by Peter Murphy
CONFIDENTIAL
IN THE HIGH COURT OF JUSTICE
FAMILY DIVISION Case number ___
BETWEEN WILLIAM JAMES JOLLY AND ANGELA JANE JOLLY
Hearing on issues relating to the children of the family following dissolution of marriage
Before Her Honour Judge Jenkins QC, sitting as a Deputy High Court Judge
JUDGMENT
After which the document begins, in Marjorie’s crisp, precise prose, to analyse the issues between William James Jolly and Angela Jane Jolly relating to the children of their family.
‘This is my draft judgment,’ she explains to the silent room, ‘in the case I tried in the High Court two or three weeks ago. It’s almost finished. I just had one or two things to add.’
No one else seems capable of speech, so I ask her myself.
‘Marjorie, I’m sure everyone would be interested to know how these two schedules came to be attached to your judgment.’
‘They’re evidence in the case,’ she explains. She sounds just a tad frustrated, and I can’t say I blame her. ‘The wife was saying that the husband was an unfit father to his two young daughters, because he wrote those explicit letters to his secretary, and because the wife had those pictures of him in bed with said secretary.’ She pauses. ‘They’re obviously pretty graphic, but just for the record, I don’t think of them as pornographic, and I don’t think Potter Stewart would have thought of them as pornographic. If you read my judgment, you’ll see the view I’ve formed about it all – though I would prefer you didn’t: judgments are supposed to be confidential in the Family Division.’
‘As your judgment clearly states at the very beginning,’ I observe. ‘And that prompts me to ask how you received this evidence on your computer?’
The wife’s solicitors sent it to me, in preparation for the hearing,’ she replies, ‘obviously.’
‘Electronically?’ I ask. ‘A paperless case, is it, using the approved electronic filing system?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘So,’ I say, doing my best to look suitably judicial, ‘are you saying that these two schedules were sent to you electronically, using the system put in place by the ministry to create the Paperless Court, and to ensure that the taxpayer is getting value for money?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And that while using this system as a judge, in the course of trying to prepare a judgment – a confidential judgment, I may add –’ I say with a pointed glance in Shaun’s direction, ‘you find that not only is your judgment not treated confidentially, but in addition, you have been suspended because of an Error 32B?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sure you must find that rather disturbing.’
‘“Disturbing” doesn’t begin to describe it. I don’t feel safe. I don’t think I am safe. In fact, I think one might even say that it’s become unsafe for judges to deal with sexual cases at all.’
I shake my head. I’m not in a charitable mood, and I decide to approach the nuclear option without any preamble.
‘I don’t know about you, Jeremy,’ I say after a suitable pause, ‘but this strikes me as quite a serious matter. It’s not very creditable to whoever designed the system, is it? Confidential judgments being read by junior civil servants? Judges being smeared and suspended for doing their job? I shudder to think what the taxpayer might have to say if this finds its way into the newspapers. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if Marjorie’s MP were to ask the Minister one or two questions about it in the House.’
‘It’s still pornographic,’ Shaun whines almost inaudibly, without conviction.
Jeremy gives him a withering look. ‘You may leave us,’ he replies, turning his head away. Eventually, with Shaun safely out of the room, he turns to Marjorie.
‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Marjorie,’ he says. ‘I promise you that I will personally look into this, and take urgent steps to remedy the system, and to warn all judges about this… glitch. We will set up a helpline with immediate effect for any judge who encounters an Error 32B message before we have time to fix it.’ He looks across at Meredith, who nods and makes a note.
‘I hope we can also take it,’ I reply, ‘that Marjorie is now free to resume her trial. We’ve lost two days of work already – in a case funded by the taxpayer.’
‘That goes without saying,’ Jeremy adds, at once.
‘I’d prefer that it should go into Meredith’s note,’ I say, ‘just to avoid any doubt about the matter.’ Glancing at Meredith, I see that she is already making a thorough record.
