The Baker Street Jurors Read Free Page B

shame!” said Lois. “You mustn’t! It’s an official jury summons!”
    â€œSorry,” said Nigel. “But it is indeed an official jury summons—addressed to Sherlock Holmes—and so I must.”
    Nigel raised the paper airplane and lofted it lightly in the direction of the wastebasket. It flew reasonably on course for about two meters—and then it caught a draft and vanished from view.
    â€œBollocks,” said Nigel, getting up from his desk. “I didn’t know the window was open.”
    â€œAnd now,” said Lois, quite sincerely, “you have not only desecrated an official Crown Court document, but you have also littered.”
    They both went to the window and looked down. But there was nothing to be done. Wherever it had gone, it was no longer within view.
    Nigel shrugged and went back to his desk. Lois followed, still annoyed.
    â€œServing on a jury is a civic duty, Mr. Heath, and I for one would be proud to do it!”
    â€œYou’re absolutely right,” said Nigel. “Unfortunately, they don’t assemble juries by taking volunteers. In my experience, the more you want to be on a jury, the less likely they are to seat you—and the more you don’t want to be on one, the more certain they are to force you to be. When I was in law school, I desperately wanted to get on a jury to see how the jurors thought. And so the court never accepted me. But now that I’ve been in practice long enough to have had my fill of juries, I’m sure they’d rope me in without question if they got the chance.”
    â€œWell, I expect you’ll be safe this time. I’m sure they only send one notice per address.”
    â€œNot so. Laura got a summons once for her cat, presumably because of a veterinarian’s list. Once an address gets in the database, anyone whose name is associated with it in any way could…”
    Nigel stopped suddenly. He looked at Lois, she at him, and then they both looked at the unopened stack of incoming mail on Nigel’s own desk.
    Nigel peeked gingerly through the stack. And there he saw it—on the top edge of one unopened envelope was the emblem of Her Majesty’s Courts Service. A jury summons.
    And this one was addressed to Nigel Heath.
    â€œBloody hell,” said Nigel.
    â€œThere! You see?” said Lois. “Be careful what you don’t wish for!”
    Outside, at Bob’s Newsstand on Baker Street, Bob stood behind the counter and watched a paper airplane drift down and settle lightly just in front of his display of daily tabloids.
    For a brief moment Bob considered picking up the aerodynamic document—but from the bright official colors on it, he was pretty sure he knew what it was. He had been on jury duty a couple of times before, himself. Of course, this summons wasn’t for him—but even so, he feared somehow that just by touching it he might acquire some responsibility that he just did not need right now.
    So he hesitated, and did not immediately rush out from behind his newsstand to rescue it.
    And then a breeze picked the summons off the ground and sent it kiting on down Baker Street.

 
    2
    It was Monday morning on the day that Nigel was to report to jury service.
    Nigel was up early. He wanted to get to the Old Bailey before the full crowd of potential jurors arrived, so he could get a seat in the main waiting room. Late arrivals would have to wait on the benches in the corridors, which had no cushions and no backs.
    He had shaved. He’d put on a relatively clean shirt. There was no need to dress up, but no point in making a show of being unusually slovenly, either. He had seen prospective jurors try that gambit before, and it never worked.
    Besides, he knew he already had an out. After all, he was a lawyer.
    Nigel exited Dorset House and went immediately to Bob’s Newsstand for his coffee. With luck, being so early would mean the coffee was fresh.