John Mortimer - Rumpole On Trial

by Rumpole On Trial(lit)

  It was just behind Euston Station.

  Some time after the Chambers meeting when she had so shamelessly soft-soaped Sam Ballard, Phillida persuaded him to invite her to lunch, not to the place of his choice, which was a vegetarian Nut 'n' Crunch bar in Fetter Lane, but to a highly priced blow-out at the Savoy Grill. These facts may be taken as proved to the satisfaction of the jury. There is also no doubt as to the outcome of their shared smoked salmon and cutlets. It can also be assumed that Mrs Erskine-Brown used the trump card of her undoubted physical attractions (even Mr Injustice Oilie Oliphant is inclined to look mistyeyed and drool a little at the sight of our Portia in snow-white bands and a stiff collar) in a way which Mizz Liz Probert had denounced in the case of Dot Clapton.

  How exactly she played her hand must remain a matter of speculation, and, although I have had to invent their dialogue (and I don't admit that my skill as a criminal defender also requires a talent for fiction), I have no doubt that the game was played along the following lines.

  'You know,' Phillida probably led off as soon as their order had been placed, 'I've been longing to have someone to talk to about Claude. To be perfectly honest with you, he's not all that easy to live with these days.' 'Of course, I know nothing of that,' Ballard assured her. 'I mean, I've never actually lived with your husband.' 'No, you haven't, have you? Well, it's been pretty toughgoing recently. Quite honestly, he seems to resent me being a woman. Do you think that's reasonable, Sam?' 'Well, no. Hardly,' Ballard admitted.

  'Hardly! I can't help being a woman, can I? I've got no choice in the matter. You don't blame me for being a woman, do you, Sam?' This was accompanied by a slight inclination towards her lunch companion and a melting look.

  'Oh. Not at all, Phillida, not in the least. I find your being a woman perfectly acceptable.' 'Somehow I thought you might say that. Claude seems to think that being a woman gives me an unfair advantage. You don't think that, do you?' 'Well, I noticed that the waiter did smile at you when he was showing us to the table.' 'Oh, Sam, I can tell you've had lots of practice chatting up women over lunch! The real trouble is that Claude believes that if he were a woman he might do better with the Lord Chancellor. What do you think of that?' 'I think that's very silly.' Ballard had no doubt about it.

  'So do I.' 'Erskine-Brown couldn't possibly be a woman, could he?' 'I think he'd find it extremely difficult.' Phillida agreed. 'So he might as well give up the idea and settle down to being himself.' 'I think that's what he's afraid of.' And then she came to the real object of the exercise. 'He said you had a little chat about his application for Silk with dear old Keith from the Lord Chancellor's office.' Champagne, which she had as, sumed Sam Ballard would have ordered if he'd managed to think about it, was no doubt being poured as they faced up to an embarrassing moment.

  'Erskine-Brown didn't seem too pleased about that. He used an expression which I certainly couldn't repeat in a public place.' 'You mean he called you a "pompous prick"?' 'Phillida! Pas devant Ie waiter! Is this champagne?' 'Of course it is.' 'Did I order it?' 'You know you did, Sam. I think you wanted to celebrate the fact that we're going out together at long last.' J'lt causes rather a curious sensation in the nose.' 'You've got to forgive Claude; he had a deprived childhood.

  That's the sort of language chaps pick up at Winchester.' And then she gave her victim the honest and wide-eyed look which has had such a devastating effect on juries, and asked him directly, 'Don't you think Claude ought to get Silk?' 187 'In his own interests, I thought not.' 'You're fibbing, Sam.' She smiled beguilingly. 'You were thinking entirely of me.' 'Was I?' Poor old Ballard was puzzled.

  'Admit it. You thought I'd get fewer leading briefs with Claude competing. Well, I want to be entirely honest with you, Sam, now that we've become real friends.' 'Do you?' 'Of course I do. I want you to be the first to know I shan't be looking for leading briefs in the future.' 'You won't?' 'I'm leaving the Bar.' This bombshell produced a distressed yelp of'Phillida!' from Ballard. 'I've made up my mind. Don't look so sad, Sam. We'll still be able to meet for lunch. I'm not leaving the country or anything. And you know, it might make it easier for us if Claude were really busy and away in, let's say for instance. Hong Kong, doing leading briefs for long periods of time. We could have lunch together often. You'd like that, wouldn't you?' 'Well, as a matter of fact, Phillida, I believe I would.' This, for Ballard, was a positive statement.

