What it’s like to be a witness

LAST summer 37-year-old father of two Sean Kelly was murdered in my street.

I woke up at about 3am to what sounded like a car wing mirror being smashed off. I was awake immediately.

I could hear what sounded like a fight involving multiple people and a voice shout, “I am going to slice you up.”

I didn’t get out of the bed to look out of the window. I am not really sure why but I think it is a combination of two things.

First, the area of Cardiff where I live is not always the nicest, and hearing stuff on the street is not uncommon. If I got up every time a drunk bloke shouted or a boy racer revved his naff Vauxhall Corsa with a big exhaust I would never sleep.

Second, the voices sounded like they were right outside my house. I didn’t want to be seen looking out and face a torrent of abuse. Anyway, the voices had gone after about 40 seconds and I went back to sleep.

The next morning I walked out of my front door to find my street covered in blood, with police everywhere.

Mr Kelly had collapsed at the end of the road and later died from blood loss.

Aaron Bingham and Nicholas Saleh were later charged with his murder. Despite not having seen the incident, in the early hours of July 13, I was called to give evidence at Cardiff Crown Court.

I am quite used to attending court. I have covered cases at crown and magistrates’ court as part of my job. With that in mind I was surprised at how daunting, confusing and intimidating I found the whole process. I have therefore decided to put together an account of my experiences so that other members of the public can go in with their eyes open. Please bear in mind these are my experiences and observations in one court, in one case, on one day.

On the day of the murder I gave my details to the PCSO I had spoken to on my doorstep. It wasn’t a statement, just a chat about what I heard, but little did I know this conversation would be mentioned in court.

After a week I got a call from the police asking if I would give a formal statement. I was really surprised. After all, I hadn’t seen anything – there was no way I could point at someone and say: “They did it”.

I met a detective in Starbucks on St Mary Street. I would encourage anyone who witnessed, or thinks they witnessed, a crime, to write down as much as they can while it is still fresh in their minds. The officer pushed me for every detail – was I sure? How sure? What happened then?

Ultimately, this is a good thing. A man is dead and his family deserves the very best possible evidence in trying to get justice. In the same respect, the people who are standing trial deserve the very best evidence. They are innocent until proven guilty.

The detective then goes away and writes up your statement. That then gets emailed over and you read it, sign it, and send it back. I got a letter about two months later to say I had been called to be a witnesst. I also got a call from a witness care officer. She was friendly and explained a few of the details and said I would get a letter to confirm the court date.

On the day itself I was told to get to the court in the afternoon. When I arrived I didn’t go through the front door as I had done dozens of times before. Prosecution witnesses enter through a side door. This means we don’t have to sit in the waiting area with the families of the defendant and victim. For this I was very relieved.

After knocking we were hurried in, after going through a metal detector. We were then led into a large area that is quite like a posh doctors’ waiting room. It had the usual things you would expect: incredibly old magazines like Good Housekeeping that were so out of date that instead of an email address the “contact us” section had a fax instead.

We were approached by a kindly woman who, it seemed likely, had bought those magazine copies when they were new. She offered us a cup of tea or coffee before heading off to get them. I say she was kindly, even though she clearly had a ferocity bubbling below the surface that might emerge if she was trifled with.

When she returned she gathered us all together. There were six of us and she showed us a model of the courtroom, explaining where we had to walk.

The kindly but stern woman then explained we would all be given a copy of our statements and we should read them thoroughly and become as familiar as possible with them before we were called in. We were (very firmly) told by the woman that we must NOT look at other people’s statements and they must be placed face down if we went to the loo.

Next we were called into another room one at a time to meet the prosecution barrister to explain the procedures again and answer any questions we may have.

While he was talking me through everything I couldn’t help but notice he seemed to have some kind of infection in his mouth. It wasn’t until I shook his hand that I realised his pen had leaked and he hadn’t noticed. I then spent the next four hours in the waiting room.

If there were two bits of advice I could give any prospective witness they would be to take a book and some food, as there is no way you can nip out and grab a bite to eat. I had to resort to accepting a banana from a generous neighbour, while we giggled about the barrister’s leaked pen.

Ultimately all you are doing in that room is distracting yourself from what is to come. Unfortunately, eventually, they do say your name, and you are wished luck and are led to the courtroom.

I had entered this courtroom at Cardiff Crown Court five or six times before. Despite this I had never before felt cold sweat on my skin or felt short of breath or nervous. You walk past the public gallery where the families of the defendants are looking at you wondering if you will say