Court Out

Chapter Four





True to form, I spend Sunday working at home, setting up fort on the dining room table. I have an upcoming week of classic ‘Lauren’ cases: prosecuting a range of misfits accused of various misdemeanors and defending a similar motley crew.

As I sit and read through the case of a woman accused of benefit fraud my mobile rings. Unusually, it is sat on top of Archbold directly in front of me so I have no difficulty in locating it before it switches to answer phone. My ringtone is a source of great amusement within the legal community, whenever a member of Chambers calls me it bursts into a version of ‘All Rise’ by Blue. Sooo cheesy I know, but it always makes me smile.

I press the ‘answer’ button and am immediately connected to Serena. Had it not been for my caller display I would have had no idea my best friend was on the line given all I can hear is some heavy breathing interspersed with the odd squeak.

“Serena?”

“Murder!” she pants.

“What’s up? Is everything ok?”

After a pause in which I can hear her take a large gulp of liquid which I hope isn’t alcoholic, she finally manages to compose herself.

“Better than ok,” she gushes. “I got a call this morning from Roger and he’s given me a murder. A murder! Can you believe it?”

Roger is our senior clerk, best known for his unapproachable manner and unpredictable temper. For him to dish out lucrative briefs is pretty much unheard of.

“What!” I splutter as I struggle to process this information. Serena has only been in Chambers for four years so whilst possible, It would be quite unusual for her to pull off this coup at such an early stage in her career. Whilst I’m obviously pleased that she’s been handed this opportunity on a plate, part of me is confused as to how on earth she’s managed it.

“You’ve heard about the Ryan Hobbs trial right? Well given third times’ a charm and all, he wants a noting junior in the event that they can appeal.”

Ah, this makes a bit more sense now. Ryan Hobbs is a premiership footballer accused of the murder of his wife Marina. She was found floating in the swimming pool of their Cheshire mansion by their maid back in January two years ago. Black and blue, it was obvious that she’d taken quite a beating before she died.

The pair had married five years ago following a whirlwind courtship after they had met in Hobbs’ local strip club. As I’m sure you can imagine, the media had a field day with the coverage of their wedding. Subsequently, the couple had always figured heavily in the press, becoming famous off as well as on the pitch for their willingness to attend the opening of an envelope.

Marina had modeled herself on the other footballers wives: permatanned skin, Rapunzel-esque hair extensions and a wardrobe that would make Barbie weep. Throughout their marriage they survived the frequent ‘kiss and tell’ stories that surfaced on a bi-annual basis; girls barely out of childhood stepping forward to sell the details of their illicit encounters with Hobbs. Every time the inevitable story was splashed across the tabloids, the public waited with baited breath to see if this would be the straw that broke the camel’s back, but it never was. As the details of his many affaires became progressively more sordid it appeared that Marina would let Hobbs get away with pretty much anything.

On the day before her body was discovered, a fourteen year old girl had claimed that she was pregnant with Hobbs’ child. The papers had a field day with this shock revelation; infidelity and underage relations. Add in that this fourteen year old was the daughter of a local bishop with the face of an angel and you had front page news. Hobbs’ team was playing a league match that Saturday and whilst before, reports of his womanising enhanced his performance on the pitch, that day he couldn’t do a thing right. He missed easy shots, made overly aggressive challenges and was eventually given a red card for punching the other sides goalkeeper after missing an easy shot. Sent off in disgrace and forced to watch the remainder of the match from the dressing room.

Rumour has it that he then went on something of a drinking spree with the members of his team that were still talking to him. He was seen later that evening making a scene in Ghost Bar in town, arguing with anyone who looked at him, clearly ten sheets to the wind.



What happened next is unclear. I remember from the reports that CCTV showed him leaving Ghost, but where he went to was unclear. Hobbs maintains that he went to the home of his team mate, Andre Plushenko where he crashed out until the next day. His official line is that when he was walking home the next morning to clear his head he saw the police outside his residence, panicked due to the underage sex scandal (presuming they were there because of that) and ran off. He didn’t manage to run very far however; the police helicopter got sight of him and dispatched patrol cars to arrest him.

The prosecution take a different view of events: having left Ghost in what can only be described as a foul mood, Hobbs returned home and found his wife surrounded by suitcases, packed to leave him. Hobbs then hit the roof and after subjecting Marina to many punches and kicks, drowned her in their FA Cup shaped pool.

His defence seems to be that that burglars broke into the multi-million pound property expecting both occupants to be out at the usual post match celebrations. On discovering Marina, they attacked and killed her to prevent identification. The suitcases were there as she probably was leaving him; it was to be expected following his reported infidelity.

This will be the third time that his case will be listed for trial. At the first trial the prosecution medical expert collapsed in the witness box with a suspected heart attack. At the second, the jury were ‘hung’; they couldn’t reach either a unanimous or majority decision as to whether to find him guilty or not guilty. It’s pretty much unheard of that the prosecution are allowed to attempt a third re-trial but given the nature of this case, they are trying him one last time.

“That’s fantastic news,” I reply. “A cushy role for you, privately paid I assume?” A noting junior has the job of sitting in court and literally taking a full written note of what is said in court.

“Naturally! They want a full transcript throughout the trial so in the event that an appeal point comes up, they’ll have it straight away. I’m sooo excited! I’m making Ewan take me to PC World later to buy me a new laptop seeing as my old one is pretty nineties looking”

“But it still works right?” I look fondly at my MacBook Air, a present from Sebastian last Christmas. I’ve dropped it twice now, and the right hand side of the screen no longer works, but it still gets the job done. I really should take it into the Apple store to get it fixed, but never seem to find the time.

