Latin exchanges, word games, postage stamp collections during cases - James Morton looks back at court life as it was


I recently had lunch with Nipper Read, better known as ‘the man who caught the Krays’. No, it turned out, he was not the Assistant Chief Constable of Nottingham who thought the worst cross-examination he had ever endured was from Sir Brian Smedley, the High Court judge, who had died a little earlier. But, cutting up touches, as the phrase goes (reminiscing), he said he thought the old magistrates at Marylebone 30 years ago were some of the most difficult people with whom to deal.



I never found them very difficult, apart from the otherwise extremely amiable Brian Canham who, in the days of the Tridentine Mass and before the Lord Chancellor dumbed down the profession, was very keen on Horace and Virgil. As a result, the unsuspecting lawyer was quite likely to have tags snapped at him or her. Extravagant mitigation could be met with Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam (life’s short span forbids us entering on far-reaching hopes).



The correct response to that was Nil desperandum Teucro dulce et auspice Teucro (never give up hope under Teucer’s conduct and benevolence). That’s my free translation. By the way, Teucer was the son of King Telamon and fought in the Trojan war.



But any faltering attempt, however inapt or inept, was welcome. A mournful homage to Saint Augustine, Audi alterem partem (hear the other side), received a sympathetic nod. I don’t suppose it took a day off the sentence but it made for a pleasant few moments.



I do not, however, think there was another London court building quite like Marylebone. It was, I believe, constructed over a disused swimming pool and in the dungeons was a giant cage in which all the men in custody were held. It was, in consequence, a complete scrum as defendants pressed against the bars, hands outstretched like the Christians awaiting the lions in Quo Vadis, whilst on the other side, lawyers fought to get close enough to the bars to take instructions or hand in cigarettes. Those who were on bail had to surrender at 10am and were then kept altogether in another huge room awaiting their cases. It did at least make it easier for the gaolers to retrieve them.



And at least you could see the client in the cage, unlike Bow Street, where once I saw a diminutive lawyer who could not see through the cell hatch, trying to take instructions from her equally diminutive client. The cell officer had decided it was not safe to allow her in with the woman. Both tried to time their jumps so there was some contact. Both were rapidly tiring.



I suspect that after a few years on the bench, the stipes of previous generations were simply bored and anyone who had the ability to play word games with them was welcome. One, who sat at Bow Street and became the chief stipe in the days before they became district judges (criminal), was particularly fond of John Betjemen, meaning that comments about friendly bombs if the unfortunate defendant came from Slough never went amiss.



Another, also a chief, liked to make defending lawyers say parts of their mitigation in Italian, in which he was fluent. At least you knew your client was not going to prison that day.



Others occupied themselves in other ways. I remember a stipe at Lambeth who concentrated on his postage stamp album during the traffic summons court in the afternoon.



Then there was one who simply declined to hear the traffic list, believing it was more suited to district judges (amateur).



My ex-Flying Squad friend came up with more vignettes of court life as it was. The first is a propos the recent terrorism case in which His Lordship wanted to know what a website was. The chair (as we now call it) of a lay bench (as we then called it) was hearing a case concerning theft at a local racecourse. ‘Will you explain these terms to us?’ ‘Certainly, ma’am,’ came the reply. ‘The whizz and the buzz is synonymous but the whisper is something completely different.’



For those who do not keep a copy of Partridge’s Dictionary of the Underworld in the bookcase alongside Archbold and Blackstone, the first two are pick-pocketing and the whisper is a look-out. Just to confuse the bench, a whisper is also a tip given about a horse. The bench knew all this and was only asking so people in the public gallery would understand – which, according to the Judicial Communications Office, is what Mr Justice Openshaw was trying to do with his website question.



Then there was a detective at the Bailey, who was told by the judge to keep his eye on a dubious witness. The man gave a half bow and replied: ‘My Lord, I’ve already clocked his boat.’ You surely don’t need that translating.



It was the same officer who lured a barrister into something of a trap. The defendant was already serving a sentence and the lawyer, beginning to cross-examine, asked: ‘Where exactly did you take my client’s statement?’ The policeman almost leered at the jury when he replied: ‘In Devon, sir.’ Apparently, you could almost see the mist over the moor and the rain dripping down the walls of the Dartmoor prison.



It brings me back to Marylebone. A young solicitor was mitigating endlessly over a minor traffic offence. ‘What is your point?’ asked the stipe. ‘For you not to disqualify my client, sir.’ ‘I hadn’t even thought about it,’ came the chilling reply, ‘but now you mention it, perhaps you can address me on the point.’



One final put-down, from a stipe to a young woman barrister: ‘Until you began to cross-examine, I thought there might be a doubt in this case. Now I am sure there is none.’



James Morton is a former criminal law specialist solicitor and now a freelance journalist