by John Mayer
Old Lord Roseburn didn’t have to be taught that on this occasion, the whispers and the show of disrespect from his wingmen when coming onto the bench meant only one thing; his wingmen and counsel for the Respondents were Lochie Society men together who’d laugh and joke about this in their club over champagne while the people of the Calton packed up their few possessions and went to live in God-Knows-Where. As McLane watched his lordship grit his teeth and bear it, as though from the grave the wise words of Professor W. A. Wilson, one of Edinburgh University’s finest, came charging through the ether to the rescue.
When at last old Lord Roseburn rather resignedly took up his quill and looked down at McLane, the boy who’d grown up knowing all about unfairness was already half way to his feet before being invited to address the court with his arguments.
From a large brown envelope, McLane took out what were obviously photographs and placed them with the backsides up beside his bundle of legal papers. Taken over the previous week from Tam Fraser’s kitchen window, they in fact showed nothing of any help. They did show what looked like an Orange Lodge Meeting ending and people getting into their cars - Pembroke among them - but Tucker’s camera had captured nothing illegal. However, here in the vastness of Court 3 in Parliament House, no-one but McLane knew that.
‘My lords, before beginning my submissions, I have a preliminary Motion to make, if I may.’
‘Granted’ came the unseemly speedy response from the Chairman.
Indeed his lordship’s permission had come so quickly that McLane didn’t have time to feel the weight of the importance of this moment. As he’d lain awake the night before, he’d imagined it. The moment that would define his career, if not his whole adult life. And here it was. As unexpected as he was unready, McLane had to hope that as he flicked through about a dozen black and white photographs in an attempt to get his thoughts straight, no-one would interrupt.
At last laying the pictures aside, face down, McLane calmly looked straight up to the bench. Firstly at Lord Fourlands and then at Lord Bonniface:
‘My lords, this morning I’ve been the subject of unwarranted criticism for acting in an improper and unprofessional way: a charge which I reject entirely. Now, my Motion is based on European Law and it is this: for your lordships to declare any reason why this court may not be - and be seen to be - fair and impartial towards the Petitioner. That is to say, I’m asking whether there is any reason why any of your lordships ought to recuse himself from judging this matter; either today or at any time in the future. I do so respectfully my lords and in very full knowledge of all the facts.’
In its five hundred year history, Parliament House had seen some moments that rocked its very foundations. There had been that moment in the 17th century when down in the dungeons a Lord Advocate of Scotland had knifed a prisoner to death to prevent evidence of a certain sexual nature coming out about the sovereign’s first born son and heir. There were plenty more such moments and this would rank as one of them. No-one wrote anything down and no-one spoke. Only the ticking of the big clock on the balcony facing the bench marked the occasion. Ten seconds went by and McLane was starting to wonder, what with no evidence of his own in the pictures, if this might all backfire. Twenty seconds elapsed and then suddenly, like the one o’clock cannon up in Edinburgh Castle going off, Lord Fourlands could hold back his ire no longer. Known as a hot-head on the rugby field, in hotel bars and behind closed doors when throwing his wife around, with his eyes bulging and neck veins going black, he bellowed down from the bench:
‘Mr McLane! You’ve obviously been making … enquiries. So I take it you know the name of the recently retired Lord Provost of Glasgow who was the London delegate in the consultations about this … this … Carlton Demolition Order. And I suppose you know that he was the Best Man at my wedding!’
Calmly, McLane drew breath and for all to see, slipped one of the photographs and a few typed sheets about his duties as Keeper of the Advocates' Library back into the envelope. After pausing to allow Lord Fourlands to snarl at him again, in the softest voice he’d ever used in a court, McLane replied:
‘Actually, I didn’t know that my lord, but that would seem to rule your lordship out of judging this case.’
