One of the troubles with criminal clients of the 1970s was their ‘out of court – out of mind’ syndrome, writes James Morton.

It didn’t do much for client confidentially and expanding a practice if you went whimpering to Inner London Sessions saying ‘Tommy Smith won’t come to see me’, and Tommy had his bail revoked as a result. As it was, you could schedule four appointments for the same time, and be lucky if one turned up. If by any mischance they all did, they would sit happily ‘cutting up touches’ and reading the Greyhound Express to see which unfortunate animal might need their attentions to bring about a coup at Hackney the following week. Stipendiaries could be quite nasty. I had one legal aid client sent me by the court, and the first time I managed to see him was when he rolled up five minutes after the court sat. His was the second case, and when I asked for more time, I was told quite firmly that my client had had a fortnight to give me instructions – get on with it. Fortunately it was a police officer prosecuting who didn’t understand what was inadmissible evidence, and three minutes later my man was acquitted. No waiting time, a hearing of, say, five minutes, and no instructing time. I think I was paid £8.

Eventually I learned how to get the clients in. In the days before there was television in every betting shop, I bought a set and let it be known that if clients kept their appointments and we had finished the business, they could stay and watch the 3 o’clock from Sandown. There would even be a 10 pence sweep. First horse placed took the money. In they poured. The only day on which clients could be guaranteed to appear – if they weren’t engaged working elsewhere – was a Friday morning; bank robbery day. In they would come with their friends, who sat in on the interview providing a Greek chorus of encouragement. Then at the witching hour of 11 o’clock when the jobs went off, they would look at their watches or ask the time. ‘Never knew it was so late’, they would say, in a scramble for the door. A perfect alibi and just the sort of thing which gave a hard-working solicitor a bad name when, later in the day, they were rounded up and could for once truthfully say, ‘I was with Johnny seeing his brief’.

James Morton is a writer and former criminal defence solicitor