A Matter for the Jury (40 page)

‘I don't follow.'

‘Clive was at my father's college,' she replied. ‘That is where the rugby club incident happened. Miles and Bernard are also college men. Bernard put two and two together and made four. He realised that someone must have covered up what Clive and the other hearties had done – after all, no charges were pursued against any of them – and it wasn't too much of a stretch to conclude that Miles was probably behind it. The problem was, Bernard couldn't prove that.'

‘But your father could?'

She nodded.

‘Of course. As Master he knew everything that went on,' she replied. ‘And I'm pretty sure he helped Miles to do it, though he would never admit that to me. Bernard went up to college to confront him about it. Of course, that meant that Bernard had to tell my father everything that was going on in Chambers. The idea was to sell Miles a way to bring Clive back. Miles couldn't do that himself, of course. He had sworn never to speak to Clive again. My father agreed to help Bernard – on certain conditions, needless to say.'

Ben smiled.

‘You would be offered a place in Chambers.'

‘Yes. I had no knowledge of that, Ben, I swear.'

He nodded.

‘I remember you told me that Bernard was going to Cambridge to see your father, but you didn't know why. It was that day we were both at the Willesden County Court and we had a drink at the pub at lunch time.'

‘Yes. Well, after that, Aubrey told me that I was going to be elected. What I didn't know until later was that Gareth had had to abandon you because Chambers only wanted one new member.'

‘
I had worked most of that out,' Ben said, ‘from what Gareth told me. But I'm still mystified…'

She took a deep breath.

‘I went to see Bernard, about five minutes before the Chambers meeting,' she said. ‘It was a conversation that was just between the two of us.'

Ben had his pint glass in his hand, but suddenly replaced it on the table.

‘I told him to his face that they could not treat you like that, and that I would not accept a place in Chambers unless they took you too.'

Ben suddenly felt himself go hot and cold. A lump formed in his throat, and he was not sure he could speak.

‘Harriet…' he began weakly.

She laughed and shook her head.

‘No, no. Ben, before you prostrate yourself at my feet in gratitude, I must be honest. I knew Bernard could not allow me to turn my place down. The whole deal would have crumbled. Bernard, of course, used the information my father gave him to blackmail Miles back, and make him agree to a reasonable settlement – one which let Kenneth and Chambers off the hook and allowed Clive to come to the Bar with a pupillage all arranged. But without the proof my father gave him – whatever that was – he could not have brought any of that off. Of course, as we all know, that's exactly what he did. And in any case…'

‘In any case…?'

‘I told Bernard the truth, Ben. I didn't want to be in a set of Chambers that turned a good man down because he was Jewish. I would have left if you had been voted down. I have my own work, as you know. I could have gone elsewhere, and Bernard knew that. But fortunately, Bernard did the right thing. Aubrey told me he actually threatened to leave Chambers if they didn't vote you in.'

She sipped again.

‘So we all lived happily ever after.'

She smiled. He reached across for her hand, and she saw that there were tears in his eyes. She smiled, but said nothing more.

At that moment their waitress appeared with their bangers and mash, saying that she was sorry it had taken so long.

56

21 July

‘Martin,' Jeremy Sawyer
said, getting up briskly to greet his visitor. ‘Thank you for coming.
I'm glad you could spare the time.'

‘Not at all,' Martin Hardcastle replied, shaking Sawyer's proffered hand. The phrase ‘spare the time' was a bit ironic, Hardcastle reflected. The invitation to attend Sawyer's office in the House of Lords had come suddenly, without warning, and without any suggestion that the date or time could be postponed if it should be inconvenient. It was, in truth, more of a summons than an invitation.
He had had to scramble to make arrangements to comply.

‘Would you like some coffee?'

‘No. Thank you.'

‘Well, come and have a seat, please.'

