by John Mayer
‘Well? Have you got it?’
Pulling the folded papers from his coat and handing them over without a word, he dropped his head. When she simply slammed the door in his face, he couldn’t believe how foolish he’d been. Whoever she was, she’d seen him use his position as The Keeper of the Rolls’ Senior Assistant to copy the private Petition of a very senior Advocate and was now holding these copy papers in her hand. For a measly thousand pounds, this girl now held his career in the palm of her hand. Whoever she worked for, or was related to, they now had him in their clutches for the rest of his life.
Walking slowly back to Parliament House, the young man now didn’t care how wet he got. As he stood dripping in the Atrium, all feeling had left his body and, after so much worry and fear for his position in Parliament House, his mind had gone blank. Carrying his coat down to the first level basement, he acknowledged no-one.
Back at his desk, he lifted a quill pen from its groove, dipped it in ink, and began to write on the slip he’d attached to Mr McLane QC’s Petition ‘Send for Emergency Hearing. Three Judges. Allocate one morning.’ However, as the nib flowed and the words appeared, although his dapper clothes and smartly cut hair gave him his everyday Parliament House appearance, inside, for the first time, he felt like a ghost.
~~~o~~~
Chapter 45
Lying awake beside his sleeping wife with his hands folded over his chest, unblinking and concentrating, McLane felt an old mixture of fear and exhilaration. As a boy he’d feared nothing and no-one because not only could he handle himself very well, but he had Big Joe Mularkey and a few hundred others at his back. The fear now filling his stomach was the one he first felt when as Boots of Faculty he’d unexpectedly been told by the Dean that he had an important case for him to conduct. About ten hours from now, when he rose to his feet in court, would he open correctly? Getting off to a good start always helped. Would his propositions be sound and would his arguments develop in a way that held the judges’ attention? Parliament House judges liked the private law. There they could slip and slide towards a result which bore little or no resemblance to the facts or the applicable law, but matched precisely their own views about right and wrong. To ask them to step into the world of public policy was to drag them kicking and screaming to a place where the harsh light of day exposed to the public their wrinkles and icy scowls. But maybe the depth of his research would show in their respectful nodding along with his submissions and the dropping of their heads to take notes. Of course, it wouldn’t all be plain sailing. Appearing in court in Parliament House never is. Would he see the traps the judges laid for him? Would he sidestep these with a respectful but deft move demonstrating the irrelevance of the judge’s comment or question and be able to move on? But for every worrying issue, like children playing in a forest, more questions chased these questions around in his head. Sometimes these were out in the open and sometimes they hid waiting for the right moment to jump out and catch everyone unawares and winning the game. Only time would tell.
As his eyes closed, the fear prevailed in the form of that awful memory; standing arm in arm with people he’d known his whole life watching the Old Meat Market burn down. What if they had to watch the bulldozers and wrecking balls destroy in weeks what it had taken generations to build. A two ton steel ball ignores the depth of feelings kept within four walls.
It was true that there were moves he could make should he get this case to a settlement negotiation, but first he had to get it there. A win in court in the morning and, subject to appeal, he’d be well on his way to saving a large part of the Calton. Lose and Glasgow City Council backed up by their foreign investors and Grand Lodge pals wouldn’t dream of negotiating. They’d move the bulldozers into the Calton with lightning speed while in Parliament House they’d grind him into the ground and laugh as they watched him squirm.
With only a tepid half cup of tea in his belly to keep the butterflies company, McLane stood with arms straight out allowing the robers to complete his appearance. With a last flick of the Senior Rober’s badger hair brush across his shoulders and a flick of the tail of his wig off his collar, he was ready to appear in court.
The allocation lists seemed unusually long until McLane realised that several cases against five banks had been separated out: ‘Hmm, that’s clever. If they collude after their cases begin, that’ll be easily spotted and the banks’ Directors will be in contempt of court. If they fight alone, then the strength of the case against each bank increases. Yes, clever. I wonder who swung that little move?’
