Judge Walden

by Peter Murphy

  Brian Greene is an unprepossessing young man aged nineteen, but is described by prosecuting counsel, Derek Mapleleaf QC, as a genius – off the charts in terms of the autistic spectrum, but able to function fairly normally in society and possessed of once-in-a-century talents when it comes to computers, and specifically, to hacking. He is, technically speaking, of previous good character, but is known to have been the architect of some of the most damaging hacking attacks on record, in the course of which he has shut down a number of well-protected government and commercial operations both in this country and abroad. When eventually run to ground by the security services as the result of an anonymous tip, Greene could give no coherent account of why he behaved as he did, except that he didn’t know what else he would do all day if he wasn’t at his computer.

  After obtaining extensive psychological reports, the security services concluded that he could be trusted to work in the government service, which – after they had explained to him the likely consequences of being extradited to certain of the countries he’d offended – Greene began to see as an acceptable idea. Abigail Sinclair QC, like Derek Mapleleaf a member of the small cadre of counsel having a high-level security clearance, is representing Greene; and, no doubt aware of its irrelevance, confines herself to a short, boilerplate speech in mitigation, which does little to shed any further light on the defendant. Since it doesn’t matter, I give him a concurrent suspended prison term on all six counts – a hopelessly inadequate sentence, but one that at least offers some recourse if his new employment isn’t working out a year from now.

  To my mind, the hearing’s most interesting revelations come from a man introduced to the court as ‘Agent A’, a member of the security services, whom Derek calls to give evidence about Brian Greene’s talents and activities. By way of assuring us of his credentials to give evidence about these matters, Agent A tells us that he was recruited in much the same way about seven years ago, having himself been something of a prodigy in the computer field. But when he speaks about Brian Greene, there is a definite touch of John the Baptist about him: good as he was in his day, Agent A tells us, he is with us today only to proclaim the coming of a man whose computer he is not worthy to switch on. He stands in awe of Brian’s achievements, which have involved playing havoc with military, diplomatic and commercial activities seemingly at will, while leaving no real clue about his identity. If, as expected, Brian achieves the same kind of results on behalf of his new masters, Agent A concludes almost reverentially, Great Britain can look forward to a quantum leap forward in its ability to protect its cyber security, and to interfere with that of hostile powers. The Americans, he ventures to add, may even start to take us seriously again.

  Remembering Stella’s enigmatic hint yesterday, after I’ve passed sentence I invite Derek and Abigail into chambers for coffee. I have a good excuse: they were both at Bermondsey in the famous Foggin Island case, whose implications for international law saved the court from closure, and is the subject of a plaque installed by the government of France in the court foyer. I invite Agent A to join us also. After some stilted conversation during which we are all doing our best to avoid any mention of the case we have just dealt with, I ask Derek as delicately as I can whether there might be any chance of borrowing Agent A for a few minutes – with his agreement, of course – to see if he can shed some light on a disturbing circumstance involving the suspected hacking of a judicial computer. Derek has no objection and Agent A, clearly intrigued, agrees at once. It’s well after seven o’clock by now. Derek and Abigail are understandably anxious to get away, and once they have gone, I give Agent A a confidential briefing, which he absorbs effortlessly. Like a couple of characters from a John le Carré novel we make our way furtively and, thankfully, unobserved along the now dark and deserted corridor to Marjorie’s chambers.

  Seating himself in Marjorie’s chair, Agent A begins to tap the keys. I’ve warned him that the computer is securely locked down, to which he reacts with an impish grin. It takes him a little under two minutes, not only to unlock the computer, but also to bypass Marjorie’s password.

  ‘We don’t want to be too long,’ he says, once he’s in. ‘We don’t want to leave fingerprints, do we?’

  He stares at the screen for some seconds and smiles. ‘I do like your colleague, Judge,’ he adds.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘She’s incredibly organised, isn’t she? Look at this: everything in files, clearly marked, nothing loose at all. A place for everything and everything in its place. I bet the trains run on time in her house.’

  ‘That would be Marjorie,’ I confirm.