Bowing towards Lord Fourlands too deeply to be respectful, McLane rose and turned towards Lord Bonniface. Even though isolated and outranked by the Chairman, Bonniface wasn’t about to be beaten by this piece of dirt with a law degree from this stinking area of Glasgow. Smiling and making sure he was being accurately recorded by the machine, Bonniface spoke softly if with a hint of condescension:
‘Mr McLane. I too might know of a reason why I should not judge this matter. I was just about to raise the point when you presented your Motion. I don’t say that there is a reason. I merely say that there might be one and that is enough for European Law to come into play. We cannot here in Parliament House have anything but the very highest of standards. So, if there is even the appearance of unfairness, then one must recuse oneself. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr McLane?’
Playing Bonniface at his own game, McLane was politeness itself. Bowing before responding, McLane slowly turned his right hand over in a wide staged arc:
‘Indeed I respectfully do agree with your lordship. It is most gratifying to see the highest possible standards to which your lordship referred being exercised here in Parliament House. I need not enquire into the possible reason for your lordship’s recusal, I can only say that I am deeply obliged to your lordship. There I rest, my lord.’
Old Lord Roseburn had slid right down into the corner of his wide red leather chair and was loving this. McLane even suspected he saw the old judge snigger behind his hand. This was old style Parliament House and McLane was being true to the Oath he took on the day he was Called to the Bar of the Court. He could now fight another day and if he lost the next round, appeal to the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg and that might take five years. Now straightening his face, Lord Roseburn looked down at McLane as though he were a long lost son:
‘Very well, Mr McLane. As the court is no longer a quorum, we shall adjourn.’
His opponents and the two wingmen were half way to their feet when McLane leaned forward and caught Lord Roseburn’s eye:
‘Actually, there is one more thing I’d like to say. If I may, my lord.’
As everyone retook their seats, McLane remained standing. At the nod from Lord Roseburn that he was ready to hear this legal submission, McLane paused before actually taking this step. No, he thought. It couldn’t backfire. He had his next day in court assured and there was no way the Court would want to face the same embarrassing difficulty. It was highly likely that the Keeper of The Rolls of Court would consult the Lord Justice General himself before personally fixing his next First Hearing diet. And if he lost, the European Court of Human Rights beckoned, five years away. Yes. McLane knew in his mind that he was certain of his ground. Lowering his eyes from the dome above, he was back in attack mode:
‘I’m obliged, my lord. As your lordships are I’m sure aware, in matters of public law, where the harm to a Petitioner may outweigh the public benefit if an Order of a Local Government is executed, then the Petitioner may seek legal injunction ad interim until the matter is finally resolved. In this case, although there is but one Petitioner, she stands with hundreds more, who represent thousands of people who live in the Calton. In those circumstances, I say that if Glasgow City Council is allowed to execute their Demolition Order, then there is no going back. As we say here in Parliament House, restitutio in integrum would be impossible. My lord, to these people, each tenanted flat is not just stones and a roof; it’s a house. The house where many of them were born. The family home from which they walked out to get married. The house where they’ve seen in many a New Year celebration. The walls within which their marriage vows have been lived out; in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer. My lord, in seeking injunction ad interim I seek nothing novel. Large scale public projects oft
en have to wait while private rights, such as compensation or the very right to demolish are resolved by the court. Now of course, it might be argued that with Lord Fourlands’ recusal, the court is no longer a quorum and cannot make any order as presently constituted. But that isn’t exactly the correct legal position. It is correct that three judges having sat to hear the matter, the court is no longer a quorum as regards the substantive issue, but your lordship in the Chair alone may grant or refuse an interlocutory matter such as a Motion for injunction. For all these reasons, my lord, I therefore seek Injunction upon Glasgow City Council and their Statutory Compulsory Demolition Order GLW/CAL/DEMO 2018.’
McLane hadn’t even finished bowing when Pembroke and Sotheby-Yarrow leapt to their feet as one, almost yelling: ‘My lords! A ministerial certificate approving of this development was signed in London just a matter of …
McLane spun his head and just for a second, saw Pembroke lying at the bottom of a brick lane, his teeth kicked in, his eye sockets broken and a grateful client walking out of that lane saying ‘It’s done Mr McLane. I did say Anybody, Anywhere, Anytime, so you’re welcome.’
