James Morton continues his memories of early practice with tales of the perils of shoplifting and drinking, and how he learned six rules that all advocates must know

The first time I appeared in court was the day after I qualified as a solicitor.

The fiance of a conveyancing client had pillaged one of the Oxford Street stores and I was sent to conduct her mitigation.

I arrived in my furry bowler with my rolled umbrella and that day quite inadvertently learned several rules of advocacy.

The client asked me what she was going to get.

Rule 1 - that's what clients really want to know.

Rule 2 - look up the law.

Archbold said six months was the maximum and she went into hysterics on the pavement.

What I didn't know was that the more or less tariff penalty for a first offence in those days at Marlborough Street was 25.

She was duly fined that amount and I was an instant hero.

Rule 3 - if you don't know the court find out from the local solicitors, gaoler, or even the usher what the local bench hands out.

Rule 4 - always give yourself some leeway in the penalty.

Then the client will think you walk on water when things turn out better.

It was a rule I forgot some years later.

I was making a bail application that I could not reasonably lose and I told the client's wife I would retire if I did.

I lost.

'When are you getting the watch, then?' she asked.

That first case was a one-off.

It would be a middle-aged, thick-set Welshman called Sandy, who was employed to conduct the criminal side of Simpson's practice (see [2003] Gazette, 22 May, 18) and who would save me from the profitability of conveyancing and bequests in old ladies' wills.

For no clear reason it became his ambition to turn me into an advocate.

If I ever knew his real first name I have forgotten it.

He answered to the name of Sandy after the popular comedian of the time.

He was a retired local policeman who had apparently risen to the rank of sergeant on two occasions only to be busted down to the ranks for some never fully revealed infractions.

He could be found intermittently in his attic room smoking a pipe, and talking in a thick accent with it in his mouth.

Our first few meetings were inauspicious.

Sometimes I assumed I had a hearing impairment because I could not understand a word he said.

So I took to saying 'good' and 'splendid' at what I thought were suitably strategic intervals.

Unfortunately one day when I asked as a matter of courtesy where he had been, he replied, 'My wife's been very ill'.

Not understanding what he said, I commented 'Splendid, splendid'.

With surprising speed he was out of his chair, had me by the lapels and was shaking me.

'Waddayu mean, boyo?' he demanded and I had a glimpse of how dangerous he might have been to suspects and just how he possibly came to lose his seniority.

Sandy was a great drinker, as were many police officers in those days.

It clearly took a toll because hardly a week went by without one of his former colleagues dying at an unhealthily early age.

Funerals of the fallen took place at the local crematorium followed by a visit to a public house for a day and evening's drinking.

The finale was a minute's silence at 10pm followed by Abide with Me, sung by as many of those who were still standing and could remember the words.

Sandy was a great supporter of the local football team and was still well regarded by his former colleagues.

When he was found paralytically drunk on the town hall steps after a cup win there was no question of arrest.

Instead he was bundled into the back of the police car and driven home.

There was no training, no advocacy courses.

It was a matter of turn up, stand up, speak up, shut up.

Sandy, through his police connections, provided me with a string of unfortunates on whom I could practise.

The results were mixed but I tried and so learned Rule 5 of advocacy - clients in criminal cases have no great expectancy of winning.

All they really want is to go down with all guns blazing.

Over the months there were some horrific moments.

The worst of all, over which I still break into a sweat, came when I defended a man with a number of convictions.

Nevertheless, I put to the chief prosecution witness that he himself had convictions.

No, he was a man of good character.

'That can't be right.

I defended you last week when you were convicted'.

'No', he replied.

'That was my cousin'.

I think I had broken just about every rule of advocacy.

Looking back on it, the least I deserved was to be reported to the Law Society.

A naturally lachrymose child, I began to blubber, saying, 'Don't hold it against him.

It's all my fault'.

Fortunately, the chairwoman of the bench played badminton with my mother on Friday afternoons.

They weren't going to do anything to Betty Morton's boy; he was trying his best.

My client didn't go to prison and lived to steal another day which (Rule 6) was all he cared about.

As for my faux pas, nothing more was said.

However, I think my mother believed she was required to lose a few sets as a penance for her son's poor showing.

It was something she did with less than equanimity.

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