Law and Peace

by Tim Kevan

  I should have realised. A face as serious as that could only be associated with financial loss.

  OldSmoothie was the first to get stuck in. ‘What? Lost? Who? How?’

  UpTights took up the baton. ‘How long have you known this?’

  HeadofChambers shifted a little and looked at his feet before bringing his attention back to the room and putting on his QC voice. ‘Er, well, er . . . I’m afraid I’ve been trying to sort it out given that I was the one who put the money there in the first place.’

  ‘Yes, and you’ll be the one we’ll all sue if you don’t recover it,’ said OldSmoothie in a loud stage whisper.

  TheCreep quickly spotted an opportunity to stick up for HeadofChambers and said, ‘I really don’t think that’s called for, OldSmoothie. We’re all in this together.’

  ‘What? Are you worried that we might add you as a co-defendant or something?’ replied OldSmoothie.

  TheCreep backed off but HeadofChambers was already cranking out his defence. ‘It was hardly foreseeable that the property market was going to collapse.’

  ‘Ooh, foreseeable,’ answered OldSmoothie. ‘Getting a little defensive, are we?’

  BusyBody stepped up to the mark just for the sport. ‘Coming from the financial wizard that thinks hedge funds are for gardening and the credit crunch is a breakfast cereal, you’re hardly one to talk.’

  So much for that ‘big happy family’ line that chambers always uses with new recruits. Then OldSmoothie started musing, ‘It’s like the whole country’s turning into one big toxic debt. No wonder the pound’s being dumped. It’s not like we produce anything any longer and the only thing we seem to be good at is racking up debt. I just can’t imagine who’d still want to lend to sub-prime UK.’

  ‘Well, quite,’ said TheBusker diplomatically.

  But OldSmoothie hadn’t finished. ‘I mean, what do we actually produce? Really? Nothing of any use whatsoever. Services they always say. We’ve become a country of so-called service industries.’ He shook his head. ‘Services? Huh, parasites more like.’

  BusyBody had been quietly listening to this outburst and as she turned on her heels to leave she said over her shoulder for all to hear, ‘Well at least no one can ever have accused you of being part of a service industry.’

  Wednesday 25 June 2008

  Year 2 (week 39): Judicial blackmail

  ‘Got a nice little earner for you for tomorrow,’ said SlipperySlope yesterday as I was leaving his office after a meeting with Smutton. ‘Family case. Very simple.’

  ‘But I don’t know anything about family law,’ I answered.

  ‘Don’t worry about that. You probably still know more than me and anyway, it’ll settle, I promise.’

  Then he added slightly mysteriously, ‘The judge’ll see to that.’

  Thus it was that I ended up doing my first family law case today. I’d done a bit of research but was still massively out of my depth and I admit that my knees were shaking just a little as we rose for the entrance of the judge. It didn’t help when he then boomed at my opponent, ‘Who’s paying for this complete waste of time and money?’

  ‘Er, er . . .’ My opponent didn’t seem any more confident than me in this area and he was stumped. ‘Er, Your Honour, may I please take instructions?’

  ‘You certainly may. But let me warn you now. If this case is being funded by the taxpayer and it doesn’t settle pretty sharpish, it’s the sort of case where the papers may just end up with the Inland Revenue.’

  My opponent and I both looked at the judge in astonishment and then at each other. We had just been issued with a judicial threat of blackmail: ‘Settle or your respective clients’ small businesses will be reported for tax evasion.’ We both knew that a reference from a circuit judge would get the tax man frothing at the mouth. This was a code red to the lawyers to sort it out, or else.

  Only it wasn’t just the lawyers who had picked up the none-too-subtle message being handed down by the learned bench. First off, my opponent’s lay client leapt to his feet and started making all sorts of noises at his solicitor, who then also jumped up, poked my opponent in the back and whispered something to him. Then I was given similar treatment from my own client. My opponent stood up.

  ‘Er, Your Honour, it seems that a compromise may now be possible. Would you allow us a brief adjournment?’