“Well yes, but I have to look the part!”

“Fair enough, but please don’t bankrupt the man,” I plead, knowing full well that the second Serena sees rows of shiny new laptops she’ll be instantly attracted to the one with the highest spec.

“I can’t wait to work alongside Peter Quinn QC. He’s supposed to be amazing in court!”

“Yeah, and his reputation for his behaviour outside court precedes him too,” I can’t help adding, having heard the whispers about him focusing on his brief fee rather than the evidence against his Defendants. It is common knowledge that Quinn accepts huge retainers from clients wanting his expertise, only to send other members of his Chambers to all of the preliminary hearings, making others do the donkey work before swanning in at the last minute to take over.

“Oh come on Lauren, if you were paid privately to defend murders day in, day out, you’d be pretty financially orientated too,” she replies defensively.

“I know, it just gets my goat sometimes that whilst most silks happily accept legal aid rates and realise the importance of continuity of counsel, he gets away with murder. Can you imagine being accused of something terrible and paying for someone you think is the best, only to be fobbed off until the last minute? Especially at the moment.”

Ask any member of the public what they think of criminal barristers, then it’s pretty much a certainty that the terms ‘fat cat’ ‘rich’ and ‘greedy’ will come up. It would be lovely if it were true, but sadly, it’s a far cry from the reality. The Government is on a mission to cut fees as much as they can and the latest round of slashes has really hit us hard. The senior barristers have taken some terrible blows too; the fees for murder cases have been reduced beyond recognition.

“Whatever. It’s not like he abandons them altogether,” she huffs back at me. “It’s not his fault he is so busy he has to compromise”

“Whoa, chill!” I quickly attempt to backtrack, knowing that if I induce one of Serena’s legendary moods then I’ll have to spend the next week trying to make peace. “So who’s his junior?”

“I don’t think I’ve met him, guy from London called Andrew Rivers. I’ve googled him, but there’s no picture of him on his Chambers profile”

“No, the name doesn’t ring a bell with me either. God, I hope people don’t look us up via our website!”

Serena laughs. About six months ago we had a photographer come in to Chambers to take our mug shots for the website. We’d been out the night before, Serena drowning her sorrows after losing a trial that seemed bullet proof. The first round of cocktails had gone down way too quickly and as I was out of court the next day, I put up little resistance to the second. Or the third. Or the, well, you get the picture.

Serena had been unusually maudlin that evening, bemoaning her skills as an advocate and complaining that the Magistrates had convicted her Defendant on the basis of prejudice not evidence. The night ended rather messily with me trying to cheer her up. My attempts at sympathy were not received well as I’d just won a rather complicated fraud, leading to Serena thinking I was being patronising. I wasn’t but when we parted I couldn’t help but sense a note of resentment when she said goodbye. The combination of a killer hangover and a nagging feeling that I’d done something wrong did not make for a good photograph and I have been immortalised looking like a cross between a labradoodle and a post-conviction Lindsay Lohan. Not good. The worst thing is that our mini-pupils print out copies to find barristers at court, so I can never escape it. I’ve offered to pay to have a new one done, but my generous request has been refused on the grounds that my current picture cheers up the clerking team on Monday mornings.

“So when does the trial start?” I ask, staring at the offending photo on my laptop. Wow, it really is as bad as I remember.

“Four weeks tomorrow. It’s come at the perfect time as my diary was looking quite empty.”

I log on to our online diary system that shows us which cases we’ve been booked for to see what the next few weeks have in store for me. I notice with alarm that whilst the next fortnight is busy, my diary is looking rather sparse the week after that. If I were the jealous type, I’d question why Serena’s got at a week of easy money and I’m potentially out of court. Good job I’m not. Well, ok, I am a little jealous, I mean imagine being involved in such an important case, working side by side with one of the most notorious silks in the country. She interrupts my reverie.

“Yeah, plus, the case has been moved to Farrington from Birmingham, so it’s not like I’ll even have to travel much each day”

“That’s a relief, there’s nothing worse than having to get up at some ungodly hour each day to get to court. By the way, did you get an invitation to the reunion too?”

“Yes! Can’t wait, should be a night to remember!”

A night of carnage would be more accurate given past performances.

“It’ll be great,” I confirm. “Can you remind me to send off a cheque in the week? Speaking of, what are you up to tomorrow?”

There’s a pause before she speaks quickly, “Just some papers in Chambers. Right, well I’d better get off before the shops shut. See you anon!”

I barely have time to reply, “Take care” before she disconnects the call.

As I put down my phone, I wonder what that was about. I’ve noticed recently that Serena hasn’t been as busy as the rest of us, often having three days out of court a week. Given we’re all self-employed with a commitment to pay Chambers a set amount of ‘rent’ every month, regardless of how much we work, it can be difficult and expensive if we’re not regularly in court. I hope if she has a problem she knows that she can talk to me about it. With the impending wedding I can’t imagine the pressure on her and Ewan to meet all of their financial obligations. I’ve offered to pay for the taffeta monstrosity and coordinating accessories but she’s adamant that she’ll foot the bill. I’d like to say my intentions were fully noble, but if I paid for it, then I could make a few alterations here and there...

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.