  'Then just lift the telephone to dear old Keith in the Lord Chancellor's office. Tell him that there could be no possible objection to Claude being entirely wrapped in silk, even though he is a man through absolutely no fault of his own.' 'And that would help you and Erskine-Brown?' 'It would help you and me, Sam. Considerably. Here's to both of us!' This, or something very like it, was the lunchtime duet which led to agreement and the final clink of glasses. It has to be said, however, that Phillida had not yet told the whole truth to Soapy Sam Ballard.

  I had a harder struggle ahead than the war of Dot Clapton's nose or the Erskine-Brown struggle for Silk. Joby Jonson's future was in my hands, and from what Mr Bernard told me the Queen was bringing all her big guns to bear at this juvenile target. A red judge had been put in charge of the case, and no less a tactician than Phillida Erskine-Brown, Q.c., who could wrap our Head of Chambers round her little finger, was in charge of the prosecution. Mugging was the flavour of that particular month and Joby Jonson, attacker of grandmothers and robber of old-age pensioners, came to stand for all that was most repulsive in British youth.

  Black as the prospects seemed, I didn't despair. I gave Mr Bernard his battle orders. He was to get in touch with a Mr Clapton of MacGlinky Terrace, hard by Euston Station, and discover if that address might be anywhere near Pondicherry Avenue, home of the assaulted grannie. I also required as much information as possible on the business of Maiden Over Holdings pic and about any estate agents they might employ.

  'And when we're on the subject of Dawkins, ' 'Who's he, a possible witness?' The faithful Bernard wrote the name down carefully.

  'Not really. I mean John Dawkins, otherwise known as the Artful Dodger. We should remember that he was only part of a wider organization run from Fagin's kitchen.' 'I don't know if you've had any experience of Mr Justice Graves?' 'As a matter of fact I've never been before him.' 'Then, Portia, you must have led a charmed life.' We were standing side by side, Mrs Erskine-Brown and I, as the old Gravestone swept on to the bench like an icy draft.

  As we bowed to each other I gave my opponent a whispered character sketch. 'This judge,' I told her, 'is an absolute fourletter man. He's humourless, tedious, unimaginative and unjust. In a word, he's a judicial pain in the behind.' Having bowed. Graves was still standing and made a pronouncement, in my direction.

  'Mr Rumpole, it may come as a surprise to you to know that the acoustics in this Court are absolutely perfect and my hearing is exceptionally keen. I can hear every word that is spoken on Counsel's benches.' At this I could do no more than bow low and mutter to Phillida, I rather hope audibly, 'See what I mean?' We hadn't got off, I must admit, to a particularly good 189 'In his own interests, I thought not.' 'You're fibbing, Sam.' She smiled beguilingly. 'You were thinking entirely of me.' 'Was I?' Poor old Ballard was puzzled.

  'Admit it. You thought I'd get fewer leading briefs with Claude competing. Well, I want to be entirely honest with you, Sam, now that we've become real friends.' 'Do you?' 'Of course I do. I want you to be the first to know I shan't be looking for leading briefs in the future.' 'You won't?' 'I'm leaving the Bar.' This bombshell produced a distressed yelp of'Phillida!' from Ballard. 'I've made up my mind. Don't look so sad, Sam. We'll still be able to meet for lunch. I'm not leaving the country or anything. And you know, it might make it easier for us if Claude were really busy and away in, let's say for instance. Hong Kong, doing leading briefs for long periods of time. We could have lunch together often. You'd like that, wouldn't you?' 'Well, as a matter of fact, Phillida, I believe I would.' This, for Ballard, was a positive statement.

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bsp; 'Then just lift the telephone to dear old Keith in the Lord Chancellor's office. Tell him that there could be no possible objection to Claude being entirely wrapped in silk, even though he is a man through absolutely no fault of his own.' 'And that would help you and Erskine-Brown?' 'It would help you and me, Sam. Considerably. Here's to both of us!' This, or something very like it, was the lunchtime duet which led to agreement and the final clink of glasses. It has to be said, however, that Phillida had not yet told the whole truth to Soapy Sam Ballard.