For his part, old Lord Roseburn looked positively shocked and didn’t like this display of legal vulgarity one little bit. Extending his open hand to stop them in their tracks, he said more loudly than he otherwise would:
‘Oh, a ministerial certificate, you say! Well, that seems to be news to Mr McLane. I do hope there’s no question of ambush here, Mr Pembroke.’
The statement being only half rhetorical, Pembroke kept his lips pressed tightly together while the others around him busied themselves finding unneeded papers and scribbling notes. McLane, now just composed enough, was about to rise and request that he have sight of this mystery certificate when Lord Roseburn went one better for him:
‘Yes. Well I shall expect you to deliver to Mr McLane a copy of that certificate by five o’clock this evening. In any event, a ministerial certificate might, depending on its terms, have aided your opposition during a full Hearing. But now that we’re not having one of those, the effect of your certificate from London is moot and doesn’t bind me here in Parliament House. With great respect to the minister who wrote the certificate, I’m more impressed with what Mr McLane has had to say this morning. I agree that it’s quite wrong for Local Governments - who are after all funded by people such as the Petitioner in this case - to ride rough shod across the rights of private citizens. Quite wrong. And it’s quite right to say that there are many examples of the scenario which Mr McLane sets out. The precedents in this area of the law go back a very long way.’
To Lord Roseburn’s left and right, the wingmen were blustering and hoping their Chairman might allow them a word. But the die was cast. With a blink of his eyes and a nod of his head, Lord Roseburn pronounced:
‘No gentlemen, I’m afraid I’m persuaded. Injunction ad interim is therefore Granted. And now the court will adjourn.’
Interim injunctions could be lifted and substantive arguments ultimately lost, but as McLane stood being disrobed, the broad smile on his face reflected the thought in his head that such things were at least a year down the road. While the deputy senior gentlemen’s Rober flicked his badger hair brush across his suit jacket, McLane felt the surge of a feeling which hadn’t coursed through his veins since the beginning of this trouble; and the message that feeling brought to his mind was that this fight could be won; in its own way. Not perhaps by a knockout, but certainly on points.
With his big old Gladstone bag swinging in his hand, McLane was just about to nod his thanks to the servitor holding open the front door when from behind he heard his name being called:
‘Mr McLane, sir! Mr McLane.’
McLane didn’t have to turn to recognise the familiar voice of old Jimmy Robertson, but this very un-Parliament House way of addressing a Queen’s Counsel in a corridor caused him to spin on his heel. Puffing just a little as he reached McLane, old Jimmy did something he’d only done a couple of times in McLane’s whole career; he tapped McLane on the forearm, twice. Leaning close to McLane’s ear, old Jimmy Robertson was careful not to let even the walls hear what he was about to say:
‘I’m glad I caught you, sir. Lord Roseburn has asked me to tell you that he was fair impressed with your quick thinking and old fashioned skilful pleading. He hopes you’re pleased wi’ the result.’
‘Oh yes Jimmy, you can certainly tell him that I am pleased. Very pleased. And please tell him that in the Calton tonight there’ll be hundreds more who’ll be raising a glass to him.’
Leaning in even closer, old Jimmy’s grin was from ear to ear and he now had a grip of McLane’s arm: ‘Och, I’m so glad, sir. And I can tell you this. In the judges’ gown room, Lords Fourlands and Bonniface are bawling and shouting at each other like disappointed bairns.’
McLane let out a laugh but quickly curtailed it: ‘What about Pembroke and Sotheby-Yarrow?’
Old Jimmy drew back to let McLane see his incredulous expression:
‘Oh, them? They seem to have disappeared; but they’ll have their tails between their legs, that’s for sure. So once again, sir, well done. Aye, well done indeed.’
~~~o~~~
End of Part Seven
Part Eight : Shifting Sands
Chapter 46
Being on the short side and with all that practice as a younger man, Tucker had always been able to slipstream unnoticed behind others; be it in the shadow of just one guy or behind a twosome. Behind any more than that, he was invisible. Arab always said being out of the Calton made him nervous, but it never bothered Tucker. Known all over the city as a civilian and one of the best old fashioned Messengers that ever walked the streets of Glasgow, he was actually welcome in a lot of places which would’ve been hostile to many others.
