Walden of Bermondsey

by Peter Murphy

  ‘The trial began today of two candidates in the recent election in the Warwickshire constituency of Clavering West with Baddiefield. Conservative, Richard Mayfield, fifty-six, who won the seat for the Tories and is now the Member of Parliament for the constituency, and Liam Voss, twenty-nine, the Labour candidate, traded insults and became involved in a fight at the count, just after the returning officer, Matthew Malone, had declared the result. Both are charged with racially aggravated assault, and both deny the charges. Roy Jones is at Bermondsey Crown Court.’

  Inevitably, to my delight, the infamous BBC footage begins to roll, though without the sound. No doubt the BBC doesn’t want to be caught broadcasting terrible racial epithets like ‘upper class’ and ‘working class’ before the watershed, when there may be children listening; regardless of the fact that adults and children alike must have heard them hundreds of times before the bright spark at the CPS educated us all about what they really mean. As it is finishing, Roy Jones is shown standing outside the main entrance to the court. The Reverend Mrs Walden beams and punches me gently two or three times in the arm. I feign indifference, but I know she is not fooled for a moment. Jones begins to speak.

  ‘There was some laughter in court this afternoon, when this now celebrated footage shot by the BBC was played for the jury hearing the charges against the two warring politicians. The jury was told that neither defendant denies striking blows, but both claim to have been acting in self-defence. The returning officer, Matthew Malone, gave evidence for the prosecution, and told the jury that although Liam Voss demanded a recount just before the fight began, he had no power to conduct a recount once the declaration had been made. He added that Mr Voss’s agent, Sam Field, had declined the offer of a recount, suggesting that the majority of four hundred and fifty-two votes, though thin, was not unusual for this notoriously marginal Tory seat. Mr Malone declined to say who had struck the first blow, saying that he had been in no position to see. The trial continues tomorrow, and although there was laughter in court today, it will not be a laughing matter for either man, should they be convicted. Roy Jones, BBC News, at Bermondsey Crown Court, London’.

  We return to the news anchor and the subject turns to football.

  ‘Is that it?’ I ask peevishly. ‘They didn’t even mention me.’

  ‘I’m sure they will, later in the week,’ the Reverend Mrs Walden assures me.

  Too bloody right, I concur silently, and it will probably be the day I step into my Top Judge role. The Reverend Mrs Walden prevails on me to take her to the Delights of the Raj for a chicken Madras and a couple of Cobras by way of celebration. When we return we watch the recording of the ITV news. They don’t mention me either.

  * * *

  Tuesday morning

  ‘May it please your Honour,’ Roderick begins, ‘I call Derek Hamilton.’

  We are all beginning to feel we know the main characters by now, so often have we seen them on the stage in the church hall. Hamilton is no exception. We have seen him a number of times, standing there rather helplessly and looking as bemused as everyone else when the fisticuffs begin.

  ‘Mr Hamilton, I believe you were the Liberal Democrat candidate in the Clavering West with Baddiefield constituency, is that right?’ Roderick asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And we see you on the stage, standing to the left of Mr Voss and slightly behind him, during the declaration?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘Did you hear the exchanges of words between Mr Mayfield and Mr Voss before any punches were thrown?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘There is no dispute about it. Mr Voss called Mr Mayfield a “toffee-nosed, upper class git”, and Mr Mayfield called Mr Voss a “moronic, working class lout.” Is that what you heard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did that lead you to look in their direction?’

  ‘Yes, it did.’

  ‘What was the next thing that happened?’

  Hamilton shakes his head.

  ‘It all happened so quickly. It was all a blur, really. But they started trying to punch each other, and it certainly seemed to me that they were both successful in landing blows on each other. I don’t remember how many times, probably two or three each. Then they had their arms around each other, there was a bit of a wrestling match, and they fell over together just in front of the podium, but they lost their balance and rolled off the stage, still grappling and trying to punch each other.’

  ‘I see,’ Roderick says. ‘What did you do at that point, Mr Hamilton?’