Jeremy stands. ‘Well, it’s been a trying afternoon. I’m sure you have a lot to do. Unless there’s anything else, we’ll leave you in peace.’
‘Well, there is one more thing, Jeremy,’ I venture. ‘In the light of the distress caused to Judge Jenkins by this whole affair, I would have thought that you might make a suitable gesture of apology – and indeed, of recognition for the sterling work she’s doing on the bench.’
‘What kind of gesture?’ he asks cautiously.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘Perhaps an undertaking that she might spend a bit more time in the High Court, or perhaps a week or two at the Old Bailey, or even the Court of Appeal once in a while.’
‘Well…’ he begins, but Meredith cuts him off.
‘I’m on it,’ she replies.
After they’ve gone, I ask Marjorie if she has plans for the evening.
‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘Nigel and I are taking you and Clara to Gino’s for dinner. And we’re not taking no for an answer.’
* * *
Thursday evening
Gino’s is one of the hot new restaurants that keep springing up in Bermondsey these days. It’s the kind of place the Reverend Mrs Walden and I might go to once a year for some special celebration; and the kind of place Marjorie and Nigel frequent regularly. The food is Tuscan, and wonderful, and the wines are a far cry from the Lidl’s Founder’s Reserve the Reverend and I would typically be imbibing with dinner on a Thursday evening. It’s flowing quite freely, too. Both Marjorie and Nigel are a bit light-headed with relief, and are committed to celebrating without restraint – which I understand completely. The Reverend and I keep off the pace a bit, so that we can make sure they find a safe taxi home when the celebration winds down.
‘You have to tell me, Charlie,’ Marjorie says as we are savouring a wonderful Chardonnay grappa to round off our feast. ‘You knew exactly what they were going to find before Mr Megabyte opened my computer up, didn’t you?’
‘Did I?’ I ask innocently.
‘Yes, you did. How on earth did you do it?’
I hold my hands up modestly. ‘Oh, all right’ I reply, ‘I suppose I may as well tell you. GCHQ have been consulting me about cyber security for years. It’s one of my many areas of expertise. To a man with my talents in the field, cracking a Grey Smoothie security code was nothing – child’s play.’
She makes a face at me. ‘No, Charlie. Seriously.’
‘Seriously?’ I reply. ‘Marjorie, if I were to answer your question seriously, being suspended would be the least of my problems. I’m sorry, and I’m glad it’s over, but there are certain things that have to remain locked down, shall we say. Let’s invent a name for it. Let’s call it a 32C, shall we?’
As we stroll home, having poured Marjorie and Nigel into a black cab, the Reverend and I hold hands. It’s a pleasantly cool evening, and there are even a few stars on display.
‘Amy Lock called me while I was getting ready for dinner,’ she says. ‘She wanted to say how grateful she was to you for giving Laura Catesby a suspended sentence.’
‘I’m not at all sure I should have done,’ I reply. ‘It was a dreadful breach of trust. I’m surprised you would have any sympathy for her so soon after Remember the Elderly Week. There’s far too much of it going on, you k
now, bilking the elderly just because they can’t pay attention as well as they used to. Today it may be Muriel Jones and Harry Buller; but tomorrow it may be you and me, or even Marjorie and Nigel. We’re all feeling our age, you know.’
She turns to look at me. ‘Who’s Harry Buller?’
‘Oh… no one,’ I reply. ‘Not important.’
‘I don’t have any sympathy with what she did, Charlie,’ she says. ‘But I have a limited sympathy for the condition that allowed her to do it. And as Marjorie’s case proves, none of us knows the perils that lie in store for us. All we can do is keep going and hope for the best.’
I look up to the stars, reflecting on Bermondsey Crown Court in general. ‘Very true,’ I concede.
