John Mortimer - Rumpole A La Carte

by Rumpole A La Carte(lit)

  'Oh, I do,' I assured him. 'And I suggest that even the most gentle, mild-mannered man might take industrial action in that situation. Take his Lordship...' 'Mr Rumpole?' Guthrie woke up with a start the moment his name was mentioned.

  'As you probably know,' I confided in Mr Ernie Elver, 'the powers that be have suggested that solicitors can get jobs as High Court judges. Appeal judges! Lords of Appeal!' 'Mr Rumpole!' His Lordship was about to draw the line.

  'These questions are quite irrelevant!' 'Is your Lordship stopping my cross-examination?' Then I said to Mizz Liz in a deafening mutter, 'It's not a particularly long walk to the Court of Appeal.' At the mention of these dreaded words, his Lordship could be heard going into reverse. 'No. No, of course, I'm not stopping you,' he said hurriedly.

  'But I fail to understand...' 'Then might I suggest you sit quietly, my Lord. All will become clear.' I was beginning to lose patience with his Lordship, and he came back with a rather sour 'Mr Rumpole. Don't get the idea that you can twist this Court round your little finger!' 'My little finger, my Lord?' I played the retort courteous.

  'What an idea!' Then I resumed my conversation with Ernie.

  'Solicitors who haven't spent a lifetime arguing in Courts might not be up to the job. That's the suggestion,' I told him.

  'I didn't know.' Ernie looked as though he might have thought that solicitors were ladies of the street who probably were unsuited to the work in the Court of Appeal.

  'Well, you know now, Mr Elver. And that suggestion caused even such a reasonable, sensible, moderate man as his Lordship to go on strike.' 'On strike, Mr Rumpole?' His poor old Lordship could contain himself no longer. 'What can you be talking about?' 'Yesterday afternoon, my Lord', I tried to keep as calm as * possible, 'I seem to remember not very much work was done.

  Was not your Lordship on strike?' 'No, I was not on strike!' The Judge gave his desk a moderate, middle-of-the-road sort of thump. 'Simply withdrawing your labour?' I smiled sweetly.

  'As I told the Court, I had to go to an important meeting' Guthrie was making the mistake of defending the charge 'with a very senior judge and brother judges from the Chancery and the Family Division.' 'Of course. The shop stewards. And what was the discussion about?' 'Mr Rumpole!' the Judge asked with deep suspicion, 'are you cross-examining me?' 'Cross-examining your Lordship? Perish the thought!' Of course I was, and on I went. 'I can understand that if the Judges are in dispute with their employers it may be a delicate matter. Better kept secret.' 'I don't think it's any secret that certain changes have been proposed in the legal system.' As a witness, his Lordship was proving almost too easy to handle.

  'Cowboys on the Bench, my Lord?' I suggested.

  'No, but perhaps', he searched for a tactful way of putting it, 'persons whose training may not entirely fit them for the Bench.' 'And if they get there? Can we expect further industrial action? Down the Old Bailey?' Poor old Guthrie was now really in deep water. 'It's a possibility,' he said. 'We hope wiser counsels will prevail.' And then he tried to swim for the shore. 'Mr Rumpole, we have had quite enough of this. High Court judges are not, and never have been, members of a trades union.' 'Is that a legal proposition, my Lord,' I asked, 'or a subject of debate?' 'Will you please return to the question we have to try? Did your client commit manslaughter?' That was not one I felt like answering just yet, so I turned back to the witness. 'Mr Elver. I was just venturing to point out that reasonable people may withdraw their labour when their jobs are threatened. I'm sure his Lordship would agree.' Elver didn't care to answer that, but Guthrie couldn't resist it. He leant towards the witness and said, 'Surely that's a reasonable proposition, Mr Elver?' 67 'I suppose so.' Ernie was disconcerted by a judge who was suddenly talking like one oft-Ag brothers.

  'And you wanted to make i if look as unreasonable as possible?' I asked him.

  'Why would I want to do tJat?' 'Childishly simple, Mr Ei'Ver,' I told him. 'Because if you could prove there were more; than six pickets you could get an injunction. If you could pro-e there was violence and intimidation you could get the unio: fined large sums of money. You could get rid of that thorn ir" your flesh, Mr "Basher" Baker, and employ all the cheap covfcoy labour you wanted.' 'But there was violence on } picket line,' Ernie protested.

  'Of course there was! Became you put it there. Usher, give that to the witness.' What passed up was the photograph Fred Timson had given me of the Molloys on holiday. 'You know the Molloy family, don you?' I asked as Ernie looked at it with some reluctance. 'I'm ot sure,' he said, after a considerable silence.