  ‘Nothing, at least for several seconds. I was in shock, to be honest. I looked around at the other candidates, and they seemed to be having the same reaction. Eventually, after a few seconds, we all reacted at the same time and ran to the front of the stage to see what was happening.’

  ‘And what was happening?’

  ‘My Mayfield and Mr Voss were still wrestling on the floor, down below us. Then I saw a number of party supporters and vote counters wade in and try to get them off each other. It took a while. They both seemed determined to continue fighting. But eventually, the supporters pulled them apart and got them away from each other, and took them to opposite sides of the hall.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I heard some of the supporters shouting that they had suffered some injuries and needed to go to A and E. Someone called an ambulance. But the police arrived first. They had officers stationed outside the hall, I believe, so they were on the scene almost straight away. They calmed things down. We waited for the ambulance. Mr Mayfield and Mr Voss were taken away. And that was it, really.’

  Roderick pauses.

  ‘Now, Mr Hamilton, please think very carefully about the question I am about to ask you. Casting your mind back to when the fight started, you told his Honour and the jury that they started to punch each other. If you can say, who struck the first blow?’

  Hamilton appears to ponder the question carefully. He shakes his head.

  ‘It all seemed to happen at once,’ he says ruefully. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Hamilton,’ Roderick smiles. ‘Please wait there. There may be further questions.’

  Inevitably, Cathy invites Hamilton to watch the TV footage yet again.

  ‘Looking at that footage again, Mr Hamilton, do you not think that you may be mistaken? Would you not say that Mr Mayfield struck the first blow?’

  ‘No. I would not,’ Hamilton replies.

  ‘Very well. Mr Voss called Mr Mayfield a “toffee-nosed, upper class git”. Did you understand any of those words to be a racial slur of any kind?’

  Hamilton laughs. ‘No, not at all.’

  Cathy sits down and gives way to Julian.

  ‘Mr Mayfield called Mr Voss a “moronic, working class lout.” Did you understand any of that to be a racial slur?’

  ‘No. Certainly not.’

  ‘I am sorry to ask you this, Mr Hamilton. But look at the footage just once more, please.’

  At which point the trial suddenly takes a surprising turn. This happens sometimes. It is difficult to define how it happens, but there are sometimes moments when the chemistry of a trial, as the Reverend Mrs Walden would say, shifts. There is no mistaking the shift when it happens, and it often affects the outcome. What prompts the shift in the chemistry of this trial, who can say, but it certainly begins with Julian, who, apparently believing that the gods of advocacy are on his side, decides to push his luck. His question is a very dangerous one. If it goes wrong, he is going to be stuck with a very damaging answer. The footage is played yet again. Hamilton stares at it like a man possessed. I am sure he is feeling guilty about not seeing what he is supposed to. But all of a sudden, his eyes move back to alight on Julian and you sense that he has seen something new.

  ‘Seeing that again, Mr Hamilton, although thing
s do move quickly, do you not see that Mr Voss strikes first?’

  ‘Now that I see it again,’ Hamilton replies, ‘I would have to agree with you. It’s very close, but yes, Mr Voss does appear to strike just before Mr Mayfield.’

  A veritable ripple goes round the courtroom and I see the reporters scribbling and tweeting furiously. Cathy looks aghast, but there is nothing she can do about it. I must admit that, dangerous or not, Julian’s question reflects my own sense of it. I had a vague impression that, although the first blows look more or less simultaneous, Voss is quicker off the mark by a whisper. Mayfield definitely reacts by striking out himself before Voss lands his blow, but that would not deprive him of his claim of self-defence – you don’t have to wait to be hit before defending yourself. There is no way to tell what the jury see, or think they see, but that’s my impression.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hamilton,’ Julian says, with the air of a man who cannot understand why it has taken so long for the obvious to be acknowledged for what it is. He is so excited that he almost forgets to ask about the offer of a handshake, and has to stand up again abruptly after having sat down.