TOO MANY COOKS
Monday morning
As I hand over my change to Jeanie this morning in payment for my ham and cheese bap, I find my mind more than usually focused on food. Like most people, I find thoughts of eating something nice flitting through my mind during the day, even when I’m supposed to be concentrating on other things, and even when I’m not particularly hungry. But having occupied myself during a few idle moments on Friday afternoon by reading the file in the case I’m due to try today, I’ve prepared myself for the fact that it may be difficult to avoid stirring up the gastric juices a bit. It’s likely to be a warm day, apparently, and the false promise of delicious, cooling dishes seems unusually seductive.
It’s strange how often cases take you into establishments devoted to food and drink. Usually, the restaurant or bar is just part of the scenery, the backdrop to a case that has nothing to do with eating or drinking as such. Logically, the type or location of the venue shouldn’t matter very much. But despite the number of restaurants, pubs and clubs to be found in London, it’s interesting how often the same names crop up time and time again in proceedings in front of any of our Crown Courts. Bermondsey is no exception. In any given prosecution for offences involving the supply of drugs, drunken Saturday night fisticuffs, drunken Saturday night sexual escapades, the dishonest handling of high-end stolen goods, or even the odd instance of counterfeit currency, two names spring instantly to mind – and very often on to the pages of police reports and witness statements: the George and Dragon, and the Blue Lagoon. Both seem to play host to a statistically improbable number of transactions that eventually end up in court. As a result two things tend to happen: the police keep a close eye on them, which serves to increase the number of arrests and turn the whole thing into a self-fulfilling prophecy; and the judges and staff at the Crown Court avoid both places like a forensic plague.
But you also have the occasional case in which the establishment is not just part of the scenery, but is more intimately involved with the events in question. In cases like that, the judges and staff, having no reason to fear any adverse consequences, may well have some personal knowledge of the premises acquired during an agreeable night out. The most notorious example at Bermondsey was the case of Jordan’s, an up-and-coming restaurant rapidly turning into one of London’s leading gastronomic destinations, but which also turned out to be the site of a brothel frequented by a number of men in public life who didn’t want that fact to become public knowledge. There were, of course, other men – such as Legless – who just happened to have been there for dinner, but were nervous that their presence at Jordan’s might be misconstrued. I tried the resulting case against the proprietor, Robert Jordan, his girlfriend Lucy Trask, and his Russian bar manager, Dimitri Valkov, who ran the brothel. When Valkov, in a futile attempt to save himself, produced a ‘black book’ containing a number of names, panic broke out in certain quarters that took some time to dispel.
Mercifully, the case of Luigi Ricci, featuring Bermondsey’s equally up-and-coming Primavera Toscana, has nothing to do with brothel keeping, as Roderick Lofthouse is about to explain. In fact, it hasn’t attracted any suspicion at all in the two years during which it has graced Queen Elizabeth Street, SE1. On the contrary, while it doesn’t pretend to be a Jordan’s, it has quietly established its reputation for ‘excellent affordable Italian food in a family-style setting’. All four judges of the Bermondsey Crown Court have been seen there on several occasions, once or twice together on a Friday evening; and, I suppose, on one or more of those occasions we probably encountered Luigi Ricci and his brother Alessandro, though if so, I don’t remember. To err on the safe side, when we had our plea and case management hearing I did suggest to Roderick and to Julian Blanquette, who’s defending Luigi, that it might be prudent to move the case to a Crown Court north of the River, or at least import a judge from some such distant clime to try the case. But apparently the Brothers Ricci have no more memory of us than we have of them; counsel saw no need to worry about it, and so on we go.
‘May it please the court, members of the jury, my name is Roderick Lofthouse and I appear to prosecute in this case. My learned friend Mr Julian Blanquette represents the defendant, Mr Luigi Ricci, the gentleman in the dock. Members of the jury, with the usher’s assistance I’m going to provide you with copies of the indictment, which the clerk of court read to you just a few moments ago. One between two, please.’