  I had a harder struggle ahead than the war of Dot Clapton's ; nose or the Erskine-Brown struggle for Silk. Joby Jonson's future was in my hands, and from what Mr Bernard told me the Queen was bringing all her big guns to bear at this juvenile target. A red judge had been put in charge of the case, and no less a tactician than Phillida Erskine-Brown, Q.c., who could 188 Rumpole and the Reform ofjoby Jonson wrap our Head of Chambers round her little finger, was in charge of the prosecution. Mugging was the flavour of that particular month and Joby Jonson, attacker of grandmothers and robber of old-age pensioners, came to stand for all that was most repulsive in British youth.

  Black as the prospects seemed, I didn't despair. I gave Mr Bernard his battle orders. He was to get in touch with a Mr Clapton of MacGlinky Terrace, hard by Euston Station, and discover if that address might be anywhere near Pondicherry Avenue, home of the assaulted grannie. I also required as much information as possible on the business of Maiden Over Holdings pic and about any estate agents they might employ.

  'And when we're on the subject of Dawkins, ' 'Who's he, a possible witness?' The faithful Bernard wrote the name down carefully.

  'Not really. I mean John Dawkins, otherwise known as the Artful Dodger. We should remember that he was only part of a wider organization run from Fagin's kitchen.' 'I don't know if you've had any experience of Mr Justice Graves?' 'As a matter of fact I've never been before him.' 'Then, Portia, you must have led a charmed life.' We were standing side by side, Mrs Erskine-Brown and I, as the old Gravestone swept on to the bench like an icy draft.

  As we bowed to each other I gave my opponent a whispered character sketch. 'This judge,' I told her, 'is an absolute fourletter man. He's humourless, tedious, unimaginative and unjust. In a word, he's a judicial pain in the behind.' Having bowed. Graves was still standing and made a pronouncement, in my direction.

  'Mr Rumpole, it may come as a surprise to you to know that the acoustics in this Court are absolutely perfect and my hearing is exceptionally keen. I can hear every word that is spoken on Counsel's benches.' At this I could do no more than bow low and mutter to Phillida, I rather hope audibly, 'See what I mean?' We hadn't got off, I must admit, to a particularly good 189 start. However, we then went through the opening formalities without any further disaster; twelve honest citizens were sworn to try Joby Jonson according to the evidence and Phillida Erskine-Brown was opening the Prosecution case.

  'Members of the Jury,' she spoke to them in her most beguiling tones, 'we say that Jonson paid two visits to Number i Pondicherry Avenue that day. He came in the morning, to scout out the territory, and asked Mrs Parsons if she were still living there. When he found out she was, he returned that afternoon, having made some attempts at covering his face.

  He viciously attacked this lady, old enough to be his grandmother, and robbed her of what were no doubt her small lifetime's savings.' 'Five pounds, 79 pence,' I murmured from my seat.

  'Did you say something, Mr Rumpole?' There was an icy interjection from the Judge.

  'I was just reminding my learned friend that the sum involved in this case was exactly £5.79,' I rose to say politely, but Graves could quote Scripture to discomfort the defence.

  'Mr Rumpole,' he told me with great satisfaction, 'the widow's mite was, on a famous occasion, considered of great importance to the widow.' 'I don't know if your Lordship could remind the Jury of the present value of a mite, taking account of inflation,' I asked innocently. 'It might come to rather more than £5.79.' 'Mr Rumpole, I have no doubt we shall be hearing from you later. Now I think we might let Mrs Erskine-Brown open her case without any more frivolous interruptions. Yes, Mrs Erskine-Brown?' For a moment, his Lordship was unable to get Phillida's attention. She was staring in fascinated horror at the door of the court, through which Ballard, no doubt encouraged by events at the Savoy Grill, had entered. He raised a hand in a mini-salute, and twisted his lips in a way which I can only describe as a leer. After a few seconds of this lamentable behaviour he withdrew, no doubt in search of other criminal business, and Phillida was able to return to work.

