Judge Walden

by Peter Murphy

  ‘Please don’t worry about it,’ I say. ‘These things happen; there are times when a case gets to all of us, and you were dealing with a very difficult cross-examination.’

  ‘Even so, I should have kept my cool. It’s just that my mother was never the same once that astrologer told her that the cancer was going to kill her. It was almost as if she gave up.’

  We are silent for a few seconds.

  ‘On the other hand, Susan,’ Aubrey says kindly, ‘doctors say that kind of thing all the time, too, don’t they? I suppose someone has to, sometimes.’ Susan nods. ‘Actually, I talked with Busby about what you’d said, and he was really horrified. He said that whoever said that to your mother crossed a red line. There would have to be a very, very good reason to tell a client she’s dying, and he can’t think of one.’

  The silence is longer this time. I decide to break it. I open the middle drawer of my desk, where I know Carol has left the infamous brown envelope.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, ‘if we can’t have the real verdict, we can at least have Mr Busby’s prediction of it. Let’s see who’s better at predicting verdicts, lawyers or astrologers. What do you think?’

  ‘Not guilty,’ Susan replies at once.

  ‘Not guilty, I agree,’ Aubrey says.

  ‘Then we’re unanimous,’ I say, opening the envelope. ‘Let’s see whether Mr Busby agrees.’

  I open the envelope and extract a single sheet of A4, on which the defendant has printed out the following from his computer.

  Bermondsey Crown Court

  The Queen v. Gerard Busby

  I prepared a chart for the first moment of the trial, which I took to be the moment when the jury was sworn in. Following Lilly’s rules for forecasting the outcome of trials, I assigned the Moon to represent the jury. The Moon is in the 12th house of the chart, with challenging aspects to both malefics, Mars and Saturn. Mercury, representing clear communication, is also in difficult aspect to the Moon and has just gone retrograde. There are also indications of some external disruption of the trial. Although the chart is relatively favourable to the defence, and a verdict of not guilty is possible, the greater probability is that, for some external reason, the jury will not return a verdict.

  Gerard Busby, Defendant and Astrologer.

  ‘Any thoughts?’ I ask, smiling, as I watch the two of them read it.

  ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Judge,’ Aubrey comments. ‘I must admit, getting to know Mr Busby has been something of a revelation.’

  ‘I’m going to advise the CPS that we don’t need to do this again,’ Susan says.

  ‘That’s awfully kind of you, Susan,’ Aubrey says. ‘It will come as a welcome ridge of high pressure for Mr Busby. He will be very relieved to hear it.’

  ‘He probably knows already, doesn’t he?’ she replies.

  * * *

  Thursday evening

  I relate the events of the day to the Reverend Mrs Walden, for whom astrology evokes images of India, and from there it’s a predictably easy step to take ourselves off to the Delights of the Raj for dinner – a veritable feast of samosas, Chicken Madras and Sag Aloo, washed down by a couple of Cobras.

  ‘What are you going to do with that young woman on your jury?’ the Reverend asks. ‘Are you going to send her to prison?’

  ‘I should,’ I reply.

  ‘Oh come on, Charlie, all she did was tell a man she fancied him.’

  ‘That wasn’t all she did, Clara, not by a long way.’

  ‘Well, all right, she went to the police station to drop off a note with her telephone number.’

  ‘A note for the police officer in a case in which she’s on the jury.’

  ‘Well yes, and I know you have to disapprove, officially. But I also know that there’s a part of you that admires her initiative. You can’t deny it, Charlie. I know you too well. You’re a romantic at heart. There’s a part of you that’s cheering her on for having the gumption to do something like that.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Clara,’ I insist. ‘She disrupted a four-day trial, wasted a huge amount of public money, and she’s put both the complainant and the defendant at risk of having to go through the stress of a trial all over again.’

  ‘I thought you said that the prosecution weren’t going to retry the case?’

  ‘Susan Worthington is going to advise them that the case isn’t strong enough to warrant a second trial, but you never know with the CPS – they’re quite capable of ignoring counsel’s advice when it suits them.’

