Kosmos, page 6
Merlin laughed his uncontrollable and infectious laugh until both Sam and George succumbed.
“No, seriously, Merlin,” said George, pulling himself together and realizing how impressed he was at Merlin’s ability to spin a yarn with such conviction. “I won’t fall into the trap of arguing that you are insane. The jury may find you odd – inconsistent, even – but fundamentally I think they will respond to your good nature. You have a sort of authenticity. Insanity is not the key that opens the door to your freedom. In days past it was a sound tactic to avoid the rope. The issue of insanity we will argue is irrelevant. We’ll seek to persuade the jury that if you wish to be known as Merlin that is a defensible right. If you honestly believe you walked with King Arthur, that’s good enough for me. We’ll persuade the jury that there are solid historical grounds to form such a belief; most people have no difficulty in accepting a Merlin figure from the court of King Arthur. And if you also believe you’ve lived several lives as Merlin, I’ll deal with that in my own way. I’m sure there is an answer to this; I’ll do some research. The simple truth is that there was an incident, you reacted in self-defense, intended no harm, and therefore you are entitled to be acquitted and walk away a free man. That is our case.”
“You are truly my knight in shining armour, Sir George. We go into battle with clear minds and strong spirit. I salute you.”
Chapter Eight
Judge
November 2000.
Timothy Claude Watts had always wanted to be a judge; not any old judge but a Law Lord, just like his father, Lord Watts of Weybridge. Tim (as he was known to his friends and family) could rattle off the various types of judges from a precocious age. He knew the difference between a High Court judge as opposed to a circuit judge, a master, a Recorder, and a stipendiary by the time he was seven years old. Not much later he was capable of lecturing to his class the differences between a Law Lord (like Daddy), an Appeal judge (of the High Court) and a member of the Privy Council. He knew this not from dry textbooks or from the mouth of a teacher, but from the conversations he had overheard in his mock-Tudor house on the Thames in Surrey, where he grew up as an only child.
Tim felt he had always known the difference between the various wigs worn by members of the Bar and the judiciary. Once his father had been appointed to the High Court, he gave Tim the short horsehair wig he’d worn during his practice at the Bar, which Tim would secretly wear in his bedroom, looking in the mirror pretending to address the jury, always on the side of the prosecution.
Even in the sanctity of his bedroom, addressing the mirror, Tim was careful to make sure that the wig covered his fringe, knowing that an old-fashioned judge would take exception to the slightest show of real hair. It was a matter of form. Much to his parents’ delight, Tim had even taken the smelly, itching ‘periwig’, as he called it, to show and tell at school.
Tim also knew the differences between the High Court and a County Court, and between a Crown Court and a magistrates’ court, because he had been taken along to see the courts in action from the earliest age. His father’s social circle was made up almost entirely of barristers and judges, and he learnt their way of life almost as a second language.
Of course, Tim was very unpopular at school for this reason, not only among the teachers, whom he thought were rather stupid and ‘second class’, but also his peer group, who considered him boring. Others in his prep school might want to talk of football or rugby or racing, but Tim was happier talking about court cases. The law was his one and only vocation, and the thought of another life had never entered his mind.
Tim was now fifty-eight. He was a judge, but only a Recorder, empowered to preside over jury trials and other matters in the criminal Crown Courts. Tim had never really impressed his seniors in the civil courts, and his practice had never reached the heights he had anticipated from an early age. Perhaps he simply wasn’t smart enough, or perhaps he understood the law better than he understood people. The sad fact for Tim was that he considered himself to be a failure. His applications to take silk were always ignored, and over the years he had come to the sorry conclusion that he would not make it to the High Court. Therefore the route to becoming a Law Lord – via the Court of Appeal – was cruelly closed off. The invitation to become a Recorder was a consolation prize that he knew he would have to live with. But the sharpness of the pain of defeat and failure softened over the years and Judge Watts now accepted his fate in the same way he expected those who came up before him to accept their sentences.
The real problem for Tim Watts was not his work, his peers, or his undistinguished reputation, but his family. His wife, Christina, once a flirty and effervescent woman, now seemed permanently depressed and was nearly three years into an open-ended course of psychoanalysis to help her deal with her severe condition, for which no medical cause could be found. To her few remaining friends, the reason for her debilitating angst was obviously attributable to her one and only offspring.
Simon Watts would be flattered to be introduced as a seventeen-year-old teenager from hell, having fled his expensive boarding school to return home as a born-again anti-hunting eco-warrior complete with a Mohawk and low grunge uniform.
Simon now insisted on being called Sihairly, a Celtic name long ago corrupted by the forces of post-pagan political correctness, Simon claimed. Accordingly, he flatly refused to acknowledge the name Simon, resulting in a deal being struck, after some hard bargaining, to the effect that his parents would call him Si.
The fact that Christina had married Tim in the expectation that he would become a Lord and she a Lady was not forgotten. No formal title came attached to ‘Mrs. Recorder’.
And so, the three Wattses lived out their unhappy lives in the gilded cage known to them, a few friends, and their postman as Sunny Meadows, a quiet house inherited from Tim’s father in a quiet hamlet tucked away in the stockbroking belt of Surrey.