  'It remains to be seen, Members of the Jury,' she went on, only a little shaken, 'what sort of defence, if any, will be put forward for Jonson. We have been given notice of an alibi which may be typical of the unfortunate levity with which this very serious case is being taken, both by the accused youth and his learned Counsel, Mr Rumpole. It is alleged that while this appalling attack was taking place, Jonson was, "dancing with some girls from Manchester outside the Superloo at Euston Station".' 'Did you say "dancing", Mrs Erskine-Brown?' The Judge couldn't believe his ears.

  'My Lord, I'm afraid so.' Phillida was being deeply serious.

  'And perhaps you can help me. What is a "Superloo", exactly?' 'It is, I believe, my Lord, a kind of superior lavatory.' 'A kind of superior lavatory.' The Judge made an extremely careful note.

  Opening speeches from the Prosecution don't usually demand my full attention, unless a particularly lengthy evening at Pommeroy's has kept me from reading my brief and I have to discover from them what the case is all about. I knew the basic facts of the Queen's quarrel with Joby Jonson and, as Phillida held the floor, I was checking, once again, in the London A-Z and making sure that MacGlinky Terrace did, in fact, lead off Eversholt Street and into Pondicherry Avenue. The proceedings demanded my full attention only when the victim of the attack, Mrs Louisa Parsons, a brighteyed, pink-cheeked and game old lady who would no doubt be a considerable hit with the Jury, entered the witness-box.

  At the end of her evidence in chief she was asked about the identification parade, on which occasion, she told us, the police had been very kind to her and saw she got a cup of tea and some very nice biscuits.

  'Did you then identify the youth who visited you twice on the 19th and attacked you on the second occasion?' Phillida asked. At this the old lady, showing an unexpected sense of drama, pointed to the dock and said, 'There he stands!' No prosecutor could have asked for more and I rose to 191 cross-examine, knowing that any attempt to rattle Mrs Louisa Parsons would sink me with the Jury for ever.

  I started as though addressing my own grandmother. 'Mrs Parsons, this 5 pounds 79 pencein the post office didn't represent your entire worldly wealth, did it?' 'She never told us it did, Mr Rumpole.' Graves rushed in before he was needed. I ignored the interruption.

  'Do you own your little house in Pondicherry Avenue?' 'My husband saved for it. Worked all his life as bookingclerk at the station. He had the mortgage paid up by the time he died.' 'Have you not been offered a considerable sum of money for that little house?' 'I wasn't going to move no matter how often they asked me. It wasn't the money, you see. That was the home Mr Parsons meant me to have for my life. I wasn't moving.' She looked at the Jury then, and they nodded back their admiration.

  'Although they asked you very often?' 'I'm sick and tired of them always ringing me up,' she agreed, 'and sending letters marked "Personal to Mrs Parsons.

  We are most interested in the purchase of your property."

  Well, I said I'm not interested in selling. Not to you. Not to anybody.' Bonny Bernard had called on Dot's father and made copies of a number of letters he'd received. I picked up this small bundle and asked Mrs Parsons, 'Did the requests to sell come from a firm of estate agents called Jebber & Jonas?' 'They may have done. I never kept the letters.' 'What did you do with them?' 'Dustbinned them. They went out with the other rubbish.' At this point I received a blast of cold air from the bench.

 
; 'Mr Rumpole, what on earth has this fascinating information got to do with the charges against your client of robbery with violence?' 'That is something you may discover, my Lord, if I am allowed to pursue my cross-examination without interruption.' Having dealt with that I gave my full attention to the witness. 'You say that young Joby Jonson called in the morning and said, "You still living here, Mrs Parsons?"' 'Yes, he did.' 'Did you think that question might have had some connection with the repeated requests to you to sell the house?' Having thought it over, Mrs Parsons said, 'Not at the time, no.' 'Mr Rumpole, are you seriously suggesting that your client, accused of the robbery of 5 pounds 79 pence was working for a firm of reputable estate agents?' There is nothing so unquiet as the Graves. I told him, 'I will demonstrate that they are both working for the same organization.' And then I asked Louisa Parsons, 'Do you think now that there might have been some connection?' 'My Lord, this witness can't be invited to speculate.' Phillida rose in glorious indignation. 'We should leave such nights of fancy to my learned friend.' His Lordship, of course, agreed with this entirely and asked me to move on to the next matter, whereupon I muttered congratulations to my opponent on having got the old death's head eating out of her hand.