It’s the truth. It’s fucking terrible trying to get out of jury duty. “You are the ones who are tasked with examining the evidence put before you,” I continue. “You are the last port of call before a prison sentence. It’s a job that needs keen eyes, a strong nerve, and it’s a duty that should weigh heavily because it’s the weight of a man’s freedom.” A couple of the jurors’ expressions have changed from boredom to self-importance. “I’ve presented you with a great deal of evidence showing the truth of the night that PC Tomlinson died. My client, Mr Simpson, isn’t an upstanding member of society. He was a drug-taker who illegally occupied a house and dealt drugs from there. He has a temper which is hardly the mark of a good character and diametrically opposed to PC Tomlinson, who had an important job and raised a family.”

I pause to get their full attention. “However,” I say, “We are not trying my client for being an unpleasant person. That happens on Twitter and not in a British court. The truth is that on the night of the sixteenth of August, PC Tomlinson stepped outside the law. Whether it was in anger or frustration, he set in motion a chain of events that ended with his death. My client is not responsible for that, nor is he responsible for the brutality he suffered at the hands of PC Tomlinson and his fellow officers.” I tap the rail in front of the first row of jurors. “Do your duty. That is why you are here.”

The jurors stare at me, and I nod before turning and striding back to the table where my client is waiting. Dressed in an ill-fitting suit and with his hair scraped back in a ponytail, he looks a far cry from the police mugshots when he’d been a strung-out mess. Time in prison has detoxed him. Whether he stays that way is unsure.

“Your turn,” I mutter to my opponent, Simon Fields. “Do try and keep it under five hours this time.”

He glares at me, and then hastily rearranges his face when he realises the jury is watching him.

I settle back into my chair, and my client leans in anxiously. “What do you think?” he whispers.

I eye Simon, who is striding up and down in front of the jury. “I think the odds are that he’s going to bore them silly within twenty seconds. He never knows when to stop.” I pat my client’s hand. “We’ll know soon enough.”

Three hours later, I’m at the back of the law courts in an area where the delivery wagons unload. Leaning against a pillar, I raise my cigarette and take a long drag, feeling the smoke fill my lungs. I exhale, watching the smoke rise and disappear. A door opening behind me makes me turn around.