  ‘All the same…’

  ‘All right. I did want to lock her up this morning,’ I admit. ‘But when it comes to it, I’ll probably fine her and let it go at that, and then she and DC Trent can fancy each other to their hearts’ content.’

  ‘Good for you, Charlie,’ she says.

  Our friend Rajiv, the owner of the Delights, stops by to inquire into how we have enjoyed our meal. We assure him that it’s been as good as ever.

  ‘Rajiv, let me ask you something,’ I say. ‘Is astrology still widely practised in India? Do people still believe in it?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, yes, Mr Walden,’ he replies, taking a seat next to our table. ‘You see it everywhere. You know, when my wife and I were married in Mumbai, not only did our parents arrange the marriage, as is the custom in India, but each of the two families consulted an astrologer. The astrologers prepared our charts and compared them. If the astrologers had not approved of our union after reading the charts, our parents would have called the wedding off.’ He laughs. ‘But fortunately, the charts were favourable. We have been married for more than thirty years, and we have four wonderful children.’ He stands. ‘Though we have not tried to arrange any marriages for them, nor have we consulted an astrologer about them.’

  ‘So, do you think our parents should have consulted astrologers for us before we got married?’ the Reverend asks after Rajiv has made his way back to the kitchen.

  ‘I think we’ve done perfectly well without them, thank you,’ I reply.

  ‘Still,’ she persists, ‘this fellow, what’s his name, Busby, seems to have made quite an impression on everybody, doesn’t he? And he certainly nailed his prediction of the verdict, or lack of verdict. Perhaps I’ll suggest to the Bishop that Southwark should revive the tradition of the diocesan astrologer. What do you think? Should we take a look at Busby?’

  ‘I think the diocese could do a lot worse,’ I admit.

  AN ISLE FULL OF NOISES

  Last Friday

  I’ve never understood why judges of the Crown Court are called circuit judges. It conjures up romantic images of a bygone age, of the itinerant judge mounting his horse to administer justice in some far-flung corner of the realm, his faithful clerk, a judicial Sancho Panza, bearing his books behind him on his donkey, to be greeted by the cheering crowds of citizens who have flocked to the town square to welcome his portentous arrival. Nothing could be further from the truth. All right: perhaps it worked, just, in the old days, when the itinerant Assize judge arrived at a town, tried a murderer, sentenced him to death, reserved judgment in the one civil case before him, and moved on to the next venue. But today? Not a chance. The system would collapse under its own weight in a matter of weeks. The last thing the Grey Smoothies want today is an itinerant judge.

  Just imagine the travel costs, for one thing. How could they be sure that the taxpayer is getting value for money from the privatised feed and stable for the horse – or the judge? Then there would be the nightmare of trying to keep to the itinerary in the face of the volume of work, the problems of case management, the accidents of overrunning trials, the reality of delayed sentencing hearings, and all the rest of it. No, circuit judges don’t ride the circuits today.

  Quite the contrary: when you’re appointed they tell you exactly where you will be sitting and warn you in no uncertain
terms not even to think about applying for a transfer to another court for the first five years. So, if you live in Leeds and they want you to sit in Swansea, you either say ‘thank you’ politely and move the family to South Wales, or you turn the job down. And even after five years, they may then suggest that Manchester wouldn’t be a bad career move for you, even though there’s a Mancunian who would love to sit there who they’re sending to Basildon. It makes their lives much easier, you see, if they can treat judges as pawns in a game of administrative chess and don’t have to worry about them as people who may also be trying to have a life. They don’t have to lie awake all night – assuming they would anyway – worrying about some poor sod they’re forcing to choose between his family and the job he’s always wanted. How to put this? Viewed from the judicial perspective, human resources issues don’t seem to loom large in the administration of the courts.