The household had reached the point of perfect dysfunctionality, there being no happy relationship between husband and wife, father and son, nor son and mother. Indeed, as Christina’s well-known and very expensive therapist, Robert Schilling, remarked, they lived in a perfectly balanced symmetrical loathing; the only pleasure left to each of them was the pain and humiliation they caused to one another.
The sole diplomat was Dayan, the aging but deeply mischievous jet-black half-breed Labrador retriever who was loved by all, a fact that Dayan understood and exploited to the full.
Into this quiet little hell came news that Judge Watts was to preside over a forthcoming manslaughter trial. No matter what grief he was given at home, he could take comfort in the undeniable fact that while he sat high on the bench in Court 12 of Southwark Crown Court he was the judge, and was treated by the court staff accordingly. Tim therefore became quite attached to the title Judge Watts, as evidenced by the small, fiddly nametags sewed personally and lovingly by hand onto all his clothing, including his socks, pyjamas, and underwear.
The papers had arrived from Southwark Crown Court to Sunny Meadows by courier. Judging by the thickness of the tidy A4 sheets of paper, it appeared to be a short case, less than two inches thick.
Before Tim had opened the bundle, he was wondering why this would take a whole working week as indicated in his diary. He studied the indictment headed: The Crown v. Merlin. There were two charges: manslaughter and actual bodily harm. Oh Christ! he thought, I’m on a hiding to nothing with this piece of nonsense. He read further into the papers and noticed that ‘the highly regarded and totally fearless if somewhat verbose Ojukwu Moboto’ – was presenting the case for the prosecution. Now I know why it’s listed for a week, Tim chuckled to himself. Moboto will make the most of this one.
The next surprise in the box was the realization that the defense consisted of a recently called member of the Bar by the name of George Winsome. That can’t possibly be right, was the thought that crossed the judge’s mind. “You must have a leader for a case of manslaughter. You simply must,” he muttered.
Judge Watts also noticed that the listing office had, of their own volition in accordance with Home Office issued guidelines, listed the case for a pre-trial review for early the following week.
* * *
Ojukwu Ibo Moboto was a highborn Nigerian whose hero was Mahatma Gandhi. Mobo, as he was affectionately known, had fought against prejudice at the English Bar for a lifetime. Mobo was better educated and smarter than most of his colleagues at the Bar, but it had been a long hard struggle to find a set of chambers willing to take him on, and an even greater struggle to establish a practice, particularly in the Sixties, when racism of every type was a way of life in each corner of the little island known as Great Britain or – as Mobo once notoriously described it in a Middle Temple debate on the subject of racism at the English Bar – “this mongrel island of bastard invaders, looters, robbers, rapists, and raiders; the land of blood and gory.”
In a career-enhancing move in the early Seventies, Mobo set up his own chambers in Gray’s Inn. The slow progress from pupil to head of 2 Gray’s Inn Court had taken thirty-five years, every one of which was etched into Mobo’s jet-black face and classic aristocratic features. Once the establishment, as represented by the Bar Council, realized that Mobo wasn’t going to go away, they politely listened to his sorry tales of the difficulties faced by would-be barristers who weren’t from English private schools, and educated at Oxbridge, and made many promises to address the situation.
Mobo had made many enemies along the way, but the friends acquired during the hard years were true allies. Two of his closest friends were Nancy and Washington Palmer, the husband and wife founders of Palmer & Co, Funeral Directors, based in Brixton.
David Palmer had not known that his father had spoken to Mobo about David’s fight for a tenancy. But a call from Washington to Mobo had been made. It was a great relief to Mobo when he interviewed David Palmer and saw for himself the great potential the young man clearly had: good presentation, confidence, ambition, humor, and style. The fact that he had such an English-sounding name was not held against him, although it did seem incongruous on the boards outside Moboto’s chambers.
* * *
Court 12 of Southwark Crown Court looked much the same as practically every other Crown Court built since the late Seventies. There were many old courtrooms, notably at the Old Bailey and others situated in ancient buildings around the country, that had remained unchanged for decades, but all modern courts looked as though the same builder had constructed them all at the same time, as if the whole legal process had become a business franchise.
The wall panels were no longer old English oak, but an artificial shiny veneer as might be bought in the bargain bin of a local DIY store. The jury seating area was neat and tidy, the seats possibly designed by the same sadist who designed waiting chairs in airports; the witness stand might double as a presentation stand used at a marketing seminar; the décor intended for counsel’s papers and books might be confused with a kitchen worktop and the clerk’s area, situated below the judge’s mini-throne, radiated an air of reluctant competence. Behind the four rows of seating designated for the lawyers, was the dock in which those charged would be expected to sit quietly, sometimes flanked by one or two burly prison officers.
The fact that the lawyers did not face the defendants, and that the clerk could not see the judge, meant that the only person who could see all the players, at the same time, was the judge, above whom hung a plastic-looking insignia of the Royal Garter, enshrined by the words: Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense. The overall impression was one of cost-effective functionality, as might be found on a hastily constructed, tightly budgeted, temporary film set.
