Errors of Judgment

Friday was one of those rare October days, a wistful reprise of summer, the sky a sharp, pellucid blue, the sun falling warm upon the cobbled courtyards of the Temple and gilding the autumn roses in Inner Temple Gardens. Its unexpected warmth had enticed the lawyers and clerks from their chambers and offices at lunchtime to bask on the benches with their sandwiches and stroll about the gravel walks, but now at four o’clock, as the shadows of the plane trees began to lengthen on the grass, a chill reminder of autumn was creeping into the air behind the fading sunshine.

In The Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand, Mr Justice Cable was delivering himself of his deliberations in the matter of
Kirkbride and Others v. Texmax Holdings Inc
., an
inter partes
hearing of a motion whereby the plaintiffs sought an extension of an injunction previously granted against the defendants to prevent them from disposing of certain company shares, pending trial. The dusty fingers
of afternoon light which played across the judge’s pudgy features made him look like some bewigged cherub of advancing years.

Leo Davies QC, appearing for the plaintiffs, was pretty much certain of success, and sat slumped in his seat, only half-listening.

‘—I come now to the balance of convenience,’ intoned Mr Justice Cable. ‘Miss Lightfoot stressed that the onus in this regard was upon Kirkbride, which is of course correct, but – and in my view again plainly rightly – she accepted that if the injunction were to be refused, there would be serious difficulties in Kirkbride enforcing any specific performance order it might obtain at the trial. In addition, if Kirkbride is left to its remedy in damages, the history of the matter indicates that Texmax has limited funds available and it is unlikely that any money judgment would be satisfied …’

Leo leant back, stifling a yawn, adjusting his barrister’s wig slightly on the silver hair of his head. It was a peculiar feature, this silver-grey hair on a man still only in his forties, and contrasted strangely with his youthful features, his square-jawed good looks and sharp blue eyes. He made a couple of desultory notes and let his thoughts wander. Today’s glorious spell of Indian summer had made him restless. He’d spent the last month slaving over a difficult joint venture dispute, which he’d settled on favourable terms just that morning, and he felt he deserved a break, to get away from the City before autumn turned to winter and the nights grew long. It had hardly been a satisfactory summer. He’d rented a fabulous château in the Lot, intending to spend July there with his on-off girlfriend Anthea and his six-year-old son Oliver, plus school chum of Oliver’s choice, with assorted friends
coming out at weekends. Oliver’s mother, Rachel, had of course managed to scupper that plan, in her inimitable way, by taking issue with Leo’s choice of friends, and making holiday arrangements of her own which limited Oliver’s availability. The situation had put Leo’s already fraught relationship with Anthea under considerable pressure, and after an enormous row Anthea had disappeared for the entire summer, leaving Leo and Oliver, plus his mate Tarquin, to spend just ten days together on their own at the house. In the end, Leo had made a gift of the remainder of the lease on the château to a couple of impecunious young barrister friends and their children.

Perhaps, Leo reflected, the monumental row with Anthea had been no bad thing. It had propelled their relationship more quickly in the direction in which it had been inevitably heading. A short-lived reprise in September, as hot and brief as today’s burst of autumn sun, but then the unspoken understanding that it was definitely over. It was a shame about her lovely, lithe body – he would certainly miss that – but the whole thing had been getting a little too serious for his liking. The most attractive thing about Anthea when he’d first met her, apart from her cool catwalk beauty and independence of mind, had been her elusiveness. He’d liked never quite knowing where he stood. But time and familiarity had lowered those tantalising defences, and since the beginning of the year she’d clearly been edging Leo towards some kind of commitment, which was the last thing he wanted.

Leo regarded himself as a man of simplicity. He lived quietly (admittedly in a five-bedroom house in the most fashionable part of Chelsea, and occasionally at his weekend retreat in Oxfordshire), possessed only one car (true, the garaging fees for his top-of-the-range Aston Martin came to
over three thousand a year), collected modern art on a modest scale (although the recent insurance premiums on some of his older pieces had been startling), and liked to think that for Oliver’s sake he’d toned down his hedonistic lifestyle (these days he made a point of never having more than one lover on the go at once, of either sex, because at his age it was too exhausting). As one of London’s top commercial silks he earned enough to enjoy these straightforward pleasures, and to afford handmade suits, bespoke shoes and a passable wine cellar – but the freedom to do as one pleased was something no amount of money could buy. Leading a simple life meant steering clear of the complexities which long-term relationships inevitably involved. He had loved Anthea in his fashion, but was, on balance, glad to be footloose again.

The note of finality in Mr Justice Cable’s voice as he moved to his conclusion brought Leo back to the present.

‘—and so, in my judgment on the evidence before me, the balance of convenience comes down firmly on the side of Kirkbride. Provided that Mr Davies is able to confirm the plaintiffs’ cross-undertaking in damages, I therefore continue the injunction against the defendants until trial.’ He glanced at Leo. ‘I will hear counsel as to the form of the order and any other directions that may be required as to costs.’

Leo rose to his feet. ‘I believe my learned friend Miss Lightfoot has in fact prepared a draft.’

‘If you are content with the form of injunction, Mr Davies, is there anything else apart from costs?’

‘We would respectfully ask for the plaintiffs’ costs in cause, My Lord.’

The judge glanced enquiringly at Miss Lightfoot, then nodded. ‘Very well. I so order.’

