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Beyond A Reasonable Doubt

Denice Penrose

    ‘You are herby summoned’ the letter began. My heart lurched and I ran through a mental catalogue of bills. The terror chord faded, as I reminded myself I had no unpaid bills. I read further. The letter in my hand was not a debtor’s summons, but a summons for jury duty.
    As a keen aficionado of CSI, and all programmes covering murder most foul, I was rather excited. I had always wanted to be on a jury. I wondered what type of case we would have to hear. I had quizzed a friend who had served on a jury. Janine had told me juries are only used for more serious crimes. She had served on a drunk driving case. Janine had hated the experience, not liking the sense of holding someone’s life in her hands. ‘All that waiting around was so boring’ she’d told me. I remained undaunted, and now that my opportunity had arrived, I was really looking forward to it.
    I was disappointed by Barry’s response when I read the letter to him in bed that evening: ‘What a drag. I guess you don’t have any choice.’
    Chloe and James shared my enthusiasm. ‘Wow Mom, that’s neat. Just like on TV.’
    I had to arrange time off work, which was a bit tricky, as I’m a school teacher. They arranged a cover supervisor, and I prepared plenty of work to keep my classes busy. I arranged for Barry to pick up the children, and collected take away menus as a precaution. I went onto the Criminal Justice Website, and read up on courtroom procedure.
    My excitement kept me awake most of the night before I was due in court, and I was up before the alarm. I arrived at the courts early. My bag was searched, and then my papers were checked by the Jury clerk. Then the waiting began. When the other jurors arrived, the Jury Clerk went over the procedure, and reminded us that no recording devices or mobile phones were permitted. Then she told us: ‘Your names will be written on cards, and if your name is drawn, you will be called for court. Until then, please wait here.’
    I had come prepared, and settled down to read my book, but was too excited to follow the plot. The door opened, and the Clerk came back in. She reeled off a list of names, but mine wasn’t included. I sighed and returned to my book. The process was repeated, but again, my name was not called. Eventually, I was allowed out at lunchtime to get something to eat, before returning to wait. I finished my book, and realising we wouldn’t be needed, the clerk sent us home. I left feeling wrung out, even though I had done nothing all day. So much for TV juries, I muttered driving home.
    The routine was more familiar the following day. I’d brought a much thicker book this time, but didn’t need it. My name was called, and we were led into the court room. I’d never been inside a real courtroom before. The walls were wood panelled. The judge’s desk was in front, facing the desks of both the defence and prosecution. The jury’s seats were along the side, wooden benches much like church pews. Somehow it was more utilitarian and less prestigious than I had expected. The stage was set, the main actors in their places. The defendant was seated behind a clear screen, and other bit players, the court recorder were waiting for our entrance.
    I read out the oath, my hand trembling slightly on the Bible I held, nervous now that my part had begun. The first performance was from the Prosecutor. He told us that John Evans had murdered his wife and child, then outlined his case, and detailed the evidence he would lay before us. With growing horror the significance of my role dispersed my fog of excitement. This isn’t CSI. This is the real thing. This is murder.
    Then it was the turn of the defending advocate to rebut, and outline his defence. The defendant sat silently. I examined his face for signs of guilt, but his features were impassive. So much for the shifty-looking defendants of TV. The advocate for the defence concluded his opening statement: ‘This case is entirely circumstantial. I intend to prove beyond a reasonable doubt, that my client is innocent.’
    The judge dismissed us for the day, instructing us to appear at 9:00am the following morning, and the prosecution to have their first witness ready. I left the courthouse with a sea of thoughts. The most frustrating part was that I couldn’t talk to anyone. We aren’t aloud to talk about the case to anyone except members of the jury and even then, only when we are all together. I felt the weight of responsibility. If we found him guilty the defendant would spend the rest of his life in prison. I was terrified that we might get it wrong.
    A sleepless night later, the trial began in earnest. The prosecutor presented a damning case, while the defence parried and shredded their evidence. The cut and thrust of their arguments kept me enthralled, and I struggled to keep up with my notes.
    ‘And where did you find the murder weapon?’ asked the prosecutor.
    ‘It was lying beside the body of Mrs Evans,’ answered DS Carlisle.
    ‘And whose fingerprints were on the knife?’
    ‘The defendant’s.’
    Then the defence advocate rose and asked: ‘To whom did the knife belong?’
    ‘It was Mr Evan’s knife.’
