The Secret Barrister - The Secret Barrister: Stories of the Law and How Its Broken

THE

SECRET

BARRISTER

Stories of the Law and How Its Broken

MACMILLAN

For the third pig,

who I begrudgingly concede is always right.

For your love, strength and continued inspiration:

as ever, thatll do.

Contents

Introduction: My Opening Speech

And so that is your defence, is it, Mr Tuttle?

A pause. His eyes dart to his girlfriend in the public gallery and back to me a micro-glance, no more but enough, Im hopeful, for the jury to have clocked. I turn my head just slightly, crossing gazes with the lady on the front row at the far end. Shes noticed. Shes folded her arms. In fact, several of them have. The elderly chap in the navy blazer and beige slacks nudges the gingham-shirted, fabulously bearded fellow to his left, and they trade conspiratorial grins.

The body language is not good for Mr Tuttle.

He digs his fingers into the sides of the witness box, groping for the right response, oblivious that there isnt one. As his cheeks flush and he shuffles his feet, he appears to look longingly at the dock at the back of court, stung with regret at his decision to leave the safety of its perspex confines and walk the long fifteen feet to give evidence in his own defence. He had to, of course. It is near-impossible to successfully run self-defence without giving your own account on oath as to why you brought fisty justice to bear upon the man next door. But it is obvious that, if Mr Tuttle could turn back time, hed give serious consideration to exercising his right to silence.

The double doors to my right groan. The usher slides in cradling his clipboard, pursued by a crash of law students, who are silently urged towards the public gallery. The only thing a barrister enjoys more than an audience is a bigger, more impressible audience. So I wait for them to squeeze themselves into the narrow oak pews in the back right corner. The lengthy pause, as Mr Tuttle weighs up how to answer my semi-rhetorical question, helps build the suspense. I savour it. I calmly top up my plastic cup from the water jug, and take an insouciant sip of water.

As I do, I notice that all eyes in the courtroom are momentarily trained on a trailing undergrad who, having entered last, has managed to clout Mr Tuttles partner with his manbag as he climbs over her to the last space on the front row.

She audibly mutters some choice expletives as the student removes himself from her lap. The clerk of the court, hitherto tap-tap-tapping away at her computer, looks up and stares.

What? He hit me in the face! Could have had my fucking eye out.

Shhhh! the clerk hisses, waving a gowned arm towards the usher, who duly trots to the public gallery to administer a further, entirely superfluous, shhhh.

I look up behind the clerk towards the judge, expecting some sort of judicial admonishment for these noises off, but Her Honour Judge Kerrigan QC is still leaning back in her chair and staring longingly at a fixed point on the ceiling. Now the casual observer may, quite wrongly, think this an indication that Judge Kerrigan is bored by the pedestrian advocacy of a twenty-something upstart apparently channelling an unholy trinity of the Jeremies Paxman, Clarkson and Kyle as they superciliously showboat their intellectual advantage over the bewildered Mr Tuttle. The same observer may, equally mistakenly, bolster this conclusion by reference to the way in which Her Honour appears to have been, at various stages during the twenty-six laboured minutes of questioning leading up to this point, closing her eyes and dropping her head, before jolting alert again with a quiet snort.

But I know better. The Learned Judge is, quite plainly, bowled over by my oratory skill; no doubt mentally formulating the letter of praise that she will be sending to my Head of Chambers immediately the trial concludes. Advocacy, she will surely write, has a new champion. A golden age of justice is upon us.

Everyone now seated and hushed, I can resume my sparring. Mr Tuttle again glances for reassurance to his girlfriend.

You wont find the answer in the public gallery, Mr Tuttle. I obnoxiously smile at him.

Its a very simple question. What you have said is what youre honestly asking this jury to believe, yes?

This is an appallingly phrased, and wholly improper, question. Questions in cross-examination should strictly only be aimed at eliciting facts, not providing an opportunity for the advocate to comment. Closing speeches are where we get to make plain how preposterous we think the other sides case is. And clearly Mr Tuttle is asking the jury to believe what he said, otherwise he wouldnt have said it. But Im feeling good, this is my first jury trial, and no one yet has interrupted to stop me. So I wait for Mr Tuttles response.

He delivers another flick of the eyes to the gallery, and back. Yes, he nods, any defiance long since melted.

How tall are you, Mr Tuttle?

Dunno.

Would you agree that youre over six foot?

Probably.

And how much do you weigh?

It doesnt matter what his answer is. Mr Tuttle is, at a conservative estimate, roughly the size of a supertanker, and, by obligingly wearing a skinny fit, short-sleeved white shirt, is displaying to marvellous effect every square inch of his tattooed mega-roided biceps. These questions are simply to hammer home the point.

As he mutters estimates, I yank my black gown straight. Posturing with faux furrows, I turn to the jury and look towards crossed-arms woman. I catch her eye. She raises an eyebrow. She knows where were going.

And, I say, looking straight at the jury so as to maximize my apparent disbelief, you are telling this jury that the blind man on crutches hit you first?

I swivel to him at those last three words and release them as slowly as melodrama allows. An audible snigger from my left tells me that Mr Tuttles goose is cooked.

There is nothing he can now say to make his position seem less ridiculous. At this point in a boxing match, he would be hurried out of the ring by minders to avoid him doing himself any more damage. No answer can improve his position. One response, however, could take the goose out of the oven, elegantly carve it and serve it to the grateful cheers of the prosecution. And Mr Tuttle obliges.

It wasnt how youre making it sound, yeah?

The joy. I hear a stifled snort from the Crown Prosecution Service paralegal sitting on the row in front of me. My cross-examination, as written out neatly in the standard-issue blue counsels notebook perched on my lectern, was going to end on that last, over-gestated question. But now, not only is Mr Tuttle giving the jury an implausible story, hes trying to wriggle out of it. The one thing worse than a liar is a liar lying about being a liar. So I treat myself to an encore.

It wasnt how I made it sound?

Nah.

Well, we know Mr Martins is blind, yes?

Yes.

And you agree he was on crutches?

Yes.

And you say that he hit you first?

Yeah.

Right. So, lets try again. Youre saying that the blind man on crutches hit you first, arent you?

Umm... yeah.

Right.

As I take a beat to work out how best to gracefully conclude, theres a frantic scrabbling noise from the end of Counsels Row the long wooden bench at the front of court, facing the judge as Tuttles defence barrister, Mr Rallings, a surly old hack of forty years call, furiously scribbles something on a scrap of paper and thrusts it with force along the bench towards me. Up until this point, Rallings has done his best to maintain a rictus poker frown as his client merrily yanks pins out of grenades and stuffs them down his trousers. But now hes stirring.