Judge Walden

by Peter Murphy

  ‘I would give you every chance,’ I reply, ‘but if you persist I would have to find you in contempt of court and keep you in custody until you change your mind.’

  She looks down at her shoes.

  ‘If I may ask, Miss Ricci,’ I add. ‘What are you studying at college?’

  ‘Political science, your Honour. But then I want to study law and become a solicitor.’

  ‘Well, it’s not going to help if you have a conviction for contempt of court on your record, is it?’ I say.

  ‘No,’ she replies. She turns back towards Roderick. ‘All right.’

  ‘Thank you, your Honour. Miss Ricci, there’s been no dispute about the sequence of events, so let me come straight to the argument between your father and your uncle. We’ve heard that it started in the kitchen and then moved out to the restaurant where Miss Galloway was sitting. Is that your memory of it also?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And we’ve heard that they were arguing over the finer points of making a Caesar salad.’

  She is silent almost long enough for Roderick to ask if she has understood the question.

  ‘Yes, that’s what you’ve heard,’ she replies, just as he’s about to.

  Roderick looks at her. ‘I’m not sure I understand, Miss Ricci. Are you saying that’s not what the argument was about?’

  ‘Were they shouting at each other about the Insalata Caesar? Yes: but they shout at each other about that all the time. My whole life I’ve listened to them arguing: yes, about Insalata Caesar, but if not Insalata Caesar, then about Ossobuco; or if it’s not about Ossobuco it’s about Pasta alle Vongole; or if it’s not about Pasta alla Vongole, it’s about the right sauce for grilled sea bass. These men can argue their way through the whole menu in a week. Trust me: if there are two ways to prepare any dish in the world my father and my uncle will argue about it.’ She has become animated. She pauses for breath, and ends up almost shouting. ‘But nobody is waving meat cleavers around, for God’s sake.’

  There is a silence for some time, and suddenly I’m remembering Tony’s enigmatic comment about the Caesar salad last night.

  ‘Are you saying, then,’ Roderick resumes cautiously, ‘that there was something else going on, that it wasn’t just about the salad?’

  ‘It’s never just about the salad,’ she replies.

  ‘Well, what was it about?’ Roderick asks.

  There is a loud burst of Italian from the dock, to which the witness replies in kind. Before I can call for a translation, Luigi holds his head in his hands, and shouts ‘No!’ several times.

  ‘I’m sorry, Uncle Luigi,’ Valentina replies, and translation becomes unnecessary. ‘I must tell the truth. I have no choice.’

  After one last protest the defendant subsides.

  ‘My father Alessandro gambles,’ she says simply. ‘Cards, horses, football: whatever there is to bet on, he will bet on it. The trouble is, he isn’t very good at it. He has lost a lot of money over the years. But recently, it’s got worse…’

  ‘How much worse?’ Roderick inquires gently.

  ‘I can’t give you an exact amount. But listening to them arguing, I know it’s a large sum. And unfortunately, at some point my father used his interest in Primavera Toscana as collateral to borrow money to fund his gambling. He and my uncle own the restaurant jointly, you see.’

  Roderick is nodding. ‘And now the bank is calling in his loans, and the business may have to be sold?’ he asks.

  ‘I wish,’ she replies.

  ‘You’re going to have to explain that, Miss Ricci…’

  ‘There’s no bank involved,’ she says quietly. ‘There’s a man who lends money to my father, and every so often he comes calling to collect whatever my father owes him.’

  ‘You mean, your father has been borrowing from a loan shark?’ Roderick asks, glancing up at me.

  She nods. ‘We hoped, maybe he would let them sell the restaurant, but he doesn’t want to wait that long for his money. He would rather have the cash, and I have the impression that if he doesn’t get it, he would be quite happy to torch the place with us in it. My uncle had just found this out a day or two before.’ And then, suddenly, she adds, ‘I think, the night Miss Galloway was hurt, the man was going to give my father a final warning.’

  I react before Roderick can even ask.

  ‘Members of the jury,’ I say, ‘there’s a matter of law I need to discuss with counsel. Take a break for a few minutes, if you would, please.’

