb,” called a voice.

Seb looked around to see Giles and his mother sitting in the corner of the lobby, chatting to Mr. Trelford, killing time.

He strode across to join them. Giles told him there was no sign of the jury returning. He waited for his mother to resume her conversation with Mr. Trelford before he took Giles aside and told him what he’d just witnessed. “Cedric Hardcastle taught me not to believe in coincidences,” he concluded.

“Particularly when Virginia is involved. With her, everything is planned to the finest detail. However, I don’t think this is the time to tell your mother.”

“But how could those two possibly know each other?”

“Alex Fisher has to be the common factor,” said Giles. “But what worries me is that Desmond Mellor is a far more dangerous and clever man than Fisher ever was. I’ve never understood why he resigned from Barrington’s so soon after he became deputy chairman.”

“I’m responsible for that,” said Seb, and explained the deal he’d made with Hakim Bishara.

“Clever, but be warned, Mellor isn’t the type to forgive or forget.”

“Would all those involved in the case of Fenwick versus Clifton please go to court number fourteen, as the jury is expected to return in the next few minutes.”

The four of them rose as one and made their way quickly back into the courtroom, where they found the judge already seated in her place. Everyone was looking toward the door through which the jury would make their entrance, like theatre-goers waiting for the curtain to rise.

When the door finally opened, the chattering ceased, as the jury bailiff led his twelve charges back into court, then stood aside to allow them to return to their places in the jury box. Once they were settled, he asked the foreman to rise.

The chosen one couldn’t have appeared at first glance to be a less likely leader, even of this disparate group. He must have been around sixty, and not an inch over five foot four, bald and wearing a three-piece suit, white shirt, and a striped tie that Giles guessed represented his club or his old school. You would have passed him in the street without giving him a first look. But the moment he opened his mouth, everyone understood why he had been selected. He spoke with a quiet authority, and Giles wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he was a solicitor, a schoolmaster, or even a senior civil servant.

“Mr. Foreman,” the judge said, leaning forward, “have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?”

“No, my lady,” he replied in a calm, measured voice. “But I felt we ought to inform you of the impasse we have reached, in the hope you might advise us what we should do next.”

“I will certainly try,” said Mrs. Justice Lane, as if she was dealing with a trusted colleague.

“We have taken the vote a number of times, and on each occasion it has resulted in an eight-to-four deadlock. We were not certain if there was any purpose in us continuing.”

“I wouldn’t want you to give up at this early stage,” said the judge. “Considerable time, effort, and expense has been invested in this trial, and the least any of us can do is to be absolutely sure we have made every effort to reach a verdict. If you think it might help, I would be willing to accept a majority verdict of ten to two, but nothing less will be acceptable.”

“Then we will try again, my lady,” said the foreman and, without another word, he led his little band back out of the court, with the bailiff bringing up the rear of an exclusive club that no one else would be invited to join.

Once the door had closed behind them, a babble of chattering broke out, even before the judge had made her exit.

“Who’s got eight, and who’s got four?” was Virginia’s first question.

“You have the eight,” said Sir Edward, “and I can identify almost every one of them.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Two reasons. While the foreman was speaking to the judge, I kept my eyes on the jury, and the majority of them were looking at you. Juries, in my experience, don’t look at the loser.”