Please don't shed a single tear when I tell you it was the passing of my wife that led me to abandoning the country of my birth. Our marriage had already been on the downhill slide for a year or two before she learned of her illness, and I have no doubt that we would have eventually gone our separate ways. But I could not just abandon the woman I'd once loved and lived with for twenty plus years in her time of need. I stayed and nursed her through those terrible long months until the end, and I admit to shedding many tears as her time on this earth neared. But enough of this, for now I look forward to better times.
The real reason for leaving was that the cold wet London weather was taking its toll on my forty six year old body. I could feel my joints prematurely groaning in pain at the next onset of cold rainy weather, and I'd finally had enough. My eldest daughter had married a kiwi and immigrated to New Zealand a few years back. My subsequent visits to that fine beautiful country told of a different life, one of warm sun filled days and friendly people. The slower pace of life also made it a desirable place to live out the rest of my days, and please god may there be many of them. My last visit to that far away country resulted in visiting employment consultants, and I found that my skills as a business and contracts negotiator were in some demand. By the time I arrived back in London, there were three e-mails expressing interest in my services which really made up my mind to go. I was in the final process of getting my entry and work permits approved when I put my house on the market, and expected a long and drawn out sale period due to the usual London asking price. Amazingly, it sold in weeks and my asking price met on the condition of a fast hand over. With my belongings in storage, I soon found myself residing in a small but nice hotel suite with a bank balance that would make most people weep with joy. I patted myself on the back at the ease of which things were coming together, all I now needed was the finalisation of entry into New Zealand and off I could go. And then it all turned to custard.
A jury summons for the High Court arrived by mail, my attendance was required for a week close to when I planned to depart. I smiled smugly as I penned my reply for exemption based on my leaving the country. There have been few times that I can remember bureaucracy working so efficiency, but the courts contacted the New Zealand Embassy to verify my claim. The bottom line was that the courts brought my week of forward so that I could indeed do my duty before my departure. As you can imagine, my smug smile quickly disappeared at the news. As the court attendance neared, many friends gave me advice on how to get eliminated from jury selection. Dress in my best suit, smile at everyone in the court room, especially the prosecution and defence lawyers. It worked fantastically for the first case I was called on, but failed dismally on the second.
Davis McMann, a well known hoodlum had avoided conviction many times, much to the dismay of the constabulary and the law abiding citizens of greater London. He was a well known face, his many legitimate businesses shadowing the less lawful activities. Rumours of fraud, protection rackets, money laundering, people and drug trafficking were rife. There's an old saying, where there's smoke, there's fire, and in McMann's case it was likely to be a raging inferno. He was again to be tried before a jury of the land, the new charges both numerous and serious. If convicted, he would be in care of Her Majesty for a long lag, so there was a lot at stake, especially for Mr McMann.
The selected jury consisted of myself and six other men of various ages, five women made up the twelve. Seated for the first time, I took in the dynamics of the courtroom. The judge looked old and frail, but I would soon learn that under the remaining wisps of greying hair lay a brain of incredible intellect and strength. The prosecution was a mix of young and old, the inexperienced to no doubt learn from the more confident masters of their trade. The defence lawyer displayed his arrogance in no uncertain terms. Tall and over bearing dressed in suit that cost twice what mine had. His eyes raked the jury as if to assert his dominance over us. I smiled and gave him a wink, his resulting lingering stare identifying for the first time that there might be a trouble maker within our midst.
And then there was Davis McMann. He was in his late fifties and once had been a good looking man. But the good life had taken its toll of the big man, the bulbous nose of a drinker, his wide shoulders now dwarfed by stomach that stretched his suit jacket buttons. He still retained his vanity, his thinning hair carefully groomed to minimise the tell tale effect of pending baldness. But it was his eyes that gave away his savagery, for they glared angrily at all those who were against him; to me he was a man who no doubt could inflict devastation without a hint of remorse. The first indication of his nervousness was when the charges against him were read out for the court to hear, his head shaking in denial. The opening statement by the prosecution was strong and well delivered by a gifted orator, and McCann flinched at a summary of the evidence which was to be produced against him. With a smile and a shrug he tried to disarm those watching him, but his eyes told me another story. One of the many things I've learnt as a negotiator is that the eyes give away a lot, lies, truths, panic, sympathy, and indifference to name but a few. Watching McCann, I could tell he was a man under great pressure, which is normally a sign of guilt. In the first two hours of the case I had come to dislike the man and all he stood for.
I found myself seated between two jurors, a man a few years older than I who scribbled important points onto a pad as the case progressed, and young lady who I would later discover to be a student of the arts. Her notepad was quickly filled with caricatures of those in the courtroom, judges, lawyers, clerks and of course the defendant. I fought to retain my attention on the evidence, for the artist's pencil moved swiftly and confidently across the notepad, wild strokes and smears of lead magically turning into something recognisable. The best by far was of the defendant, his pronounced big nose and large stomach causing me to laugh aloud, my outburst raising eyebrow of the judge and brought me quickly back to the reality of the situation.
It took a day or so for me to place others of interest who sat in the public gallery. The first were two of McCann's goons. They were both large, menacing and dangerous looking men, the suits they were wearing looked as out of place as Tarzan wearing a ballet tutu. Their sole job where possible, was to intimidate the jury with penetrating stares and threatening body language, I just ignored them.
The other person of interest was a tall good looking blonde; which at our first break one of the jurors identified as McCann's wife. Question, why is it that some beautiful women are attracted to people like McCann? Sure, he might have been a ladies man some time back, but I would suggest that being married to a man like McCann would not be a bed of roses. This particular question intrigued me, and I found my eyes drifting in her direction on a regular basis. As time went on, she seemed to recognise my interest our eyes found each other more than often, but her face remained without emotion and it was difficult to read her thoughts. This was not missed by McCann, and I had to fight my desire to look in either direction. But my eyes seemed to be drawn to the elegance of Mrs McCann as she moved to and from her seat when the court took their breaks. She dressed well, and her expensive and classy clothes hugged her tall lean body attracting many lustful male and jealous female wandering eyes.
As the case rolled on, it became increasingly apparent that McCann was as guilty as sin. The police had invested a huge amount of resource and technology over a period of time before arresting him. They produced a long trail of irrefutable evidence, paper, electronic voice recordings as well as video surveillance. And as each moment passed, McCann's resolve began to slip away, his confidence gone and the worry of prison ever on his mind. Casual talk among us jurors long before the case was over was that McCann was guilty, and our deliberation on his verdict at the end was going to hopefully short. The case took eight days, and then judge gave us a final summing up before we were finally ready to retire and consider McCann's guilt or innocence. As it late in the afternoon, the judge allowed us to go home and return fresh the next day, and he made it very clear that a clear verdict was expected on each charge.
I ate out early with friends that night returning to my lonely hotel around seven. A nice glass of my favourite malt was at my lips when there was a knock at the front door. I was flabbergasted to find myself looking into the big eyes of Mrs McCann when I opened the door.
She smiled nervously at my surprise, "I think you know who I am. I'd like to have a few moments of your time, if that's all right."
Without thinking, I stepped back to make way for her to enter and then closed the door. She gazed around the hotel room for a second or two before turning to face me.
"Do you live here?" she asked.
"Temporary digs. Should you be here, and how'd you find out where I lived?"
"It's not complicated, my husband's got contacts every where." she suggested eyeing up my malt on the coffee table. "Can I have one of those?"
I fetched a glass and poured two fingers; she smiled as she took it from me, and then surprised me by sipping it neat.
"Very nice." she stated. "I don't know your name, mine's Susan."