Sawyer's office was spacious, sparingly but elegantly furnished with reproduction Regency chairs and tables, and overlooked the river. It was the office of a man used to wielding considerable authority. Once Hardcastle was seated in front of his desk, Sawyer took his own seat and spread his hands in front of him. He eyed Hardcastle carefully. He had chosen the appointment
time of 9 o'clock in the morning deliberately. He detected nothing untoward in Hardcastle's manner, but it had been worth checking.

‘Martin, you may or may not know this already. I'm the Lord Chancellor's right-hand man on judicial appointments.'

‘Yes, indeed,' Hardcastle replied. Everyone in Silk knew who Jeremy Sawyer was, and what he did. Under certain circumstances, an invitation to Sawyer's office was the harbinger of good news. The Lord Chancellor had concluded that the time had come to launch a man into his new career on the High Court bench. Hardcastle would have loved to believe that his turn had come. But he did not believe it. He had probably not been in Silk long enough.
He was still a bit young. But, more significantly, the Lord Chancellor never made such a move without taking soundings from a number of senior judges before whom a Silk had appeared recently. Hardcastle was no longer sure of his standing with the senior judges. The Cottage case gave him particular cause for alarm. He had read the judgment of the Court of Criminal Appeal. It did not augur well.

‘I'm sure you have a busy day ahead, so I'll come straight to the point,' Sawyer said. ‘The Lord Chancellor has asked me to inform you of his intention to appoint you to the County Court bench.
He would like you to sit in London, but the opportunity may well arise for a chairmanship of Quarter Sessions, or perhaps a recordership in due course, so that you can do some crime as well. Usually, this kind of appointment takes a fair amount of time to arrange, but it so happens that we are in rather urgent need of a judge to sit at West London. So the Lord Chancellor sees no need to delay. May I be the first to congratulate you?'

Hardcastle suddenly felt short of breath. He found it difficult to focus on what Sawyer had said. To a member of the public, it might have seemed that Sawyer was paying him a compliment, that he was offering him a professional honour. But in the world which Hardcastle and Sawyer both inhabited, his words had an altogether different meaning. Hardcastle's career had just
been holed below the water line. Sawyer's cultured voice and carefully chosen words conveyed to him as clearly as could be that he would be denied access to the highest echelons of the profession to which Queen's Counsel aspired. The County Court bench was not just an offer; it was the end. Sawyer seemed to sense the effect his words had produced, and he did not try to hurry Hardcastle into a reply. He seemed content to shift his gaze and look out over the river.

‘This comes as something of a surprise, Jeremy,' Hardcastle replied. ‘I had understood that it was the Lord Chancellor's practice to sound people out about whether they would wish for this kind of appointment, to allow them some time to think about it, to consider their options.'

‘That is the usual practice,' Sawyer agreed, without diverting his gaze from the river. ‘But in this case, the Lord Chancellor feels unusually strongly about the matter and, as I say, we have a vacancy to fill almost at once. I'm not saying you can't have time to think about it. Of course you can.
Take all the time you wish. And, of course, we will work with you on the timing of your appointment, so that you can deal with any cases you may feel professionally obliged to see through to the end.'

Hardcastle looked down at the floor.

‘And if I should decide that, grateful as I am to the Lord Chancellor for the confidence he is placing in me, I would prefer to remain in practice as Queen's Counsel?'

Sawyer turned back to face him.

‘You're perfectly entitled to respond in that way, Martin. The Lord Chancellor has no power, and indeed would not wish to force anyone to take an appointment. But I have been asked to make it clear to you that the Lord Chancellor does not envisage offering you an appointment at a higher level.'

Hardcastle sat back in his chair.

‘I see,' he said quietly.

‘And while you are free to continue in practice as Queen's Counsel as long as you wish, the Lord Chancellor has asked me to remind you of the professional standards which he expects of Queen's Counsel.'

Hardcastle felt his blood pressure start to rise.

‘Now, look here, Sawyer.
You can't bring me here and try to intimidate me like this. I am…'

Sawyer shook his head dismissively.

