by Peter Murphy
‘The Ministry’s view is that women are just as capable as men in the role of dock officer,’ Meredith observes sourly, pausing in her note-taking.
‘I’m not suggesting otherwise,’ I reply, apparently a touch too pointedly, judging by the look Stella is giving me. It’s not a good sign. We are less than ten minutes into the meeting and my temperature is rising already. ‘All right, let’s say the dock officer is a man and not very large. He is still not going to be able to stop the defendant if he makes a break for it.’
‘Can’t you call for back-up?’ Jack asks. ‘I thought all courts were equipped with panic buttons.’
‘They are,’ I confirm, ‘and if there happen to be other officers free they will come to our aid – in five to ten minutes. By which time Chummy has either legged it or done in a couple of barristers or both.’
‘Chummy?’ Meredith inquires with a supercilious raising of her eyebrows.
‘The defendant,’ I reply patiently. ‘It’s a technical term.’
Meredith appears to make a note of this.
‘Well, why can’t you just have more than one dock officer in the dock if you know you have a defendant who is likely to misbehave?’ Jack wants to know.
I have been hoping someone would ask that.
‘Firstly,’ I respond immediately, ‘we don’t always have the luxury of having more than one dock officer available. The contractor doesn’t supply enough of them, because they are not receiving funds for more than one, you see. Something to do with the Ministry not seeing a business case for it, I believe.’
I give Meredith a smile, which she returns with a glower.
‘And secondly, you never know who is going to kick off and who isn’t. It’s not always the ones facing the most serious charges or the longest sentences. The worst dock-jumper we ever had was a serial shoplifter.’
‘Really?’ Jack asks.
‘Tesco’s,’ I reply. ‘Joints of meat mainly. The occasional bottle of vodka to wash them down with. You can’t ask for a whole team of dock officers for someone like that.’
Meredith walks slowly around the well of the court, after which the site inspection concludes and we return to my chambers. Meredith flicks through her notes.
‘How many times has it happened?’ she asks suddenly.
‘What? Someone jumping out of the dock?’
‘Yes. You said the shoplifter was the worst of them. How many have there been since you became Resident?’
I sigh inwardly. This is not our best point.
‘It has happened on one other occasion to my knowledge.’
‘In court three?’
‘No. But I don’t see what that has to do with it.’
‘Well, was it in a court with a secure dock?’
‘Yes, as it happens.’
‘So, it can happen in any court?’ Meredith asks.
‘A defendant who was using an interpreter got out of the dock in court one while the dock officer was letting the interpreter out of the dock. He let the interpreter out before taking the defendant down to the cells, which is not proper procedure. He should have taken the defendant down first. That wasn’t the shoplifter. The shoplifter escaped, or tried to, from court three. There have been one or two other cases where a defendant tried to kick off, but he couldn’t go anywhere because he was in a secure dock.’
‘I see,’ Meredith replies. She is scribbling furiously. ‘Did any of these defendants succeed in escaping?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘They were detained by a court security officer or a police officer before they could leave the building.’
‘Did either of them assault or injure anyone?’
‘No.’
‘I see.’
Meredith finishes her note.
‘Well, I’m not quite sure how you make a business case for this,’ she comments, apparently to Jack.
‘I’m not sure you can,’ Jack agrees. ‘No escapes, no injuries.’
‘What?’ I gasp.
Jack shrugs.
‘It’s a matter of statistics,’ Meredith explains. ‘To make a business case you have to have some statistics, some evidence of occurrences significant enough to require action. With money being as tight as it is, we have to ensure that a secure dock would represent good value for money for the taxpayer.’
‘There have been a few incidents of assaults at other courts,’ Jack concedes.
‘But nothing here,’ Meredith replies.
‘And they don’t even have docks in civil and family courts, do they?’ Jack asks.
Stella and I exchange blank stares.
‘What kind of statistic would you like?’ I ask.
