Court Out - By Elle Wynne Page 0,36

at me. It’s almost like she’s expecting me to save her, to tell the Judge that actually, it’s ok and I’ll let her fix her problem so we can carry on. Sadly, I’m not going to do that and I wouldn’t even if I could.

The Judge speaks again and I can clearly detect an air of sympathy in his tone.

“I’m very sorry Miss Taylor, but as things stand, there is no evidence at all that the Defendant had claimed or had failed to notify the Department that her living circumstances had changed.”

“But she doesn’t accept that they had,” she bleats.

He looks at her with something bordering on exasperation.

“That may well be so, but at this stage of the case I have to look at what the jury have been told, and without the final claim form, no properly directed jury could find her guilty in any event. Is there anything you wish to add Miss Chase?”

In a very small voice, I reply.

“No. Thank you.”

I turn around to see how Ms Goodridge has taken the news. Perhaps unsurprisingly she looks totally baffled at the exchange that has just taken place. I’d better go and explain.

“Your Honour, I wonder if I could have a moment at the back of court?” I ask.

He nods.

“Of course Miss Chase.”

I trot to the dock and crouch down so that my face is positioned next to a break in the Plexiglas screen.

“Did you understand what just happened?”

She shakes her head looking perplexed.

“Not a bit. I was gearing myself up to have to talk to the court and I couldn’t work out why we stopped.”

“In a nutshell, the Prosecutor’s forgotten to give the jury a copy of your latest benefit form, you know the one you signed when Mr. Lukes was living with you, when you said you were single?”

She nods.

“Well, without that there is no case. They can’t prove you were dishonest if they can’t prove you did it in the first place. Game over.”

A look of disbelief covers her face. She speaks.

“But they’ve got that form, you’ve got that form, I’ve got that form? Can’t the jury just be given it now?”

“Nope, too late. She had a chance to do just that but thought she’d sealed the deal. It's a stupid mistake on her part, but one you’ll get the benefit of. Hold tight, you’ll see.”

I make my way back to my seat just in time to see the jury come in. They’re still scowling at me, as if I’m the cause of all of their upheaval. A few are openly glaring at Ms Goodridge, resenting the fact they have been dragged out of their usual routines to sit in judgement on someone whom they already believe to be a criminal.

Unusually for me, I study their faces as they wait for the Judge to speak. The hostile ones meet my gaze and I try my hardest not to display any signs of triumph.

The Judge instructs the juror sat closest to him to act as foreperson for the procedure that we are about to follow. The juror is a middle-aged lady with a bright pink cardigan and I note with satisfaction that she was one of those giving dirty looks to us. The Judge explains that there has been legal argument heard in their absence and he has to ask the foreperson to return a verdict. The pink lady looks smug at the thought of being able to tell her friends she’s played an active role in proceedings.

“When each count is read to you, you will be asked if you find the Defendant ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty’. Please answer ‘not guilty’ to all questions.”

Oddly, she nods with gusto. Maybe I misread her. I had her pegged as on the prosecution team from the word go. The court clerk reads out the first charge.

“And on this first count, do you find the Defendant guilty or not guilty?”

Pink lady inhales deeply and turns to face Ms Goodridge. “Guilty!” she says with feeling.

What? My head jerks up in alarm to see the court clerk looking equally concerned. She presumes she’s misheard and repeats her question. Still, the same reply comes.

“Guilty!”

The Judge gives her a funny look. “Madam foreperson, just a moment ago I instructed you to answer ‘not guilty’ in respect of both counts. I’m sorry if there has been any confusion.”

“There has not been any confusion. I think she is guilty. We all do,” she replies indignantly.

“I don’t,” whispers a small voice on the back row.

“Scroungers, the lot of