Judge Walden

by Peter Murphy

  ‘Luigi was trying to put on a show for me,’ he explains, ‘Mr Big Guy with a meat cleaver. It was rather funny, if you want to know the truth. Of course, I had to keep a straight face. But I’ve picked up the odd word or two of Italian over the years, and I knew exactly what was going on.’

  ‘And what happened?’ Roderick asks.

  ‘Well, he swings the meat cleaver, and he’s trying to make it look like he’s going for her, but he’s probably going for her food, or the table next to her. That’s how it looked to me. I mean, he’s got no reason to harm Linda, has he? He’s never seen her before. But it goes wrong, doesn’t it? He’s so busy jabbering away that he’s not concentrating. He hits her instead of the plate or the table. It was pathetic. It was a real shame, too. She’s a nice girl.’

  ‘Yet when this nice girl was severely wounded,’ Roderick continues, ‘you left the restaurant as quickly as you could, didn’t you? Why was that? Why didn’t you stay and help?’

  The witness looks at me for some time, as if asking for guidance about how to answer the question. Eventually, having realised that he’s looking in vain, he replies, ‘I think I’d better decline to answer that on the advice of my solicitor. But I did call 999.’ He smiles. ‘They’ve got me on CCTV doing it.’

  Roderick calls DS McGeorge to take us through the defendant’s police interview, in which he offered the explanation about knocking Linda Galloway’s salad on to the floor as a dramatic contribution to the great eggs versus mayonnaise debate. As the officer in the case, he must also answer any questions about the investigation generally. I’ve been expecting Julian to have a go at him and try to unearth further damaging evidence of non-disclosure and cover-up, but wisely he’s very low key about it. It’s clear that DS McGeorge had nothing to do with the failure to disclose evidence. All that went on at a far higher level, but as far as Julian is concerned it doesn’t matter. As soon as Roderick has closed the prosecution case he asks me to withdraw the case from the jury. I send everyone away for the rest of the day, to think about it overnight – and to allow the parties to regroup and come to terms with the evidence that’s been given, and the verdict that’s now looking more and more likely.

  And so to lunch, an oasis of calm in a desert of chaos.

  By now, of course, everyone knows that Hubert is in hot water. Copies of the Telegraph have been circulating clandestinely throughout the court, and interestingly, as far as I can gather from Stella and Carol, the staff are solidly behind Hubert, seeing him as a whistle-blower who’s courageously broken the rules to protect the court from abuse. The opinion in the judicial mess is more nuanced.

  ‘I’m not sure that was the right thing to do, Hubert,’ Marjorie says gently. ‘You’d made your point in your judgment, and you’d got some press coverage for that. Why stick your neck out with a letter?’

  Hubert looks up from his ham and cheese bake, a particularly unappealing variant of the dish of the day.

  ‘I did what I thought was right, Marjorie,’ he insists. ‘And it doesn’t say anywhere that I’m not allowed to write a letter to the Telegraph.’

  ‘About trout fishing, perhaps,’ Marjorie replies, ‘but not about the law.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about trout fishing,’ Hubert says. ‘Why would I write them a letter about that?’

  ‘Well, I for one admire you, Hubert,’ Legless chimes in, ‘and I’ve had several emails from judges elsewhere who wish they’d done it themselves. Finally, someone is standing up to be counted. Well done, that’s what I say.’

  ‘That’s all very well, Legless,’ I say ‘but the Grey Smoothies want Hubert’s head on a silver platter. Unless he gives them a written assurance this afternoon not to do it again, he may have to go before the Minister – and we all know what that means.’

  There is a silence.

  ‘You’re not ready to retire, Hubert,’ I say. ‘What would you do with yourself? You can’t spend all day at the Garrick. Surely you want to go on as long as you can?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ he concedes. ‘But I can’t back down. I’m a whistle-blower.’

  ‘Actually, Hubert,’ Marjorie says, ‘that’s a bit dodgy legally, unless you can show that you tried to get a result through internal channels and failed. Sorry.’

