sound asleep next to me and as much as I’d like to wake him for a chat I leave him alone. As I drift off to sleep my dreams are full of being clubbed to death with footballs whilst taking part in a penalty shoot-out.
Our trial has been listed in front of one of my favourite Judges. Young, with a wicked sense of humour and a pronounced twinkle in his pale blue eyes, he is a delight to appear before. He isn’t one for messing about and dithering over irrelevant pieces of evidence and he won’t stand for any farcical submissions or ludicrous cross-examination. He’s in a fine mood this morning I note, as I watch him speed through the short applications to be heard before our trial is called on.
Serena is sat, ready to go in her place on Counsel’s row and she looks slightly tense. I can’t imagine any reason why this trial would cause her any loss of sleep; all she has to do is read out parts of the evidence and summarise the rest before the Defendant has to face the jury.
The Judge is losing patience with a junior barrister from another set of Chambers. Instead of getting to the whole point of his application, he’s skirting around the issue, muddling up various dates and confusing the statutes he’s citing. From experience, I know that this judge doesn’t suffer fools gladly and will make him repeat his submissions until he gets it right. I don’t think he does it to be cruel, I suspect he has a genuine desire to help people learn from their mistakes.
When I was in front of him for the first time, not only did I manage to rely on a piece of law that’d been out of date for the last thirty years, but call him ‘Sir’ throughout as well. I had been blathering on for what seemed like a lifetime, but in actual fact couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes before through our interactions I realised my schoolgirl error and righted the situation. Since then, I’ve developed a great respect for him, instead of sitting back and letting people perform poorly, he demands the quality of advocacy necessary for his court.
The junior barrister appears to have cottoned on to the point the Judge is making and I slip outside to have a quick word with Ms Goodridge before the jury are empanelled. It’s a daunting concept, having to explain yourself to twelve strangers and she looks understandably nervous. Her long curls are tied back today and she’s swapped her beaded top for a simple cream shirt and black trousers. The only hint at her usual dress sense comes from a small stud in her nose. She gives me a small smile and stands as she sees me approach her. I can see that her hands are trembling as she puts down her newspaper.
“All set?” I query.
“I think so,” she replies. “Are you sure this is worth the risk?”
“It’s up to you,” I say. “If you’ve told me the truth you’ve got a defence. You can plead guilty, but it’d be to something you haven’t done. I can’t say whether the jury believe you, but that’s a decision for you.”
She looks at me thoughtfully.
“Do you believe me?” she asks, looking me straight in the eyes.
I laugh and wish I had a penny for every time I’ve been asked that question. “You’ve done something quite foolish that, as a woman, I can relate to. Pretending to be someone’s girlfriend is always a recipe for disaster but luckily, not a crime in itself. Just remember, people who tell the truth during their time in court always stand out; liars are easily tripped up and don’t come across well. Whilst you have nothing to prove, you’re going to be judged nevertheless, so this is your only chance to have your side heard.”
“Sorry,” she says. “I know I’m going on about this, but I just can’t face the thought of my kids seeing their mum in the local paper.”
“Whatever happens, it’s tomorrow’s chip paper,” I say, happy that she hasn’t pushed the point.
Our usher appears from the courtroom, black gown billowing behind him.
“All parties
Our trial has been listed in front of one of my favourite Judges. Young, with a wicked sense of humour and a pronounced twinkle in his pale blue eyes, he is a delight to appear before. He isn’t one for messing about and dithering over irrelevant pieces of evidence and he won’t stand for any farcical submissions or ludicrous cross-examination. He’s in a fine mood this morning I note, as I watch him speed through the short applications to be heard before our trial is called on.
Serena is sat, ready to go in her place on Counsel’s row and she looks slightly tense. I can’t imagine any reason why this trial would cause her any loss of sleep; all she has to do is read out parts of the evidence and summarise the rest before the Defendant has to face the jury.
The Judge is losing patience with a junior barrister from another set of Chambers. Instead of getting to the whole point of his application, he’s skirting around the issue, muddling up various dates and confusing the statutes he’s citing. From experience, I know that this judge doesn’t suffer fools gladly and will make him repeat his submissions until he gets it right. I don’t think he does it to be cruel, I suspect he has a genuine desire to help people learn from their mistakes.
When I was in front of him for the first time, not only did I manage to rely on a piece of law that’d been out of date for the last thirty years, but call him ‘Sir’ throughout as well. I had been blathering on for what seemed like a lifetime, but in actual fact couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes before through our interactions I realised my schoolgirl error and righted the situation. Since then, I’ve developed a great respect for him, instead of sitting back and letting people perform poorly, he demands the quality of advocacy necessary for his court.
The junior barrister appears to have cottoned on to the point the Judge is making and I slip outside to have a quick word with Ms Goodridge before the jury are empanelled. It’s a daunting concept, having to explain yourself to twelve strangers and she looks understandably nervous. Her long curls are tied back today and she’s swapped her beaded top for a simple cream shirt and black trousers. The only hint at her usual dress sense comes from a small stud in her nose. She gives me a small smile and stands as she sees me approach her. I can see that her hands are trembling as she puts down her newspaper.
“All set?” I query.
“I think so,” she replies. “Are you sure this is worth the risk?”
“It’s up to you,” I say. “If you’ve told me the truth you’ve got a defence. You can plead guilty, but it’d be to something you haven’t done. I can’t say whether the jury believe you, but that’s a decision for you.”
She looks at me thoughtfully.
“Do you believe me?” she asks, looking me straight in the eyes.
I laugh and wish I had a penny for every time I’ve been asked that question. “You’ve done something quite foolish that, as a woman, I can relate to. Pretending to be someone’s girlfriend is always a recipe for disaster but luckily, not a crime in itself. Just remember, people who tell the truth during their time in court always stand out; liars are easily tripped up and don’t come across well. Whilst you have nothing to prove, you’re going to be judged nevertheless, so this is your only chance to have your side heard.”
“Sorry,” she says. “I know I’m going on about this, but I just can’t face the thought of my kids seeing their mum in the local paper.”
“Whatever happens, it’s tomorrow’s chip paper,” I say, happy that she hasn’t pushed the point.
Our usher appears from the courtroom, black gown billowing behind him.
“All parties
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