Case for Compensation

by Douglas Stewart

  Chapter Twenty-Two – BRISTOL—DECEMBER

  The formalities of advancing the case to Court had proceeded smoothly. Months ago an airmail letter had left the offices in Queen Square addressed to the French Company in Marans holding it and its driver responsible for the accident. The letter, as was frequently the case, gave no details of the allegations of negligence. A copy of the letter had gone to the Motor Insurers’ Bureau in London for they would be responsible in cash terms for any negligence on the part of Bouchin whilst on English soil. As a matter of routine the nominated Insurers denied liability. They had appointed solicitors, nominally to represent Bouchin, but, in reality, to safeguard their own interests because the cost of defeat would be heavy.

  The two firms of solicitors had quickly agreed that the Court should deal only with the issue of liability. If Goodhart lost, then damages were irrelevant. If he won, then the Court would take evidence about damages at a later date, if the parties failed to agree on an amount.

  Today, the solicitors were face to face, before the District Registrar on the Hearing of the Summons for Directions. Jeremy Myers appeared for the Insurers. “Trial really ought to be at Exeter. I cannot accept any argument which Alistair Duncan has put forward for a trial in London.”

  “I must say that I agree with you, Mr Myers. I find Mr Duncan’s arguments unpersuasive. Accordingly I order that this matter be tried at Exeter, before a Judge sitting alone. Listing Category B.”

  Duncan accepted the decision with resignation. Exeter was the obvious place for Trial, but the word was that Proster would be sitting at Exeter. The odds of Proster taking Goodhart’s case now were 50:50, for there would be two Judges only at Exeter ‘taking Civil’.

  Chapter Twenty-three – EXETER—MARCH

  Alistair Duncan swept back the curtains. Tuesday 4th March, looked cold and uninviting. The heavy greyness of the sky met the walls of the Cathedral. He had slept badly. His dreams had been super-vivid, an effect brought on by working and eating far too late. He wondered if Giles Holden, Q.C., had slept better. He had been briefed to lead in Roger Goodhart’s case. They had dined well, but then worked till nearly two. Preparation is better than inspiration, but neither is preferable to a strong case.

  One fact was reassuring; Proster was sitting in Court One. Goodhart–v–Bouchin was listed for Court Two before Mr Justice Salford. Proster was involved in a part-heard case about a combine harvester. It was expected to end on Wednesday. Goodhart’s case would start before Salford, when his present case ended, which was estimated for 11.15. Duncan preferred “not before 11.15 listings.” It gave Insurance Companies more time to get last-minute cold feet and decide to buy off the risk. It also gave Alistair Duncan a lie-in after too much port.

  As he watched the milk float rumble across the cobbles his thoughts were of Goodhart’s curious behaviour at the consultation, the previous day.

  “Your chances are less than evens.” Giles Holden had said. His opinion was to be respected. Called to the Bar in 1956 and appointed Queen’s Counsel in 1972, he had successfully fought many apparently lost causes. The highlight of his career at the Junior Bar had been his selection to prosecute with the Attorney General in the Chedwin Spy Case. Colleagues tipped him as a likely appointment to the Bench. If, as often happened, he was both more skilful and more knowledgeable than the Judge, Holden was careful never to show it, content to let the Judge appear in charge.

  “I think considerably less than evens,” Holden repeated the advice as the client had seemed unconcerned. Holden was right. Goodhart was thinking of a discussion with a consultant at the Hospital. Lawyers, he had said, always made out that cases were difficult. It gave them an excuse if they lost. It gave them an excess of praise of they won. He said, “But there’s still a chance?”

  “Of course. Alistair Duncan’s produced some good evidence for you.”

  “And the Judge?”

  “Don’t expect any sympathy from Mr Justice Salford. He’s a damned fine Judge. One of the best. Well in line for the Court of Appeal. Agree, Alistair?”

  Alistair Duncan nodded his head in reply.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” the Q.C. continued. “Salford isn’t hard hearted. But he’s a lawyer . . . in the narrow sense. He’ll apply the Law according to the evidence. If we give him the evidence we’ll win. If we don’t, we’ll lose.”