  ‘Hubert,’ I suggest, ‘what if you didn’t have to give them a written assurance? What if you gave me your word that you wouldn’t do it again, and they accepted it, and the whole thing went away?’

  ‘I’m not sure I wouldn’t do it again,’ Hubert objects, ‘if I had to.’

  ‘I think you’ve fought as much of a battle as anyone could expect you to fight,’ I reply. He doesn’t disagree: in fact, I think I see a look of relief cross his face. ‘Let me see if I can sort it.’

  ‘Charlie’s right, Hubert,’ Marjorie adds.

  ‘Do you think they would agree to just let it go?’ Legless asks.

  ‘I have a hunch that I might be able to arrange it,’ I reply. ‘And you know, Hubert, you’ve achieved what you set out to achieve. You’ve drawn attention to the abuse of disclosure. It’s a matter the Minister can hardly ignore now. The Telegraph has made an issue of it, and they’ve even had a few retired judges writing and taking it up. So don’t throw what’s left of your career away unnecessarily. Let me try to resolve this.’

  ‘What do you want me to do, exactly?’ he asks after some time.

  ‘Nothing. Let me deal with the Grey Smoothies on my own. Stay in chambers in case I need you. Don’t push off to the Garrick until I tell you the coast is clear.’

  He sighs. ‘All right, Charlie, whatever you say. You are my RJ after all.’

  And there are days when you don’t make it easy, I think, but don’t say.

  * * *

  Wednesday afternoon

  ‘Where’s Hubert?’ Sir Jeremy asks. ‘Is he still in court?’

  We’re in my chambers with cups of tea and biscuits supplied by Carol, and the mood is tense.

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘Hubert is in his chambers. He will join us if we need him. But before we come to Hubert, there’s another matter I need to talk to you about – something that’s just come up today, as a matter of fact.’

  Jeremy looks at me. ‘But Charles, this meeting is specifically about Hubert. Is it something serious enough to take precedence?’

  ‘It’s connected to Hubert’s situation, in a sense, and it may possibly have some influence on the view you take of Hubert’s situation.’

  ‘All right,’ he concedes with a show of reluctance. ‘What’s all this about?’

  Meredith grasps her pen expectantly. I’m letting her make the record today on her own: I don’t want a taped record of what might be said in the next few minutes.

  ‘Well, actually, Jeremy, it may concern the Minister too.’

  He and Meredith exchange glances. I can’t help wondering whether word has already reached them of this morning’s goings on.

  ‘The Minister?’

  ‘Yes: Sir Edward Rockwell MP.’

  ‘I’m well aware of the Minister’s name, Charles,’ he says, a little too quickly. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that a man by the name of Sidney Rockwell gave evidence in my court earlier today.’

  ‘He’s the Minister’s younger brother,’ Jeremy acknowledges, again just a fraction too quickly.

  ‘So I gather. They see quite a lot of each other too, don’t they? One hears that the Minister has Sidney to lunch at the House, and so on.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he? Again, Charles, I can’t see…’

  ‘Sidney Rockwell has previous convictions for robbery and assault.’

  ‘The Minister knows all about that,’ Jeremy insists. ‘So does the rest of the world, for that matter. There’s nothing new in it. He’s been in the papers often enough. Sidney is the black sheep o
f the Rockwell family, always has been.’

  ‘Yes, but it would seem that he’s turning a shade or two blacker than he used to be.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well, Jeremy, street muggings and fights as a younger man are one thing: but blackmail, involving threats of violence and arson and links to organised crime – well, that’s moving up in the world, isn’t it, playing in a different league?’

  No reply.

  ‘In fact,’ I continue, ‘I believe the police are interviewing Sidney under caution at the police station about matters of that very kind as we speak.’

  ‘What matters, exactly?’ Meredith asks. She sounds somewhat alarmed, which is exactly what I intend.

  ‘It’s alleged that he was acting as an enforcer for an underworld consortium bent on doing violence to an Italian chef and burning the poor fellow’s restaurant to the ground because he hadn’t paid his gambling debts. Very nasty. He’ll do some serious time if he goes down for that.’