  Everyone is so stunned that even the usually nimble Dawn is slow getting to her feet to escort the jury out of court. Their eyes are wide open. They know exactly what Valentina Ricci has just said, and I’m sure they’re wondering why they can’t remain in court to hear it confirmed. But there are a number of implications involved, and each of them represents a potential Pandora’s box. They need to be out of court long enough for us to sort it out.

  ‘Miss Ricci,’ I say, after the jury are safely out of earshot and things have calmed down a bit, ‘are you saying that this same man was in the restaurant when Miss Galloway was stabbed?’

  ‘Yes. He’s the man – Arthur. But that’s just the name he was using that night. It’s not his real name, obviously.’

  ‘Just answer “yes” or “no”, for the moment. Do you know his real name?’

  ‘I only know what I’ve been told.’

  ‘Told by whom, your uncle?’

  ‘Yes: and by my father.’

  I gesture to Dawn. ‘Miss Ricci, don’t say the name out loud, please. The usher will give you a pen and paper. Please write it down for us.’

  She does. Dawn hands the paper to me, and then to both counsel in turn.

  ‘Your Honour,’ Roderick says, ‘I do have some further questions for Miss Ricci, but I wonder whether your Honour would be good enough to rise for some time. I should get this information to DS McGeorge and his team with as little delay as possible, and there are matters I should discuss with my learned friend about where we go from here.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I agree at once. ‘Let’s tell the jury they have time for coffee, and I’m going to order that for the time being, the evidence given by Miss Ricci is not to be reported or disseminated outside this courtroom. Miss Ricci, please don’t discuss your evidence with anyone during this adjournment, and if anyone tries to approach you, don’t talk to them, and tell the usher straight away. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m withdrawing the defendant’s bail until further notice,’ I add. ‘He must remain in custody for now.’

  I leave court before anyone can protest. He can probably have bail again later in the day, but I can’t have him running around talking to people and making phone calls at this particular moment. Fortunately, his brother hasn’t attended court this morning, so with any luck we can control the situation until DS McGeorge tracks Arthur down. But it’s a situation everyone needs to consider carefully, and I’m not in the least surprised when, shortly after arriving back in chambers, I receive a note from counsel indicating that they will need until after lunch. I release everyone, wishing that lunch today would be an oasis of calm in a desert of chaos, and knowing that it won’t.

  Carol has brought us some dreadful canteen sandwiches, a few bags of crisps, and some sparkling water which seems to have lost most of its sparkle. The Grey Smoothies are out in force, led by Sir Jeremy Bagnall of the Grey Smoothie High Command, attired in a solemn dark grey suit and a red tie. Our cluster manager and note-taker-in-chief, Meredith, is with him, decked out in a white blouse and grey slacks, with the usual assortment of bracelets dangling from her right wrist and jangling whenever her wrist comes into contact with the table. Meredith has brought her sidekick, Jack, who still looks about fourteen and still wears the same light grey suit, a little too small for him, with a violent pink tie scrunc
hed up against his collar. They are all looking grim, and I don’t think it’s just because of the sandwiches. I’ve insisted that Stella sit in with us, with her hand-held recorder, just to make it clear to Meredith that she doesn’t have a monopoly of recording today’s meeting.

  Hubert is looking defiant, though knowing him as I do, I sense that he’s also anxious about this meeting. He should be. Hubert is perpetually worried about any inquiry that might focus attention on his age or raise any suggestion that retirement may be on the cards. That’s the one thing that puzzles me about this affair. Hubert is certainly outspoken enough at lunch at court and, so I gather, at the Garrick Club; but with anything that might attract the notice of the Grey Smoothies he’s usually desperate to keep his head down. So his letter strikes me as markedly out of character. To make matters worse, I’ve only had a few minutes to talk to him in advance, when we had both risen for lunch, and he wasn’t very forthcoming. So I’ve got absolutely no idea what to expect from him.

  Sir Jeremy has placed a copy of the offending letter in the middle of the table between the two sides. He sits back and eyes it with distaste for some time.