Choosing a group of young football supporters who’d been stupid enough to pay money to see Partick Thistle get hammered by Aberdeen, Tucker used their boisterous swerves and nudges, their laughs and reaches to open and hold the door to his advantage. None but a few old timers caught even a glimpse of Tucker as he slipped into the Crown Bar and got behind one old man who was flinging on his cap; a sure sign that he was just leaving.
Sitting and nodding to the others at the table, who’d never seen Tucker in their lives before, he waited for the sign. In just under a minute, a nod combined with a shift of the eyes to the left came from behind the bar. Rising and doing the nodding and smiling thing again, Tucker kept his eyes on the floor as he weaved through the crowd towards a small table for two, right at the back. It was well known that The Crown Bar had no back door, which sometimes made life a wee bit difficult for those planning a quick exit, but Tucker nevertheless remained relaxed. Knowing the rules, that he was the stranger, therefore he took the seat facing the back wall, came naturally to Tucker. With his back to the whole crowded bar, Tucker waited. In less than thirty seconds, he began to feel an approach coming. Like the morning breeze off the river Clyde on his neck as he walked for his daily racing paper, this approach wasn’t dangerous. Well, not any more.
Offering his hand to the man slinging his leg over a chair and sitting down opposite, Tucker was pleased to feel the warm friendly grip of a guy who’d once been his competitor in the business of delivery of messages tied to rats’ tails. Known as the ‘Big O’ because of his blind dedication to the Loyal Orange Lodge, this man was Tucker’s physical opposite. About the same size as Big Joe Mularkey, Big O didn’t need to hide his presence from those receiving his messages; he positively announced his arrivals with a clarion. With all the ease of people who’d once known every detail of each other’s lives but who’d for some years now drifted apart, it was Big O who spoke first:
‘Well, well, Tucker Queen in the Crown Bar in Maryhill. Magic to see ye’ wee man. Ye look well - all things considered. Ah heard ye’re intae computers now. Is that right?’
‘Thanks. It’s good tae see you, O. Aye, computers. Ye know, Internet, Ethernet, Dark Net. Ah do it all. It�
��s no’ like the old days, but at least Ah’m no’ standing out in the rain at night wi’ a rat under my arm waitin’ for people to go tae bed. D’ye know what Ah mean?’
Big O had never afforded his recipients the luxury of finding the river Clyde water rat on their kitchen table in the morning, preferring to send a whole family of rats through the letter box simultaneously. It was therefore with a nod to one side that was more courtesy than confirmation that Big O said:
‘Aye. We don’t need that any more. We’re too old, you and me. Anyway, what can Ah do for ye’ wee man? Oh sorry Tuck. Dae ye’ want a drink?’
Closing both eyes and shaking his head once, Tucker was signalling that he’d be gone very shortly. Then Tucker did something which twenty years ago would've caused five or six men in the Crown Bar to draw their fully loaded weapons. He slipped his hand inside his jacket: only to pull out a glossy photo of a man walking in the rain across George Square at night.
Laying the photo on the table, Tucker tapped it twice:
‘Ah suppose ye’ know him, right?’
It had been in all the papers and on TV, so Big O knew all about the proposed demolition of the Calton, and if the truth be told, he didn’t like the idea. After all, his own district of Maryhill could be next. Who knew? Behind Tucker only a few feet away, the three guys watching this meeting of old adversaries hadn’t even flinched:
‘Of course I know him. That’s William Randal. Grand Master of the Loyal Orange Lodge of Scotland. They say he doesn’t own a car. He walks or takes the bus everywhere. That’s George Square and he’s walkin’ south, so I suppose he’s on his way to the Brig’ton Grand Lodge. But of course Tuck, if you took the picture, then you’ll have followed him so you’ll know that. Am I right?’
