The court room bore no relationship to the image which Cynthia had created in her mind. She’d never been in one before and had envisaged a large, austere chamber with a high vaulted ceiling and dark traditional furnishing, the judge clad in red robes perched up in the gods with sagging jowls and crimson cheeks under his white wig with the jury, defendant and assorted barristers grouped around him and with the public gallery poked away from the action at the side. In fact, the room seemed quite cramped and constrained and her seat at the end of the front row was almost in touching distance of the jury box. Moving round she saw the central spot reserved for the defendant and beyond that the witness stand. Gladys, who’d attended court before with a group of her schoolchildren, passed her a plan with arrows pointing down to the legal teams occupying a well below them surrounded by a low, light wood barrier. The arrows signified the prosecution and defence. Further arrows picked out the court bailiff—“He’s like the master of ceremonies,” Gladys whispered—the recorders and the media area which was below them out of her sight. As she leaned forward, she saw that area was nearly full. A gentle hubbub came from the well below as the occupants moved around.
Further along the row from them sat Shamira Iqbal. She’d given them a brief wave in the queue outside but since then had given her whole attention to the elderly man who was with her—maybe her father, Cynthia thought. Directly behind them was a group of six women sitting close together, presumably the Helena supporters. Outside, while they’d been waiting to come in, the shouts of “Free Helena” had been clearly audible over the noise of the traffic, even though the crowds had been penned back a whole block of buildings away. The broad pedestrian zone around the building had been eerily empty. Security had been high with their names being ticked off a police list and further checks after entering. It had been a relief to get in and sit down. All the thirty assigned places were occupied.
Gladys nudged Cynthia as the jury filed their way into the box next door. Cynthia counted four women and eight men. One of the women was elderly, leaning on a stick; another looked like a lynchpin of the golf club with piled up hair and an expression which suggested something permanently nauseous under her nose. Both of them were smartly dressed. Then there was a much younger, very pretty girl with long auburn hair dressed in some of the tightest jeans Cynthia had ever seen, the sort where she wondered how the occupants ever got into them. An even younger Black girl, also in jeans, made up the quartet. Cynthia estimated she couldn’t be older than about twenty. The men were an equally disparate group. One with long straggly hair and dressed in a scruffy hooded top looked about the same age as the Black girl. Another was slightly older and much bigger and more muscular, with tattoos up his arms. He was in a T-shirt with the message “Equality” emblazoned across the front of it. The others were older—two smartly dressed in suits who were well past retirement age, one middle-aged of Eastern descent and the final one a Black man in a leather jacket. Apart from the golf club lady, who gave the room a comprehensive stare round, including the public gallery, before she took her seat, the others seemed vaguely apprehensive and out of their comfort zone.
Cynthia’s attention was drawn away from the jurors as the small figure of Helena Ahmed was led up by two security guards. Cynthia sucked in her breath as she caught sight of the handcuffs on her wrists. The six women behind instantly broke into a chant of “Free Helena now”. She gave them a brief glance before the handcuffs were removed and she sat down. The security guards—both women—took up station on either side of her. Cynthia became conscious that the hubbub below had ceased and all the participants had taken their places. At the cry of “All rise” the chant from behind faded away. A door opened and Judge TJ McCracken appeared. He was a slight man clad in a simple red cloak with short grey hair just visible around the edges of his wig. The bailiff called the court to order and the judge immediately summoned two occupants of the well over to him. George whispered a message to Gladys, which she passed on to Cynthia. “Those are the chief prosecutor, William Hook, and Shafiq Narwaz for the defence.” Cynthia nodded. It wasn’t difficult to differentiate between the two. Hook was a tall, commanding figure who took long strides to stand before the judge. Narwaz by contrast was round-shouldered, older and took his time to shamble up alongside. Another cryptic message came along the line. “He’ll be telling them to ignore all the crap outside.”
