Court Out (7 page)

I stand up and stretch my legs, noticing that during the course of the day I’ve managed to spill orange juice on my white sweater. This is particularly traumatic as I never get round to doing a white wash; inevitably all of my pale goods get shoved to the bottom of the laundry basket and ignored until my mother comes around to visit, then starts to clean under the pretext of searching for something she’s claimed to have left during her last stopover.

My mum, like Sebastian cannot abide any mess so struggles to sit still in my house. I’ve contemplated getting a cleaner but can’t deal with the thought of a stranger in my home; I guess I’ve prosecuted too many thieves to trust someone with free run with my possessions. Not that my belongings are worth a fortune mind you, it’s just the little things I’d miss if they were ever taken: an antique charm bracelet from my aunt, various birthday and anniversary presents from Sebastian over the years, my handbag and shoe collection.

God, if I were left unsupervised in someone’s home I’d be so tempted to have a rummage. Not to steal things of course, but just to have a look, although knowing my luck I’d probably break something in the process. I can see the headlines now: ‘Top Barrister in Attempted Burglary Scandal!’ Just for the record, I don’t consider myself to be a ‘Top Barrister’ but every time a member of the legal system is cited negatively in the press it is always ‘Top Judge’ or ‘Top Solicitor’ just to give it that bit of an edge so the public can feel that little bit more outraged.

I pour another glass of orange juice and pinch a packet of Sebastian’s Quavers from our overworked snack cupboard. As I rip open the foil packet and inhale the cheesy goodness within, I wait for any signs of intervention from upstairs. Happily, there appears to be none.

I take my seat and turn my attention back to my case for tomorrow. A lady called Ms Goodridge has been accused of claiming her benefits without telling the authorities she is living with a man in a relationship comparable to that of husband and wife. As I read through the papers I notice that the man in question, Mr. Lukes, had been staying at the same address as the Defendant and had been spotted routinely leaving the property holding hands with Ms Goodridge and kissing her goodbye at the end of the school run by various vigilant neighbours.

If true, this is strictly verboten, as Ms Goodridge has completed her most recent benefit claim form stating that she’s a single lady living on her own. There is no proof of evidence within my brief; no explanation taken by my instructing solicitor from Ms Goodridge as to her side of the story. I munch on another crisp, deep in thought. Ms Goodridge exercised her right to go ‘no comment’ during the course of her interview with the Department, so I have no idea what her defence to this is.

Oh well, I think, more of a surprise for me when I meet her tomorrow morning at court. Her matter is listed for a plea and case management hearing so she’ll have to decide whether she wants to have a trial at a later date or plead guilty and be sentenced for the offence. I have to say, at the moment, in the absence of some amazing explanation, I’m struggling to see how she’s going to convince a jury that there can be some doubt in respect of the case against her.

Another matter I have in tomorrow is a return of Serena’s. Serena represented a man called Mr. Lenihan at his trial for a particularly nasty assault on his son with a baseball bat. From the written endorsement on the front of the brief I can see that at the eleventh hour, Mr. Lenihan changed his plea to guilty and the case was adjourned so that the Judge could have the benefit of pre-sentence report, a lengthy document detailing his social and mental history to assist the court in passing an appropriate term. I wonder why Serena isn’t doing this tomorrow? I mean she’s taken all of the money out of the brief with the guilty plea, so by all rights she should finish it.

I spend the rest of the day working on my cases, looking up relevant precedents that relate to sentence and other points of law, eventually giving up and curling up on my side on the chocolate leather sofa in the lounge, where Sebastian finds me.

“What do you fancy for dinner?” he asks, finding a small space between my stomach and knees and sitting down.

“Are you cooking?” I ask, surprised, flicking through the TV channels, stopping when I come across an old episode of Wife Swap

“Nope, we can either pop out or I can call in. Your choice”

Sebastian and I are both equally useless when it comes to culinary matters. The remnants of his last attempt at spaghetti bolognese are still burnt onto the ceiling above the hob in the kitchen. I quite like to cook, but my penchant for adding chili powder to every meal means that you have to have the constitution of a horse to successfully complete one of my gastronomic delights. The final straw came when I added Scotch Bonnets to the Sunday dinner. Needless to say, unless it comes out of a microwavable ready meal, Sebastian won’t touch anything I put in front of him. He’s so unadventurous.