  The judge had anticipated this answer and was already halfway to his room as he turned and said, ‘Ten minutes. No more.’

  All I can say is that SlipperySlope was right and in fact we were back with a settlement in five.

  When I arrived back in the clerks room, I discovered that I had been booked for a case in the West Country for Friday and so gave Arthur a call, as he’d asked me to, and when there was no answer I left him a message. After about quarter of an hour he called me back.

  ‘BabyB, I got your message about Friday and as I said before, I think it’d be nice for you to meet TheColonel. It’d mean you staying over until Saturday but I guarantee it’d be worth it.’

  He was chuckling as he said this and then he passed the phone to Ethel. ‘Surf’s up, BabyB. Do go and see him. You’re sure to have fun.’

  Then she handed the phone back to Arthur. ‘Anyway, I’m afraid I took the liberty of assuming that you’d be able to make it and have arranged it all. He suggested that you give him a ring after your case is finished.’

  With which he gave me the number and was gone.

  Thursday 26 June 2008

  Year 2 (week 39): Oh, yes, yes, yes

  Today was the day TheBusker had been planning for over a year. He’s been especially training his dog for a court appearance. This morning he was to have his opportunity and I went along to watch. It was a relatively small theft case although big enough for a jury trial. By all accounts his client was definitely guilty and so he was grateful for anything that came his way, even TheBusker’s DogCard.

  Well, it all went to plan at the start. The client, wearing sunglasses, was led by the dog through the security gates, suggesting (without actually saying so) that the dog was there to guide him. Then, in court, the dog sat on the client’s lap and if you looked closely you could see that he wore a mini barrister’s winged collar, bands around his neck and a tiny little wig perched on his head. TheBusker had chosen this case specifically because the judge was a drinking buddy of his, and so the canine presence in court went unchallenged.

  Then when TheBusker started making his points in cross-examination the dog sat bolt upright, looked at the jury and nodded his head like the Churchill dog in the television adverts. But when TheBusker’s opponent started speaking the dog’s ears dropped, his head went down, and he started to shake it from side to side as if in disagreement. The plan was proceeding splendidly and the jury were charmed.

  That is, until TheBusker got up to give his closing speech and the dog became confused. Having sat up on cue he then dropped his head so low it would have made even an England football manager at a penalty shoot-out look optimistic. This was exacerbated further when he started slowly shaking his head in what can only be described as disappointment. The judge by this point cast a wry ‘never work with animals’ look at TheBusker who simply went with the flow and shrugged his shoulders at the jury in a kind of ‘aw shucks’ sort of way.

  But just when all appeared to be lost, it became apparent that the dog’s failure to toe the party line only made the jury smile even more, and in almost no time at all they returned with a verdict. As the foreman declared, ‘Not Guilty,’ the rest of the jury smiled first at TheBusker and then at the dog, who for the first time in a while was once again nodding his head.

  All of this made me wonder whether TheBusker had actually planned every bit of the performance, employing double, triple, even quadruple bluffs. Who really knows when it comes to TheBusker?

  Friday 27 June 2008

  Year 2 (week 39): Bideford Bar

  I was up against one of the most pompous and self-important barristers I’
ve ever met today (which is saying something). I’ll call him BigHead. It was a very small personal injury action in which a fisherman was claiming for whiplash as a result of a Russian-registered boat having accidentally knocked into his own boat. If there was any doubt as to what my opponent thought of himself, you only had to look at the italicised description that he had put of himself at the bottom of his lengthy (and almost incomprehensible) skeleton argument: ‘BigHead is a world renowned expert [I’m not kidding] in private international law and in particular on shipping and the commercial matters which arise therefrom. He travels extensively throughout the world [don’t we all . . . on our holidays] and also acts as an expert witness for English law in this area.’

  Except that today we weren’t in Monaco or Athens, but instead we were in the county court of Barnstaple and it was clear that the deputy district judge had the measure of my opponent from the moment he started addressing the judge as ‘my Lord’ rather than ‘Sir’.