  ‘Hubert,’ he begins, ‘I’m sure, with your experience, you know perfectly well that it’s not acceptable for sitting judges to write letters to the newspapers – certainly not about any subject that has to do with the law. What’s this all about?’

  ‘There’s no need to talk to me like a prefect dressing down a naughty schoolboy, Jeremy,’ Hubert replies brusquely.

  ‘I’m not. I’m speaking to you quite reasonably.’

  ‘It didn’t sound at all reasonable.’

  ‘I’m asking you, perfectly politely, to account for your writing a letter to a newspaper as a sitting judge. It’s something the Minister, perfectly reasonably, needs to know. I don’t see why you should be so upset about it. I’m simply asking why you did what you did.’

  ‘I should have thought that was perfectly obvious.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t find it obvious at all,’ Jeremy replies with a sniff.

  It’s already getting a bit tense. I decide to intervene.

  ‘Hubert, I think Jeremy’s simply pointing out that it’s unusual for judges to write letters to the press for publication. It’s generally discouraged, as you know. He’s just asking what drove you to write to the Telegraph about this particular subject.’

  ‘Once again, I should have thought it was quite obvious.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ I reply before Jeremy can jump in again, ‘but so that we’re all sure we understand, why don’t you explain it to us?’

  ‘The case I wrote to the editor about was an outrage,’ Hubert explodes. ‘Telling a judge that you won’t disclose evidence you’re legally obliged to disclose because you don’t want defence counsel to be paid properly for reading it. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Something has to be done about it.’

  ‘I agree with you, Hubert,’ Jeremy concedes, spreading his arms out wide. ‘But there are proper channels for communicating concerns such as that.’

  ‘Are there?’ Hubert asks. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind enlightening me.’

  Meredith looks up from her busy note taking. ‘We encourage judges to send a copy of any ruling of that kind to the Director of Public Prosecutions,’ she says, ‘as you did; and you’re always welcome to copy them to Sir Jeremy.’

  ‘And what good would that do?’ Hubert asks, not unreasonably. ‘It’s not an isolated case. This kind of thing is happening all the time, but no one ever does anything.’

  ‘The more information we have, the more we can put pressure on those responsible to make changes,’ Meredith replies.

  ‘I’m not seeing any evidence of that,’ Hubert grumbles.

  ‘Hubert does have a point, Meredith,’ I say. ‘This kind of non-disclosure is cropping up far too often. It used to be rare, but recently it seems to have become almost routine, and from what I hear from other RJs it’s not just Bermondsey – it’s everywhere.’

  ‘The Minister is aware of the problem, Charles,’ Jeremy replies. ‘But I will talk to him, I will pass on your concerns, and I’m sure he will look into them.’

  I like the sound of that, and I have the momentary illusion that perhaps the meeting will end amicably and constructively. But it’s not to be.

  ‘If history is anything to go by, Jeremy,’ Hubert replies, ‘I doubt that will help. Our impression is that the Minister prefers to keep his head below the parapet until he has MPs sniping at him in the House. As far as I can see, that’s the only thing that gets his attention,’

  ‘That’s quite unjustified,’ Jeremy protests. ‘The Minister is always busy behind the scenes…’ he pauses long enough to replace his conciliatory tone with a rather more insistent one. ‘In any case, that’s not the point. We can’t have judges writing to the newspapers, and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Somebody has to let the public know what’s going on in their courts,’ Hubert says.

  ‘That’s for the Minister or the Lord Chief Justice to do – when it’s necessary to do it at all. We don’t make policy in the press, Hubert. We make policy very carefully, behind the scenes, and we calculate our statements to the press very precisely.’

  ‘What statements?’ Hubert asks. ‘As far as I know, there’s been a deafening silence about these non-disclosure cases.’

  ‘You’re entitled to your opinion, Hubert,’ Jeremy replies. ‘But I say again, we are aware of the problem and we’re working on it behind the scenes. It doesn’t help to have circuit judges shooting from the hip and giving newspapers like the Telegraph the wrong impression.’

  ‘What wrong impression?’ Hubert demands.