“Hmmm, I could go for a pizza?” I venture.

“Deal, although if we have half each, can you please put something sensible on yours this time? I don’t think I’ve quite recovered from your Mexican Mouth Melter last time.”

“Fine. You order, I’m going to jump in the bath. Give me a shout when it gets here.”

As I relax into the foamy bubbles I contemplate the week ahead. I tend to get so stressed on Sunday evenings; it’s like being back at school again, worrying that you’ve haven’t done all your homework, panicking that you’re going to be picked on by the school bully (E.g., the Judge) and fretting that you’ll give the wrong answer when called on by said bully. I sink deeper into the steaming water, thinking about the upcoming wedding, the reunion and Serena. I don’t realize I’ve dozed off until I hear Sebastian’s insistent voice through the water.

“Lauren, Lauren! Your pizza’ll be stone cold. Come on!”

I reluctantly haul myself out of the now luke warm bath, wrap myself in a fluffy lilac towel and pad downstairs to gorge myself on my stuffed crust meat feast, already looking forwards to the prospect of curling up in bed later to watch Jack Bauer take on the world. 

Chapter Five

Farrington Crown Court is predictably busy this Monday morning. As I join the queue to enter the building I see many familiar faces waiting to gain entry: Bill is trying to surreptitiously make his way to the front of the line without being detected. This is never a good idea. Whilst in theory you can pull the ‘Don’t you know who I am card’ whilst sweeping past the waiting members of the public, sods law dictates that most of those you cut in front of will be on your jury and won’t be impressed by your belief that you are superior to them.

I wait my turn, grateful that at least my portion of the queue is underneath the outside canopy, protecting my hair from the rain. One drop of moisture will undo all of my hard work straightening it this morning and cause it to revert to something the eighties forgot. Eventually, after the usual rigmarole with security I make my way to probation to pick up the pre-sentence report for Mr. Lenihan.

Whilst in the probation corridor I quickly whip on my wig and gown having carried them over. The rules state that we can’t be seen outside court in them and after my jaunt with Mr. Walsh on Friday, I’d better be careful. I then walk up the four flights of stairs to the court, being extra careful not to trip on my gown. The last thing I need today is another trip to A and E. There is a lift but given the amount of carbs I’ve consumed over the last three days I’d better at least make some kind of effort to burn some of it off or else I’ll have to buy new suits to accommodate my growing bum. Whilst I’m all for shopping, I normally like spending my money under happier circumstances.

My plan to grab a conference room and read Mr. Lenihan’s report is cut short by the appearance of Ms Goodridge. A small lady with long dark curly hair, beaded purple top and flared jeans steps in front of me and speaks

“Miss Chase? Are you Miss Chase? I’m Gillian Goodridge, I think you’re looking for me?”

I note with dismay that she has a piece of A4 paper in her hand that looks suspiciously like my Chambers website profile.

“Yes,” I say. “Please come with me.” I take her into the empty conference room and indicate that she should sit in one of the four plastic chairs placed around a worn looking table.

“Right, I’ve read through all of the prosecution papers in this case and have to tell you that at the moment, it’s not looking too good. My advice to you is that if this allegation is true, admit it now so you get full credit when it comes to sentence.”

Her brow furrows.

“What does that mean?”

“Ah, my fault, I forgot that this is your first experience before any court. Well, if you plead guilty today, the Judge will give you a third off any sentence. But, that’s supposed to be a carrot for the guilty not a stick for the innocent. If you haven’t been living with Mr. Lukes as a married couple then this is your chance to tell me what has been going on so we can try and sort out what is the best plan of attack”

She looks at me with narrowed eyes.

“But they’ll never believe me. I know how this works. I didn’t do it, but it’s not worth all the hassle.”

“Well try me,” I say. “Sometimes it’s better to get a fresh perspective on things, see how I react. After all, if I take the garb off then I’m just a member of the public too.”