  Next, Roderick calls Marie Cuthbertson, the Green Party candidate, and to the amazement of all in court, there is almost a replay of Derek Hamilton’s evidence. The only real difference is an amusing interlude when Ms Cuthbertson confesses to watching Voss and Mayfield wrestling and swearing at each other on the floor below the stage, and has a momentary fantasy that they could both be disqualified for grave misconduct during the count, resulting in an unlikely electoral gain for the Green Party with its 1546 votes. She admits that she was soon disabused of that idea by Mr Malone. Ms Cuthbertson, too, was taken by surprise when the fight broke out, ran over to the stage after Voss and Mayfield had plummeted to the floor below, and had no clear impression of who, if anyone, struck first.

  But when invited by Julian to watch the footage just once more, she concedes that Voss does appear to move just a fraction before Mayfield. More ripples around the courtroom, and one can sense the bookies narrowing the odds on a Conservative win. Cathy is looking a bit pale and is understandably chagrined that the gods of advocacy have deserted her so completely. Julian, of course, is looking very pleased with himself, and with the reward he has reaped for asking not one, but two very dangerous questions.

  But the gods of advocacy are fickle. It is rare for them to stay entirely loyal to one side throughout a trial, and when Roderick calls Celia Wingate (Monster Raving Loony Party) and Henry Yates (Warwickshire Independence Party) the chemistry shifts yet again. When it comes to bottle, Cathy Writtle is second to no one, including Julian Blanquette. Emboldened by his success, or perhaps becoming a little desperate, seeing defeat staring her in the face, Cathy poses the same dangerous question to both witnesses, and to universal astonishment, both agree that Mayfield could just have beaten Voss to the punch.

  Julian makes a strenuous effort to change their minds, but without success. Obviously rather bemused, Roderick tells us that the only remaining witness is the officer in the case, who will tell the jury about the course of the investigation and deal with the police interviews of the two defendants. After this, the prosecution will be ready to close its case. He asks for a little time to finalise and copy the interviews for the jury, and I suggest that we resume after lunch. We could all do with some time to re-group, and in any case Marjorie has asked whether I could sentence a burglar for her, as she does not want to interrupt the trial of her seventy-year old defendant, Gertie. It is a welcome diversion.

  After the sentence, I find that I still have about half an hour before lunch, and my mind returns to the conundrum of racial aggravation. Not one of the other four candidates understood ‘upper class git’ or ‘working class lout’ to have any racial connotations, and I must say I am having a lot of trouble with the idea myself. On the other hand, I can’t entirely exclude Roderick Lofthouse’s reading of the Act, and if I withdraw the issue from the jury, the bright spark at the CPS is likely to tell him to interrupt the trial and take the matter to the Court of Appeal. If that happens, we would have to adjourn the trial for a day or two to allow the Court time to hear his appeal. If they agree with him, we would then have to continue the trial. On the other hand, if I leave it to the jury and they convict, it will go up to the Court of Appeal anyway. It’s a dilemma I have faced before, though not with so many eyes on me, and I know that there is only one hope of avoiding the Court of Appeal altogether: let the jury work it out. I’ve been watching them, and they seem to be paying close attention. I conclude it may be my best bet.

  In the meanwhile, I ask myself: what is the case the jury have to decide? It suddenly occurs to me that we have ended up with two coalitions: one between the Conservatives, the Liberal Democrats and the Green Party; the other between Labour, the Monster Raving Loony Party and the Warwickshire Independence Party. The jury will have the casting vote. They have to decide which one they prefer or, to echo Jeanie, whether they are prepared to vote for any of them. In a moment of whimsy, I pen my report of the election as a judicial returning officer.

  I, Charles Walden, being the Judge in the trial resulting from certain events occurring during the United Kingdom Parliamentary General Election in the Constituency of Clavering West with Baddiefield, do hereby give notice that the number of votes recorded for each Candidate in the said trial as being the aggressor, the person who struck the first blow, is as follows –

  Richard William Mayfield, Conservative Party Candidate: 2

  Liam Voss: Labour Party Candidate: 2

  The number of ballot papers rejected was as follows: unable or unwilling to make up his bloody mind and claiming he was unable to see what happened: 1; others present at the time, but not called by the prosecution for whatever reason: God knows how many; total 1+ God knows how many.