    ‘So isn’t it reasonable then to expect his fingerprints on the knife?’
    ‘Yes. But we found no other fingerprints.’
    ‘If the real killer wore gloves? Would you find other fingerprints then?’
    ‘No.’
    The process was repeated, with the prosecution presenting their case, and the defence refuting it. Some of the evidence became very technical, but it was explained clearly enough for us to follow. The prosecution showed how Mr Evans had the means and the opportunity. For motive they suggested his wife had been having an affair, but had been unable to produce a lover. The only shock came when the coroner revealed that the child was not Mr Evan’s daughter. A shadow crossed the defendant’s face, but was so fleeting, I couldn’t be sure that I had seen it. The defence focused on the lack of motive, and poked holes in theories. I had hoped that a clearer picture would develop, but it didn’t.
    Then it was time for the defence to present their case, and Mr Evans took the stand. He was well dressed in a smart navy suit, and paisley tie. His face was pale, rings around his eyes, but he held his head high, and spoke clearly.
    ‘Where were you on the night of the murder?’ asked his lawyer.
    ‘I was down at my local having a drink with my mates.’
    ‘When did you leave?’
    ‘I went home around 10.’
    ‘Tell the court what happened next.’
    For the first time, Mr Evan’s voice began to tremble. ‘I went home. I found them lying there. There was blood everywhere. I held Helen, but it was too late. She was dead.’ He paused and a sob escaped.
    ‘What did you do next?’
    ‘I called 999.’
    Mr Evans was questioned about his relationship with his wife and daughter.
    ‘Like all couples, we had disagreements from time to time. She wasn’t having an affair. I would have known. She had an affair a long time ago, when I was away working. She had told me, and I knew Sophie was the result. But I loved her like my own.’
    As he spoke, I detected an edge to his voice, and for the first time, I didn’t believe him. Instinctively, I knew he had hated living with another man’s child. But did this mean he killed them?
    The prosecution worked to discredit his story, pointing out that Mr Evans had enough time to go home and kill his wife before returning to the pub. They focussed on his fingerprints, and his wife’s blood on his clothes, all of which were explained away by his story.
    Finally, we heard closing arguments, and each side urged us to find in their favour. The defence advocate spoke: ‘This is not a man who murdered his family, but a man who has lost his family to a cruel crime. Do not compound the injustice by imprisoning him for a crime didn’t commit. A crime for which he is already paying the price in pain and grief. Find my client not guilty.’
    Finally, we were sent to the jury room to deliberate. We chose a retired Banker as our foreman, and he immediately asked for a vote. It was half and half, and so the discussions began.
    ‘If he left the pub, someone must have seen him.’
    ‘They couldn’t find anyone. Also, while he was seen at the bar, no one can verify he was there every minute. But there was no CCTV footage to prove either way. The camera had been vandalised the week before.’
    ‘Why would a man do that to his wife?’
    ‘Well, she’d had an affair before; maybe she was having another one. And Evans found out.’
    We reviewed our notes, pored over the transcripts, and argued for hours. Regularly we voted, but still could not reach a consensus. Finally the Forman spoke: ‘I think the issue is reasonable doubt. We have to be sure he killed his wife to return a guilty verdict. To my mind there is too much doubt.’
    We still had not reached a verdict, and were allowed to go home, but would have to return the next day to continue discussions.
    I was last to leave, the car park was empty. While heading for my car, I saw the defendant talking on the phone. I’ll never understand why people think they have to shout on mobile phones, but his words stopped me in my tracks. ‘The brat wasn’t mine. The bitch had been lying to me for years. I saw the resemblance when I met her old boss at the pub that night. Once he’d a few in him, he told me about the affair.’ An icy wind blew down my neck. He turned away, and I couldn’t hear him. I fumbled for my keys, and started the car, with trembling hands. I knew he’d killed his wife. I knew why.
    I can’t remember the ride home, or anything about that night. I knew I would have to tell the clerk in the morning, and it was a relief when I finally returned to court.
    The relief was short lived. The clerk told me that no new evidence could be introduced at this time. I could not tell the jury, as we had to deliberate on the evidence presented in court. I tried hard to sway them, arguing every point I could think of. I knew he had done it, but looking at the evidence, I could understand their doubts. It all came down to reasonable doubt. Finally, we reached a verdict, and returned to the court.
    ‘Have you reached a verdict?’ the judge asked
    ‘We have your honour,’ replied our foreman.
    ‘In the matter of the people vs Evans, how do you find?’
    ‘Not guilty.’

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