  ‘Well, Mr BigHead, it’s very nice of you to visit our humble little court here in North Devon. Must be quite a change from what you are used to.’

  Without even realising that the judge was ribbing him, BigHead replied, ‘Indeed, though I have to say that I find it’s good for the soul to do a few of these little cases now and again and to remind one what the rest of the profession has to put up with.’

  Ouch. But that wasn’t the end of it.

  ‘Well, Mr BigHead,’ said the judge, ‘I’ve read your extremely thorough skeleton argument and as I understand it your main point is that we do not have jurisdiction to hear such a weighty matter as this and that instead it should properly be heard in the Admiralty Court in London?’

  ‘Precisely, my Lord. I have absolutely no idea why anyone would even have dreamt that such a case could be heard in a county court.’

  ‘I see. Just for the sake of completeness, do you have any further points to add beyond the skeleton?’

  ‘No, my Lord, I think it makes the point fully.’

  ‘Yes, quite.’

  The judge then turned to me. Now I have to admit that the question of whether or not the court was even allowed to hear the case had not been something I had even considered before arriving at court, and given that I’d only received the skeleton argument that morning I was, to say the least, a little out of my depth on this point. I waited for the judge to start grilling me.

  ‘Now, Mr BabyBarista,’ he began, ‘I assume you want to rely upon section 27(1) of the County Courts Act 1984, which gives certain courts, including, I might say, this one, admiralty jurisdiction?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  I knew I was looking like a rabbit in the headlights, but as I stared at him I could actually make out that he was nodding at me as if to say that this was exactly what I wanted to be relying upon.

  ‘Er, yes, of course, Sir. I’m very grateful. My point exactly.’

  ‘Excellent. Well, Mr BigHead, for a shipping lawyer as important as your skeleton says you are, I’m extremely surprised that you didn’t know that a few of us coastal courts can also manage the odd bit of shipping law on the side.’

  BigHead was lost for words. Then the judge added, ‘I don’t know whether you’ve heard of the Bideford Bar, Mr BigHead, but it’s provided more than a few shipping cases in its time, I can tell you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said BigHead. ‘I’m afraid I hadn’t heard of it. Does it have a particular specialisation in shipping?’

  ‘You might say that,’ said the judge with a wry smile, before delivering the killer blow. ‘Though for your information it’s a dangerous sand bar at the end of the Taw Torridge Estuary and has nothing to do with your own, er,’ he looked directly at BigHead, ‘esteemed profession.’

  Monday 30 June 2008

  Year 2 (week 40): TheColonel

  Well I can’t pretend I wasn’t intrigued to meet TheColonel after the billing he’d been given by Arthur and Ethel and it wasn’t as if I had anything planned for the weekend. I’d tried to see whether Claire was free, but she was apparently also away for the weekend and I hadn’t dared to ask whether that was with her boyfriend or not. So with nothing to lose I gave him a call after my case was finished and I’d sent my client on his way.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he boomed down the line, ‘Arthur said you were going to call. Did he tell you we are cousins?’

  ‘He didn’t actually. But there was some mention of surf.’

  ‘Quite right. Quite right. They told me that work is putting Jack at risk of becoming a dull boy and that a session in the surf might just be the answer.’

  ‘Er, right. But isn’t it difficult?’

  ‘Not at all, young man. I’ll explain it all over dinner this evening.’

  And he certainly did, accompanied by several bottles of extremely fine Rioja. He lives in a big house overlooking Saunton Sands in North Devon and it was overrun with Jack Russells, a Springer Spaniel and grandchildren. As I arrived I heard seagulls overhead and took in the incredible view of the sand-dunes of Braunton Burrows. Beyond that the sea stretched to the horizon and the sun looked heavy in the sky as it slowly made its descent.

  ‘Welcome to the mad house. I’m babysitting the grandchildren this weekend. Though sometimes I wonder who’s babysitting whom.’