  So on the rare occasions I’m called upon to sit away from my base court, Bermondsey, it comes as something of a surprise: and never more so than today. Today I am to be asked, figuratively speaking of course, to saddle up my trusty steed and make ready to ride the circuit, to become a circuit judge in the literal sense of the term. It all starts innocently enough. Every Friday, usually before court sits in the morning, Stella comes to see me in chambers to discuss the schedule for the coming week; and today is no different, except that today she has Marjorie with her.

  ‘I’ve got a bit of an unusual one for you next week, Judge,’ Stella begins. She sounds unusually hesitant, and I’m already suspicious.

  ‘Really?’ I reply, taking a hasty draught of Jeanie and Elsie’s latte. ‘Well, that will make a nice change, I’m sure.’

  ‘It’s all because of Judge Jenkins’s case overrunning, you see.’

  I’ve been wondering what impact that would have on the list. Marjorie is doing an importation of class A drugs with four defendants that was supposed to last for two to three weeks. It’s already run for two weeks, and the prosecution hasn’t even closed its case. It’s not Marjorie’s fault. It’s not anybody’s fault. First, she had an important witness go down with some kind of virus that’s making the rounds, and then, no sooner had the witness recovered sufficiently to drag himself to court when two members of her jury complained of similar symptoms. Marjorie had no real choice: she sent everyone home until they were feeling fully fit. It’s one of those things that happen sometimes during a trial, and you just have to deal with it. But of course, in the process she lost several days of trial time.

  ‘It’s got another week to run yet, hasn’t it, Judge?’ Stella asks.

  ‘At least a week,’ Marjorie says, ‘and the thing is, Charlie, next week I’m supposed to be sitting as a deputy High Court judge out in the country.’

  I remember. We were all excited when the Powers That Be added Marjorie’s name to the exclusive and – by Bermondsey standards – exotic list of deputy High Court judges: excited, but not surprised. Marjorie is the lawyer on the Bermondsey bench, and we are all hoping that she will be asked to move up to the High Court full-time in due course – she’s undoubtedly fully qualified. But she has to pay her dues sitting as a deputy first, and I know she’s been looking forward to it.

  ‘But obviously now, I’ve got to stay here and finish this bloody trial.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I say, doing my best to reassure her. ‘They’ll understand. They’ll ask you again before too long.’

  She smiles. ‘Oh, che sarà, sarà, Charlie. I’m not going to worry about it.’ I see her exchange a glance with Stella. ‘I just need to make sure they can cover the case I was going to do. The one thing they won’t thank me for is leaving them without cover.’

  ‘Cover?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, Judge,’ Stella says. ‘After Judge Jenkins told me she would be overrunning I talked to our senior Presider, Mr Justice Gulivant, to let him know. I assumed he’d give the case to someone else on the list, but yesterday he called me and said he wants you to do it.’

  I am silent for a few seconds, and then I laugh nervously.

  ‘What? You mean a civil case?’

  ‘Yes, Judge.’

  ‘Moi? Sit as a deputy High Court judge and try a civil case? He can’t be serious.’

  ‘He seemed perfectly serious, Judge.’

  ‘But I can’t… I mean, it would disrupt things here too much, wouldn’t it? I’m sure you have a trial planned for me this week…’

  Stella shakes her head. ‘Judge Dunblane and Judge Drake both have trials starting in longish cases, so I’m not listing much other work this week. The only fixture I would have for you is a residential burglary, two to three days. I can get a recorder in to deal with that.’

  I stare at her open-mouthed. A slight sense of panic is starting to set in. I appeal to Marjorie’s better nature.

  ‘But I don’t know anything about civil cases, Marjorie. You know that. I wouldn’t have the first idea where to begin.’

  ‘Oh nonsense, Charlie,’ she replies with a smile. ‘Of course you would. It’s not a complicated case. I can walk you through it.’

  ‘What did you tell Mr Justice Gulivant?’ I ask Stella.

  ‘I told him I was sure you’d be very pleased to do it,’ she replies. ‘It would be quite a feather in Bermondsey’s cap to have two judges on the list, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It would,’ Marjorie agrees.

