James Morton recalls quirky tales from identification parades held in the 1960s and how the colour of a tie could influence the decision of a witness

Back in the 1960s, identification parades were pretty rough and ready affairs.

There was a story that on one parade the unrepresented suspect was the only black person.

Certainly Joe Beltrami, the great Glasgow solicitor, told the story of a parade where the suspect was the only redhead.

Early in my career, I took a suspect in a murder case to a police station.

The desk sergeant took our details and told us to sit in the waiting room where there was an elderly couple.

Twenty minutes later, nothing had happened and the man volunteered: 'We've come for the identification parade.

What are you doing here?' End of parade.

It was at the same station where I watched one of the most extraordinary parades I have ever seen.

It was another murder case - and in the morning my client had been picked out by far too many people for his ultimate good.

Another parade was to be conducted that afternoon and James Fellowes, who had a large practice specialising in criminal work, was representing another of the suspects who was alleged to have been the getaway driver.

Would I care to stay and watch? The parade was outdoors in the station yard.

It was a cold winter day and there were several witnesses.

After, say, ten of them, hot drinks were served to the line-up.

Then came another potential witness.

She walked up and down the line looking at the men's faces.

Then she settled on numbers five, seven eight and nine.

Up and down she went, seemingly eliminating and discarding and then reinstating the men.

Then it looked like it was down to numbers five and eight.

Then five and nine.

Then back to seven and nine and so on.

After three-quarters of an hour, she made her choice and it was Fellowes' client.

He was convicted of manslaughter, but I wonder whether today he would ever have been charged.

Putting together a parade was very much a question of negotiation with the officer in charge.

Some would allow a suspect to bring people who resembled him to stand with him.

One client of mine whom I knew well brought six of his brothers and I had no idea which he was until he waved at me.

Others took a tougher line.

It was more or less impossible to conduct a parade after 5pm in Holborn.

No one would volunteer.

It was a difficult job to persuade a client that it was perhaps better to sit out a night in the cells and get a proper line-up the next morning rather than risk being picked out and picking up three years.

One parade I attended was at Golders Green when a client known in the profession as Black Jim Smith, but who was probably Turkish, was facing a housebreaking charge.

By 10pm there was only a motley collection of foils - some Jewish gentlemen, some who looked Middle Eastern, two Chinese and someone who I was convinced was an Eskimo.

Smith wanted to go home that night and insisted the parade went ahead.

As he took his place the man next to him asked what he was suspected of doing.

Smith, who had all the charm in the world - and was that night wearing an albeit elderly velvet-collared coat - replied, pointing at me: 'I'm the solicitor.

It's the one over there who's the suspect'.

He was right to take the line-up.

No one even looked at him twice.

Did the police ever fix parades? It was certainly desirable to have two of you in attendance even if the legal aid didn't pay; one had to remain with the witnesses to make sure no officer came in to mark their cards.

A parade that I am convinced was wrong was one I watched in the midlands.

The client was accused of robbery and he had taken with him as a foil a horse-doper who looked very like him.

They stood next to each other and at the last minute they switched ties.

The witness picked out the doper in my client's tie.

End of parade.

I followed the witness and the officer in the case down the stairs and I clearly heard the man say, 'But you told me he had a red tie on'.

If possible, I made it a practice never to travel with my clients but that night it was a question of getting a lift with them or staying overnight, since the last train had gone.

They had a boy in whom they had an interest boxing on the undercard at the Albert Hall and, ignoring any sort of speed limit, we hared back to London - the doper driving.

Even my client began to get upset because there was a good deal of fog.

'Nothing like as bad as the night I did the Guineas favourite', said the doper, accelerating.

I had them drop me off at Cockfosters and took the tube home.

I looked the next day and saw their boy had won.

After that, rather idly, I followed his career but he never amounted to much.

I never inquired just what their interest in him had been.

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