  ‘This shouldn’t take long at all,’ he predicts cheerfully. He taps on some more keys, the screen flashes and flickers for a few moments; and suddenly he sits back contentedly. ‘Bingo. Got it. There we are, Judge. There’s your pornography.’ He laughs. ‘That doesn’t count as pornography in my book, but each to his own, or her own, I suppose. See for yourself.’

  I stand behind Agent A and see for myself. I daresay we all have our own opinions about what constitutes pornography, but I must say that I’m inclined to agree with him. If this is pornography, Error 32B must have a rather sensitive trigger threshold. But I’m also noticing something else, something Agent A would probably have no reason to notice, and what I notice cheers me up even more than the unconvincing state of the ‘evidence’.

  ‘Are we sure this is all?’ I ask. ‘Could there be anything else?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I did a very thorough search, using the language they’re using in their programmes, and she doesn’t have any hard-to-find files. No, I’ve got it all; so now, if you’re happy, let’s lock it back up before anyone knows we’ve been here.’ He pauses. ‘Unless, of course, you’d like me to… I could do it without leaving my fingerprints…’

  ‘No,’ I reply at once. ‘I have other plans for it. But thank you for offering.’

  ‘No problem,’ Agent A says cheerfully. Tap, tap, and the Error 32B message returns to an otherwise blank screen.

  ‘You’d better show me out the back way, Judge,’ he suggests, ‘just in case your security people are tempted to ask me any awkward questions.’

  ‘Thank you again,’ I say.

  He grins cheerfully. ‘My pleasure. All part of the service.’

  We shake hands. I walk him to the door at the end of the judicial corridor, from where he can disappear clandestinely into the Bermondsey night.

  I shouldn’t have done it, of course, but like the newly converted Brian Greene, I’ve long been persuaded that sometimes you have to cross a line in a good cause; and I feel sure now that it is in a good cause. I would love to call Marjorie and tell her, but it wouldn’t be wise. Sadly, she will have another unquiet night, but things should improve considerably tomorrow.

  * * *

  Thursday lunchtime

  The case of Laura Catesby having collapsed, as the court management terminology for yesterday’s events has it, Stella has started me on a short trial, a two-day non-residential burglary. While decidedly the worse for wear, Chummy broke into a store dealing in computer games and helped himself to a good selection from their stock. He’s claiming to have been so drunk at the time as not to know what he was doing. But the evidence suggests that, although he’d certainly imbibed enough to reduce his inhibitions when it came to breaking in, he wasn’t even close to being inebriated enough to plead temporary insanity. The defence isn’t going to fly, as his counsel, Emily Phipson, knows perfectly well. We’re going through the motions very efficiently, and we’re making good progress. We will get the jury out tomorrow before lunch, with any luck.

  And so to lunch, an oasis of calm in a desert of chaos. On my way to the mess I look into Marjorie’s chambers, just to make sure that Mr Megabyte hasn’t been trying to interfere with her computer. To my surprise, I see her seated at her desk, apparently engrossed in some papers.


  ‘Marjorie, what on earth are you doing here?’ I ask. ‘I thought you weren’t coming in until it’s time to meet the Grey Smoothies.’

  ‘This is my bloody court, Charlie, and these are my bloody chambers, and if the bloody Grey Smoothies don’t like that, they know where they can bloody well stuff it.’ She smiles thinly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she adds. ‘I didn’t mean to get carried away.’

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘Actually, that sums it up perfectly.’

  ‘I’m not coming into lunch, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you to.’

  She pauses. ‘Charlie, do you think I need my solicitor with me this afternoon?’

  ‘No,’ I reply firmly. ‘It’s not going to come to that.’

  She looks at me curiously. ‘Really?’ she asks, a trifle sceptically, I think. But then she examines me closely for some time.

  ‘What?’ I ask. She gets to her feet and walks across the room to stand in front of me.

  ‘I know that look, Charlie – you’re up to something. What is it?’

  ‘Up to something – moi?’

  ‘Charlie…’

  ‘I can’t tell you any more, Marjorie. Let’s just say, I don’t think you’ll need your solicitor.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Charlie…”

  ‘I can’t, Marjorie,’ I say with all the finality I can muster. ‘Really. Look, I have to go. I’ll see you later, after court.’

