The Anti-Social Behaviour of Horace Rumpole by John Mortimer

I’d do my best to become a QC in time for his trial.
    And then I was back to where this story began, in the South London Magistrates’ Court with young Peter Timson, who stood, as I had done, within the shades of the prison-house for breaking the terms of an ASBO.
    â€˜You’ll do your best for him, won’t you, Mr Rum-pole?’ Bertie Timson seemed suddenly worried. If he wanted his son to follow in his footsteps, he obviously didn’t want it quite yet. ‘The lad’s too young for prison. In a year or two perhaps, he’ll know how to deal with it. But now he’s far too young.’
    â€˜Don’t you worry,’ I told him, as though I had complete confidence in young Peter’s defence.
    We were in the entrance hall of the magistrates’ court, together with the casual streetwalkers and angry businessmen hauled up for drink-driving. I was with Bonny Bernard and Fig Newton, whohad come reluctantly to court, where I thought he might be needed.
    Then I saw Parkes, the solicitor employed by the council for the prosecution of such dangerous villains as young Peter Timson. With him was a tall woman, perhaps in her late fifties, with bright hair piled high on her head, a long neck disappearing into a fur-collared leather jacket and an extremely discontented expression. I looked at Fig, who nodded. Then Parkes approached me.
    â€˜I’ve got Mrs Englefield to come.’
    â€˜I know. We served a witness summons on her.’
    â€˜She’s a very busy woman.’
    â€˜So I understand.’
    â€˜I shall tell the magistrate her evidence is quite unnecessary. I’m not going to call her.’
    â€˜Then I’ll call her as part of my defence.’
    Parkes looked at me with extreme suspicion.
    â€˜What are you up to, Rumpole?’ was what he said.
    All I could answer was, ‘Wait and see.’
    The court was no better or worse than it had been before. The same Madam Chair sat between the same two bookends, the plump fellow with the Trade Union badge and the thin schoolmaster. The same obedient usher called ‘Timson. Applicationto enforce anti-social behaviour order. The defendant is here.’
    And I turned my head to see the diminutive figure of Peter Timson in what passed as a dock in the South London Magistrates’ Court.
    â€˜Mr Rumpole is here for the defendant Timson.’
    â€˜Let’s call him Peter,’ I said as I rose to my feet.
    â€˜Why?’ Madam Chair seemed unlikely to agree. ‘We remember you from when this case was before us earlier and we made the order, Mr Rumpole, in spite of your lengthy speech. We hope you won’t feel inclined to mention Nelson Mandela in this court again.’
    â€˜If you wish it.’ I gave her what I knew was an insincere smile of obedience. ‘Nelson Mandela shall be left out of these proceedings entirely.’
    â€˜I’m glad to hear it.’
    â€˜I merely ask that my client should be referred to as Peter as he is a twelve-year-old child.’
    â€˜We are all aware of that, Mr Rumpole.’
    â€˜So you should be. And is a child able to be sent to prison?’
    â€˜To a young offenders’ institution, Mr Rumpole.’
    â€˜Call it what you like, it’s a prison where he can be taught to do more crime and come out a threat to society.’
    Madam Chair then conferred with her bookends and came back with, ‘Very well. We’ll call him Peter if you like. But it won’t make the slightest difference to the proceedings.’
    â€˜I’m much obliged.’
    I was about to sit down, but after a bit of advice from the clerk to Madam Chair she said, ‘Mr Rumpole, do we understand that your client admits the breaking of the order?’
    â€˜I’m not admitting anything until we’ve heard it properly passed in court.’
    â€˜We have read Mrs Englefield’s statement.’
    â€˜That’s the point. It was a statement by a