We're in the jury room. I am the foreman and we've just voted. It’s 10-2 against and if I can’t do something useful this case will go to pot and a woman will go to prison. The law prohibits disclosure of jury deliberations but I can tell you how the trial went.

First, we’re called; we’re thirtyish in number. We seem more reprobates than judges, though judge is what we must eventually do. We are to become important — if we survive the scrutiny from the lawyers, anonymous suits behind them and the public. I suss the scene: the usual boxes, benches, wigs and the ominous, anachronistic garb of Santa and his helpers, the four lawyers of the apocalypse clad in vulturous black, the opposing QCs. The dock is big enough to hold a good-sized gang of blaggers — if such contradiction is possible. I can’t yet see the accused behind the frosty glass — but obviously she’s guilty or she wouldn’t be here. It’s all a bit scary.

A baby girl has died. The judge tells us this manslaughter case will take six weeks. So at least it’s worth coming for. He tells us we’ll hear from various witnesses. All will present different aspects of the case. Everyone’s so serious that I realise it’s all a bit tragic. Now there’s a disturbance within our ranks; our usher interrupts to explain that a prospective juror has already broken down in tears. How bad can it get? Little do I know.

The woman is excused. The clerk pulls out cards randomly, calling jurors’ names. My heart sinks as we near the quota. Then I’m called, last, and take my place beside the next bloke. We smile tightly, as men do. We are six of each sex: how statistical can it get? A good question, as it turns out.

The judge’s powerful voice carries over the entire room as he explains just how important we are. I wonder what monster of a woman can deliberately kill a small child? Wait: this is manslaughter, not murder — so not deliberate. Not wanting to gawp I glance at her quickly. She looks pretty normal, but who doesn’t? I’ve met some nutters in my time and, to be fair, few of them had horns and a barbed tail. Are we supposed to judge body language? I listen to the judge; he clarifies this subtly, as he will many of my nervous first-timer questions. Importantly, he says we are to beware the common trap of judging others by ourselves. That’s all. It’s as though he thinks us bright enough to understand. I wonder . . .

Now the punters are brought in; various witnesses to the fact — sorry, possibility — that the woman in the dock has not committed a horrendous crime. We listen, some doze a little; there’s nothing much going on here. At lunch, like first-year schoolboys, I team up with the next bloke. I’ll call him Don — though it is I who will eventually tilt at the windmills.

Finally we’re sent home. I recall the judge’s warning not to judge others by ourselves and I wonder by whom we are to judge, since that is our habit. Neither must we form our own theories, nor engage with the internet, for these things are inadmissible in court. That seems reasonable — almost.

It goes on, day upon day. Experts are called. We have “bundles”, piles of paper in folders. There are medical reports, pictures of brains and bits of brains, house plans, even an incomplete glossary of medical terms, to which new words are added daily. We get all manner of novel information, carefully explained by the experts. There are some good acts here. We watch their various styles. A GP arrives in a dress that she obviously enjoys as much as we do. Most seem pleased with their performance. They give their evidence. Some jurors listen and make notes while others doze through this complex and often contradictory stuff.

Now four blokes for lunch, it’s like back at college. We laugh a lot, though much is nervous, black humour. As we chat I realise that while we are fairly well qualified, having spent hundreds of hours in classrooms, lecture theatres and so on, there are some who have hardly attended a lesson since school. How hard this jury service must be for many of those called to it.

By now I can recall the main players’ names. I have secretly come out on the side of the defendant, partly because the case is being played on a mostly unlevel pitch. Embarrassed, I try to chip away at the case. Embarrassed, yes; I’m picking up the subtleties. Beneath the pleasant polity lies the feeling that the court sees us as public idiots number one. I’m working to correct this. It would be ludicrous were the judge unable to govern proceedings by his hard-won superiority — and equally foolish were the jury unable to disrupt proceedings by their easy inferiority. There’s no: “Oi, what about . . .” whatever point they would like to make. So the jury, as Lewis Carroll rightly observed, is suppressed, by being obliged to write their questions, tearing off pages, handing them to the usher and thus to the judge. It’s intimidating.

Here’s an interesting game: the court is a controlled, highly mannered, almost unnervingly polite institution, where almost no one raises a voice, so unlike a good class, where students are encouraged to challenge the tutor or contribute a point as they feel the need. Here, every question is written. Now, how to attract attention? In the almost librarial silence, the mere tearing of paper through the spiral binder seems to crash from the court’s walls and one tends to pull the paper slowly, hole by hole, until quietly severed.

The jury is at the bottom of the value pile. None of my respectable colleagues has been on a jury before. Unused to the environment, they fear to speak and some write no notes, even for their own reference. They can all write, I suppose; some seem ill-chosen for this work. I find myself in exactly their position. I am just as powerless as they. I rustle my paper discreetly, then indiscreetly. I wave it. I do the “excuse me, waiter”, cough. Frustrated, I rip the sheet off. It makes a dreadful din but the usher looks up with a start. My question gets to the judge.

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