Casting his eyes down the list, he spotted his own case: First Hearing. Mularkey -v- Glasgow City Council in Court 3 at 10.30 in the forenoon.
With his immaculately prepared bundle tied in pink cotton legal tape under one arm and walking slowly along the flagstone corridor, McLane dropped his head ignoring swerving Junior Counsel scurrying to their Motion Courts and stayed focused on his opening gambit. Yes, there was always the Lochie Society mob to contend with, and this time the Orange Lodge crowd - who were likely to be one and the same judges - but that was par for the course. And it had to be said, for all he knew, there might be an honest man on the bench today. At least one benefit of doing battle with a public authority was that detailed reasons for the judges’ decisions were required by law and - if these were any less than robust - they could be appealed to the Inner House and from there out of Parliament House to the Supreme Court in London where a fair hearing was assured.
Pushing on the double swing doors and feeling like this might go well after all, McLane stepped into an empty cavernous Court 3, a place so familiar it could have been his own living room. Up on the wide semi-circular bench, illuminated only in shafts of morning light, the overhanging brushed red velvet looked especially vivid and the tassels recently combed. The judges’ chairs were properly positioned and the leather bound law books corresponding to his List sat in piles with white paper inserts waiting to be referred to. The large coal fires at either side of the bench were ablaze, giving the court a real glow and actual warmth in the area around where counsel would speak. All seemed well and McLane was beginning to relax when old Jimmy Robertson backed through the swing doors on the opposite side of the court carrying a wide wooden tray. When old Jimmy turned, McLane’s heart immediately went cold:
‘Morning, sir. I’ve just seen their lordships in Chambers and we’re on time for a prompt start. I managed to find all the references on your List, sir.’
On the tray, old Jimmy had three decanters of water and five glasses. Setting them down on the bench seat on the Respondents’ side of the court, he lifted one eye in surprise that Mr McLane - or Baron McLane of Calton as he now was - hadn’t returned his morning greeting. Ordinarily he was one of the few who could be relied upon to start the morning with a cheery greeting. Seeing Mr McLane furrow his brow, old Jimmy asked:
‘Is something amiss, sir?’
Touching his temple, McLane stuttered out: ‘I’m not sure, Jimmy. This court is on the List for the Judicial Review Hearing. Mularkey against Glasgow City Council at 10:30.’
Pointing to the two decanters which Jimmy was placing for responding counsel and two more on the row behind for their Juniors, McLane looked all at sea:
‘Jimmy, why are you putting out water on that side of the court?’
McLane watched old Jimmy check the precise position of the decanters and place the third for himself before explaining:
‘Oh those are for responding counsel, sir.’
With more than a little unease in his voice, McLane pressed his question: ‘I see that Jimmy. My point is, that there are no responding counsel in a Judicial Review First Hearing. Well, not normally. It’s all examination of the Council’s Order and legal analysis. Responding counsel come in later, should the judges think the case requires argument.’
Casually dropping the tray to his side and swinging it on one finger, old Jimmy shrugged: ‘Well, I agree that would be normal, sir. But you know as well as I do, t
hat up here in Parliament House, anything is possible. I’ll try to find out what’s occurring, sir. If I can.’
‘Thank you, Jimmy. I appreciate that.’
Looking at the time, there were less than six minutes remaining before old Jimmy would be bringing in their lordships. Burying his head in his opening argument that Glasgow City Council had acted ultra-vires their legal power and ought to be ordered to review their Order to demolish the whole of the Calton, McLane hardly heard the swish of the double doors on the other side of the court. It was the laughter he heard first:
‘Oh, and of course, the helicopter ride was rather spectacular but it was the quality of the brandy which surpassed all expectations. And the cigars? Well, I say, these boys really do know how to live, don’t you know.’
In the corner of McLane’s eye, the unmistakeable figure of Heriot Pembroke QC hove into view. As Pembroke moved sideways along the Bar of the court into the position of leading counsel for the Respondents, he ignored McLane and continued to brag to his young attractive female Junior.