‘What do you mean?’ Meredith asks.
‘Well, would it be enough if an armed robber escaped from court, or a rapist perhaps? Would an escape be enough in itself? Would he have to injure someone in the course of escaping? If so, would a dock officer be enough, or would he have to injure a barrister or solicitor, or even a judge – or are we expendable?’
Meredith looks askance.
‘There’s no need for sarcasm,’ she replies.
‘I’m not being sarcastic,’ I protest. ‘I am trying to make you understand that court three is a serious incident waiting to happen. What if it were a member of the public? What if a member of the public were to be killed or seriously injured?’
For a moment I have her attention. Judges and lawyers can be left to take their chances, but an incident involving an innocent member of the public would be a political issue. The Minister might have to take an interest. Questions might be asked in the House.
‘We would still need a statistic,’ Jack ventures eventually. ‘Otherwise we will have to park it for now.’
But Meredith does not reply immediately.
‘We will take your case to the Circuit administrators,’ she says after some thought. ‘I can’t guarantee anything, and it may take some time. It’s a question of the money, you see.’
‘Yes, I quite understand,’ I reply. ‘I suppose Judge Dunblane will just have to make sure he renews his life insurance policy.’
‘It’s not as if you don’t have a dock,’ Jack points out. ‘I mean, there is a dock.’
‘Not in any real sense of the word,’ I reply.
‘Well,’ Jack says, ‘it may have to do.’
Then for no apparent reason he laughs.
‘Until the real thing comes along.’
Meredith, Stella and I stare at him blankly. He has the grace to look embarrassed.
‘It’s an old song, isn’t it?’ he stammers eventually. ‘“If it’s not a dock it will have to do, until the real thing comes along”. Except that the song wasn’t about a dock. It was about love. I think.’
This effectively brings the meeting to an end. We all shake hands awkwardly and the meeting is over. It is five to two. Lunchtime is also over. I take a hurried bite of Elsie’s ham and cheese bap before throwing on my robe and wig.
* * *
Monday afternoon
‘Counsel would like to see you without the jury,’ Dawn says as she takes me into court.
Aubrey Brooks remains standing as I take my seat on the bench.
‘Your Honour, we have asked to address you before the jury returns to court because there has been a… well, a development,’ he begins.
This sounds ominous.
‘Yes, Mr Brooks?’
‘Your Honour, at the conclusion of her evidence in chief, Stacey asked the officer in the case, DC Walker, whether she could make a further witness statement. The officer explained that she wasn’t allowed to speak to anyone until she had finished giving evidence, but she was insistent. The officer came to me. I spoke to my learned friend, and we agreed that the right course was to allow her to ma
ke a further statement, as long as the officer asked her no questions except those strictly necessary to allow the statement to be taken. Your Honour should have a copy. I handed one in to your learned clerk.’
Sure enough, a handwritten witness statement is on the bench in front of me.
‘Give me a moment or two to read it, Mr Brooks,’ I suggest. He quietly resumes his seat.
The handwriting, presumably that of DC Walker, is perfectly legible. After the usual declaration of truth and the date, it reads as follows.
I am the complainant in this case, and this morning I gave evidence in front of the jury about the rape committed against me by Mr Dudge. As soon as I came into court, I recognised a member of the jury. He is the young man sitting in the front row of the jury, the third juror from the end of the front row on my right. His name is Brian. I will now describe the circumstances in which I am acquainted with Brian.
About three years ago, I was employed as an escort by a firm based in Central London, which I can name if required to do so. This involved me being a sex worker. I would meet clients at their hotel, or sometimes in their homes. I would have sexual relations with the clients for money. Brian was a regular client for over a year. I would meet him at a small hotel because he is married. He used to tell me that his wife spent long periods of time away on business trips. I have no doubt that the member of the jury to whom I have referred is my client, Brian. I know this because I remember certain things he would ask me to do in bed. I can elaborate on this if required to do so. He wouldn’t have known it was me until I came into court. He wouldn’t have known from my name. When I was working, I used the name Lola, and my hair was a different colour.