‘People are talking, Martin,' he said. ‘More importantly, judges are talking. You are living on borrowed time – professionally speaking, that is. It has not escaped the Lord Chancellor's attention. And please don't make it awkward for both of us by asking me what I mean. You know perfectly well what I mean.
Don't make me spell it out.'

Hardcastle sat back in his chair, deflated.

‘Martin, we feel we owe you something,' Sawyer continued. ‘You are in Silk, after all. That is why the Lord Chancellor invited you here this morning. But please understand, there is only so far we can go.'

He stood and proffered his hand.

‘Take the appointment, Martin. That is my strong advice to you.'

He walked around his desk and placed his hand on Hardcastle's forearm.

‘Don't look so downcast, my dear fellow. I think you will rather enjoy the bench once you get used to it. Let me know when you have made a decision. I'm sure you can find your own way out, can't you?'

57

31 July

At extremely short
notice, Virginia Castle had been put in charge of organising Martin Hardcastle's congratulatory – and farewell – party. Miles Overton was anxious to hold it as soon as possible. If the truth were told, most members of Overton's Chambers were not entirely unhappy to see Martin go. He was a successful and ambitious Silk, and over the years he had done more than his fair share of keeping Chambers' solicitors happy and introducing new solicitors to Chambers. For some years that contribution was an asset which outweighed the liability of the rumours. But, as time went by and the successes grew less frequent, the balance began to shift, and there had been mutterings in the ranks to the effect that it was time for him either to make changes or move on. The Lord Chancellor's decision to appoint Martin a county court judge not only confirmed the suspicions, but also came as a welcome relief to most members of Chambers. They would never say so except in whispered conversations, of course, but in private they felt a burden being lifted.

Virginia was a rising star in court, but was also known for her deft touch in social and diplomatic situations. She had no trace of the pomposity of the Bar, and had an engaging and irreverent sense of humour. Even those who were too stuffy to approve fully found themselves drawn irresistibly to her. Miles Overton had asked her for something tasteful, but not too elaborate – or too long-lasting. Virginia immediately ruled out a formal Chambers dinner, and very quickly ruled out a venue outside Chambers. She opted for a Friday evening reception in Chambers with champagne and
hors d'oeuvres
, an event which would run from six until eight and which allowed people to come and go as they wished. Using Chambers instead of an outside venue also reduced the risk of embarrassment and gave her more to spend on food and drink. When her plans were complete, and had been approved by Miles Overton, she announced them to Martin as a
fait accompli
, and with such enthusiasm that it did not occur to him that there could ever have been an alternative.

Nervous as she was as the organiser, Virginia began to relax after the first hour. It seemed to be a happy occasion after all. She had taken care to invite numerous barristers from other Chambers, which discouraged any back-biting or outbreak of Chambers politics. Everyone was honour-bound to be civil to each other, and almost all of them were doing so with a good grace. After tonight, any problems Martin had caused would melt away and, as he was leaving to take up judicial office rather than because of any overt scandal, his instructing solicitors would have no reason not to allow their work to filter down to others in Chambers. Moreover, the door would be open for at least one other member to consider applying for Silk. Most importantly, Martin himself seemed to be in the best of moods.

After he had left Jeremy Sawyer's office in the House of Lords ten days earlier, he had wandered, feeling lost and helpless, around Westminster. He was feeling too angry to trust himself to go to Chambers, and cancelled his appointments for the day with a curt call to his clerk. Eventually, he found a pub opposite St James's Park underground station and drank whisky until he felt on a sufficiently even keel to make his way home. At home he systematically threw half a dozen water glasses at the wall until they shattered, imagining Jeremy Sawyer's supercilious face grinning at him from the cream paint as they collided with it, and felt somewhat better. But any serious thinking about his predicament had to wait until after a bout of drinking, which ended
three days later when he remembered that he had a trial beginning at the Old Bailey at the start of the following week. The trial was likely to last for five or six weeks, and would be his last before he took up his appointment. It was also, by Martin's standards, a leisurely affair. His client was the last of six on an indictment for fraud, and counsel ahead of him on the indictment would do most of the heavy work. He could lurk in obscurity and snipe at witnesses, or not, as he chose.