  ‘The impression that there’s some great conspiracy going on to deprive defendants of their right to a fair trial.’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Hubert insists.

  ‘He’s right, Jeremy,’ I add. ‘The letter clearly says that Hubert doesn’t know whether this kind of thing is deliberate malpractice, or what does he call it…?’ I glance over to the paper. ‘Or simply a case of administrative chaos, too many cooks in the kitchen, and so on.’

  Jeremy shakes his head. ‘That’s not what the papers are likely to read into it. In any case, that’s not the point. It’s not proper for a sitting judge to write to a newspaper in this way, and that’s the end of it.’

  ‘Excuse me, but where does it say that exactly?’ Hubert asks, more quietly, after a silence.

  ‘Where does it say what?’ Jeremy asks.

  ‘That a judge can’t write to a newspaper to express his views. You see, Jeremy, as a lawyer, my impression is that judges have the same freedom of speech as everybody else. Has there been some change in the law that I’ve missed?’

  Jeremy and Meredith exchange glances. She reaches into her briefcase and produces a copy of the Judicial Code of Conduct and hands it to Jeremy. Of course: Meredith is always prepared. I’m sure she doesn’t leave home without a copy of the Code ready to hand. I bet she was a girl scout in her younger days. Jeremy starts flicking through the pages.

  ‘Let me save you the trouble, Jeremy,’ Hubert says. ‘I have read the Code very carefully, I assure you. There are a lot of platitudes in it about the role of a judge. But you’re not going to find a prohibition on writing to the press.’

  ‘It’s strongly discouraged,’ Meredith points out.

  ‘But not prohibited,’ Hubert insists.

  ‘Well,’ Jeremy says, ‘you may dismiss what the Code says as platitudes if you wish, Hubert, but I’m afraid the Minister takes a different view – as do I. I’m afraid the bottom line, if I may be permitted to use that expression, is this: unless within the next twenty-four hours you assure the Minister in writing that this will not happen again, you will receive an invitation to meet the Minister personally, and if that happens, I would be very surprised if he
doesn’t suggest that the time may have come for you to retire.’

  I see Hubert take a deep breath. ‘And if I may be permitted to use an expression of my own, Jeremy – do bugger off, there’s a good fellow.’

  Alarmed, I place a restraining hand on Hubert’s arm. ‘I’m sure all Hubert means to say is that he would like some time to think about it, Jeremy. He’s a little overwrought, that’s all.’

  ‘I am not in the least bloody overwrought,’ Hubert replies loudly.

  Jeremy nods and starts to get to his feet.

  ‘Well I’ve said all I have to say.’

  ‘In any case,’ Hubert adds, ‘the Minister’s not going to do anything to me, is he?’

  ‘Why not?’ Meredith asks.

  ‘I’m a whistle-blower, aren’t I?’ Hubert replies. ‘I’m a protected species.’

  I see both Jeremy and Meredith form up as if to respond to this, but neither does. Jeremy quietly resumes his seat.

  ‘That’s preposterous,’ he mutters eventually.

  I gaze at Hubert, and can’t resist a smile. They didn’t see that one coming, and I suspect that someone will be making a call to the Government Legal Department during the course of the afternoon.

  ‘It’s illegal to retaliate against whistle-blowers,’ Hubert continues blandly. ‘They tried it in the NHS, didn’t they, with all those doctors and nurses? They may have got away with it for a while, but the chickens eventually came home to roost, didn’t they?’

  ‘That only applies if the whistle-blower couldn’t get anything done through internal channels,’ Meredith protests.

  ‘I rest my case,’ Hubert replies.

  Jeremy shakes his head and gets to his feet once more.

  ‘Twenty-four hours, Hubert,’ he says. ‘I shall be back tomorrow afternoon after court, and I sincerely hope you have your written assurance ready for me to take to the Minister.’

  ‘Well, that didn’t go too badly,’ Hubert says, after they’ve gone.

  ‘Didn’t it?’ I reply. ‘I don’t think Jeremy’s bluffing, Hubert. If I were you, I would give serious consideration to giving him what he’s asked for. Whatever came over you to write to the Telegraph, anyway?’