  Holden helped himself to a slab of fruit cake before adding, “You see, Mr Goodhart, some of these High Court Judges are, by instinct, plaintiff men. Some are defendant men. We know them all. Some, like Mr Justice Proster, are just unspeakably bad. Salford will play it straight down the middle.”

  Duncan was regretting the excess of ‘Taylor’s 1963’. He always did. He had told himself before that one day he would learn! One day. The torrent of water in the shower helped clear his head, but he still couldn’t unravel the optimism of the client.

  In fact, over the months since the accident, the client had mapped out a future for himself. A fat cheque from the Insurers would buy a detached bungalow. There would be a sea view. It would have central heating, a fine lawn, perhaps a pond. As a home it would be irresistible. But that wouldn’t be enough for Alice. There would be new neighbours and talk would be of cocktail parties, buffet soirées, holidays abroad. He would buy her a gold lamé dress with sequins. These were the things for which Alice had always hankered. With the money he could turn her into the woman of her childhood dreams. The children would have new opportunities. He was hoping for £80,000.00, but would settle for less. The thoughts had given him an inner strength, an outer veneer.

  Duncan emerged from the shower, still thinking of his client. He was staying in a hotel down the road. There, conversation between husband and wife had been desultory. Alice had said what she had to. She had done as little as she had to do, but nothing more. When he had leant over to kiss her goodnight, she had flinched. At his second attempt she had moved further away across the bed.

  At 5.00 am Roger was still asleep. His pills had seen to that. But she had heard the clock chime every hour. Her thoughts were of the broad shoulders of Neil Masters, as he nestled behind her after they had made love. His steely arms commanded her every movement. His loins could satisfy her. Not once, but as often as she moaned for satisfaction.

  And now! She looked at Roger. She was shackled to him by a piece of paper. Sod that! Hadn’t she a right to live her own life. Hadn’t she the right to make Neil happy? Of course she had. It was a watershed. Defeat had to be the end. But victory? That was the problem. Alistair Duncan had said that there was a lot of money at stake. Could she, no, should she, stick with Roger for the sake of the children and keep Neil as a lover? It was insoluble.

  She dreaded dawn. She would have to help get him up, get him dressed. Perhaps dawn wouldn’t come. It did. She couldn’t eat breakfast.

  Chapter Twenty-Four – EXETER CROWN COURT

  The Courtyard of the Castle at Exeter was crammed with parked cars. Huddles of lawyers and clients stood, heads bowed, in front of the building. Here and there strutted or strolled wily old barristers in faded wigs and gowns, confident of themselves and of their ability. In contrast, the just-unwrapped new boys sure neither of themselves nor of their cases, worriedly conferred with their Instructing Solicitors.

  The police motorcyclist revved his machine importantly as the two Judges emerged from their limousine. Mr Justice Proster came first. As he passed the waiting litigants and lawyers, he gave no acknowledgment that he had seen their respectful bobs of the head. Duncan was deliberately out of sight.

  The Courts filled, the lobby emptied. It was then that Duncan could identify the opposition, clustered together in a small group. There was Hambleton Jack, Q.C., a dumpy, cheerful-faced man of about fifty with distinguished silver hair peeping from below his ancient lawyer’s wig. Jeremy Myers was there and so was Bouchin. At a guess, the middle-aged man with the weasel face was the Insurance Representative. He had heavily lensed glasses, which, Duncan thought resulted from readi
ng the small print too astutely too often. He held the purse strings of any settlement. But there was no sign of one.

  *

  At 11.15, Mr Justice Salford’s Clerk motioned to Giles Holden and Hambleton Jack. After a brief discussion they entered Number Two Court.

  “Excuse me, Mr Maughton,” said the Judge, addressing the young barrister who was on his feet. “I am sorry to interrupt whilst you are in full flow, but I need a word with Counsel in the next case.” He turned to the new arrivals. “There has been an unexpected development and we are running behind. We won’t finish this morning and maybe, now, not until late afternoon, so we can’t really make a start. Please convey my apologies to the parties.” His face crinkled into a smile.

  “We appreciate your Lordship’s consideration,” commented Giles Holden in his deep mellowed tones.

