Walden of Bermondsey

by Peter Murphy

  The Mail agrees. Thank goodness we have at least one Top Judge who is prepared to speak out against the rising tide of political correctness…

  Well, it goes on for a bit, naturally. It is a well-written piece, and accurate, and you can’t always take that for granted with the press these days. We may even have to have it framed. I feel my body start to unwind a little. After all the anxiety, I can’t say I am unhappy with my Top Judge experience, and thank God, I didn’t even have to make any comments about the treatment of sheep in Wales. The Reverend Mrs Walden suggests that this calls for a visit to La Bella Napoli, for some pasta and a bottle of decent Chianti. I agree. Well, what else should a Top Judge do after striking a blow for common sense?

  UNTIL THE REAL THING COMES ALONG

  Monday morning

  I try not to complain too much about the cases I am given to try. I have to set an example as RJ. If I complain, my brother and sister judges will feel entitled to complain as well, and then where would we be? They complain enough as it is and it’s not going to help to have them complaining about things I can’t do anything about. I have no control over the offences people commit. It’s not as though I can pop out to the George and Dragon at lunchtime and put in a request, you know: ‘Look chaps, we are all getting a bit bored with burglary and possession of small amounts of cannabis up at the Crown Court. Can’t you pull your fingers out and see if you can give us something more interesting? A bit of serious GBH or a decent armed robbery, or at least supplying a reasonable amount of crack cocaine? Even a modest cannabis factory would be better than the rubbish you’re sending us now.’

  So we are stuck with what they do get up to, and someone has to do the work that comes in. That’s just the way it is. In any case, the only person to complain to is Stella, and it does no good to complain to Stella. Our list officer is impervious to suggestions that you might prefer to try this kind of case rather than that, or that you just don’t like a certain kind of case. Any such suggestion is likely to be met with a look which, without any need for words, makes it abundantly clear that the work of the court would grind to a halt if judges only tried the kinds of case they enjoy: quite apart from the sheer moral degeneracy of avoiding work you don’t like.

  All the same, I feel entitled to be a bit aggrieved by my assignments over the past three months. I have done nothing but what are politely termed ‘historic’ sexual cases – eight of them, to be precise – utterly unrelieved by any change of subject-matter. A historic sexual case is one in which the court has to listen to tales of gropings and worse from as long ago as thirty or forty years, with a defendant aged seventy or older, and a complainant whose memory of the gropings has spontaneously returned after being repressed for many years, or who has decided to come forward thirty or forty years after the event for any one of a hundred different reasons, some good, some bad.

  The historic sexual case is a species which has always been with us, but has become increasingly common since the words ‘Jim fixed it for me’ came to be engraved, seemingly for eternity, on the very fabric of the space/time continuum. Some such allegations are undoubtedly true; some are undoubtedly false; all of them are nightmares for everyone involved. Over the course of thirty or forty years, witnesses have died, records have been lost, and memories have faded to such an extent that the surviving witnesses often have no idea in what decade relevant events occurred, let alone what year or month. They are the most difficult of all cases to try, particularly for juries. God knows how juries ever make sense of them, but in almost all cases, somehow, they seem to feel their way through and reach verdicts. But it comes at a price. They hate every minute of those cases – you can tell by their faces – and when the verdicts have been returned I excuse them for further service for five years, as a token of empathy. Weighed against the thin odds of being called for jury service again within five years, this is not quite as substantial a reward as it may seem, and I suspect it strikes most jurors as a hollow gesture.

  Still, it’s a bloody sight more of a gesture than judges get, even when we do three months’ worth of historical cases without pausing for breath. My wife, the Reverend Mrs Walden, thinks we should all be offered counselling. Well, as I always tell her, I could name several judges who are in need of counselling regardless of the kinds of case they are trying, but she says that’s not quite what she means. She points out that people in other walks of life – teachers, social workers, ministers such as herself – are offered counselling as a matter of routine, and they would be in counselling every spare minute of their lives if they were exposed to half the stuff we deal with, day in day out, on the bench. I’m sure she is right, but it will never happen.

  Almost all judges think they are immune from any emotional reaction to the cases they try. It is a badge of honour for us to declare ourselves to be entirely unaffected by the horrific scenes of sexual violence, ‘indecent images’ of children, and general depravity which flit through our courtrooms in the course of an average week. The Reverend Mrs Walden thinks this is either an extreme form of denial or final proof of her theory that judges belong to some alien species denied access to the panoply of emotions experienced by normal human beings. I keep telling her that exposure to this kind of stuff is just part of the job, nothing that can’t be dealt with by resort to a good lasagne and a bottle of decent Chianti. The Reverend Mrs Walden calls this self-medication. Well, I suppose it is, but someone has to medicate us and who else is going to do it?

  Not the Grey Smoothies, that’s for sure. The Grey Smoothies would never approve the expenditure involved in such an apparently pointless gesture as making counselling available to judges. No business case can be made, they would say, for maintaining the sanity of judges, especially in these times of austerity. I suspect the only way we would ever get funding for judicial counselling is for some judge to go postal, force his way into Grey Smoothie HQ with an AK-47 and reduce the future civil service pension bill by a few claimants. I doubt that will ever happen. We are all too well behaved.