This gave him a chance to come to terms with his coerced future. In some ways, he reflected, it might be a godsend. On his worst day as a judge in the county court, the pressure would be far less than the unrelenting stress he endured on his best days as a Silk at the Assize or in the High Court. The legal issues would pose little challenge – especially with counsel or solicitors to assist him – and the facts would hardly tax his brain after the complex and tangled webs he dealt with every day now. Most importantly, he would no longer have to deal with clients. At 4 o'clock, or shortly after, he would wend his happy way home with no client to appease and reassure, with no solicitor to flatter – without a care in the world. His weekends would be his own, and he could not even remember when that had last happened.

Of course, he would have to be careful. They would be watching him. There could be no question of failing to show up for court any more. For one thing, there would be no judge to ask or apologise to; he would
be
the judge, and if he failed to attend, a whole court full of litigants and their legal advisers would want to know why. And that bastard Sawyer would be watching him like a hawk. If he gave him even half a chance Sawyer would not hesitate to talk to the Lord Chancellor about dismissal. Martin was sure it would not be a problem. He just needed to be careful. He would set up a new regime. Perhaps he would look up one or two of his old girlfriends; even seek out a new one. After all, he would have some free time now.

By the time of the reception Martin had, for the most part, convinced himself that his appointment was just what he wanted, just what he needed. There was still some anger, but it would fade with time. He enjoyed himself hugely, making the rounds and greeting every guest. As he left, he hugged Virginia and thanked her profusely.

* * *

It was 6.30 in the morning when the phone rang in Virginia's flat. She was half awake, and trying to decide whether to try to get back to sleep for a while, or whether to surrender to the inevitable and make herself get up. It was a Saturday and the weekend lay ahead, though some papers in a civil case which needed an urgent opinion were competing for her time. Her lover, Michael Smart, had been up for some time, and was in the bathroom. They spent nights in each other's homes regularly, but had not yet moved in together. The Bar Council took a dim view of barristers fraternising with solicitors, especially those who instructed the barrister in question, and any permanent liaison would require some political work. Miles Overton had offered to intercede, but it would take some time.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Castle,' Vernon, her clerk, said. ‘I know it's a Saturday morning, but I need you to go to Clerkenwell Magistrates' Court for 10.30.'

Virginia began to protest, but Vernon cut her off, and spoke quietly but intensely to her for some two minutes.

Virginia hurriedly made two cups of instant coffee and rushed into the bathroom as soon as Michael emerged.

‘You look remarkably awake,' he smiled, kissing her as they passed in the doorway.

‘I am either completely awake or I'm in a real nightmare,' she replied, returning the kiss.

Michael laughed and settled down happily with his coffee and
The Times
until it was time to think about breakfast.

Virginia had no brief for her appearance at Clerkenwell Magistrates' Court, but Edwin McCullough, a solicitor intensely loyal to Miles Overton, had agreed to be at court personally by 9 o'clock with a backsheet marked with a modest fee, which technically amounted to a brief, and was just about enough to ensure that she had the instructions without which no barrister could appear in court.

Virginia knew McCullough. He had begun to send her some work in the last year, and as soon as she found him in the lobby of the court, she took him discreetly aside.

‘How bad is it?' she asked.

‘I'm not really sure, Miss Castle,' the solicitor replied. ‘All the warrant officer knows is that he was arrested in the early hours for being drunk and disorderly and obstructing an officer in the execution of his duty. We won't know any more until the arresting officer gets here.' He paused. ‘Whatever it is, it can't be good, can it?'

‘No,' Virginia agreed quietly.