I wish to add that I am making this statement only because I am worried about Brian being on the jury. I have been told that no one is allowed to ask me about my past sexual history just because I have been raped, and I hope this is correct.
Aubrey rises to his feet as I replace the statement on the bench.
‘I don’t propose to ask her to elaborate unless your Honour thinks it necessary,’ he says.
‘I quite agree,’ I reply. ‘I take it that one or both of you will have an application?’
‘Your Honour,’ Aubrey says, ‘my learned friend and I agree that your Honour has no option but to discharge the jury, and order a retrial at such time as a wholly new jury panel is available.’
‘I have asked my learned friend to reassure Stacey that her sexual history will play no part in the case,’ Susan adds.
About half an hour later, having discharged the jury for what I told them were administrative reasons, I invite both counsel into chambers for a cup of tea and a laugh. It’s not often you can have a laugh about Crown Court cases, especially one like this. They are all so desperately serious. But that’s why you have to see the funny side when there is one. You can only imagine juror number three’s horror when he came into court and saw his Lola facing him from behind the screen. It would be enough to put anyone off their lunch. Fortunately, he has escaped the encounter without lasting harm, and so has Stacey, who will have her day in court without fear that anyone will reveal her past employment. So today, we can enjoy the funny side.
‘Poor sod,’ Aubrey says. ‘Imagine him sitting there during my opening and then seeing her come into court and having to listen to her evidence.’
‘All the while thinking of his wife, and how he would ever explain it to her if Stacey blew the whistle on him in court,’ Susan adds.
We chat for a few minutes until Stella knocks and enters bearing a file.
‘Ah, I’m glad to find you both still here,’ she says to counsel. ‘I’ve just had your clerks on the phone, and since you are now free for a couple of days, and since I have Judge Walden available, I am putting the case of Wilbraham Moffett in for tomorrow.’ She beams at me while depositing a file on my desk.
‘Ah yes, I remember Mr Moffett,’ Aubrey says. ‘I’m afraid this means I’m prosecuting you again, Susan.’
‘Well, in that case, I had better go and look at my papers,’ Susan replies. ‘Thanks for the tea, Judge. See you tomorrow.’
They troop quickly out.
I pick up the file suspiciously.
‘Don’t tell me it’s another historic,’ I ask Stella pleadingly.
She positively beams. ‘Have a look at the indictment,’ she suggests.
I open the file and examine the indictment, which consists of a single count. Not only is it in no way historic; there is not the slightest hint of sex about the case at all. Chummy is charged with an offence I’m not even sure I knew existed, namely: doing an act in the purported exercise of a right of audience when he was not entitled to exercise that right, contrary to section 70 of the Courts and Legal Services Act 1990. I look at Stella quizzically.
‘Impersonating a solicitor at the Bermondsey Magistrates Court,’ she grins.
‘Good Lord,’ I say. ‘I wonder what the defence is.’
‘Insanity?’ she suggests on her way out.
* * *
Monday evening
I arrive home to find that the Reverend Mrs Walden has invited Ian and Shelley to partake of some pasta with us. Ian and Shelley are the golden young couple of her church. They met as teenagers at the church youth fellowship, dated chastely for several years, got engaged just as chastely, and finally got married in the church. One can only hope that they have been a bit less chaste since then. The Reverend Mrs Walden inherited them when she took over as priest-in-charge, and although they are no longer quite as young a couple as in their glory days, they are still a fixture of church life. They are still the resident duo for young people’s services, Shelley belting out a spiritual or a sixties ‘folk’ song with the lyrics adapted slightly to refer to Jesus instead of drugs, while Ian accompanies her on his guitar. (‘Why should the Devil have all the good tunes?’ Ian is wont to ask at the beginning of the set. It always gets a chuckle from the congregation, though I’m afraid the simple answer may be, ‘Because he has better musicians’.) They are still on hand to help with the youth fellowship, Sunday school, the annual fête, or anything else the Reverend asks of them. Such as talking to people in some kind of trouble and giving them helpful advice on subjects they know little or nothing about.