  ‘I hope I did the right thing, Charlie,’ Hubert says, tucking into his escalope Milanese and garlic mashed potatoes, the dish of the day, ‘calling Stella on Tuesday afternoon. I was a bit worried about all the shouting and what have you in Marjorie’s chambers.’ He’s obviously dying to ask what was going on. I’m not sure I’ve completely sold the story about Marjorie not feeling well.

  ‘It was nothing,’ I reply quickly, ‘storm in a teacup. Stella found me and we dealt with it. Bloody Grey Smoothies again.’

  ‘So, nothing to worry about then?’ Hubert asks.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ I reply, with as much emphasis as I can muster. ‘Marjorie wasn’t feeling too well, so I suggested she take the day off, but I’m sure she’ll be back with us soon.’ Hubert and Legless look at me questioningly. I give them what I hope looks like a reassuring nod.

  ‘What did you have going on yesterday afternoon then, Charlie?’ Hubert asks.

  I am alarmed for a moment. ‘What?’

  ‘There seemed to be something going on in your court when I was leaving for the Garrick around five. Bit of an odd time for a hearing, or was it something to do with the Grey Smoothies?’

  ‘There was something I had to do,’ I reply evasively. Time to change the subject. ‘What’s this I’m hearing about the Garrick, Hubert,’ I retort, ‘reconsidering the question of women members? Wasn’t there something in The Times about it a day or so ago? What’s that all about?’ Mercifully he takes the bait.

  ‘That’s been blown up out of all proportion,’ he protests. ‘All that’s happened is that…’

  And mercifully, the rest of the lunch hour passes harmlessly as we catch up on the latest gripping instalment of political goings-on at the Garrick Club.

  * * *

  Thursday afternoon

  By the time we break for the day, we have dealt with the evidence and are ready for closing speeches tomorrow morning. Having claimed to be so comprehensively intoxicated, Chummy didn’t have much to say when he reluctantly went into the witness box, and Piers Drayford pretty much nailed him in cross-examination by exploring his admirable lucidity at the police station after his arrest, when he asked, perfectly rationally, to see his solicitor and for a message to be sent to his girlfriend. And now it’s time to go and meet the Grey Smoothies, and hopefully solve another paperless crime.

  As promised, Sir Jeremy Bagnall is leading the Grey Smoothie delegation. With him are Meredith and Shaun, who, no doubt in deference to Sir Jeremy’s presence, has abandoned his Mr Megabyte persona in favour of a rumpled suit and tie. It’s all a bit fraught. Both Jeremy and Meredith know all four Bermondsey judges well.

  ‘Would anyone like to say anything before we begin?’ Jeremy asks. ‘Marjorie? Charles?’

  Marjorie is sitting behind her desk, her arms wrapped tightly around her. I’m standing close to her on her left. She shakes her head.

  ‘I think we should just get on with it, Jeremy,’ I reply.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He gives a majestic sweep of his arm, ushering Shaun forward. ‘Right then, Shaun, if you’re ready, please.’

  The computer has been turned away from Marjorie and myself, and is perched near the front edge of her desk. Shaun strides forward and seats himself in front of it. He hasn’t said a word, but there is the suspicion of a self-satisfied grin on his face. He taps a few keys, and turns towards Jeremy and Meredith.

  ‘There you go, Sir Jeremy,’ he says proudly. ‘It’s all there. All you have to do is scroll down.’

  Jeremy approaches the computer, but does not sit down. ‘Would you like to come and watch this?’ he asks us. I nod to Marjorie, and we walk slowly over to stand slightly behind him, one on each side. Meredith is keeping her distance – she has never liked any of this, I reflect – and she’s taken refuge in an armchair across the room. She’s holding a notebook, and I’m guessing that, in accordance with standard Grey Smoothie practice, she’s the designated note-taker for the meeting.