Dawn scurries over to Roderick and the jury box in turn, handing out copies while repeating that there is only one between two, just in case they missed it when Roderick told them. Although Roderick and Julian weren’t concerned about the judicial familiarity with Primavera Toscana, we all agreed that it wouldn’t be a good idea to have a jury of frequentatores. So this morning, while I was dealing with my usual hour and a quarter’s worth of bail applications and other assorted reasons to delay the start of a trial, we could at least offer the new jury panel something to occupy them during their tedious waiting around time. They were given a short questionnaire asking whether any of them were patrons of Primavera Toscana, or intimates of the Brothers Ricci or any of their employees. It was just as well we did. We received five positive replies from satisfied customers, who had apparently interpreted the questionnaire as the court asking for suggestions of decent places the staff might enjoy going to for lunch. Three supplied particularly effusive recommendations, and one expressed the view that the Riccis should be awarded a Michelin star in recognition of the grilled sea bass. Happily, the jurors concerned were shipped off to panels in the other courts before any damage could be done.
‘You will see that the indictment contains a single count of unlawful wounding with intent to cause grievous bodily harm,’ Roderick continues, ‘contrary to section 18 of the Offences against the Person Act 1861. The particulars of the offence are that Mr Ricci wounded a woman by the name of Linda Galloway by stabbing her with a meat cleaver. Members of the jury, later in the trial the learned judge will direct you about the law, and you must take the law from him, not from me. But I think I can safely tell you this much. A wounding is simply any breaking of the skin, and grievous bodily harm – in the rather archaic language of this old Act of Parliament dating back to 1861 – simply means really serious physical injury. The Crown say, members of the jury, that when you have heard the evidence in this case, you will be driven to conclude that Mr Ricci clearly wounded Miss Galloway, and clearly did so with the intention of causing her really serious physical injury.’
Roderick glances at his notes, and takes a deep breath. The doyen of the Bermondsey Bar is at his deadliest in apparently clear-cut cases of violence. He uses his undoubted gravitas to wonderful effect, and as he increases in seniority the relative lack of detail typical of such cases suits his style more and more. On the other side, Julian Blanquette has a gravitas of his own, but it owes nothing to seniority. Julian owes such gravitas as he has to an infectious energy and a keen wit, which he often employs to good effect against opposing counsel, to the amusement of the jury. I’m wondering with interest what his approach will be to this case. On the face of it, there’s not much to raise a chuckle in the papers I’ve read.
‘Members of the jury, it all starte
d at about eight o’clock on a Thursday evening about four months ago. You will hear that the defendant Luigi Ricci and his brother Alessandro, who are both in their fifties, own and operate an Italian restaurant called Primavera Toscana, in Queen Elizabeth Street, SE1, not very far from this court. You will hear that Linda Galloway went to Primavera Toscana for dinner on that evening with a male companion. She arrived at about seven fifteen. It was a quiet evening. Only one other table was occupied, by a Mr and Mrs Snape, and they were several tables away from where Miss Galloway and her companion were seated.
‘After two pre-dinner drinks Miss Galloway and her companion placed their orders for dinner. The orders were taken by a young woman called Valentina Ricci, who is the daughter of Alessandro Ricci, and who works part-time at Primavera Toscana while studying for her degree. Members of the jury, you may be surprised by what I’m about to tell you, because generally what the victim of an offence had to eat just before the offence was committed is not of great importance. But in this case you may hear it referred to by the witnesses, and so I will tell you. As it was a warm night, both Miss Galloway and her companion ordered a chilled garlic soup and a Caesar salad with chicken. They also asked for a bottle of sparkling water and a bottle of Vermentino di Gallura – a light, crisp white from Sardegna, which I must say I’ve rather taken to myself…’
Seeing me looking at him curiously, Roderick holds up a hand.
‘I’m sorry, your Honour,’ he says quickly, ‘I seem to have got rather carried away. I’ll move on.’
‘The mid-1990 vintages aren’t bad,’ Julian muses drily, with a sly glance in the direction of the jury box, ‘but I must say I’ve always found the Vernaccia di San Gimignano more reliable myself, certainly in more recent years.’
The jury are having a good snigger.