Jury service must come first, even if you lose your job ... Leverhulme at the hacking trial ... Court 12 at the Old Bailey, with the tapping of laptops ... A slow, colourless hour ... Japes aplenty in Dearest Jane, from racing writer Roger Mortimer
THESE days it must be a tough to be a juror.
You're taken from your sofa and the bosom of your family and held hostage for weeks by a bunch of document bores in medieval dress who think you're thick and say things like, "For the sake of completeness".
You're not allowed a transcript and there are no video replays of the evidence you heard weeks ago.
At the end, you're told by the spellbinders what they think it all means and even if you're none the wiser you have to make a huge decision.
You're also warned that you will end up with a striped suntan if you talk to your spouse or so much as tickle your browser.
Last month, Davey Wade, who wasn't keen on the game, was put in the slammer for 21 days for going to work and not staying to hear the evidence.
Davey had recently found gainful employment. Judge Wood QC said Wade was to be "commended" for the effort of getting a job while he was out of work.
"But jury service must come first – everyone knows that," he said.
Judge Wood QC told Wade:
"I hope you will be able to go back to your job when you come out. But if you have lost your job you only have yourself to blame."
The last remark says it all.
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The Old Bailey "in action". Slow and colourness
A TRIAL has been taking place at the Old Bailey for the last few months which is not only interesting to the public, but is in the public interest – not like Sienna Miller's voicemails.
To please our sainted editor, your correspondent called in to the Central Criminal Court hoping to report in colourful terms about this very important and long-running legal event, which I think has been fairly heavily subsidised by Rupert's nickel.
But, these days one doesn't get far without a press pass or robes, and I have neither.
I walked down a dark laneway following a sign called "public entrance". I had a small briefcase into which I put my switched-off iPad and phone.
But no, members of the public cannot bring electronic devices into court.
In a well-practised line the security guard told me that I could leave my bag with a business called Capable Travel, which was just down the street where road workers were toiling.
I half-wanted to see the security guard in a travel agent's kit sitting capably behind the desk, but he wasn't. I left my bag with them for an hour. It cost £5.
Suitably clean, I was "wanded", as Dame Edna says, by another security guard and directed to Court 12 on the top floor.
I am not young any more. I climbed the 131 steps and arrived puffing and red-faced. There was a nagging worry: were these obstacles designed to deter me, an ordinary punter, from watching the trial?
The public gallery had about 36 seats, of which only 12 were occupied. Way below us was the arena. Mr Justice Saunders, bewigged, whey-faced and affable, was obliged to wear a thick red gown with ermine cuffs on what was a warmish day.
Sir John Saunders: a tight rein on proceedings
His Lordship has firm views about the influence of the social media. After the thoroughly confrontational star of The Apprentice, Lord Sugar tweeted during an earlier trial that the defendant would probably get off because he was a Conservative, the judge asked if the post could be taken down because it might influence jurors.
Sir John is keeping a very tight rein on proceedings, so you won't get any comments about the case from me. (Sorry Ed but I have to live here.)
One can understand the potential for misuse of mobile phones in court, photo snapping and the like, but I bet the journos and the lawyers each had a nifty little Nokia firmly ensconced in the skyrocket.
The judge's associate, was also in a wig, and busied herself on her laptop as she faced several rows of anonymous barristers who were too far down for me to recognise.
There were loads of lever-arch files, boxes, computers and the odd solicitor and I counted 18 grey wigs in the bear-pit. What must this be costing?
And then there was a jury of 11 (one had been discharged recently because of illness), comprising eight women and three men, who were sitting together in the back row.
They were adjacent to the judge and looking at the witness, Andy Coulson, former showbiz hack, editor and spin doctor to the Prime Minister.
At the back of the room in a massive glass house was Rebekah Brooks and her husband Charlie.
The Brookses: leaving the glass house
The hour I watched was unimaginative, slow and colourless. I kept wondering whether the barristers were more interested in putting their theories to the witnesses than persuading the jury.
One question was particularly memorable because it contained two conclusions.
"Would you agree that 'X' was a thoroughly confrontational individual?"
Answer: "No."
Where do you go from there?
By the way, X was not Lord Sugar.
Then, as if to pierce the ennui, in came three Orthodox Jews, dressed in black and sporting those long curls or payot, which look like detached side burns.
One was quickly reprimanded by a security guard for wearing a hat. Down below, the hats of a hundred grey curls stayed firmly on their expensive heads.
Mr Coulson answered in a confident and clear voice (is that a comment?), and between questions the noise of fingers tapping on laptops sounded like rain on a plastic roof.
Were we meant to feel disengaged from the process? Was this just a game for lawyers and the press?
My sense of unease increased as I rose to leave. The sign in front of me read. "Members of the public are requested to refrain from speaking or moving".
Or thinking?
* * *
Roger Mortimer: superb ear
A NEW book called Dearest Jane contains more sparkling and very funny letters from the ex-Times racing correspondent, Roger Mortimer.
His kids started the ball rolling a couple of years ago with the best-seller, Dear Lupin, a collection of missives from Roger to his wayward son.
Mortimer died over 20 years ago, but his exasperated and "ever onwards" character is a hoot and he has a superb ear.
He writes of an Australian doctor. One of his patients observed, "I reckon the Doc's got fuck-all grip on medicine."
But, back to the juror who was potted for preferring to work than do jury service.
Mortimer, who for years was a guest of the Nazis and takes nothing too seriously, writes of Mr Justice Stable, known in his club as Owly.
Apparently, Owly was a witty and humane judge who was much-liked. Before one case came up, a juror asked for leave of absence since, "my wife is going to conceive this morning".
The judge politely replied:
"It may be what you are seeking to tell me is that your wife is going to be confined this morning. Whether you are right, or I am right, it would seem to be an occasion when you, personally, should be present."