  The worst thing is that there is no end in sight. There seems to be an endless supply of these historic cases. The truth is, Jim has fixed it for all of us.

  Even so, when Stella comes into my chambers last Friday afternoon with the list for today, I do think, just for a fleeting moment, that my luck might have changed.

  ‘Something a bit different for you next week, Judge,’ she announces. ‘A case called Dudge.’

  ‘Thank God for that. That’s a relief,’ I reply. ‘What is it? A bit of burglary, a spot of GBH, an affray, a good benefit fraud, perhaps?’

  Stella has the grace to look slightly guilty for having raised my hopes.

  ‘Well, no… it is a rape case, Judge.’

  I am deflated.

  ‘How is that different, then?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, it’s not historic,’ she replies. ‘It happened four months ago. I thought that might be easier for you. It’s the usual Saturday night thing.’

  By ‘the usual Saturday night thing’ Stella means that the case follows a pattern well known to Bermondsey Crown Court, and indeed to Crown Courts throughout the land. When I read the case papers this morning, comforted by one of Jeanie’s lattes, I see that she is right. It’s hardly necessary to read the whole file. After reading the complainant’s account of things I can guess the rest. You could write a summing-up which would work for any case like this. All you have to do is change the names.

  The complainant’s name in this case is Stacey. Stacey goes out with her mates on Saturday night as usual, leaving home, a flat near the Oval, at about ten-thirty. They’ve been knocking back some blue vodka concoctions at home before venturing forth, to get themselves in the mood. They make straight for the Blue Lagoon, a notorious Bermondsey night club where they make the acquaintance of Chummy, Mr Dudge, who has just arrived with his mates after several pints of lager in the George and Dragon. To cut a long story short, Chummy and S
tacey have a few rum and cokes together, and in all probability – knowing the Blue Lagoon, as I do, from its frequent mentions in dispatches – partake of some controlled drugs in one of the loos before Chummy broaches the subject of whether Stacey might be interested in coming back to his place. As convention demands, Stacey consults her mates, who think Chummy looks all right and wish her well, making sure that she has their mobile numbers in her phone in case things go wrong. So far, no real dispute about the evidence.

  But as from their arrival at Chummy’s place at about three o’clock in the morning, the two stories begin to diverge. Chummy says they have a beer or two, but no illegal substances, and jump happily and perfectly consensually into bed where they do all the usual things before falling asleep. Stacey says that she has nothing more to drink except a Diet Coke, but she suddenly comes over feeling very tired, and collapses on to Chummy’s bed, where she remains sound asleep until she awakes to find Chummy having sex with her, sometime around four-thirty to five o’clock. She immediately demands that he stop, jumps out of bed, dresses and rushes out into the street, calling for a taxi as she goes. Stacey says that she was far too tired to have consented to sex – suspiciously tired, in fact, and there are dark hints of the use by Chummy of Rohypnol, the notorious ‘date rape’ drug. Unfortunately, before going to the police, Stacey takes two or three days to consult her mates to get their opinion about whether or not she has been raped, because obviously she can’t report it without asking them. By this time, it is too late for the crisis centre staff to detect Rohypnol, or to collect any scientific evidence, for that matter. So we are in all-too familiar he-said-she-said territory.

  So I go into court feeling fairly sure that I know what to expect. Aubrey Brooks is prosecuting. Aubrey is in his mid-forties and sits as a Recorder – a part-time judge – sometimes at Bermondsey. He is one of those rare men who can genuinely be described as debonair, which is quite an achievement while dressed in barrister’s robes. He is low-key and self-deprecating in manner, but woe betide a witness who mistakes that for any lack of interest or inattention to detail. He can attack with the speed and venom of a cobra when he needs to, and Chummy will not have an easy ride if he gives evidence. Susan Worthington is defending. She is tall and imposing, very bright, and in the cobra-stakes she can match Aubrey strike for strike. I smile with relief. It’s always good to see two safe pairs of hands in a case like this.

  Aubrey explains that Stacey will be giving evidence in the courtroom, screened from the defendant. Usually in this kind of case, her evidence in chief would be given by way of a pre-recorded video interview prepared by the police, after which she would be cross-examined either behind the screen or by live TV link. But something has gone wrong with the recording. You can hardly see Stacey on the video because the officer has her sitting too far away from the cameras, and the quality of the audio is not great either. Aubrey thinks it would be better for her to give evidence live, and Stacey has no objection. So we empanel a jury, and away we go.

  In most he-said-she-said cases it’s not long before the momentum begins to swing towards not guilty. It’s a question of the burden and standard of proof, of which the jury are well aware. They can’t convict unless they are sure of the defendant’s guilt, and where there is no supporting evidence on either side, it can often be difficult for the jury to be sure of anything. But this case shows signs of departing from the usual pattern. Stacey has dressed quite formally for court in a smart dark blue business suit with a light blue and white scarf and modest heels. She turns out to be an excellent witness, and is convincing when she talks about the sudden crushing onset of fatigue, and about her lack of enthusiasm for having sex with Chummy on a first date. Of course, she hasn’t been cross-examined by Susan Worthington yet, so it’s early days, but the jury seem to be sympathetic and are paying close attention. Except, that is, for one of them.

