Rumpole and the Reign of Terror

by John Mortimer

'Well, you're not actually doing anything for him, are you, Rumpole?'

  'I promised to think of a way of getting him out of his house. I haven't given up yet.'

  Hilda was contemptuous. 'I'm sure there are people who got killed or wounded on the tube who would have been glad to settle for house arrest.'

  Of course She Who Must was absolutely right. That terrible summer suicide bombers had invaded the Underground, killing innocent, harmless and no doubt decent people. I had been in London during the Blitz, when bombs fell nightly and, in the morning, you found your way past the skeletons of houses along pavements littered with broken glass, but now we had meaningless deaths under a peaceful sky.

  I had defended murderers of course, plenty of them from time to time, but at least they had some ascertainable reason for their behaviour. None of them killed total strangers in some idiotic hope of changing the world. And if it were true, if the quietly spoken, smiling, cricket-loving, beef-eating doctor played even a small part in such horrors, he should be locked away for a very long time indeed.

  'You do see my point, don't you, Rumpole?'

  'Yes, Hilda. I see your point.' There was a minute's silence and then She Who Must looked at me in an amazed sort of way.

  'You're not arguing with me, Rumpole.' Hilda was clearly surprised. 'Are you feeling entirely well?'

  •

  The situation in chambers at that time was still not conducive to a feeling of well-being and the joy of living. I had rarely seen a mantelpiece so clear of briefs as mine was at that dark moment of the Rumpole career. I had Henry's regular cheerful evening song of 'We're giving you a day's holiday tomorrow, Mr Rumpole' constantly repeated. I was aching to get my teeth into some new legal problem, preferably one unconnected with terrorism. I remembered what I used to do when I was a young and frequently unemployed white wig and before the Penge Bungalow Murders lifted me into a better world. I used to go down to the Free Legal Advice Centre in the East End of London to avoid breaking into loud curses and a furious denunciation of the world of today. It allowed me to remain decidedly calm.

  I had kept the telephone number and rang it, in the unreasonable hope of finding Miss Brotherton still in charge. She was a dedicated, overweight young woman who gave us cups of tea and home-made cake and was anxiously polite to anyone accused of a serious crime and impatient with those who only came in to complain about their rent or their child-maintenance support. Instead I got the high-pitched tones of a youngish man who said, 'FLAC here. Sidney speaking. How can I help?'

  'Is Miss Brotherton there?'

  'I'm afraid I don't know any Miss Brotherton. I'm in charge. Let's have your name.'

  'Rumpole,' I said, expecting an immediate change of tone, an amazed respect, which was not forthcoming. Instead I got, 'What's your trouble, Mr Rumboe?'

  'My name's Rumpole. RUMPOLE.' I spelled it out for him. 'And I'm temporarily out of work.'

  'So are a good many people in the Mile End area,' this Sidney said. 'Have you signed on?'

  'Signed on what?' I was not following Sidney's drift.

  'At the Job Centre.'

  'If you have anyone with a remote knowledge of the law with you this evening, Sidney,' I said, 'mention my name. They will tell you that I have become a sort of legend round the Old Bailey and the more important criminal courts. Being in the unusual position of enjoying a temporary lack in paid briefs I'm prepared to come down and give your non-paying customers free legal advice. Am I making myself clear?'

  'That's very good of you, Mr Rumpole.' Sidney, it seemed, had at last got the message. 'We could do with a criminal lawyer. Mr Housegood of Lincoln's Inn was going to come, but his clerk phoned to say he was detained by a case in Shropshire.'

  'It will come as a surprise to you,' I was able to say, 'that I have never heard of Mr Housegood of Lincoln's Inn, nor have I met anyone of that name round the Old Bailey. As I say, I expect no remuneration for my services of any sort, but I do appreciate a slice of homemade cake with my cup of tea.'

  Sidney's answer merely underlined the decline of standards in public life. 'No home-made cake, I'm afraid,' he said. 'We might manage a couple of organic biscuits.'

  •

  Before I could escape from chambers, Erskine-Brown entered my room, collapsed into my client's chair, gripped his forehead and gasped, 'You've got to help me, Rumpole.'

