‘Okay, what about Tim?’
‘He’s doing the most tedious fraud imaginable in Birmingham, it’s going to last for ten months.’
‘Dicky Brindle then?’
‘No, no, no. You don’t want Mr Brindle for your first murder do you?’
‘I suppose not.’
I scratched my head: as ever Clem was two steps ahead of me.
‘Well, I suppose that only leaves Tommy Sadwell.’
At this Clem got up and walked over to the door and shut it, then he turned to me and started talking in a hushed voice, as though he was about to impart upon me some great secret: ‘There is another name,’ he whispered.
‘Oh,’ I whispered back, though I had no idea why I was whispering. ‘Who?’
‘Charles Parkman.’
‘Charles Parkman?’ I was now completely confused, Charles Parkman was a Family Silk, I couldn’t ever remember him doing crime.
‘But, he’s a …’ I stuttered and Clem finished my sentence, ‘Yes, a brilliant lawyer and a fantastic advocate.’
‘I was going to say Family Silk.’
‘Mr Winnock, Charlie Parkman was doing criminal cases in the City Crown Court when you were still working out how to tie your shoelaces.’
I thought of Tasha. When I said that I’d do everything for her, I hadn’t envisaged asking a Family barrister to lead me, Silk or not.
‘No, I think I’d rather have Tommy, Clem, if it’s alright with you.’
Clem Wilson shook his head. ‘No, Mr Winnock, Head of Chambers is going to be too busy to do that much court work. What with all this industrial action and political campaigning that’s going on. Mr Parkman will be just fine, and he’s available. In fact he can’t wait to get back into the Crown Court.’
‘But they’ve got Roger Fish,’ I whimpered.
Clem Wilson just smiled. ‘Don’t you worry about that, Mrs Murdoch says that you’ve got a very good case.’
‘Yes, exactly, and she’s not going to be too chuffed if we’ve got a Silk who hasn’t done a Criminal trial in fifteen years.’
‘Au contraire,’ said Wilson confidently, ‘Charlie Parkman and Jeanette Murdoch go back years, they were at Oxford in the same college apparently. She’s more than relaxed about giving him a brief.’
I sighed. I got it now. It had all been a bit of a set-up. I was going to be led by Charlie Parkman whether I liked it or not. And I knew why, it was as obvious as the nose on Clem Wilson’s face. Charlie had been a bit strapped for work, probably had a big tax bill or a school fee to pay, and had turned up in Clem’s office asking for a bit of work, any kind of work. And, of course, being a Silk, he couldn’t do just any work, it would have to be something that was commensurate to his station, and, as it happened, Tasha Roux’s case fitted the bill.
I felt deflated. I was going to be led, but I hadn’t expected it to start like this.
I thought I’d better phone Kelly and start telling her what a great Silk Charlie Parkman was.
The ten greatest Crown Courts in the land
Now, before you ask, no, I haven’t been to every Crown Court in the land – indeed nowhere near. But I have been to quite a few, which is one of the nice things about the job, getting to travel to different parts of the country. I have now reached a stage in my career where there are certain things that I look for in a Crown Court: helpful ushers, a nice robing room with not too much animosity against ‘out of town Counsel’, a little bit of ambience and history, and, of course, a good café.
With this in mind, here is a list of my top ten favourite courts.
1.The Lord Chief Justice’s Court, The Royal Courts of Justice – the Royal Courts of Justice is to a barrister what Wembley Stadium is to a footballer. When you arrive here, the heart beats that bit faster and the beads of sweat form like a reservoir around your wig. You know that you are in a big case and you have no idea how it is going to go. It gets the number one spot for its grandeur and overwhelming sense of majesty.
2.The Old Bailey – perhaps the most famous Criminal court in the world. The Show Courts are immaculate, thick with the whispered echoes of hundreds of trials, hundreds of great speeches, hundreds of moments of drama. Again, if you’re here, you know you’re doing something significant.