For this reason, it was particularly important for the judge, clerk, and barristers to wear wigs, gowns, upturned stiff collars, and bands, without which there would be no sense of foreboding or regal-based formality, and the true banality of the whole legal process would be exposed.
Barristers opposing each other rarely meet for the first time in the actual courtroom. A telephone call might have been made the day before to confirm what was likely to be argued, and the length of time the hearing might take. There might even be discussions about how best to carve up the case. Even if no conversation had taken place over the phone, the barristers would inevitably meet in the robing room, the exclusive changing area for barristers, into which solicitors were never, ever allowed.
The atmosphere in the robing room, particularly in the minutes before ten thirty a.m., was tense, similar to the backstage scene prior to a first night opening of a fringe Shakespeare play. The odd layout of the room – segregated with thin partitions to create token privacy, like half-finished changing-room cubicles – unwittingly created schoolboy-level mischief. Barristers could play with the fact that they could be heard but not seen until they stood in front of the large communal mirror. There was usually a joker, trying to bring some light relief to an ever-increasing tension.
“David! David Palmer! I know you’re here somewhere. You’re in the Merlin case, aren’t you?”
“Hi, George. Careful what you say to the prosecution, old boy.”
David Palmer and George Winsome paired up to face the mirror, and laughed aloud like old school friends meeting up at a school reunion.
“I thought you might be on the Merlin case, but it was such a long shot, I mean, Mobo has about fifteen juniors to choose from. Well, well, who would have guessed it?”
David had already taken off the soft detachable collar from his shirt, and was struggling to attach the stud protruding from the back of his shirt to the new stiff-wing collar before he could put on his band.
“New collars are always a bugger, David. Do you want a hand?”
“No, thanks. I’m nearly there. That’s it.”
George and David stood side by side, looking at themselves in the large mirror while they put on their wigs and checked that the front stud, which attached the shirt to the two ends of the collar, was not exposed. Once the wig and bands were sorted, the heavy gown could be thrown over the shoulders, the weight of which encouraged the wearer to straighten up and broaden the shoulders. In the space of less than five minutes both George and David had made the transition to barristers, a double act of a routine that they both obviously enjoyed enormously.
For a moment or two they looked at themselves and each other in the mirror, the more or less identical costumes failing to obscure the stark contrast in height and color.
“Wow. Don’t we look the part. Feel a sequel to The Defiant Ones coming on, David. You remember, Sidney Poitier and Tony Curtis on the run together. Guess I know which part you’ll get.”
“Poitier’s real challenge in that film, George, was being chained up to a guy with smaller legs and fewer brains.”
George smiled at the thought of the images in front of him being spread across the silver screen. “Perhaps we’re all slaves to something, David even if it’s our own destiny.”
“Slavery? Chains?” boomed a deep, confident, cultivated but slightly exaggerated upper-class English voice, its resonance and depth betraying more than a hint of Nigerian origin.
“Am I not allowed even to dress myself without having to hear echoes of the distant unforgivable past reverberating throughout the hallowed grounds of a robing room of Her Majesty’s Crown Court?”
The voice rose even louder.
“Did my brothers and sisters sacrifice their very lives in order that the defenders of truth and justice themselves would perpetuate the language of apartheid and injustice?”
A silence fell among those present, until a voice rang out: “You’re not in court now, Mobo, keep it for the jury.”
Mobo let slip a small smile and recognized the voice of John Elmer, an old battle-weary foe and friend.
“Where are you hiding, John? And have you seen that useless junior of mine?”
“Which one, Mobo?” replied John, “all pupils look the same to me. Overworked and underpaid.”
David came out of hiding.
“Morning, Mobo. I’ve been working on our opponent. He’s going to plead guilty to all charges.”
“He better not,” said Mobo, giving a sly wink to his favored pupil. “This is one for my memoirs. A plea would take all the fun out of it. No, no. This is to be a fight, a glorious battle decided by the closing speeches. May the best man win. Ah, Winsome, there you are. We should have a chat. We’ve still got twelve minutes. Lots of time.”
“Er, chat, Mobo? I’m not sure what you’ve got in mind. Merlin will not be pleading guilty.”
“Yes, yes, Winsome, I know that. About today. Can we agree the issues, the witnesses, the timescale? How many experts will you call?”
George hesitated, knowing that he was under no obligation to reveal his defense but was, nonetheless, required to disclose details of expert witnesses. Mobo was already fighting, even before he was robed.
“I’ll be calling at least two witnesses, at least one of whom will be an expert,” George heard himself say confidently.
“An expert in what?” Mobo took a long sideward look at George.
“I’ll let you know in due course, Mobo. I think in the meantime, it’s time to go.”
* * *
“Court rise!” shouted the aging but still-flirtatious court usher, Margaret, a few decibels too loudly. The numerous counsel in Court 12 of Southwark Crown Court, some for the immediate hearing, others waiting for their case, immediately stood up. Once the judge had reached his chair and just before he sat down, the ritual exchange of token bows was exchanged between His Honor Judge Watts and counsel. To bow with some conviction without the wig slipping was an acquired art.
George looked around nervously, wondering why on earth his instructing solicitor was not present.