  ‘I rather like our cap the way it is,’ I mutter.

  Stella stands to leave. ‘I’ll leave the two of you together, and make some calls about getting a recorder,’ she says cheerfully.

  ‘I won’t have to decide the facts of the case myself, will I?’ I whine after Stella has gone. ‘Please tell me I’ll at least have a jury to work out who’s telling the truth.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Charlie: we don’t have many civil jury trials these days,’ Marjorie replies. ‘But don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. You don’t have to find anything proved beyond reasonable doubt – it’s a simple balance of probabilities.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound simple at all. And I’ll have to write a judgment, won’t I? I’m not used to that kind of thing.’

  She laughs. ‘The secret is to take good notes from day one and keep your papers organised,’ she promises me. ‘Writing the judgment is easy once you’ve made your mind up which way you’re going. Besides, you don’t have to do it there and then. You can take a couple of weeks, more if you need it – in fact, that’s what the parties will expect.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she adds. ‘As I said, it’s not a difficult case. It’s a dispute between near neighbours, all to do with who owns a plot of land between their two houses in a village somewhere in rural Cambridgeshire.’

  ‘Cambridgeshire?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ she replies innocently. ‘The trial’s in Huntingdon. Charming town: you’ll love it.’

  We are silent for some time.

  ‘You’ll have to take over as RJ for the week,’ I say eventually, by way of reprisal.

  ‘I always do when you’re away, don’t I?’ she reminds me. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage. There’s nothing brewing, is there?’

  ‘Not unless the Grey Smoothies have an unexpected rush of blood to the head,’ I reply, ‘which one can never rule out. But barring that, no: it should be calm and peaceful.’

  ‘Just like Huntingdon,’ she says.

  The Reverend Mrs Walden and I are not agoraphobic as such, but we are hard-core, card-carrying townies. I’m not saying we don’t enjoy the odd weekend as guests in a nice hotel or someone’s country retreat on the rare occasions when she can get a weekend off – especially when the hotel or country retreat happens to be in Provence or Tuscany – but in normal circumstances we both feel more at home in the smoke. So I’m sure I come across as rather despondent when I tell her over our pre-dinner glass of Lidl’
s Fine Amontillado that I am duty bound to saddle up my horse and gallop towards darkest Cambridgeshire.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll have a very good time,’ she ventures consolingly. ‘Have they found you somewhere decent to stay?’

  ‘An old coaching inn called the George,’ I reply, ‘said to have been in Oliver Cromwell’s family at some point. Hopefully it’s been redecorated since then.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be very nice.’

  ‘And I won’t have my daily stroll to court to start the day with.’

  ‘I’m fairly sure that coffee and The Times will be available locally,’ she says. ‘What’s really troubling you, Charlie? Is it doing such a different kind of case?’

  ‘Clara, I know nothing about the ownership of land,’ I confide in her. ‘I remember studying land law at Cambridge. It was an absolute nightmare. There was something called the Rule against Perpetuities that could have been written by James Joyce on speed. It’s incomprehensible. God only knows how I ever passed that exam.’

  ‘Yes, He does,’ she smiles.

  ‘It’s all very well for Marjorie. She understands that kind of thing. But I’m just a criminal hack.’

  ‘You’re a criminal judge,’ she replies. ‘Look, Charlie, what do you always tell your recorders when they’re about to sit for the first time?’

  ‘Listen to counsel, take your time, and ask for help whenever you need it,’ I say.

  ‘Exactly. So, take your own advice. Tell the barristers it’s not the kind of case you usually do, and make sure they explain it all to you. Then trust your judicial instinct. You’ll know which way to decide.’

  I pour us another glass of the Amontillado.

  ‘Why don’t you come with me?’ I suggest.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, we could have a week away, see the sights, sample the local cuisine and what have you – enjoy the country air for a few days.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I can’t, Charlie. This week is really busy. I’ve got the Parish Council meeting, the engaged couples counselling, the youth club, the…’