3.Lancaster Crown Court – Lancaster Crown Court needs to be seen to be believed. Based in an old castle on a hill above the town of Lancaster, the old assizes court is situated in what appears to be some kind of medieval hall, replete with suits of armour and coats of arms of long-dead knights on the walls. The time I appeared there, I felt as though I had been transported back to the time of Camelot.
4.Sheffield Crown Court – I like the architecture of this court; it’s a kind of post-modern septangle built in the 1960s. The courts are impressive, particularly the ones where the jury boxes are situated on a sort of raised stage, which allows them to see everything that is going on, which is how it should be. Not the friendliest of robing rooms though. Some sod swiped my gown when I was there.
5.Isleworth Crown Court – this makes my top ten solely for reasons of nostalgia, as I did one of my first Crown Court trials here, defending a young woman on drugs charges. The court itself is an old hospital and has none of the allure or historical resonance of some of the others on this list, but it will always have a special place in my heart.
6.Chester Crown Court – this is another former castle, which boasts two of the most wonderfully ornate courtrooms you could ever wish to see. One of which saw the trial of the Moors Murderers, something the local bar will tell you every time you happen to go there.
7.Liverpool Crown Court – in particular the corridor just outside the Recorder of Liverpool’s court (the Recorder is the Senior Judge), because the court- rooms themselves are modern and unspectacular, but the view across the city and River Mersey that is afforded by the massive windows outside this court is utterly spectacular. When I was there I got a bollocking for being late because I was stood outside, transfixed by the boats coming up and down the Mersey.
8.Shrewsbury Crown Court – perhaps a bit of an unusual choice, but, as any lawyer who has been to Shrewsbury will tell you, the court building there has the most amazing café. I spent a week there and ate home-made cakes and pies every day for under £3, marvellous. And a rare treat, because believe it or not, these days many courts no longer have a café or restaurant, which is a shame in my book because if you’re in court all day, you really need a cup of tea and a bun.
9.Minshull Street Crown Court, Manchester – when I was sent to do a hearing in Manchester, the instructing solicitor, a rather lascivious man of a certain age, who was later done for VAT fraud, told me, ‘Russ, you’ll love it at Minshull Street, mate, the solicitors clerks are all gorgeous-looking birds.’ I didn’t believe him but damn it he was right – it was like being on the set of Hollyoaks – and, because of that, Minshull Street Manchester sneaks into my top ten.
10.Snaresbrook Crown Court – another beautifully ornate Crown Court with wonderful gardens and even a lake. Inside it’s like Hogwarts, with its magnificent staircases, impressive turrets and mysterious locked doors. I have to admit that I always have a lovely warm feeling whenever I’m given a brief to go to Snaresbrook.
The Court of Appeal and the case of R v J (a minor)
One of my more memorable cases at number one on that list, the Court of Appeal, was the case of R v J (a minor).
J was a fifteen-year-old lad called Josh. He had had sex with a thirteen-year-old girl. As such, in the eyes of the law, both were under the age of consent to have lawful sex. They had been caught when one of her friends posted about her mate’s dalliance on, yes, you’ve guessed it, Facebook. The girl’s parents discovered this and they weren’t happy. When they questioned the girl, she intimated that she had been raped.
Josh was interviewed and accused of rape. His response, perhaps understandably given his immaturity and the seriousness of the allegation, was: ‘Rape! She was mad for it.’
The girl was then interviewed again and admitted that it wasn’t rape. Unfortunately for Josh, having made an admission to having sex with a thirteen-year-old girl, which is a criminal offence, he was charged with sexual activity with a child. And, in the Youth Court, having confessed to the charge, he had little option but to plead guilty.
After entering his plea, his solicitor started to wonder whether this was right and asked me what I thought. ‘Because,’ as he said, ‘it doesn’t seem fair, does it, that one kid under sixteen should be charged because he was a boy, and the girl who was also under sixteen, and therefore had also technically broken the law, wasn’t charged at all.’
I saw the logic in this, so I tried to be clever and drafted grounds of appeal to challenge the decision to charge ‘J’. I said that this was an unreasonable decision, and that the conviction should be quashed. I genuinely believed that I had made a smart legal point. I signed my grounds of appeal and argument and sent them off feeling pretty pleased with myself.