  'Come on, Mr Elver,' I enc-aged him. 'You employ Gerry Jebb. He's one of the clan-i They're a pretty hard firm of criminals, the Molloys. Wel known to the Inspector in this case. You hired the Molloy didn't you, no doubt through Jebb, to swell the picket lirz and create as much violence as possible? Then, when you'd arranged the performance, you went and filmed it all from y?}ur office window.' 'Baker was in charge of the picket line,' Ernie insisted.

  'In charge of the peaceful pickets, yes. He didn't know the new arrivals, those he took for symlpathetic workers from other firms.

  They were your gang of hired troublemakers. Weren't they?' 'Mr Rumpole. Are you suggesting this witness planned the death of the driver?' Guthrie as usual, looked puzzled.

  'Oh, no, my Lord.' I explained, careful to allow for the slow pace of the judicial mind, 'T}lo doubt he was as surprised as anyone when young Peanuts Molloy, who probably threw the brick, went too far. But it wa a blessed opportunity to get the awkward Mr Baker into real tlyouble.' Then I asked the witness, 'How much did it cost you to ; get Jebb to give that perjured evidence?' 68 'My Lord, I object.' Ballard rose plaintively. 'There's no basis whatever for that suggestion!' 'Or did you get the whole package for a free holiday in Marbella?' Ballard's interruption was worth ignoring. 'Just take a look at that photograph. Is that one of your LuxieCharas in Spain?' 'It seems to be,' Ernie had to admit..., 'Do you see Mr Jebb there?' 'Yes.' 'I have asked the Prosecution to admit that the man in the red jacket is Peanuts Molloy. Was that a free holiday? A present from your firm?' 'I don't think so.' Ernie saw the dangers ahead, and I snapped at him, 'Can you produce evidence that your coach was paid for by the Molloys?' 'Maybe not.' 'Why not?' 'Gerry Jebb had been with the firm a long time. I wanted to do him a favour.' 'So he did you a favour in return?' 'Mr Rumpole', Guthrie was restive again, 'none of these serious suggestions was put to the witness, Jebb.' 'Your Lordship is perfectly right,' I agreed, now that I had plenty of questions to put to Jebb. 'That is why I have asked the Prosecution to have him back here tomorrow.' 'Very well.' Guthrie looked wistfully at the clock. 'I see it's a little early. But I will rise now.' 'Public duty, my Lord?' I wanted to help the old darling.

  'Yes, Mr Rumpole. Public duty. You may put your case to Mr Jebb in the morning.' 'I'm very much obliged to your Lordship.' I bowed low and added, under my breath, 'Keep the red flag flying here!' 'Did you say something, Mr Rumpole?' 'I said what an interesting case we're trying here.' For a full understanding of The Queen v. Basher Baker, we must now follow his Lordship into private life. My source for what follows is the account Lady Marigold Featherstone gave 69 to She Who Must Be Obeyed. Further details were supplied by Wilfred, the faithful clerk, in whom Guthrie often confided. It's clear from all the evidence available that the 'public duty' for which he had risen 'a little early' was going back to the Knightsbridge flat for the purpose of resting up on the sofa with a cup of tea. While he was so engaged, his wife Marigold returned home with a full Harrods bag and a copy of the Evening Standard. I have done my best to reconstruct their dialogue from the information I have received, and my knowledge of the characters of the two Featherstones. Marigold's opening salvo did not augur well for his Lordship's continued repose. 'Working hard, Guthrie?' I think she may well have said, 'or are you taking industrial action?' 'Oh, Marigold', Guthrie had no doubt awoken with a start, 'there you are! Well, hard day in Court. What's that you say about industrial action?' And I imagine that he slid somewhat
guiltily off the sofa as Marigold announced, in awesome tones, 'I have been reading the paper.' 'Oh. Yes, of course. Got a bit about my case in it, has it?

  Interesting discussion about union law. But let me tell you this. Marigold. I'm going to pot the shop steward. Old Rumpole's not going to twist me round his little finger this time!' 'Aren't you fit to be let off the lead, Guthrie? Ought I to be up there on the Bench beside you all the time, telling you when to keep your mouth shut?' 'Why? They must have got it wrong. Let me see. What am I supposed to have said?' Marigold didn't hand over the paper but read him the best bits: '"Industrial action is a possibility, says Mr Justice Featherstone, 53, if jobs on the Bench are open to solicitors".' Did you say that, Guthrie dear?' She must have smiled with misleading sweetness.

