The Baker Street Jurors by Michael Robertson

verdicts. The purpose of the jury is not to do what the crowd in the street wants done, any more than it is to do what the prosecuting authority wants done or what the media pundits want done. The purpose of the jury is to be just, according to the evidence presented to it. Nothing more nor less than that.
    Leave the bloody jury alone, thought the judge.
    And he put his wig back on and returned to the courtroom.

 
    5
    Nigel took the underground back to Baker Street. It was midafternoon now, not yet time for the full commuter rush, and although the tube was hardly empty, it felt spacious compared to the crowd that he had been in this morning.
    This wasn’t Nigel’s usual time to be on the tube. As he came out of the Marylebone station, he missed the live music that he normally heard during the busier hours. He entered the Dorset House lobby at Baker Street, heading directly for the lift—but Hendricks at the security station waved him over.
    â€œListen to this, Heath,” said Hendricks, with the joy of a man seeing his strongest opinions vindicated in print. He read to Nigel from a tabloid. “‘If Mr. Justice Allen thinks the English people will stand for the persecution of a man of Liam McSweeney’s caliber, whose alibi is as certain as rain in April, then—.’”
    â€œPlease,” said Nigel, putting up his hands to interrupt. “No need to give me updates, Mr. Hendricks, if you don’t mind.” Nigel tried to say it nicely, but Hendricks looked surprised—and perhaps a little offended. It couldn’t be helped. The jury was anonymous. Nigel could hardly tell Hendricks that was the reason he didn’t want to hear the Liam McSweeney news.
    Nigel took the lift to the second floor. Lois was at her station and caught him as he got out. “You’re back early,” she said enthusiastically. “Does that mean they rejected you?”
    â€œNo. I’m on a jury.”
    â€œOh. I’m so very sorry,” said Lois, but Nigel could tell she didn’t mean it. She was practically breathless with anticipation. “Which one is it?” she said. “Oh. You’re not supposed to tell me that, are you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œJust a hint?”
    â€œNo. You wanted me to do my duty, Lois. And now I’m doing it, and I’ll do it properly.”
    â€œOh, of course,” said Lois. “I was just testing you, you know.”
    â€œUh-huh.” Nigel went into his office and closed the door. He looked at the work piled on his desk—three living-will documents to finish drafting, two purchase contracts to review, and several other detailed tasks almost as exciting as those.
    He sighed. Was this why he’d gone into law?

 
    6
    Nigel got to the Old Bailey on time the next morning, but there was a delay in getting into the courtroom itself. There were competing legal priorities, and they posed an architectural dilemma. On the one hand, the trial was public—like any trial in the Crown Courts criminal justice system. That was mandatory.
    On the other hand, this jury had to remain anonymous.
    There were seats in the main area of the courtroom, behind the lawyer’s tables, available for family of the defendant and for the press. But there was also a gallery for the general public—essentially a balcony, overlooking the entire courtroom. A screen had to be set up that shielded the jury from both those views, but still allowed the jurors to see the defendant, the judge, the witnesses, and the lawyers, unimpeded.
    Nigel waited in the corridor for Court 13, along with his fellow jurors and alternates. The group atmosphere was different now than during the jury selection. The urgent suspense of getting selected or not selected had been replaced with a more subdued sense of expectancy for what might come next.
    Nigel saw the young woman with the tattoo, but was unable to talk to her. She was on her mobile the whole