  “Thank you. Your great experience at the Bar will have taught you nothing if you have not learnt that estimated lengths of cases are always eternally optimistic.” It was an old legal joke and a dig without malice at young Mr Maughton.

  Duncan had gathered that Salford’s Court was running behind and he had stolen a hurried word with the solicitor in the combine harvester case before Proster. He had learnt that the plaintiff’s case was collapsing. Instead of running on another day or two, it would be settled before lunch. Warning lights flashed. What if someone were to invite Proster to take Goodhart’s case—someone like Jeremy Myers?

  “I must talk to you at once.” Duncan drew Giles Holden to one side.

  “Why not?” Giles Holden was puzzled. The two men lapped the Courtyard twice. Then they separated. Holden went to the Robing Room. Duncan spoke to his client. Jeremy Myers appeared from Court One heading for Archie Jenkins’ office. Mr Jenkins was the Associate in charge of Listing. Shortly afterwards, Myers and Jenkins appeared. Jenkins glided firstly into Proster’s Court and then into Salford’s. Only then did the Associate approach Alistair Duncan.

  “Good morning, Mr Duncan,” began the Associate respectfully. “A word if I might? Thank you. I have just heard that the case bfore Mr Justice Proster is going to crack. It was listed to last until perhaps Thursday. That means that I have no case to put in the Judge’s List for after lunch today. The Judge hates an empty List and Mr Myers helpfully suggested the saving in costs and in judicial time if Goodhart’s case were transferred to Mr Justice Proster’s List.”

  How very helpful of him, thought the listener, smiling evenly. Myers had done well to turn the situation to the advantage of his Insurance clients who paid him for this type of expertise.

  “Excellent idea!” Duncan replied. “But I think there’s a snag.”

  “Oh? What’s that?” enquired Archie Jenkins, anxious only to clear his List and save judicial time.

  Jeremy Myers stood, saying nothing, his face a mask. He had two assets much cherished by his Insurance clients; a poker face, whatever the odds, and, also, an ability to read upside down. This latter facility had proved very useful, when meeting opposite numbers across the table.

  Before replying to the question, Duncan smiled at Jeremy Myers and the Associate as if to say ‘sorry’. “Giles Holden has just gone. After Mr Justice Salford released us until tomorrow he awarded himself a day off. He mentioned something about relatives near Okehampton.” Duncan shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a pity the idea didn’t surface earlier.”

  “Is there no chance of catching him?” enquired the Associate.

  “I’ll ring the Royal Clarence.”

  “Thank you, Mr Duncan. Most helpful,” purred the Associate as Duncan went to the telephone.

  “I am sorry, sir,” the Receptionist commented, “but there is no answer from Mr Holden’s extension. I haven’t seen him since breakfast.”

  Duncan reported to Archie Jenkins.

  “I am afraid that Mr Holden wasn’t there. Beyond the reach of the Law, you might say. We’re sunk.”

  “Well, thanks, anyway, Mr Duncan. I’ll tell Mr Myers in a moment.” Goodhart’s case was pencilled in for 10.30 the next day before Mr Justice Salford. Duncan bade Mr Jenkins a cheerful goodbye and walked across the yard for a cup of coffee.

  “’Bye, see you tomorrow,” he called to Jeremy Myers. “Couldn’t get Giles so we’re marked for tomorrow.” Duncan tried to keep the laughter out of his voice. Jeremy Myers was not amused.

  As he stirred his coffee, Duncan reflected on the morning. It was useful that even eminent Leading Counsel like Giles Holden had to take instructions from their solicitors; even, it seemed, when those instructions were somewhat unusual. During the walk around the Courtyard, Holden had readily accepted the instruction, “to get the hell out of Exeter” and “don’t come back until tomorrow.” Holden had wasted not a second, which was as well because Myers too had acted fast. Duncan smiled. Confrontation with Proster had been avoided and it was definitely Round One to the plaintiff.

  It had been a long day already. There was just time to drive out to Dulverton for lunch at the Lamb and a stroll by the river. He could do with some fresh air. Last night’s port was still being intolerably unkind.

