would certainly have recognized it, and Mr. Tulkinghorn would have felt quite at home. We even had gas lamps outside, which were lit every night by the Inn’s porters. I had a room in the annex, which I shared with Malcolm Knott, a former solicitor who had come to the Bar after having his own firm in north London. He was meticulously tidy and I was not, but he put up with me, even selling me his own small Victorian writing desk and buying himself another, larger version.
So there I was, twenty-two years old, a tenant in my own right, able to take my own cases and give opinions under my own name. I may not have been the lowest of the low (a pupil), but I was at the bottom of the chambers’ ladder. In those days the head of chambers was not elected — he was simply the most senior silk. Judges have to leave once they are appointed to the Bench, which is how room is made lower down the ladder for new tenants.
Like any young barrister, my work came primarily through the clerk, who operated much like an agent, taking 10 percent of each fee, which he would negotiate. Solicitors would go to a particular set of chambers because they offered the particular expertise they sought for a particular case. At the English Bar, the “cab-rank” system applies: if the requested barrister can’t do the job, it’s passed on to somebody who can (usually lower in the hierarchy) within the same set of chambers. This system also dictates that you can’t turn down a case because you don’t like the looks of it — that is, whether it offends your politics or your sensibilities. You can turn down a case only if you are otherwise engaged, no exceptions.
In this way a young barrister builds up a practice by taking on cases that somebody else can’t do, broadening his or her experience in the process. I was very lucky. The most junior tenant until I came along was a talented advocate called Charles Howard, who was already building up a good practice among the burgeoning group of left-inclined legal-aid solicitors. Charles and I became firm friends, and when he was not available, he would recommend me. In that way my practice, too, began to develop.
Five Essex Court was unusual in that the majority of its silks were based in Manchester and Liverpool and hardly ever came down to London. As the other juniors were mainly doing general common law, Freddie felt he needed help with his trade union clients, which is to say employment law, so I suited him perfectly. By the time I joined, there were about twelve juniors of different calls and five or six northern silks. I was the only woman.
In the main I did very lowly stuff. My first case was a bail application at Bow Street Magistrates Court. I was ill prepared; there were no papers. I was simply instructed to appear and ask for bail. (“Counsel will do their best” was the basic instruction in those days.)
So I turned up, got there at ten o’clock, and was standing outside the court. Everyone was milling about, as they do. There are dozens of cases listed every day. There are defendants, witnesses, barristers, solicitors, and everyone in between. They all look much the same — solicitors in suits, barristers in gowns, defendants and witnesses in their Sunday best. And there I was, calling out my client’s name: Mr. Bloggs? Then it suddenly occurred to me: Mr. Bloggs was not going to be standing outside the court because he was getting a bail application, which meant he was locked up in the cells below the court.
I can’t remember whether Mr. Bloggs ever got bail, but I well recall that the morning was nearly a complete disaster.
On another occasion early in my career, I handled a guilty plea. Despite my impassioned argument that the accused be given a second chance, he was sentenced to imprisonment. On his being sent down into the cells, I went down with him, because that’s what you do. The sentence was lenient, so I tried to tell him it wasn’t too bad. After saying good-bye, I went
So there I was, twenty-two years old, a tenant in my own right, able to take my own cases and give opinions under my own name. I may not have been the lowest of the low (a pupil), but I was at the bottom of the chambers’ ladder. In those days the head of chambers was not elected — he was simply the most senior silk. Judges have to leave once they are appointed to the Bench, which is how room is made lower down the ladder for new tenants.
Like any young barrister, my work came primarily through the clerk, who operated much like an agent, taking 10 percent of each fee, which he would negotiate. Solicitors would go to a particular set of chambers because they offered the particular expertise they sought for a particular case. At the English Bar, the “cab-rank” system applies: if the requested barrister can’t do the job, it’s passed on to somebody who can (usually lower in the hierarchy) within the same set of chambers. This system also dictates that you can’t turn down a case because you don’t like the looks of it — that is, whether it offends your politics or your sensibilities. You can turn down a case only if you are otherwise engaged, no exceptions.
In this way a young barrister builds up a practice by taking on cases that somebody else can’t do, broadening his or her experience in the process. I was very lucky. The most junior tenant until I came along was a talented advocate called Charles Howard, who was already building up a good practice among the burgeoning group of left-inclined legal-aid solicitors. Charles and I became firm friends, and when he was not available, he would recommend me. In that way my practice, too, began to develop.
Five Essex Court was unusual in that the majority of its silks were based in Manchester and Liverpool and hardly ever came down to London. As the other juniors were mainly doing general common law, Freddie felt he needed help with his trade union clients, which is to say employment law, so I suited him perfectly. By the time I joined, there were about twelve juniors of different calls and five or six northern silks. I was the only woman.
In the main I did very lowly stuff. My first case was a bail application at Bow Street Magistrates Court. I was ill prepared; there were no papers. I was simply instructed to appear and ask for bail. (“Counsel will do their best” was the basic instruction in those days.)
So I turned up, got there at ten o’clock, and was standing outside the court. Everyone was milling about, as they do. There are dozens of cases listed every day. There are defendants, witnesses, barristers, solicitors, and everyone in between. They all look much the same — solicitors in suits, barristers in gowns, defendants and witnesses in their Sunday best. And there I was, calling out my client’s name: Mr. Bloggs? Then it suddenly occurred to me: Mr. Bloggs was not going to be standing outside the court because he was getting a bail application, which meant he was locked up in the cells below the court.
I can’t remember whether Mr. Bloggs ever got bail, but I well recall that the morning was nearly a complete disaster.
On another occasion early in my career, I handled a guilty plea. Despite my impassioned argument that the accused be given a second chance, he was sentenced to imprisonment. On his being sent down into the cells, I went down with him, because that’s what you do. The sentence was lenient, so I tried to tell him it wasn’t too bad. After saying good-bye, I went
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