Ian and Shelley wear sweaters and blue jeans, and don’t drink. I see that the Reverend Mrs Walden has not put wine glasses out for me or herself to go with the pasta, itself an omen of the tone of the evening. No self-medication for yours truly, at least until the guests have departed.
Conversation is slow at first. Ian is trying to find a diplomatic way to ask me about the various horrors I have been hearing about during the last three months, not to mention many years before the last three months. But he is not very good at it, and I am not disposed to help him, so when he asks what is going on at court I give everyone what I imagine to be a humorous account of my meeting with the Grey Smoothies. But nobody seems very amused about the dock in court three. Eventually, he gets to the point and asks whether I ever feel the need to talk to anyone about the awful things I must have to listen to day after day.
‘It must be really, really awful, Charlie,’ Shelley adds, joining in for the first time. ‘Really… well, there are no words, are there? Really dreadful.’
For just a moment, I contemplate letting them have it with both barrels. I am angry with these people. I am quite sure that neither of them, in their wildest dreams, has ever imagined some of the sexual acts people describe to juries in my court, and I am equally sure it would put them off their dinner, not to mention violating every canon of social conversation, if I were to enlighten them. But part of me wants to do it anyway. Neither Ian nor Shelley could imagine being the victims of the kind of conduct I have been hearing about for the past three months, and I am very happy for them. But there they are, sitting there as if they are about to break into a chorus of ‘Kumbaya’.
What right have they to patronise me like some youngster in the youth fellowship? And if they do, why shouldn’t they at least be made to understand what it is I am dealing with?
And then suddenly I stop myself. Why am I having this reaction? What has happened to the reserves of good humour I have at court? My God, I really do need to talk to someone about this. Well, so be it. But it’s not going to be Ian or Shelley, not if they were the last two human beings on the planet to survive a nuclear holocaust. I look across the table at the Reverend Mrs Walden, and see at once that she has been reading my mind – an irritating habit she has acquired as we have both got older. She has covered her mouth with a hand. She has realised what a mistake this has been, and she is wishing they would go away. I smile to tell her she needn’t worry. I wish the same, and between us we will make it happen.
‘I know a really splendid man, Charlie,’ Ian is saying, a confidential whisper that sounds a bit creepy. ‘He’s a fully qualified psychologist, but also a man who walks closely with the Lord.’
‘Really? A remarkable combination,’ I reply, smiling. The Reverend Mrs Walden removes the hand from her mouth and relaxes visibly. She knows me well enough to sense that I am back up off the canvas now, and ready to punch back.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Ian is saying. ‘He helped my Uncle Bill greatly. I don’t know whether I have ever told you about my Uncle Bill?’
‘I don’t believe you have,’ I reply. ‘I’m sure I would have remembered.’
Ian nods. ‘Now, there was a man who was under stress all the time, Charlie. Every day of his working life. And he got to a point where he was about to burn out, totally burn out.’
‘Totally,’ Shelley confirms. ‘But he didn’t walk with the Lord, did he, Ian? Not as far as we know.’
‘Not before he went into counselling,’ Ian agrees, ‘as far as we know. Of course, we can’t look into everyone’s hearts to see the state of their relationship with the Lord, can we? So we can’t judge.’
‘I’m sure that’s true,’ I say. ‘So, tell me, Ian, what kind of job did Uncle Bill have that caused him so much stress, poor fellow? I assume he was a nurse in a paediatric oncological ward or did several tours defusing improvised explosive devices in Afghanistan? Or perhaps he taught English literature at a school in Bermondsey? It must have been something really awful, really dreadful.’