‘We shouldn’t be long, this morning. You’ll learn as you get more experience, that Parliament House judges don’t like public law cases. I expect they’ll throw this out, perhaps without even hearing what this side of the court has to say. Then what do you say to a few drinkies and a spot of luncheon in the Old Club? We now allow ladies at lunch time.’
Pembroke’s clipped cut-glass tones were of course directed more towards McLane than the Junior, now batting her eyelashes at him. Trying to ignore this cheap jibe and returning to his papers, this time McLane did hear the doors swing open. Arriving as though entering a masked ball exclusively for outrageously gay men, the Standing Senior Counsel to the Secretary of State for Housing and Urban Development, Mr Quintin Sotheby-Yarrow QC floated in to court and plumped himself down beside Pembroke the way they did in their school dining hall.
Sick to his stomach at their laughing and joking, McLane could smell the reeking stench of fresh set-up. No-one in Parliament House ever knows how it happens; at least not on the morning of the set-up itself. Turning his head away from his papers and trying to think, McLane drew a blank. Half a minute passed but nothing occurred to him. A full minute later McLane was still all at sea. With his head so low as to almost be touching his bundle of papers, what broke the spell was the familiar sound of old Jimmy Robertson calling:
Co-ou-rt!
Behind old Jimmy shouldering the Mace, McLane was glad to see the Chairman of the Court was old Lord Roseburn. A fighter pilot in his younger day, he was one of the few who’d climbed the slippery pole in Parliament House by merit alone. McLane was heartily glad to see that no-one was following Lord Roseburn. A single senior judge did sometimes conduct First Hearings alone. But McLane’s joy was short lived when some seconds later up the steps from the judges’ corridor came two stragglers; so late that Lord Roseburn’s scowl from behind his chair was unmistakeable. At least ten yards behind their Chairman and chattering like schoolgirls as they came up the steps into court, Lords Fourlands and Bonniface almost imperceptibly dipped their heads as their way of bowing to counsel.
With the judges seated and Lord Roseburn ready, the old judge put down his quill and politely asked: ‘Now, I see quite a lot of wigs down there. Who appears?’
Rising once more, McLane pressed one palm into his bundle and shoved his other hand into his trouser pocket. Ordinarily, such a breach of propriety would not have gone unmentioned, but Lord Roseburn was a very old hand at this game and let it go:
‘My lords, in this First Hearing for Judicial Review, I appear for the Petitioner, Mrs Jean Mularkey. I see that other counsel are present in the position of Respondents though I’m not sure why. They are, my learned friends Mr Pembroke and Mr Sotheby-Yarrow both of whom are supported by Junior Counsel. Perhaps they can explain themselves. I have no idea why they’re here.’
With that, McLane promptly sat, hoping he hadn’t raised the hackles of the wing men sitting to either side of Lord Roseburn. Before anyone had time to interject, Lord Roseburn took it upon himself to follow McLane’s lead. Looking over his pince-nez spectacles, the red faced, white moustached old judge cheerfully asked:
‘Yes. Mr McLane makes a good point. Why are you here, gentlemen? Aren’t First Hearings in Judicial Reviews normally reserved for examination of the Local Authority Council’s Order and legal analysis of that Order?’
As senior man, it fell to Pembroke to rise. Throwing his gaze to the ceiling, when he turned towards the bench, he more addressed the wingmen than the Chairman of the Court:
‘Of course, your lordship is correct. However, the operative word is normally. My lords, this is no ordinary First Hearing. I appear for Glasgow City Council and my learned friend Mr Sotheby-Yarrow is of course the Standing Senior Counsel to the Secretary of State for Housing and Urban Development. I can inform the court that we are here because it has very recently come to our attention that Mr McLane is about to commit a very serious breach of Parliament House Rules which would certainly affect our respective clients very adversely indeed.’