  'You've fallen in love again?'

  'Not that. You've got to tell me how to deal with the Timsons.'

  'That would take a lifetime's experience.'

  'I haven't got a lifetime. It's coming on after the holidays. It's Will Timson.'

  'What've they got him for?'

  'Breaking and entering a corner shop off the Edgware Road.'

  'That's a bit far from the Timson patch. They're south London villains.'

  'He's said to have done the job with a certain James Jacob Molloy …'

  'That's extraordinary!'

  'Why?'

  'The Timsons hate the Molloys. They're deadly enemies.'

  'They are still. Molloy's grassed. He's giving evidence for the prosecution. And I'm meant to think of some brilliant defence. You know the Timsons, Rumpole. Would you have a glance at the brief and see if you can come up with any ideas?'

  'I'll try and find the time,' I promised him. In fact I was curious to discover a new chapter in the long history of the Timson family. 'You could start by learning about the long rivalry. Then you can tell the jury that Molloy made the whole thing up to get his own back on Will Timson. Make a big thing of it.'

  'Will the jury believe that?'

  'Probably not. But you'll have had a fight. That's what your average Timson needs, a good fight in court.'

  'I advised him to plead guilty.'

  'Oh, he won't like that. The Timsons are fighters, so go with it. Excuse me, I've got to be off, pressure of work.'

  As I moved towards the door, the unfortunate Erskine-Brown removed the hand from his brow and asked, 'Where are you going, Rumpole?'

  'Somewhere where a man might come walking in off the street with a smoking gun and I'd get a brief in a sensational murder. It's called FLAC, Free Legal Advice Centre.'

  'I say,' Erskine-Brown looked at me with mild surprise, 'has that ever happened to you, Rumpole?'

  'No.' I had to tell him the truth. 'Never at all.'

  •

  'So what exactly is your trouble?' I asked the pale, sharp-featured woman on the other side of the desk in FLAC that evening. She spoke in a high, exhausted voice, a voice that seemed almost worn out with complaining, and flicked her hands in the air as though she were brushing away imaginary insects.

  She said, 'Truancy.'

  I had come down to Stepney Green that evening after my conversation with Erskine-Brown and seen various customers. I sat on a hard chair in a small office and listened to a man who complained that strange voices insulted him whenever he visited the public baths, and to many who had banning orders – known with considerable affection by the government as ASBOs – imposed on them to prevent them sleeping in doorways when they had no houses to go to, begging for small change when they had no money or getting drunk, when any money was available, as a relief for life on the streets. Such orders were imposed on them after no trial or appearance in court of any kind. They were plastered on them by the local police, who were relieved of the tiresome duty of providing evidence or presenting a case. From Dr Khan to the poorest sleeper in doorways, our lords and masters have shown their cheerful contempt for the rule of law.

  And now I had to deal with Mrs Nesbit, apparently accused of a new offence of truancy.

  'What on earth,' I asked her, 'were you truanting from?' I ran through the possibilities in my mind. Russian lessons? The use of the wok? Embroidery? None of these subjects seemed probable, nor their avoidance a criminal offence.

  'It's not me. It's my Natalie. My daughter. They call her partially sighted, which means she's half bloody blind, I reckon.'

  'That seems to be
a fair translation.'

  'She can't see the blackboard so she doesn't like school anyway. And the one she's in means there's a long journey to get there, so she stays away. She stays off school, I know she does.'

  'She's the truant?'

  'That's it. But it's me that gets the summons.' She pulled out a small folded piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. 'The magistrate's fined me £250 just because Natalie leaves home in good time but doesn't turn up at her school.'

  'Did you tell the magistrate that?'

  'No, I didn't. I thought it best to stay away.'

  'Why did you think that?'

  'I thought they'd know. We're a one-parent family on benefit … Our Natalie's restricted vision …'

  'You should have been there to remind them.'

  'I could've told them, yes. I could've told them where Natalie goes when she might not be at school.'

  'Where exactly?'

  'Round the Osgoods'. At home with the Osgood kids and them that never goes to school. I think Betty Osgood gets them children to talk to Natalie just to get me into trouble.'