She picks up my biro from the table and begins to tap it on a sheaf of documents that she has bought with her. I can see that something is troubling her as she stares fixedly at the wall. Finally, she speaks, turning to look me in the eye.

“Ok, but you’ll be straight with me right?”

“Right,” I promise.

It turns out that Mr. Lukes is in love with an ex-girlfriend of his who takes their children to the same school as Ms Goodridge. He lost his house having been made redundant and had been sleeping on her sofa until he could get back on his feet. The icing on the cake was that in an attempt to make his ex jealous and realize what she was missing, he asked Ms Goodridge to be seen in public with her acting like she was his new beau.

“Well you’ve certainly got yourself into a bit of a mess,” I comment. “But as long as you haven’t been receiving money from him we should be ok.”

“Not at all!” she replies defiantly. “Even if he had any to give then I wouldn’t take it. He’s a mate.”

A short while later we leave the conference room, Ms Goodridge walking towards the court cafe, head held high whilst I have a cursory look for Mr. Lenihan. There is no obvious sign yet. Ms Goodridge surprised me, her story was both plausible and one that I think could be accepted. More importantly than that, given her lack of any previous offending, it’s important that she gets her day in court and is allowed to have her case tested before a jury. Who am I to tell her to give that up?

I fill in the requisite form to inform the court that this will be a ‘not guilty’ plea and hand it to the Prosecutor, a jovial man who is from a small set of Chambers just outside of Birmingham. I can remember his first name, but his surname escapes me entirely. He has a perfunctory look at the top sheet and looks up at me with a quizzical look on his face.

“Eh? Not guilty? But she’s bang to rights?”

“Innocent until proven guilty Glenn. All will become clear soon,” I tease.

“Have you filed your defence statement?” he asks, referring to the mandatory document required in criminal proceedings where the defence have to set out the exact nature of why they contest the charges against them.

“Not yet, we’ve just done it and I’m about to ask our usher very nicely if he’ll do me some copies. Are you doing the trial?” I wonder, mentally planning my trial strategy against him.

“Nope, I’m off on holiday for a few months so it’ll be sent out. Right, I’ll tell the court we’re ready.”

“Thanks, I just have one other person to see then I’m all yours.”

I resume my position in the conference room and fish out Mr. Lenihan’s report. As I read the first page a feeling of dread envelops me. It is clear from the document that Mr. Lenihan maintains his innocence in respect of the assault despite pleading guilty. Worse than that, he has told the author of the report that he only pleaded guilty because Serena told him to. His exact phrase is ‘My barrister said that no-one would believe me and not to waste her time because she had better things to be doing than representing a liar like me.’ God, this is not good. I step back out onto the concourse and shout

“Mr. Lenihan? Mr. Brian Lenihan?”

A man wearing an ill fitting polyester suit stands up and approaches me. I know from his report that he’s forty two, but he looks a lot older. He has dark hair tied back in a stringy ponytail and a long thin moustache. His beady eyes look me up and down before speaking.

“You’re not the bird I had last time”

I sigh. Here we go again.

“No Mr. Lenihan, you were represented by Miss Taylor on the last occasion. I’m afraid she wasn’t available today, so you have me. If you’d be kind enough to follow me, there are a number of things I need to discuss with you.”

I don’t wait to see if he responds to this, but turn on my spike heel and walk back to the now familiar cupboard. Happily he has acceded to my request and has perched on the side of the table. I weigh up the merits of telling him he’s not in a barn and decide against it; at the moment we have bigger fish to fry.

“I have here a copy of your pre-sentence report. In it, you appear to have said that you were pressurised into pleading guilty. Firstly, do you accept that this is what you said?”

He looks at me defiantly.

“Yes, too right that’s what I said!”

I take a deep breath. Crunch time.

“Ok, second question, do you maintain that that is actually what happened?”

“Hell yes. That bitch made me do it. I was all ready for my trial, had all my defence witnesses here too. She told me that if I had a trial I would definitely be found guilty and I’d go to prison for twice as long because of it. I mean that’s a lot of porridge.”