PC Nathan Smith was unshaven and looked tired and dishevelled. He had snatched no more than an hour or two of sleep at the police station before he made his way to court, fortified by some strong coffee, to complete his shift by dealing with the one miscreant he had had occasion to arrest while on duty the previous night. Smith was a brawny, muscular man who filled his uniform almost to bursting point. He had a shock of thick red hair. He seemed bemused to find both counsel and solicitor present and taking an interest in the most mundane of arrests.

‘What can I tell you?' he replied, in answer to Virginia's question. He produced a crumpled notebook from the breast pocket of his uniform and opened it, running his fingers along the lines of the paper as he narrated the events.

‘Let me see. This was at about 2.10 this morning. I was on duty in full uniform on foot patrol in Gray's Inn Road, near the junction with Theobald's Road, when I observed a white male who appeared to be urinating against the wall of a building. The man was about six feet in height, slightly built, wearing a smart, formal grey suit and a tie, hanging loose around his neck. I approached the male and asked him what he was doing. He replied: “What does it bloody look like? I'm taking a piss.” I noticed that his speech was slurred and, as I approached, I was able to smell alcohol on his breath. He stopped urinating and, with some difficulty, adjusted his trousers. He appeared to have poor coordination and was unsteady on his feet. He was very drunk. I asked the male to identify himself. He said: “Fuck off. Don't you know who I am?” I said: “No, I don't know who you are, that's why I am asking you to identify yourself.” He then became violent and aggressive, and repeatedly tried to push me away. He continued to swear and be abusive, and continued to refuse to identify himself. I called for assistance. I then told the male he was under arrest for being drunk and disorderly and for obstructing me in the execution of my duty. I cautioned him, and he said: “I know all about that, you moron. I'm a bloody judge. You can't do anything to me.” When my colleague PC James arrived with a car, he resisted our efforts to detain him, but we were eventually able to handcuff him and take him to the police station where he was detained overnight.'

PC Smith concluded his recitation and smiled. ‘That was a good one, Miss, about him being a judge. I haven't come across that one before.'

‘No,' Virginia replied. ‘I don't imagine you have.' She paused. ‘Look, would you be heartbroken if I talked the inspector into dropping the obstruction and proceeding on the drunk and disorderly?'

PC Smith smiled broadly.

‘Miss, if I can get home and take a nice bath, have a bite to eat, see the missus, and grab a bit of kip, my heart will not be troubled in any way.'

Virginia smiled.

‘Thank you,' she said.

* * *

The duty sergeant showed no inclination to lock her in the cell.

‘Now that we know who he is, we are satisfied he's not a flight risk,' he grinned. ‘You can go inside or stay in the corridor, Miss, as you wish.'

The sergeant opened the door of the cell with a large key and disappeared along the corridor. Martin Hardcastle was sitting on the hard wooden bench, without his jacket, shoes and tie, looking very sick. On seeing Virginia he nodded.

‘Is McCullough here?' he asked quietly.

‘Yes,' Virginia replied. ‘I left him upstairs to check for any sign of the press taking an interest. We haven't seen any indication yet. I'm going to pull some strings to get us on first, and with any luck we will be away before anyone knows.'

‘The police know,' Martin said miserably. ‘After all the abuse I've heaped on police officers during my career, I'm sure they will be only too glad to spread the word. The press are bound to pick it up.'

‘We shall see,' Virginia replied. ‘In any case, first things first. They have agreed to drop the obstruction charge if you plead to drunk and disorderly. I assume you have no problem with that?'

Martin shook his head.

‘In which case,' she continued, ‘the magistrates will deal with it by way of a fine. I'll ask for seven days to pay to clear a cheque.'

‘Thank you,' he replied.

There was an awkward silence.

‘If I didn't say so last night,' he said, ‘it was a great party. Thank you.'

She nodded.

‘I'll see you upstairs,' she said.

She walked away, leaving the door of the cell open to the empty corridor.