  Jeremy recovers. ‘I don’t know why you’re telling us all this, Charles,’ he protests. ‘If what you say is true it will be all over the papers tomorrow, I’m sure, and the Minister will say what he always says: he’s not his brother’s keeper, he’s not responsible for Sidney’s conduct, and he acknowledges that the law must take its course. It’s not his fault that his brother has gone off the rails.’

  ‘I agree entirely,’ I reply. ‘I’m telling you this, not because of what Sidney did, but because what he did very nearly didn’t see the light of day. You see, Jeremy, someone took a deliberate decision to withhold disclosure from the court and the defence – not only about what Sidney had been doing in the restaurant on the evening in question, but also about his identity. He was using the name Arthur at the time – a kind of stage name, one supposes.’

  This time, there’s an even longer silence.

  ‘The failure to disclose threatened to make it impossible for the defendant to receive a fair trial,’ I continue. ‘In fact, there’s still a defence application pending to withdraw the case from the jury. Now that Sidney has given evidence, I’m probably not going to grant it, but I might have had no choice if he hadn’t. It’s a serious matter, Jeremy. If it hadn’t been for prosecuting counsel who is not only very good, but also highly ethical and conscientious, it might never have come to light, and there might have been a miscarriage of justice. I find it all very disturbing. In fact, to be frank, it even occurred to me to write to the Daily Telegraph about it.’

  ‘Well, it’s unfortunate that the police tried to cover it up, Judge, obviously,’ Meredith jumps in. ‘But all’s well that ends well, surely.’

  ‘Except that it wasn’t the police,’ I reply. ‘An Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police took the trouble to come to court this morning to explain that to me under oath. He said that the decision was made “at a higher level”. He didn’t know what level, exactly. But all of us in this room know, don’t we?’

  Jeremy springs back to life. ‘Are you saying the Civil Service had something to do with this?’ he asks indignantly. ‘Because if you are…’

  ‘What I’m saying, Jeremy,’ I interrupt, ‘is that I don’t know whether there was any deliberate malpractice, or whether it was just a case of administrative chaos, too many cooks in the kitchen, that kind of thing. But when the case comes to an end in a day or two, depending on the outcome, I may have to refer the matter to the police for a criminal investigation.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. Even if what you say is true, it’s the sort of thing that can be handled internally, by disciplining those responsible.’

  ‘In normal circumstances, perhaps. But where there’s been an attempt to conceal evidence that has the potential to embarrass a Minister of the Crown, I’m not so sure. There might be allegations of a cover-up further down the line, and if I let it go people may even say that the Court was involved in it. No, in a case like this a police investigation is fully warranted, and I expect that the officer in the case, DS McGeorge, will be more than happy to take the lead, given that he almost took the blame for something that wasn’t his fault.’ I pause for effect. ‘As I say, Jeremy, it all depends on how the case ends, and whether anything else comes to light.’

  ‘Does it also depend on what happens in Judge Drake’s case?’ Meredith asks. I can’t help smiling. Say what you like about Meredith, and I often do, she doesn’t miss much and she’s quick on the uptake.

  ‘Well, obviously, the two matters are closely related,’ I reply.

  Her jaw drops. ‘But that’s… that sounds like… with respect, Judge, almost like… blackmail.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘I leave that kind of thing to Sidney Rockwell. No, all I’m saying is that if I have to order an investigation, it might not be the wisest thing for the Minister to force a judge into retirement for blowing the whistle on the same kind of failure of disclosure. It’s the kind of thing certain newspapers would have a field day with, isn’t it? I’m not trying to pressure anyone, Meredith. I have the Minister’s interests at heart, I assure you.’

  Meredith is about to reply, when Jeremy cuts her off.

  ‘What are you suggesting, Charles?’

  ‘Jeremy, I don’t condone what Hubert did. We all know that sitting judges shouldn’t be writing to the newspapers. But I’ve had a word with Hubert, and he’s got the point. He won’t be doing it again. I’d like to suggest that you accept that assurance from me, as his RJ, and that we all move on.’

