James Morton recalls with a tremor the stipendiaries who once ruled the roost in London's courts

When I first qualified as a solicitor, the stipendiaries at the Inner London courts were a series of formidable men (I think there was only one woman, Sybil Campbell, and she was just as frightening).

They were frightening to advocates and to defendants alike.

At Old Street, where Mick McElligott held court, defendants would arrive early, look at the list to see if he was sitting that day and then go home to get a sick note that their mothers brought to court.

I remember handing in one note apparently from a doctor that said my client could not attend court because 'his wife has given birth to a pair of twins'.

Literacy levels in Hoxton were not high in those days.

Rumour had it the stipes were just as frightening, on occasion, to each other.

Edward Robey and Leo Gradwell at Marlborough Street were reputed not to get on at all, and one would turn the photograph of the other's family to the wall if the owner left the room.

The Pickwickian Frank Milton, who later became the chief stipendiary, was much more approachable.

I remember defending a man charged with being a suspected person.

He had been hopping in and out of Tube doors just as they were closing.

I suggested this was just high spirits and not in any way sinister.

'The sort of conduct Sir John Betjeman writes about?' asked Milton.

The client summoned me to the dock.

'He's taking the piss.' 'Yes,' I said, 'but he's not going to send you to prison.'

One of Milton's successors was as likely as not to say, 'Repeat that in Italian,' during a speech in mitigation.

Much later it was he who, when one day I stood at the back of the court listening to an inept performance by an advocate, had the usher bring me a note that read: 'Don't laugh.

He's better than you are.'

It was thoroughly desirable to understand what signals were coming down from the bench.

Toby Springer, who sat at Thames and later at Highbury Corner, would turn to an advocate when the question of jurisdiction was being discussed and ask: 'Can I?' This meant 'Has your client convictions so I can send him for sentence?' The correct response was 'Yes, but I hope you won't.' And he rarely did.

'Far too serious for the Crown Court,' he would say.

'I'll deal with it myself.'

I remember defending, in front of JD Purcell, a man who had claimed an enemy had planted a knife in his coat pocket when his coat was hung up in a snooker club.

He had been arrested as he left the club after a tip-off.

In theory, it was a perfectly good defence.

All this I put to the police officer who agreed and I sat down.

'No more questions?' 'No, sir.' 'Are you sure?' 'I'm afraid I am.' When I addressed Purcell I said it could happen to me when I left my coat in the advocates' room - in those days unlocked and unguarded.

'I hope you would put your character in evidence,' he remarked.

I recall watching a pornography case at Marylebone with EJ McDermott on the bench.

The defence had called an expert witness to say the goods had therapeutic qualities.

'Medical qualifications?' asked McDermott.

'I'm a professor of Anglo-Saxon literature,' was the reply.

'No - medical - qualifi-cations,' said McDermott, as he wrote slowly.

And a little later, pointing to a phallic candle, he asked: 'And what therapeutic qualities do you say that has, pro-fessor?' Although the case had many hours to run there was only going to be one decision.

It was McDermott who said to a defendant with a string of previous convictions: 'You've had a conditional discharge, probation, Borstal, a suspended sentence, prison and none of these has done you any good.' Each time the defendant agreed.

McDermott thought for a moment.

'Why don't you hang yourself? That hasn't been tried.'

The most terrifying of all the stipes was Glenn Craske, who towards the end of his career ruled the south-western region with an iron fist.

It was no use the usher saying, 'court rise'.

'Don't tell me what to do, I'm the court,' Craske would snap.

In the days when there were full committal proceedings, I was scheduled to appear before him for a man in custody.

At the end of the morning, my case and one other were left.

Craske said he would take mine at 2.15pm.

I came back to find the place in darkness and went in search of the gaoler.

'The other case finished quickly so he took yours just before lunch'.

'But...' 'Yes, he took the evidence, gave your client bail against the officer's objections and extended your legal aid.

He said you couldn't have done any better if you'd been there.' It was all good training.

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