  He reminded me of the character played by Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now, a man who could stand on the Vietnamese battlefield with his chest out and nose to the wind, utterly unmoved, as bombs fell on either side. A force of nature who looked like he’d spent years barking orders at his soldiers. But when I asked him later why they called him TheColonel, he replied, ‘My father was a Colonel and eleven generations of senior officers before him. But it wasn’t for me. Not after I’d ridden my first wave back in the sixties.’

  He was great company and full of stories of mischief and mayhem. He also steadfastly refused to see my glass empty, and towards the end of the evening it was filled with port. As I got to hear more about him there was mention of a divorce although I didn’t want to pry further. I also hinted that I was having my own troubles at the moment what with one thing and another.

  ‘I assume it’s over a girl,’ he said. ‘That tends to be what it boils down to most of the time. So what’s the problem?’

  I gave him a potted history of the goings-on with Claire and then mentioned the new boyfriend.

  ‘So what’s stopping you, young man? If you want something badly enough you have to fight for it.’

  I nodded but was keen to change the subject. ‘Talking of fights, how do you think Arthur and Ethel are holding up with all this litigation going on?’ I asked.

  ‘It cuts both ways, BabyB, truth be told. It’s terrible the effect that these mobile things have been having and they’re serious about wanting to put a stop to that. On the other hand the two of them seem more full of life than I’ve seen them in a long time. Kind of like the thrill of the fight is helping them to rediscover their youth.’

  ‘It must have been difficult for them with Ethel’s illness,’ I said.

  ‘Absolutely. But again, sometimes it takes something as extreme as that to remind us what it’s all about.’ He paused and then continued, ‘You know, just the other day I passed the scene of an accident. Probably something you guys would see as work,’ he added mischievously before going on. ‘There was a moped laid flat out in the middle of the road and by its side were the rider’s clothes, which had been cut from his body. The same clothes he’d have put on that morning. A life as I later heard that was brought to an end by the simplest of driving mistakes. Kind of reminds you how thin the ice is on which we all wander so blithely every day.’ He took another drink before continuing, ‘It’s one of the things I like about riding big waves. Brings things into focus. Makes it real.’

  After the port there followed sloe gin, before I eventually collapsed into a guest room. It hardly felt like I’d fallen asleep before I was rudely awoken by a shout coming from downstairs.

  ‘Come on, young BabyBarista! It’s five
o’clock and time for the dawn patrol. The surf’s pumping.’

  Well, we all jumped into the van: TheColonel, the dogs, the grandchildren and me. With the surfboards on the roof we were soon at the beach. ‘Take a deep breath, BabyB, and smell the offshore breeze. Nothing better.’ He then threw me a spare wetsuit. ‘Try this one for size.’

  After much hilarity as I put it on the wrong way around to start with, we were eventually out in the surf. Actually that’s something of an exaggeration. Following TheColonel’s instructions I had pushed my board out until the water was up to my shoulders and then I’d turned it around and lain flat upon it, waiting for some waves. For the first hour or so I seemed constantly to be wiping seawater from my eyes or getting it in my nose and mouth. This was interspersed by TheColonel pointing out the audience of noisy oystercatchers on the rocks alongside a solitary shag drying its wings. But just as I was starting to flag, TheColonel shouted, ‘Turn around, BabyB! You’re perfectly placed.’

  Then after I did so, and as the wave approached, he gave my board a little shove. I held on for dear life as the board went down the first part of the wave and then I desperately tried to scramble to my feet. Just as I did so the most incredible thing happened. Rather than toppling me over, the unbroken part of the wave suddenly opened up before me. Everything slowed down and became much more vivid. With the sun rising directly in front of me it was reflecting off the wave, and as it rolled forward the sensation was almost as if I was weightless, floating, and that the wave was peeling onwards forever. Like some sort of optical illusion. Leaving behind every possible care or worry. For a split second that seemed like a lifetime.

  I started laughing uncontrollably and ‘whooping’ like a small child. Then just as soon as I’d started to settle into the wave it collapsed before me and I fell back into the sea, elated and giddy. I looked up and saw some of the oystercatchers chasing each other in a large circle as if they were mimicking the surfers’ carefree games of their own.