  Chapter Twenty-Five – EXETER—DAY ONE

  Number Two Court was hushed, emphasizing the squeak from the wheelchair as Roger Goodhart edged forward to give evidence. All eyes were on him as he took the oath.

  “Now, Mr Goodhart” said Mr Justice Salford, “I must ask you to address your answers to me. As you are in the well of the Court, it is doubly important that you should speak up and look up to where I am sitting because, otherwise, I may not hear you correctly.” He gave a friendly smile.

  “I’m sorry, Sir. Thank you.”

  “How old are you, Mr Goodhart?” asked Giles Holden.

  “Forty-one, Sir.”

  “And your occupation at the date of the accident?”

  “The Company jargon was that I was Sales Liaison Officer (South). Call me a Travelling Salesman.”

  “How many miles a year did you drive?”

  “For twenty years I’ve done about forty thousand a year.”

  “Have you ever been involved in a motor accident before this one?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Have you been prosecuted for any motoring offence?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Has your driving ability ever brought you any recognition?”

  “Yes, Sir. I’ve won Company Safety Awards.”

  “Do you have any recollection of your accident at all?”

  “None whatsoever” came the reply.

  “What’s your last recollection?”

  “I can remember the previous day.”

  “Thank you.

  “Look at these photographs of the stretch of road where your accident occurred. Do you know this spot?”

  “Yes, Sir. I know the piece of road well.”

  “Have you ever at any time overtaken or attempted to overtake any vehicle on this stretch of road?”

  “No, Sir. Never before this accident. And I cannot accept unless it’s proved that I overtook on the occasion of this accident.”

  Holden gave the witness the slip of paper which Duncan had found in the AA Book.

  “Is that your writing?”

  “It is.”

  “Please explain the document to his Lordship.”

  “Don’t bother, Mr Goodhart, this was your route, wasn’t it?” The Judge looked down.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Accepting that the accident occurred at say 10.00 am, and looking at your itinerary, had you any reason to hurry? To literally cut corners?” enquired Giles Holden.

  “No, Sir. Not at all. I was early for my first call. I always planned carefully, to make sure that I was neither late nor obliged to hurry.”

  “Thank you, Mr Goodhart; stay there, would you please?”

  Holden sat down, easing his wig from his forehead as he did so. He had a whispered word with Roger Tulip, the Junior Counsel retained to assist in presenting Goodhart’s case.

  Hambleton Ja
ck Q.C., rose to his feet, rocked gently for a moment and then eased his black gown across his shoulders. Every movement was heavy with self-assurance, matured over nearly thirty years of facing Judges in their every mood.

  “May I say, Mr Goodhart,” he opened quietly, “how much I and those instructing me and those whom they represent sympathize with you for the grievous injuries which you have suffered?” It was a not uncommon beginning and frequently was a preface to some harsh and entirely unsympathetic questioning. Duncan crossed his legs and looked over at the face of the questioner, the snub nose emphasized in profile across the room.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s fair to say—isn’t it?-that all you can tell this Court is . . . ‘I’ve always been a careful driver. I’ve had an accident, but how it occurred I don’t know.’ Agreed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it follows—does it not?—that you are not in a position to criticise the defendant driver, Bouchin, in any way at all.” The question slipped easily across the room.

  “No. I’m afraid it doesn’t.” The witness opened his mouth to continue, but after recalling Duncan’s advice to answer only the question and not volunteer anything, closed it at once.

  “Did you intend to add anything?”

  “No, thank you, Sir.”

  “Come now, Mr Goodhart, you’re not saying that you can criticise the way in which Monsieur Bouchin drove his lorry.”

  “I’m not suggesting that I can criticise him from what I saw.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember anything about it.”

  “It was a sunny morning, wasn’t it?” It was a trap thrown in to test whether Goodhart’s lapse of memory was convenient rather than real.

  “I don’t remember. I can’t remember anything.” The Judge looked down at the Q.C., as if to acknowledge that it had been a good try which had failed.

  “Then we are agreed” continued Jack “that you cannot, from what you saw, make any criticism of the way in which Monsieur Bouchin was driving. Have I got it right now?”