  As soon as Marjorie sees the screen, she positively gasps. I smile. It’s a moment I’ve been looking forward to, seeing her face as she suddenly realises what she’s looking at. She has seen what I saw when Agent A gave me my preview. She turns to me excitedly. ‘Charlie, it’s…’ But I shake my head and hold a finger up to my lips. I want Sir Jeremy to discover this for himself – with a little help from me, naturally. She understands immediately, and nods.

  ‘So…’ Jeremy begins slowly, ‘what we have here are some documents with some extremely bad language in them, which you’ve kindly highlighted for us, Shaun, thank you. Everyone see?’

  ‘Yes, we can see, Jeremy,’ I answer.

  ‘The language would have triggered the 32B, even without the more graphic stuff we’ve got, that’s coming up next,’ Shaun observes with satisfaction.

  ‘Yes, I see.’

  I’m sure you can imagine what the language consists of. It’s the usual Anglo-Saxon terminology for the act of sexual intercourse and related parts of the male and female anatomy. It’s nothing you don’t hear in the pub on any given Saturday night, but in the Grey Smoothie universe, apparently, it’s enough to trigger a 32B. Jeremy has his finger over the mouse, about to scroll down in search of the more graphic stuff. But I intervene.

  ‘Just before you scroll down, Jeremy, may I draw your attention to the header at top right of the pages you’ve been looking at?’

  Shaun frowns and steps forward, as if puzzled, to see for himself. Surely, Mr Megabyte hasn’t missed this, I muse to myself? If he has, this could be even better than I’d anticipated.

  ‘It says, “Schedule one”, Jeremy reports.

  ‘Indeed, it does,’ I reply. ‘Now, Marjorie knows much more about all this kind of stuff than I do, Jeremy, but in my limited understanding of such matters, the usual context of a schedule is that it’s attached to a parent document, providing additional information that the author didn’t want to include in the main document. Let’s see what happens when you scroll down.’

  By now Marjorie has fully recovered. The colour is back in her cheeks, her arms have disentangled themselves from her waist, and she has an ominous smile on her face. Shaun, on the other hand, is wearing an expression that conveys, for the first time, just a smidgeon of doubt.

  ‘Well, this is different,’ Jeremy observes with some distaste, as the results of his scroll present themselves on the screen. He’s right. This is very different, and one might we
ll agree with Shaun that it’s pretty graphic. What we have is several pages of pictures of a man and a woman, both naked, engaging in various sexual acts. They don’t look as though they’re aware of the camera: they don’t look self-conscious at all, and there’s absolutely no effort to draw attention to themselves. Nonetheless, Shaun thinks of it as pornography, and he doesn’t need to tell us that it would have triggered a 32B even if the language hadn’t.

  ‘Mm…’ Jeremy muses, almost to himself, ‘so do we think of this as pornography?’

  Shaun shrugs. ‘Definitely,’ he replies, though oddly he doesn’t sound absolutely definite.

  Agent A and I, of course, have a different view. ‘I don’t think you can classify something as pornography just because there are images of naked people,’ I venture.

  ‘Even when they’re… doing what these people are doing?’ Jeremy asks. He reflects for some time. ‘Didn’t somebody once say that it’s all in the mind of the beholder, that it depends on one’s own reaction to what one sees?’

  ‘It was Justice Potter Stewart of the United States Supreme Court,’ Marjorie replies quietly, breaking her silence for the first time, ‘and what he said was that he would probably never succeed in defining hard-core pornography intelligibly: but he knew it when he saw it.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Jeremy says. ‘Well, there we are. I suppose that’s what I have to decide.’

  ‘Well, just before you do,’ I say, ‘may I once again direct your attention to the header at top right of the page?’

  Jeremy looks closely at the screen. ‘It says, “Schedule two”,’ he observes.

  ‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘I’m no expert, so perhaps it would be best to ask Shaun to help us. But wouldn’t it be sensible to see if we can find the parent document of these two schedules?’

  Jeremy nods. ‘By all means, yes.’ He gives another imperious wave of the hand, and Shaun returns to the computer, rather more slowly this time. He taps twice, as did Agent A before him, and up it comes. Even Meredith is curious now, and she joins us as we huddle in a group in front of Marjorie’s computer.