  'Well, something like it, I suppose. Something quite like it.' The Judge was beginning to wilt under cross-examination and Marigold read on without mercy: '"The Judge agreed with Mr Horace Rumpole, counsel for Baker, that he had been 'withdrawing his labour' yesterday afternoon when he closed 70 down his Court to attend a protest meeting of senior judges whom he called 'shop stewards'."' 'That's a libel! Rumpole called them that!' Guthrie felt he had a genuine grievance.

  'Sounds a pretty accurate description, if you ask me. There's a leading article on page six.' And as she turned the pages, Guthrie said, in stricken tones, 'A leading article!' ' "Judges add to nation's misery",' his wife read out, and his protest rose to a quavering wail, 'Marigold. It's simply not fair': '"Train drivers, air-traffic controllers, local government workers, prison officers and drain-clearance operatives'" Marigold carried on reading. 'What charming company you keep, Guthrie!, "have all managed to put the public through the hell of a Summer of Discontent. Now, if you go mad and strangle a porter when you've been waiting three days for a train at Waterloo, you won't even be tried for it, according to Mr Justice Featherstone, who also went on strike yesterday afternoon. Come off it, your Lordship! Drop the old Spanish practices and offer the public a decent service".' 'Marigold', Guthrie felt he knew who to blame, 'it's entirely the fault of Rumpole.' 'Of course it is,' his wife agreed. 'Why can't you twist him round your little finger for a change? You're bigger than he is!' 'I shall deny it all! In Court.' His Lordship was adopting what might be called the Timson defence.

  'Oh, do', Lady Featherstone was cynical, 'then everyone will believe it. I had to read this paper at lunch in Harrods. In the Silver Grill! I was deeply humiliated.' 'Marigold. I'm sorry, but...' 'I bought you a present.' At this sign of affection I'm sure our judge was considerably relieved. 'Oh, darling,' he said, 'I knew you'd understand.' 'Oh, yes. I understand perfectly.' At which she opened her Harrods bag, took out a decisively checked cloth cap and plonked it on her husband's head. 'It's your flat 'at, Guthrie.

  Now you can go down the working-men's club and play darts over a pint of wallop with the charge hands. I'm going to my 7i bridge class with Hilda Rumpole. Her husband may have his drawbacks, but at least she's not married to a shop steward.' At this, Hilda told me. Marigold said she left the unhappy man alone. I see him looking at himself in the mirror, seeing the cloth cap, symbol of the working-class struggle, on his head, and uttering something really desperate like 'Oh, brother!' Another direct result of Rumpole's advocacy was taking place in the crush bar of Covent Garden during a welcome interval in some opera by Richard Wagner whose music, as the late Mark Twain once said, is not as bad as it sounds. My learned friend Claude Erskine-Brown and the radical lawyer Mizz Liz Probert were crushed up against the bust of Sir Thomas Beecham. Claude was doing his best to pour her a glass of champagne without moving his arms and looking at her with the Erskine-Brown version of smouldering passion, and Liz was gamely twinkling back, noticing his bow-tie, watch-chain and conservatively tailored gents three-piece suiting. I do my best to reconstruct their conversation from the detailed account of Mizz Probert who, acting on the instructions of my good self, kicked off with, 'This is how I like you, Claude.' 'You do like me a little then, Elizabeth?' The dear old ass was suitably gratified.

  'When you're the old English barrister.' 'Did you say, "old"?' Claude sounded miffed. 'I mean, I'm not "old" exactly.' 'Old-fashioned. That's what I mean.' 'Oh, I see. You like that, do you? I should've thought you wouldn't.' 'Oh, yes,' she assured him. 'It's the old-fashioned elegance I admire. The bow-tie and all that. It's rather sweet.' 'Actually it's an old Wykehamist bow-tie,' Claude said modestly.

  'Is it, really?' Liz was less than impressed.

  *• 'I wouldn't wear it in the day-time. But it goes rather well with a great evening out like this!' 'You're charming when you look like a good old traditional barrister,' Liz told him. 'You know. The sort who takes snuff.' 72 'Snuff?' Claude was doubtful.

  'Yes. Snuff.' 'You think I ought to take it?' 'As a simple working-class girl, Claude, I do find that sort of thing a wild turn-on.' 'Oh, do you, really? Snuff, eh? Well. I suppose I might give it a whirl.' Claude was ready for anything in the pursuit of love.