Pushing out his bottom lip, old Lord Roseburn widened his eyes and asked:
‘Really? And what kind of breach do you say Mr McLane is about to commit?’
Half turning as though the empty court was packed with spectators and media, every one hanging on his every breath, Pembroke huffed a little before replying:
‘He’s about to make an ad hominem argument, my lords.’
Not quite giving his wingmen the courtesy of consulting them, old Lord Roseburn half turned himself and stared into the roaring fire:
‘Oh! You do surprise me. Well, that would be serious. Perhaps you could tell the court the nature of this ad hominem argument. And then I think we’d better hear from Mr McLane.’
Loving every second of this, Pembroke pointed at McLane before speaking:
‘It is a well-known part of being an Advocate in Parliament House, that one cannot be both Advocate and client. One cannot act for a client to whom one is related. Neither can one act as Advocate when one has a personal property interest in the outcome of the case. I can tell the court that Mr McLane is not only about to breach one of those rules, nor two, but according to my information, all three.’
The look on old Lord Roseburn’s face couldn’t have been more disappointed. He quietly liked McLane and always thought that in a perfect world, he ought to be a Parliament House judge. He’d even said so to his wife. Pembroke and Sotheby-Yarrow were, in his opinion, stuffed shirts by comparison, though well connected and somewhat powerful ones. This, if true, would ruin McLane.
Very slowly, giving both himself and McLane a few moments to think, Lord Roseburn noted what Pembroke had said and jotted a note in the margin which said ‘Surely not?’
For his part, McLane was busy scribbling something onto a blank sheet. Only when he’d finished did Lord Roseburn invite him to respond. Looking down at counsel, his lordship’s voice was cooler than it had been a few minutes before:
‘Now, Mr McLane. In your own time, if you please.’
Getting straight to his feet and this time more slapping his bundle of papers than merely pressing into it, McLane looked not at the Chairman of the Court, but straight back at Pembroke:
‘My lords, I deny these charges not once, not twice but three times. Firstly, I can categorically say that I am not acting in my own interest in this matter. I have no personal interest in this matter. I act solely as legal counsel to my client, the Petitioner; that is to say, Mrs Mularkey. As to the second charge, that is that I am related to the Petitioner, I can say that I am not related to her in any way. It’s true - and I have no doubt that my learned friends’ research over the last few days has revealed this to them - that I often do call Mrs Mularkey ‘aunt Jean’. But that is only because I grew up across the landing from her house and her son has been … shall I say, like a brother to me all my life. Then, as to the property aspect, I say this. For some twenty years now, I have paid
the rent on the flat in which my aunt Isabella lived and before that my mother. But I have no legal ownership of property in the Calton. As far as I know, no-one has; other than Glasgow City Council, the Catholic Church, a few shopkeepers and one bar owner. It is also true that, as I said, I grew up in that district of Glasgow, but there’s no law that I’m aware of against acting in a case about where one grew up. And I also say this. If my learned friends have any documentary evidence to present, then let them present it because I know it will be fake.’
The look on old Lord Roseburn’s face was now one of pure relief. The colour had come back to his cheeks and he was breathing normally again. McLane had been resolute and what he’d said had the ring of truth about it. Glancing down at Pembroke and Sotheby-Yarrow who were deep in whispered argument, Lord Roseburn actually had to cough to attract their attention:
‘Well gentlemen. What do you say to that?’
Once more, it was Pembroke who rose to reply: ‘My lord. we’ve decided that on this occasion we won’t split hairs with Mr McLane. We’re quite content that we’ll win the legal argument today. So we’re content to let him present his case.’
The bodies and faces of the wing men were statuesque, but their eyes betrayed them. Darting between each other and the Respondents’ side of the bar of the court, they knew that between them they held all the winning cards. It was virtually unheard of that wingmen would outvote the Chairman of any Court. But as slowly as the erosion of any river bank, that was becoming more of a historical fact than a current reality.