When it came to the hearing, I arrived at the Royal Courts of Justice with my blue bag slumped nervously over my shoulder and walked past the usual array of cameras and journalists, who were there for a much more newsworthy case involving a footballer. I then made my way through the massive oak doors, through security and into the marble-floored hall. As a barrister it is where you want to be, demonstrating your brain and wits in one of the highest courts of the land. The problem though, is that your wits and your brain are minuscule in comparison to the brain and wits of a High Court Judge. They are smarter than you, they know more than you, and they will take what you think is a clever point and destroy it. Unless, of course, it really is a clever point, in which case they will make you argue it and discuss every detail of it, until you are left pleading with them to stop. As my shoes clip-clopped across the forecourt, I was now starting to worry that my clever point was actually a bit shit.
I went down to the robing room and started to put my kit on. There is a different atmosphere in the robing room of the Royal Courts of Justice. The banter, mild bullying and overt misogyny of a typical Crown Court robing room gives way to gloom and fear. There is no conversation, no laughter, no smiles, just the grim features of lawyers busily losing all confidence in the arguments that they are about to proffer.
When I first started, the robing room at the Royal Courts of Justice had a lovely elderly attendant called Arthur who used to play Radio 3 on a transistor radio, and called everyone sir – sadly, Arthur’s been retired off, and the sound of Radio 3 has been replaced with the grim silence of fear.
I was to be in front of Mr Justice McCoombe, Mr Justice Lacey and Lord Justice Swinton. I had been in front of Swinton once before. He asked me a question which I answered in such a garbled way that he never bothered asking me another one.
I made my way into the court and sat on the Counsel’s row; my heart was pounding and a strange nervous pulse had developed inside my wig. I no longer had any confidence whatsoever in my clever point.
I listened to the two cases that were heard before mine. Both were appeals against sentence. One of them involved an armed robbery; a rather old, tired-looking barrister with a Northern accent was sluggishly suggesting that the sentence of six years was manifestly excessive.
Suddenly, Mr Justice McCoombe turned on him. ‘Mr Leaman,’ he said, ‘your client pointed a sawn-off shotgun into the face of a totally innocent Post Office cashier.’
‘Ah,’ said Leaman, pointing a hoary old finger in the direction of the Judge, ‘but at least he didn’t pull the trigger, My Lord.’ The appeal was dismissed.
By the time they got to me, my confidence had completely evaporated. I stood up, a complete bag of nerves. I opened my mouth and hoped that words would follow in the form of vaguely coherent sentences.
‘My Lords,’ I began, ‘this appeal concerns the inherent wrong that, in my respectful submission, befell my client.’
They seemed disinterested but at least no one had shouted at me. I continued tentatively, like a mouse tip-toeing through a minefield. Initially it was going quite well, until I got to my – increasingly less clever – point: ‘After all,’ I said, ‘the Sex Offenders Act was not meant to be a stick to beat errant teenage boys with.’
At this they took it in turns to kick me, metaphorically, around the court.
‘Mr Winnock, isn’t it designed to protect teenagers?’ asked Lacey.
‘Yes, of course, My Lord,’ I said.
‘Then why shouldn’t it protect the thirteen-year-old girl your client had sex with?’
‘It should, My Lord.’
‘So what is the point of your appeal?’
‘It’s just unfair and unreasonable, My Lord.’
Lord Justice Swinton now joined in. ‘Unreasonable to protect children, Mr Winnock? Unfair to protect thirteen-year-old girls? Really?’
‘No, My Lord.’
‘Because that is what you want us to find, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all, My Lords.’
‘But you accept that if we find in favour of your client, that is, that it was unreasonable to prosecute him for having sex with a thirteen-year-old girl contrary to the law as passed by Parliament, then we would be saying that it was wrong to protect thirteen-year-old girls from having sex with men?’
‘I don’t think that’s what I’m saying, My Lord.’
