ʻʻAll parties, please make your way to the court,’’ a diligent receptionist, an old lady suited up, keeps reminding every five minutes. On the stairs, barristers and prosecutors, solicitors and judges swiftly swirl towards the courts to serve justice. They are chatty and seem to be laid back.  But the persons slowly finding their way up behind them are not.

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For their lives are about to change drastically.

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Most people believe they are the ones to have the control over their lives. But just as at any other court, Harrow Crown Court proves this is not always the case. Here, you don’t have any say.

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At Court 3, what started as a clever way of getting extra money, might possibly initiate demolition of two men’s carefully built careers and future within two hours. One by one, posed with such clarity that’s been acquired and developed over years of practice, questions like arrows are shot at the witness box. ʻʻWhere did you sit in the car?’’ and ʻʻWhat were you doing on your phone during the collision?’, every detail is of importance. The barrister, with a lightly sallow wig to cover his bold head, speaks with distinct pauses emphasizing each word.

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All eyes turn to the witness, a man in late twenties. Silence. ʻʻI don’t know,’’ a vigorous yet inept attempt to deceive the people he’s surrounded by. ʻʻI can’t remember.’’ His increased heart beat becomes mine. I can hear him swallowing his saliva; a clew stuck in his throat. His fists are tightened like knots on a boat.

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The last barrister stands up. He opens up a large book but doesn’t say anything. Tension. Stress. Then, what seemed like an eternity for me, let alone the man, the barrister asserts his conjecture. ʻʻThere is only one reason you can’t recall any of this,’’ the pundit begins. ʻʻAnd that being because you don’t want to admit that you and your uncle were driving around Leeds and deliberately hitting other cars in order to get insurance afterwards,’’ he states, leaving no room for doubt.

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Aghast at what has just happened, the person, who’s been standing in the witness box, mumbles something, but the words evaporate in distance. He plaintively looks down as to acknowledge that both he and his uncle are doomed. Or ʻʻmaybe there is a slight chance that the judge and the rest of them will metamorphose into the humane people they actually are and forgive his foolishness?’’, he might be hoping.

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A faint hope. Instructed by the judge, the jury gets up from their seats and leaves the room to then privately make up their minds. 12 people of varying ethnicities, gender, age, welfare and professions are to decide the destiny of two men. Two men with whom they have never encountered. Two men whose background and story they don’t know. I am left wondering which path I would stir the men’s lives towards to.

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I look at the girl sitting on the left.  The black gown fails to camouflage her juvenility; she is around my age. Although taken the role to announce commands, this crier’s attention has not been captivated. Checking her nails, the girl is wandering in her own little world. The accused uncle’s and nephew’s fate seems too remote to her possibly upcoming Tinder date. She will take off the heavy black gown to then change into a skimpy dress. Just like me, she will leave this institution as if nothing had happened. And just like for the judge and jury, for her it’s just a regular working day. But for some this day turned their lives upside down. Without their say.