  'Why should she want to do that?'

  My client nicked both hands in the air, as though brushing away all reasonable doubt. 'Because she wanted my flat. She always wanted it.'

  'Why's that exactly?'

  'Outlook. We look out over all the houses. You can see lots of fields and that, a long way away. All the Osgoods can see from theirs is the walls and windows of the next tower. She thinks if I get into trouble I won't be able to pay the rent. Then I'll have to move out. I know Betty. I know a person like that. I know how her mind works.' And then she became still, her hands locked together on the desk in front of her, her high, chattery voice quieter now. 'You're not going to do anything for me, are you?'

  'Of course I am going to do something. That's what I'm here for.' I bit into an organic biscuit and thought about what I could do exactly. Then I said, 'The magistrates should never have made their order without seeing you. They didn't know the facts. We'll get them to rescind it and have another trial.'

  'Would you speak up for me?'

  Would I? I thought as I chewed the organic biscuit. Appear before the Stepney magistrates for no money? Would I? 'Of course I will,' I told her.

  She bent forward then and planted a quick, dry kiss on the hand which still held a portion of biscuit. Then she jumped up, said, 'See you in court then,' and left, relying on me and Sidney to make the necessary arrangements.

  I travelled home on the tube, which was now free of all murderous incidents. I felt I had learned something from my evening at FLAC, but looking back on it I could no longer remember what it was.

  18

  Extract from Hilda Rumpole's Memoirs

  AT HOME THINGS SEEM to have sunk to a new low. Rumpole has been reduced to going to some free law advice place in the East End where he went as a young and briefless barrister. He came back and said he rather enjoyed it, it was 'better than sitting at home watching television'. It's all very well for him. It's a great deal harder for me at the bridge club when people say, 'How's your husband? Busy as usual, is he?' Am I meant to say, 'He's been quite busy giving advice down the East End of London for no money'? I just couldn't put up with all those sighs and looks of sympathy. So I said that Rumpole has been on two or three big cases and left it at that. I think he's extremely lucky to have someone to tell fibs for him at the bridge club.

  I should record the fact that the charming judge, Leonard Bullingham, has turned up at the bridge club. There'd been an unexpected guilty plea and he had the afternoon off. We got talking over lunch and the conversation turned to marriage. Leonard told me the sad story of his own, which had ended in divorce. He told me that his wife was 'a perfectly nice woman' but she just wouldn't 'join in'. That is to say, she wouldn't come with him to any legal gatherings or City dinners or even the Christmas party at the Old Bailey, which Leonard told me was 'no end of fun'. It was because of this not joining in that they separated by mutual consent and eventually divorced. Leonard said he misses her very much but, as she wouldn't join in, he felt he had no further choice in the matter.

  He was clearly in an emotional state after telling me all this and I'm afraid to say that we outbid considerably and we were well down on points at the end of the afternoon, which Leonard generously settled up for me. Then he laughed a bit and came out with an invitation to 'join in' with him at some of the legal and Old Bailey dos he'd been talking about. It would be an honour, he said, if I would consent to be his guest. Of course, I said I'd love to, which is true, not least because Rumpole is happier 'joining in' with a bottle of claret in Pommeroy's Wine Bar.

  With time apparently on his hands, Rumpole has been watching a lot of television. He particularly likes Jenny Turnbull's interviews with people in the news. She's just announced that she'll be interviewing Fred Sugden, the no-nonsense Home Secretary, who certainly doesn't share Rumpole's liking for criminals. Jenny Turnbull is going to interview him next week in the Inner Temple Hall and members of the public can buy tickets to attend. This has had an electrifying effect on Rumpole, who jumped out of his chair and said, 'That's it. I'll get him then.' I just hope Rumpole isn't about to make a complete exhibition of himself on television. Whatever he's planning to do, I certainly shan't be joining in.

  19

  TO MY SURPRISE I got a ticket for the Home Secretary's 'Public Question and Answer' in the Inner Temple Hall. When I went to book my ticket in advance, the girl at the desk had it ready. 'Your ticket, Mr Rumpole.' This pleased me, although I didn't understand the full implications at the time. I felt I had lived through a period of neglect and been restored, at least to some sort of notoriety. Jenny Turnbull's Up to the Minute television show had picked on me as a likely speaker to join in the debate.

