Hamish McShanks

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 4^th May 2008

You may remember that I mentioned receiving a jury citation last week. Well I wasn’t fibbing (for once) and this week I have been privileged to be part of the finest justice system in the world; the Scottish Justice System (cue fanfare and wild round of applause) Of course were we American a round of applause would not be enough, we’d also be clutching our chest and tears would be rolling down our bulging ruddy red cheeks. Not out of misplaced pride in our country and a missionary zeal to convert the globe to the American way. But because that’s what a high fat diet and no exercise does; it gives you heart attacks.

Here in Scotland we too are proud of our country, we also have a high fat diet, and take little exercise. However we shrug heart attacks of as ‘a wee bit nippy’ and choke down another deep fried mars bar as the ambulance carts our fat backside off to A&E ‘Gonnay stop at the offie big man, ah need some buckie tae wash doon ma pie’ Makes ye proud. Nobody kicks Scotland’s @rse at heart disease; not even the mighty yanks.

But I digress. I was talking about our judicial system, of which I learnt a lot this week. For instance did you know that there are 15 jurors in Scottish criminal trials? No me either. Did you also know that the decision doesn’t have to be unanimous? Oh no, in fact in Scotland all it needs is a simple majority to get ye banged up. So if it’s seven votes for ‘hang him and flog him’ and seven for ‘let him go, he’s misunderstood; hug a tree’ and you are the last person mulling the evidence over in your mind, it’s basically going to be down to your opinion! How fecking scary is that.

However it’s a far cry from being a ‘potential’ juror to actually making the cut and sitting in judgement. It’s also a very slow process. A very very slow process. I should have guessed when I saw the number of people with books and the one old biddy knitting a scarf. A lot of jury service is sitting around waiting.

It’s a distinctly odd process the actual ‘empanelling’ of a jury. The potential jurors are all herded upstairs into the main courtroom; the first major shock comes very quickly thereafter. Jurors are pointed to one side of the public gallery; a large area of seating not dissimilar to a lecture hall. Rows of wooden bench seats ascend from the grandeur of the courtroom floor up towards the much gloomier recesses at the back of the room. However unlike a lecture hall where it’s free places throughout and first come first served. The seating here is most definitely split into two halves. Home and away sections would be a suitable analogy.

Because the first shock is watching the accused and their ‘supporters’ being directed to the other side of the gallery from where you are now ensconced. Yes that’s right, all of us together in the same room; predator and prey looking at each other. You couldn’t make this up. The sea of Burberry check and the occasional tarnished glint of 3 carat bling does allow the casual observer to work out which side is which but it does seem somewhat archaic.

The accused is eventually called up to the dock by the clerk of the court. Chants of ‘here we go’, ‘here we go’, ‘here we go’ are quickly silenced by the burly policeman at the door. Two feet of polished riot baton being slapped gently into an open palm can have that effect. ‘All rise’ cries the clerk of the court, time for everyone to get to their feet, the Sheriff is in town ….

I was expecting a dour faced Scot with a white horse hair wig, black robe, a trio of legal texts tucked under one arm and perhaps a pair of gold rimmed spectacles. The archetypal man who has made it to the top of his profession through an awful lot of hard work, prayer to his god, extreme diligence, forgoing a social life of any sort; and of course kissing the right cheeks (the trousered variety)

What I wasn’t prepared for was the jangle of spurs and the wide brimmed ten gallon hat. Not to say that the leather chaps and tasselled shirt were high on my list of expected attire either. The Sheriff moseyed on down to his seat on the bench and once his cowboy boots were resting easy on the table ‘Y’all be seated’ was uttered in a slow Southern drawl, albeit the drawl was from the Southside of Glasgow rather than the plains of southern Texas.

Eyes out on stalks and jaw hanging slackly open I was frozen in disbelief. Thankfully my legs were working on autopilot and they slowly lowered me back down to my seat before I drew attention to myself. Nobody else appeared perturbed at this Johnny Cash tribute act. The clerk of the court calmly carried on as if nothing untoward had happened whilst the Sheriff palmed another lump of chewing tobacco in his mouth.

‘How do ye plead boy?’ asked the Sheriff. A voice from beneath the hood started to mutter ‘Eeer Naw guilty yer hon-BANG! Aaargghhh’ the youth slumped to the floor, his left hand clutching his chest ‘oooyaahfu.c.c.ker..’ The Sheriff nonchalantly blew the smoke from the barrel of his gun. Other than the court stenographer struggling to transcribe the youths last words nobody batted an eyelid at this court sponsored slaying ‘Now I’ll ask you again boy’, ‘how do you plead?’

Suddenly a voice broke the silence ‘you’re a bloody idiot m’lud’ was bellowed across the courtroom ‘you can’t shoot first and ask questions later!’, ‘are you fuuucking MENTAL?’ with mounting horror I realised the voice was mine. My brain was shouting ‘be quiet ye eedjit!’ inside my head. But I paid no heed. Just in case Deputy Dawg wasn’t sure who dared speak I now appeared to be standing; to make a clearer target for him presumably ‘you made a big mistake there boy’, ‘Ach away and lie in yer ain pish ye faaaanny’ I blurted in reply

My brain was now screaming ‘what are you doing? shutupshutupshutup!’ I clamped my hands over my mouth but it was too late. He levelled his six shooter at my head and his finger started to squeeze the trigger ……‘IT WASN’T ME NOOOO!’

My head snapped back and I could feel wetness spreading down my shirt. This was odd, dead people shouldn’t notice these things? I opened my eyes, again good work for a corpse. Everybody was looking at me? With a mixture of relief and horror I realised the front of my shirt was covered in drool not blood. The bench in front was empty; it had all been a terrible dream. Sheepishly I dabbed at my shirt whilst the clerk of the court shouted ‘All rise’ ……

….. Is that the sound of spurs jangling?