  'Out of a little silver box, I'd find that irresistible. Oh, and stop trying to be a whizz-kid. Talking about slimming down and productivity targets. Sounds like some naff little middle manager in a suit. Horribly unsexy.' 'Elizabeth. Is that why you went off me?' The penny was dropping fast. 'And "consumer choice". Consumer choice is absolutely yuk! You know what I've always loved about you, Claude?' 'Loved?' The poor fellow seemed to have run out of breath.

  'Please, Elizabeth. Tell me!' 'You being so square. And vague. And beautifully unbusinesslike.

  And sort of dusty.' 'Dusty?' He frowned.

  'In the nicest possible way. Dreamy, with all sorts of ideals.

  You do believe in freelance barristers, don't you, Claude?' 'I believe in them passionately, Elizabeth. Radical ones too, of course.' Men in love will say anything.

  'Then would you mind saying so at the next Chambers meeting?' Liz got straight down to business. 'That is, if you're not too much in awe ofBallard.' 'In awe of Ballard! I'll show you if I'm in awe of Ballard.

  Elizabeth', he tried to hold her hand, 'do you think we'll ever sing the love duet together?' 'Not now, Claude.' She released her hand.

  'When?' 'Perhaps after the next Chambers meeting.' And then the bells rang and Wagner called them both to another, sterner duty.

  Whilst these historic events were taking place, I slept the 73 peaceful sleep of the just and went off to the Bailey with a light step, ready to fire off my considerable ammunition at Mr Gerry Jebb, who was to be recalled as the last prosecution witness. But when a somewhat shaken Guthrie resumed his seat on the Bench, he was faced with nothing but a flustered and apologetic Soapy Sam Ballard. 'My Lord,' the discomforted Prosecutor started. 'I gave the Court an undertaking that the witness Gerald Jebb would return today. He was warned that he must be available. But I regret to inform the Court that Jebb has vanished.' 'Not unexpectedly,' I whispered for all the world to hear.

  'Vanished, Mr Ballard?' The Judge clearly didn't believe in miracles.

  'The Inspector thinks he has probably left the country.' 'Try Marbella,' I suggested.

  'My Lord, the flight of this witness, for it must be described as a flight, must cast considerable doubt on his evidence,' Ballard admitted, and then threw in, 'if it can be described as evidence. Our inquiries have also disclosed that the defendant was in fact laying bricks in his garden, which could account for the brick dust on his clothing.' And Ballard concluded, 'I therefore feel that it would not be right for the Prosecution to persist with these charges.' 'Mr Rumpole?' His Lordship asked my view of the matter, so I rose politely. 'I'm sure we are all grateful to my learned friend. It's a wise decision. And I have no doubt your Lordship has other matters to attend to?' 'Oh, yes, indeed. I have an important meeting,' and Guthrie added, with some apprehension, 'with the Lord Chancellor.' So Basher Baker was set at liberty and walked out, after a gruff 'Thanks, Brother Rumpole', to the world of pay claims and union meetings, and Mr Justice Featherstone prepared to face a higher tribunal.

  Henry Fa
irmile had been a rather dusty, tall, scarecrow of a Q.C. and M.P., with a voice like dead twigs snapping in the wind. He had been an ultra-loyal member of his party and had been promoted, by way of such dull jobs as Solicitor-General 74 §81' and Attorney-General, to the woolsack and the splendour of the Lord Chancellor's office. Now in command of the Judiciary, Lord Fairmile developed a quirky and ironic sense of humour and he enjoyed teasing the Judges who had not taken much notice of him at the Bar. He also enjoyed discovering character weaknesses, drink, women or holidays in the Greek islands with young men in advertising, which would debar ambitious advocates from the Bench. He constantly lectured his colleagues on 'judgeitis', which he defined as pomposity and self-regard, whilst congratulating himself on his peculiar modesty for one who has, in his keeping, the great seal of the Realm. When the Government he served decided to reform the Bar, in the interests of consumer choice and the free market economy, he welcomed such plans as giving him ample scope to irritate the other judges. When the papers came out with news of Guthrie's industrial action, the Lord Chancellor sent for his striking Lordship, who naturally turned up in the office in the House of Lords in fear and trembling, fully expecting to be asked to hand in his resignation, as an alternative to being dismissed by a special act of Parliament. It was not, after all, the first time, that Featherstone j. had been hauled up before the Chancellor.* When he arrived in the big room and saw the lanky old man sitting in his white bands and tailed coat, his gold-encrusted robe and purse and the long full-bottomed wig on stands ready for his appearance at the woolsack, he was surprised by the warmth of the Chancellor's welcome. 'Come along in, my dear old fellow. Drink? Beer and sandwiches.' The long-abandoned symbols of conciliation stood on a side table.