  Juror number three, a youngish man, mid-twenties, short dark hair, wearing a grey sports jacket, red tie and light green slacks, seems rather perturbed. He seems to have difficulty in sitting still in his chair. He looks distinctly pale. In fact, once or twice he almost seems to be having a panic attack of some kind. I think I see him sweating, and he keeps putting his hand over the lower part of his face. I see Susan Worthington looking at him also. If it wasn’t a rape case I would ask him if he needs a break, but I don’t want to interrupt Stacey if I can avoid it. I would like to make sure we finish her evidence today, so that she doesn’t have to come back tomorrow, and I am sure Susan will need quite some time with her. It’s not unusual for a juror to come over a bit squeamish during a sex case; they usually get over it as the trial wears on. Besides, at the start of a trial I always tell the jury to ask for a break if they need one, and the juror hasn’t said anything, so we press on. At one o’clock, Stacey’s evidence in chief having been concluded, I adjourn for lunch and think no more about it.

  No oasis of calm in the desert of chaos today. We are in the middle of a serious dispute with the Grey Smoothies, which has progressed to the point of requiring a face-to-face meeting – something the Grey Smoothies try to avoid at all costs, and which, should it become unavoidable, they schedule at the most inconvenient time possible. Such as lunchtime, when I want to be having lunch with my colleagues, finding out what is going on at court today. But today is an occasion when a meeting is unavoidable. We have reached an impasse, and it has become clear that further emails and phone calls are not going to solve the problem.

  The subject of the disharmony is the dock – or rather the lack of a dock – in court three, where Legless usually sits. Part of the reason for having a dock is that it has, or should have, a solid glass front, which inhibits defendants from trying to escape and from assaulting prison officers, barristers, court staff, members of the public, or, of course, the judge. But there is a kind of dock, known with good reason as an insecure dock, which does not have a glass front. In fact, it has no front at all, and depends entirely on the goodwill or present mood of the defendant to keep him from escaping or going on a rampage. That is what we have in court three.

  The Grey Smoothies love insecure docks because they are about ten thousand pounds cheaper on average than real docks. There are some courtrooms, in which less serious work is done, in which insecure docks may be acceptable. Court three is not one of them. Legless is trying and sentencing serious offenders every day of the week. Many of them are disposed to violence, and some of them have every incentive to try to escape, and the risk that there will be a serious incident will continue until someone installs a secure dock; which, given the Grey Smoothies’ preoccupation with money, may be a long time. I have every intention of changing that if I can, and I have been lobbying hard, but I am pessimistic about my chances.

  Their leader is called Meredith; that’s her first name. Meredith rejoices in the title of cluster manager, which sounds vaguely indecent, but actually means simply that she acts as a Smoothie for more than one Crown Court – any quantity greater than one being referred to in Grey Smoothie-speak as a ‘cluster’. She is clad in the inevitable grey suit, just a little too tight in the waist if you ask me, with a yellow blouse and high black heels. Her nails are painted a bright red and she is wearing a huge bracelet of interconnecting gold loops around her right wrist. It is big enough and loose enough to collapse with an annoying series of metallic clicks on any table or desk to which her arm gets too close.

  I haven’t met Meredith before. For reasons I have never understood, the Grey Smoothies move their underlings around, not only between locations but also between jobs, on a regular basis, with the result that you often find yourself talking to someone about a problem which has been going on for years, only to find that they have come down from Newcastle the day before and know nothing about it. Meredith may have been in the Magistrates Court last week, or may be in the Magistrates Court next week, in which case someone else will have to learn all about court three, and then we start again.


  Her sidekick is called Jack. He looks about fourteen. His grey suit seems too short in the arm and leg, as if he has suddenly put on an inch or two and outgrown it after a good night’s sleep, and he is wearing a violent purple tie which does not quite reach the top of his collar.

  Stella is with me. Strictly, it ought to be Bob. But as court manager, Bob’s allegiance, in theory at least, is to the Grey Smoothies. In practice, he takes much the same view of them as Stella and I; but he can’t be seen to oppose them, so we have arranged a meeting for him away from court, and Stella is here to hold my hand instead. Together the four of us troop off for the inevitable site inspection of court three, which we have all seen before, presumably so that the Smoothies can satisfy themselves that we have not made any sneaky changes on our own to boost our business case. I have invited Legless to join us for the site inspection, but he has declined for fear that he may say something out of place. So may I, but I have to be here.

  ‘As you can see,’ I begin, ‘it is a fairly small courtroom, certainly not on the scale of court one. I think it should be obvious that any defendant determined to do so would have little trouble in jumping out of the dock, after which he would be free to try to escape, or to assault persons present in the courtroom.’

  Meredith is taking notes.

  ‘Don’t you have a dock officer?’ Jack asks.

  ‘Yes, we do have a dock officer,’ I reply, ‘who may well be a woman, and not very large. The defendant may be a man over six feet in height and weighing fifteen stone.’