  The hall, when the great night came, was a blaze of light. Cameras were being wheeled among us in search of the most advantageous position. The 'controversial' Home Secretary was sitting on a chair, chatting to Jenny Turnbull, the show's good-looking and usually astute presenter. The only possible way to describe the Home Secretary was to say that he was 'square'. This didn't apply to his musical tastes or even the way he dressed – I know nothing of these matters – but with his broad shoulders and hips he seemed to be a comforting figure of four more or less equal sides. His red hair was turning grey and he had a high-bridged and prominent nose which was a gift to caricaturists.

  The proceedings started with Jenny asking the Home Secretary what it felt like to be in the Temple, the home of the lawyers and judges he'd been so critical of in his recent speeches. The Right Honourable Fred Sugden didn't miss the opportunity of reminding his audience that he came from the back streets of Bristol (he called it Bristle, being anxious to preserve his local accent). He knew nothing of what he called 'the Temple of Tradition', where judges and the fathers and grandfathers of judges had grown up with a vested interest in keeping the law unchanged and unchangeable. But judges didn't make the laws, said the Right Honourable Fred, politicians like him who had an 8,000 majority at the last election did, and what did that 8,000, and millions of other voters, really want? They wanted to sleep safely in their beds and they weren't a bit interested in our legal theories carefully designed to keep the crook and the terrorist out of trouble.

  When Fred Sugden had finished his opening salvo, Jenny Turnbull announced that it was time for questions and I was first on my feet. Adopting a tone that was reasonable but pained, I led off with, 'I have a client who is under house arrest. He's never been tried. He's got no idea of the reason, if any, for his imprisonment. He can't carry on his work as a doctor. Why can't you charge him with terrorist activities or give him a fair and decent trial in front of a jury?'

  'You know perfectly well,' Fred Sugden was smiling politely, 'Mr …' Here he turned to Jenny for help. She looked at a bit of paper and said, 'Rumpole,' in an ear-piercing whisper. 'Mr Rumpole, I'd been told to expect a contribution from you. I understand you're looked on a
s a sort of permanent fixture down at the Old Bailey. Been there as long as anyone can remember.'

  'Never mind about me and the Old Bailey. When can my doctor client be given a fair trial, according to the law?'

  'I'm sure, Mr Rumpole of the Bailey,' the Sugden smile widened, 'you're anxious to get a nice fat brief out of a jury trial.'

  I may sometimes seem to lose my temper in court, there are moments when it's effective to seem angry, but now I fell into a genuine rage. There was no sort of pretence about my fury with the government representative on this occasion.

  'It's not a question of a fat brief!' My voice might have rattled the windows and been heard across the car park. 'It's not only that you seem never to have heard of Magna Carta or the Bill of Rights. Now you've convicted poor people, the homeless, those sleeping in doorways, you've convicted them without any sort of trial, fining them when they have no money, and all on the say-so of overworked policemen acting on hearsay evidence. Add this to imprisonment without trial. Aren't you a lawless government?'

  There followed a moment's awkward silence until the minister, still smiling, asked me a question.

  'Let me ask you this, Mr Rumpole. How do you take notes in court nowadays?'

  'I use a pen and my notebook.' I gave him a truthful answer.

  'A pen!' The Bristol accent rose to a high pitch of contempt. 'Would that be like … a quill pen by any chance?'

  There were laughs from the audience, but I put him right.

  'No. It's a fountain pen.'

  'Really. How very professional. So you're not computer-literate?'

  'I'm literate. I know very little about computers.'

  'That's the trouble with your sort of lawyer, Mr Rumpole. You can't move with the times. Things like jury trials and the presumption of innocence may have been all very well in their day. But times change. History moves on. We need quicker and more reliable results. Modernize, Mr Rumpole. That's what you need to do.'

  I was about to set the windows rattling with another protest when Jenny Turnbull said, 'I think you've had a fair old innings, Mr Rumpole. I'm sure there are a lot of other people with questions.'