  And I declare that the result of the election is a tie.

  The only trouble with this is that in a general election, if the number of votes is tied after a recount, the election is decided by the drawing of lots. You can’t decide trials like that. There are times when juries are totally deadlocked when I think it might not be a bad idea, but we can’t. All we can do is press on and invite the jury to give the casting vote.

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

  ‘How is the great electoral violence case going?’ Legless asks with a smirk.

  ‘You may well laugh,’ I say. ‘So far, the Lib Dems and the Greens are supporting the Tories, and the Monster Raving Loony Party and the Warwickshire Independence Party are supporting Labour.’

  ‘Well, that just proves my point,’ Hubert says, looking up from his chicken Kiev, the kitchen’s offering as dish of the day.

  ‘In what sense?’ I ask.

  ‘It stands to reason,’ he replies. ‘If the only people who agree with the Labour chappie are barking mad, what can you expect? I told you he would be convicted.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, they were perfectly good witnesses,’ I say, ‘and I’m not sure which way it’s going to go. I won’t be particularly surprised if the jury fail to reach a verdict.’

  ‘Have you decided which way you’re going on the racial aggravation question?’ Marjorie asks.

  ‘I’m going to leave it to the jury,’ I reply.

  ‘Oh, come on, Charlie,’ Legless protests.

  ‘I’m serious,’ I reply. ‘I think the wording of the Act supports the prosecution as a matter of law. As Marjorie said yesterday, Parliament didn’t think this through, and someone needs to tell them to bugger off and stop being so stupid. But with the nation’s press looking on, I’d prefer to let the jury tell them, rather than doing it myself. “Top Judge” red alert, and all that kind of thing.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Hubert says. ‘That’s why we have juries, to bring a bit of bloody common sense to bear on this sort of nonsense. Perhaps someone in Parliament will sit up and take
notice for a change.’

  ‘I’m not sure how much confidence I have in that, Hubert,’ I reply. ‘But at least I can try to salvage this case.’

  ‘Old Bertie Simmons got the Top Judge treatment once,’ Hubert says.

  ‘Who?’ I ask.

  ‘Bertie Simmons. Used to sit in Wales, somewhere, Carmarthen, I think – or was it Mold? Can’t remember. This was years and years ago, now. It wasn’t the Sun, though. It was the Times, no less.’

  ‘What did he do?’ Legless asks.

  ‘He gave some chap a conditional discharge for interfering with a sheep,’ Hubert says. ‘But it wasn’t the sentence that got him into trouble.’

  We wait expectantly, looking at each other, but Hubert seems on the point of returning to his chicken Kiev.

  ‘I have a feeling I’m going to regret asking this, Hubert,’ Marjorie says, ‘but if it wasn’t the sentence, what was it?’

  ‘What? Oh, the Top Judge thing? Oh, yes,’ Hubert continues. ‘No, it wasn’t the sentence. Chummy was of previous good character, so no one was too bothered about that. No, what got Bertie the Top Judge treatment was, he said he didn’t think interfering with a sheep was an offence known to the law of Wales, and the case should never have been brought. He ordered the prosecution to pay the defendant’s costs, and ordered them not to bring any more cases about sheep in his court in future.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Marjorie asks.

  ‘Nothing, as far as I know. He sat on quite happily until he retired. The Lord Chancellor probably had a quiet word with him in private, but nothing more than that. Quite right. Nothing to make a fuss about. Johnny Makin brought him to the Garrick for dinner one evening. That’s how I heard about it.’

  ‘How are you doing with Gertie, Marjorie?’ I ask.

  ‘Ah, well, interesting you should ask,’ she replies. ‘For most of the morning, she seemed to be going straight down the tubes, as we predicted yesterday. The prosecution called the work rider, and he was very solid on the date when the horse died and so on. But then, they called the financial investigator who looked into the insurance company’s records after it went belly up, and guess what?’