The judge then confirmed George’s assumption by dismissing the two lawyers back to their stations and reading fluently from a prepared statement. “This court is in session to proceed with the trial of Helena Ahmed, who is charged with the murder of Richard Pennington. You will all be aware of the media attention on the trial and the demonstrations which are currently taking place outside this court. That background will not be allowed to interfere with our proceedings here. The police will ensure the safe passage of all of you from and to the court each day for as long as the trial continues. No disturbances in this court of any kind will be tolerated.” He fixed his eyes apparently directly onto Cynthia’s face before she realised the words were intended for the women behind. The stare lasted several seconds before he continued. “And, members of the jury, a special word to you to emphasise that events outside this court and anything you may have read or heard about them must be removed from your minds as you consider the evidence which will be put before you and consider your verdict. You are forbidden from now on to attempt to find out information about the defendant either online or elsewhere, or to discuss the proceedings here with anyone apart from the other jurors. That includes your family members. Any breach can be punished by a jail sentence.”
He allowed his words to resonate and die away before he called Hook to open for the prosecution. Cynthia’s mind started to wander as he kicked off in a rich baritone voice, addressing the jury box directly and telling them he would be describing one version of how and why Pennington had met his end, and the defence would come up with an alternative story. He made this alternative sound like the remains of a fast-food meal which one would rather not have embarked on in the first place and was happy to dispose of. In his view once the evidence for the prosecution had been provided, there was only one possible conclusion the jury could reach. He then started to set out his case, which sounded remarkably similar to the conclusion George had put forward in her kitchen. Helena Ahmed had been aghast at the lack of justice as she saw it for Pennington’s actions in first injuring and then killing her niece. He was the Christmas Day Cyclist, as Hook labelled him. Helena had also been outraged at Pennington’s sexual advances to her. These two motives had made her determined to kill him. She had then conspired with a well-known underworld figure, Enver Kelmert—now deceased—to dispose of the body after she had committed the crime.
Cynthia’s mind began to wander as Hook delved into the detail. She studied the face of Helena Ahmed as she sat bolt upright and unmoving in the dock. If the woman was conscious at all of Cynthia’s interest she showed no sign. Her gaze was levelled unwaveringly at the wall opposite her. Cynthia thought back to the interview she and Gladys had held with Shamira Iqbal, sitting just along the row from her. Her admiration for this woman had been striking and was reflected in Gladys’s article. Cynthia wondered whether Helena had read it. Her influence had inspired Shamira to follow in her footsteps while she had established herself as a champion of women’s rights in Pakistan. Cynthia had never visited Pakistan or anywhere near it but had herself heard many women declare it to be a male-dominated society in which a woman with a grievance would rarely progress very far with it unless she came from a family with adequate influence. So-called honour killings still often went unpunished.
Her mind came back to the proceedings as she became conscious that Narwaz was now having his turn. His approach couldn’t have been more different from his opposite number. It was folksy, amiable and extremely calm, with sentences which were clear and well spaced-out. Studying the members of the jury, Cynthia could see he was capturing their full attention as he told them the defence would rebut the prosecution’s allegations with evidence of its own to show that Helena was a victim of Pennington rather than an aggressor. As a result of his actions she had been driven from her adopted country back to her homeland. They had been the beneficiaries of her move as a result of the role she had adopted there.
There were murmurs around the court as he finished on that note and sat down. The judge banged down his gavel. “I suggest that this would be an appropriate time for the court to recess for lunch. Will you be ready to commence the presentation of your case this afternoon, Mr Hook?”
The tall figure of Hook rose. Cynthia stole another glance at Helena, who was apparently totally remote from what was going on around her. Her stare hadn’t wavered. “I will, my Lord,” Hook declared. He stayed on his feet as the rest of the court joined him to signal the disappearance of the judge and the adjournment of proceedings until two pm. The jurors filed out and Helena was put back in her handcuffs, to which she submitted without complaint before being led away.
“Time for us to go to lunch too,” George said. “Let’s get out of here.”