At this stage I no longer knew what I was saying, my mind had taken on a cabbage-like quality. He was absolutely right. My point was totally garbage. Complete crap. I had tried to be clever and had come up before people far cleverer than me.
‘Is that what you want public policy to be, Mr Winnock?’ added Mr Justice McCoombe. ‘Some kind of green light for everyone to have sex with thirteen-year-old girls?’
I stood there and made a noise that I imagine was not dissimilar to the sound of air coming out of a dead person.
‘Do you have anything else to put to us, Mr Winnock?’
Only that I wanted to run away and hide. ‘No,’ I said.
And with that, the appeal of ‘J’ (a minor) was dismissed. I left court truly humbled I had tried to be clever, and I wouldn’t be trying again any time soon.
The case against Tasha Roux
The case of the Crown versus Tasha Roux consisted of exactly 933 pages, which from a business point of view was pretty good.
It took me two days and two nights to read it all. This was the story according to the prosecution papers:
Tasha Roux was a 23-year-old woman living in a tower block in London Bridge called Tarvin House. Her mother was a white Londoner, her father a black South African who had fled to London in the 1980s to escape apartheid. He had left her mother when Tasha was still a baby. She had not seen him since. His whereabouts were unknown.
When she was eight, her mother put Tasha into care because she couldn’t cope with her and the five other children she had. By the time she was fourteen, Tasha was abusing drugs and committing some petty crimes. She had stopped going to school. There was a suggestion that she was also working as a prostitute, though she denies this and there are no convictions recorded against her for soliciting sex or similar offences.
When she was fifteen she had a baby who was herself taken into care and adopted, because, at the time, it was feared that Tasha would be an unsuitable mother.
Then, when she was seventeen she met Gary Dickinson, a body-builder and doorman from South East London.
Dickinson was ten years older than Tasha and had already amassed a lengthy list of convictions for drugs, violence and fraud.
Tasha moved into her flat in Tarvin House on the sixth floor. A one-bedroom flat in a high-rise full of lonely one-bedroom flats. Dickinson would live there some of the time, but his main address was with his mother in Lewisham.
Tasha worked in various jobs: in a nightclub as a waitress, in a factory that sorted out old clothes for recycling, in a call-centre, as an assistant in a nursery. All the jobs were short-lived and most en
ded badly through absenteeism or suspicions about her being under the influence of drugs or drink.
In the five years before Dickinson’s death, the police were called out a total of sixteen times because of disturbances at the address. Some of the calls were made by Tasha, but most were made by her neighbours.
One neighbour, Mrs Pauline Adamson, recalls hearing screaming and arguing on a regular basis. She claims loud music was often played, but she could still hear the arguments over the music. She describes lots of young men coming in and out of the flat in the middle of the night.
Another neighbour, Mr Rick O’Rourke, recalls being awoken one night by the sound of Mr Dickinson banging on the door of the flat, begging Tasha to let him in. His opinion of Miss Roux is that she often appeared drunk.
On the night of the killing, Tasha went out to a bar called Nomads in Elephant and Castle, then to a nightclub nearby called Rendezvouz. CCTV showed her returning home alone at around 4am. About twenty minutes later Dickinson can be seen entering the flats and taking the lift up to her floor.
At 5am neighbours report hearing noises from the flat; a Mrs Hussain (number 41b) describes hearing the sound of raised voices, and a Miss Adams (49c) recalls hearing the words, ‘You do it every fucking time, Tasha,’ being repeated over and over again.
Doors could then be heard slamming and neighbours became aware of a female crying in the hallway outside the flat.
At this point, Mr O’Rourke opened the door of his own flat, but accepts that his view was partially obscured as he was too nervous to open the door the whole way. He saw Miss Roux and Mr Dickinson square up to one another, then saw Mr Dickinson move away towards the stairwell. He then saw Miss Roux rush towards the stairwell as well. The next thing he heard was a scream from Miss Roux, followed by a thud. He called the police but stayed in his flat.
Confessions of a Lawyer Page 16