  Jeremy drains his teacup and appears to meditate for some time, with Meredith seething silently alongside him.

  ‘If I were to agree to that proposal,’ he asks eventually, ‘can the Minister expect that you would take a responsible view of how to deal with the failure of disclosure?’

  ‘I hope the Minister understands that I always try to act responsibly,’ I reply. ‘It’s just that being an RJ isn’t always an easy job. One has any number of responsibilities at any given time, and sometimes they can appear to conflict.’

  We shake hands. Meredith slams her notebook shut, furiously grinding her teeth against the pen in her mouth.

  ‘Would he have to resign?’ Jack suddenly asks, ‘the Minister, if there was a scandal about his brother?’

  A Meredith, Jack is not. Jeremy and Meredith are on their feet, ready to leave, and looking down at the floor.

  ‘I’m no expert on that kind of thing,’ I reply. ‘But at the very least he might have to ask himself a question or two in the House.’

  I call into Hubert’s chambers and tell him he’s free to take himself off to the Garrick for a drink. I wend my way homeward. The Reverend Mrs Walden and I are dining at the Delights of the Raj this evening. We’re taking a break from Italian cuisine for a night or two.

  * * *

  Thursday morning

  It doesn’t take a crystal ball to predict what’s likely to happen this morning. I foresee that Roderick will ask to address me in the absence of the jury, and that he will say –

  ‘Your Honour, my learned friend Mr Blanquette and I have spent some considerable time discussing the case, yesterday and this morning, and my learned friend has taken further instructions from his client. I understand that Mr Ricci will ask for the indictment to be put again and will offer a plea of guilty to unlawful wounding without intent, on the basis of recklessness.’

  ‘That is correct, your Honour,’ Julian chimes in.

  ‘Your Honour, I have also taken instructions, and in the circumstances that plea is acceptable to the Crown.’

  I smile benignly.

  ‘Yes, very well, Mr Lofthouse,’ I say. ‘Let’s have the jury back, and the indictment will be put again.’

  I’ve adjourned the case of Luigi Ricci for a pre-sentence report. His plea was well advised. If he’d gone down for the charge on the indictment, wounding with intent, he would be l
ooking at ten to twelve years, but with the lesser charge and the way the evidence has developed it’s going to be closer to three or four. I tell the defendant that it’s going to depend partly on the impression he makes on the probation officer, as reflected in the report, which it will. I don’t expect to see Luigi Ricci back in court, ever; and there’s a part of me that feels sorry for him. One way of looking at this case is that he reacted stupidly to events not of his making, and had some really bad luck. But Linda Galloway was stabbed within an inch – actually, within a few millimetres – of her life, and despite the probably terminal damage it will do to the family and to Primavera Toscana, I have no choice but to send him inside for a good while. We can’t have people brandishing dangerous items like meat cleavers in public places when people might get hurt.

  Not even if they order Insalata Caesar made with mayonnaise.

  A RIDGE OF HIGH PRESSURE

  Sunday morning

  ‘Recently,’ the Reverend Mrs Walden begins, ‘a young man, a member of our congregation, came to me with a page from a popular magazine and complained to me that the magazine had promised him something that hadn’t materialised; and he asked me what he should do about it. I’m afraid I told him to grow up and get a life.’

  I bet she did, too. The Reverend Mrs Walden has acquired something of a reputation in the diocese of Southwark for dispensing spiritual advice in down-to-earth language that everyone can understand, rather than in the theological platitudes preferred by many of her colleagues. This trait is generally admired, though there are those critics who sometimes find her approach just a little too direct, and those same critics would no doubt find their view confirmed by her treatment of the young man in question, whoever he may be. But if this young man is present this morning, I’m confident that he wouldn’t agree with them. He would have found that the Reverend’s pithy admonition to grow up and get a life was merely the prelude to some warm and insightful counselling, from which he emerged encouraged, or at least much better informed. The Reverend’s sermons are the same way. They sometimes begin with a deliberately administered shock to the system, but go on to offer a good deal of wisdom, and end with a conclusion that most of the congregation couldn’t have imagined when she started.