Arthur & George

financial gain, or revenge against an individual, but rather a desire for notoriety, a desire for anonymous self-importance, a desire to cheat the police at every turn, a desire to laugh in the face of society, a desire to prove oneself superior. Like you, members of the jury, I have at different moments of the trial, convinced as I am and as you will be of the prisoner’s guilt, I have found myself asking, but why, but why? And this is what I would say to that question. It really does seem to point to a person who did these outrages from some diabolical cunning in the corner of his brain.’
    George, who had been listening with his head slightly bowed, so as to concentrate on Mr Disturnal’s words, realized that the address had come to a close. He looked up, and found the prosector staring dramatically across at him as if, only now, he was finally seeing the prisoner in the full light of truth. The jury, thus authorized by Mr Disturnal, was also openly scrutinizing him; as was Sir Reginald Hardy; as was the whole courtroom, with the exception of his family. Perhaps PC Dubbs and the other constable standing behind him in the dock were even now examining the jacket of his suit for bloodstains.
    The Chairman began his summing-up at a quarter to one, referring to the Outrages as ‘a blot on the name of the county’. George listened, but was constantly aware that he was being assessed by twelve good men and true for manifestations of diabolical cunning. There was nothing he could do about it, except try to look as stolid as possible. That was how he must appear in the last few minutes before his fate was decided. Be stolid, he told himself, be stolid.
    At two o’clock, Sir Reginald sent the jury away and George was taken down to the basement. PC Dubbs stood guard, as he had done for the previous four days, with the slightly embarrassed air of one who knew George was hardly the escaping type. He had treated his prisoner with respect, and never once manhandled him. Given that there was now no chance of his words being misinterpreted, George engaged him in conversation.
    ‘Constable, in your experience, is it a good thing or a bad thing if the jury takes a long time making up its mind?’
    Dubbs thought about this for a while. ‘In my experience, sir, I’d say it could be either a good thing or a bad thing. One or the other. It depends really.’
    ‘I see,’ said George. He did not usually say ‘I see’, and recognized he must have caught the mannerism from the barristers. ‘And in your experience, what if the jury makes its mind up speedily?’
    ‘Ah, now that, sir, that could be either a good thing or a bad thing. It depends on circumstances really.’
    George allowed himself a smile, and Dubbs or anyone else could make of it what they would. It seemed to him that if the jury returned quickly, that must – given the gravity of the case and the need for all twelve to agree – be good for him. And a slow return would not be bad either, because the longer they considered the matter, the more its essentials would rise to the surface and the furious distractions of Mr Disturnal would be seen for what they were.
    Constable Dubbs seemed as surprised as George when the call came after only forty minutes. They made their last journey together along the dim passages and up the stairs into the dock. At a quarter to three the clerk of the court put to the foreman words long familiar to George.
    ‘Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Do you find the prisoner, George Ernest Thompson Edalji, guilty or not guilty on the charge of maiming a horse, the property of the Great Wyrley Colliery Company?’
    ‘Guilty, sir.’
    No, that’s wrong, George thought. He looked at the foreman, a white-haired, schoolmasterly fellow with a light Staffordshire accent. You just said the wrong words. Unsay them. You meant to say, Not guilty. That is the correct answer to the question. All this rushed through George’s mind, until he realized that the foreman was still on his feet and about to speak. Yes, of course, he was going to correct his mistake.
    ‘The jury, on reaching its verdict, has a recommendation to mercy.’
    ‘On what grounds?’ asked Sir Reginald Hardy, peering across at the foreman.
    ‘His position.’
    ‘His personal position?’

‘Yes.’
    The Chairman and the two other justices retired to consider sentence. George could scarcely look at his