Court Out - By Elle Wynne Page 0,34

court.

The junior barrister appears to have cottoned on to the point the Judge is making and I slip outside to have a quick word with Ms Goodridge before the jury are empanelled. It’s a daunting concept, having to explain yourself to twelve strangers and she looks understandably nervous. Her long curls are tied back today and she’s swapped her beaded top for a simple cream shirt and black trousers. The only hint at her usual dress sense comes from a small stud in her nose. She gives me a small smile and stands as she sees me approach her. I can see that her hands are trembling as she puts down her newspaper.

“All set?” I query.

“I think so,” she replies. “Are you sure this is worth the risk?”

“It’s up to you,” I say. “If you’ve told me the truth you’ve got a defence. You can plead guilty, but it’d be to something you haven’t done. I can’t say whether the jury believe you, but that’s a decision for you.”

She looks at me thoughtfully.

“Do you believe me?” she asks, looking me straight in the eyes.

I laugh and wish I had a penny for every time I’ve been asked that question. “You’ve done something quite foolish that, as a woman, I can relate to. Pretending to be someone’s girlfriend is always a recipe for disaster but luckily, not a crime in itself. Just remember, people who tell the truth during their time in court always stand out; liars are easily tripped up and don’t come across well. Whilst you have nothing to prove, you’re going to be judged nevertheless, so this is your only chance to have your side heard.”

“Sorry,” she says. “I know I’m going on about this, but I just can’t face the thought of my kids seeing their mum in the local paper.”

“Whatever happens, it’s tomorrow’s chip paper,” I say, happy that she hasn’t pushed the point.

Our usher appears from the courtroom, black gown billowing behind him.

“All parties in the case of Gillian Goodridge to court twelve please!”

We file in dutifully behind him and Ms Goodridge assumes her position in the dock. As she is identified and the charges are put to her, I feel a pang of sympathy for her predicament; it’s one thing to try and play the system and lose, it’s another altogether to be accused and convicted of something you haven’t done.

As the jury are being empanelled, Serena passes me a note ‘Can’t you make her plead? She’s obviously guilty!’

I roll my eyes, fold it up and file it deep within my papers before raising a casual eyebrow at her. The names of the jurors to be sworn are being read out to the court and as usual they go in one ear and out the other. I glance briefly over to see if I recognise any of them, but the rows of faces staring at us are unfamiliar. It’s a beautifully sunny day today and I can’t blame anyone for feeling slightly resentful that they are stuck in a stuffy courtroom rather than enjoying the potential start to our summertime.

To start proceedings, Serena opens the case to the jury, giving them a brief outline of what Ms Goodridge is supposed to have done:

“You may all be familiar with the benefits system by one way or another, but I’m sure, Members of the Jury that each and every one of you know that it is a privilege and not a right that the weak are supported by the strong of society.”

Uh oh, it appears that Serena’s been reading the Daily Mail again.

“This woman,” she says in a theatrical voice, pointing at the dock, “This woman has abused our system. She lied to the Department, told them that she was single, living alone, when in fact she had a partner. She knew that fact would reduce her ill-gotten gains and that’s why she concealed it when her claim was up for renewal!”

I know I could stand up at some point and point out that claiming benefits is not ‘ill-gotten gains’ per se, but I let it pass. The Judge’s eyebrows are almost in his fringe so I know I haven’t heard wrong.

Serena then proceeds to read out various statements taken from the mothers at the school gates who have seen the pair canoodling each morning. I drift off, familiar with the various versions of their antics, ranging from an innocent peck on the cheek to a brazen bum squeezing incident. She progresses to a short statement