There was a rustling of papers and gowns, and everyone filed from the courtroom with a Friday-afternoon sense of relief. Leo paused in the corridor to exchange a few words with Alison Lightfoot, who had caught his attention at the outset of the hearing by the gentle, grave voice in which she’d made her submissions – a pleasant change from the strident delivery of most barristers – and by her dark, understated good looks and cool competence. He was just debating whether or not to ask her out for a drink, when a voice hailed him. ‘Leo, you old bastard!’

The man striding across the corridor towards them was well over six feet tall, with a broad, smiling face, and the gone-to-seed physique of an ex-public school prop forward. The greying fair hair curling from beneath his well-worn wig looked as though it could do with a good trim, his frayed robe had slipped from his shoulders and was riding somewhere around his middle, and he clutched a haphazard bundle of papers in ham-like hands. Jamie Urquhart, despite his shambolic appearance, possessed one of the shrewdest minds at the London criminal Bar. His formidable forensic skills, coupled with a courtroom manner famous for its charm and incisiveness, had won him considerable success over the years, and he was much sought after, particularly by well-heeled clients caught on the wrong side of the law. He and Leo had met as students at Bar School, and their friendship stretched back almost thirty years. They tried to make a point of meeting regularly, but the summer break and a string of cases meant that they hadn’t seen one another since before Easter.

Leo greeted Jamie warmly, and introduced Alison, hoping she would hang on a little while longer, but she
took Jamie’s arrival as a cue to leave, murmuring something about getting back to chambers. Leo watched her go with faint regret.

‘Haven’t seen you in months,’ said Jamie. ‘How are things?’

‘Not bad. Somewhat overwhelmed with work, in fact. How about you?’

‘Can’t complain on the work front,’ said Jamie, in the darkly confident voice which had been used to such persuasive effect on countless juries. He nodded towards the small knot of people conferring outside the courtroom opposite. ‘Just finished a three-month fraud trial, and my client loves me. Which he should do, considering I’ve got him off money-laundering charges which could have seen him doing a fifteen-year stretch in Belmarsh.’ Jamie lowered his voice to a murmur. ‘He’s actually an extremely dodgy Cypriot, but I have to go and schmooze him right now. How about a drink in an hour or so? Balls Brothers, six o’clock?’

‘See you there,’ said Leo.

In the robing room Leo took off his wig, bands and gown, and crammed them into his red silk bag. When he had changed, he made his way down the echoing marble corridors and stairs, exchanging greetings with passing lawyers of his acquaintance, nodded goodnight to the doorman, and stepped out into the late afternoon air. He saw Alison a few steps ahead of him at the pedestrian crossing, and caught up with her.

‘Sorry we were interrupted back there,’ he said, slinging his bag over one shoulder as they crossed the Strand together. Alison said nothing, merely gave him a smiling glance. Amazingly pretty eyes, thought Leo. ‘I had intended to ask if you were free later this evening. For dinner, perhaps?’ The
drink with Jamie wouldn’t last more than an hour, assuming he was hurrying home to his family.

They reached the other side of the road, and paused at the gate to Middle Temple Lane.

‘No thanks. I’m afraid I’m busy.’

‘Perhaps next week?’

‘I have a big case starting on Monday. I’m sorry – I don’t think it’s going to leave me much free time.’

Leo knew when to beat a graceful retreat. ‘OK, then,’ he smiled. ‘Have a good weekend.’ And he headed through the gate.

Leo strode down Middle Temple Lane in the gathering dusk, mildly dashed by the rebuff. Perhaps he’d misinterpreted those occasional lingering glances she’d been giving him all afternoon. Or could it be that his vanity was getting the better of him, and the signals were no longer quite what he thought they were? With fifty looming, the age gap between himself and desirable young things was growing ever wider, uncomfortably so. He tried to estimate how old Alison Lightfoot might be. Late twenties? Early thirties at most. Christ, she was probably wondering what a man almost old enough to be her father was doing asking her out on a date.

Smarting with self-doubt and wounded vanity, Leo passed along Crown Office Row and through the archway into Caper Court. With a conscious and somewhat ridiculous sense of athleticism, he sprang up the short flight of steps into Number 5, and went into the clerks’ room. Henry, the head clerk, was on the phone, and Felicity, his junior, was going through files, checking figures against her computer screen.

Felicity smiled when she saw Leo. ‘Afternoon, Mr D!’ she
called out brightly. She was an attractive twenty-four-year-old, with brown, curly hair and a buxom figure normally attired, to the distraction of the male members of chambers, in short, tight skirts and clinging tops. Today she was wearing a suit, possibly as a concession to the prevailing sombre mood in the City, yet still managing to display a tantalising flash of cleavage and thigh. She was a cheerful, capable girl, but had few natural organisational or administrative talents, and since her job as clerk required her to manage the cases, arrange the conferences and negotiate the fees of twenty-eight barristers in one of the City’s leading sets of commercial chambers, she was normally either a whirlwind of fiercely concentrated activity, or in a fluster of scatterbrained panic. She was fond of a laugh, was Felicity, and she had a perky, easy-going rapport with the members of chambers which Henry, the head clerk, found occasionally exasperating. Henry, who was only in his thirties but old beyond his years, was a clerk of the old school, a man who did his job with a mixture of pride and the mildly facetious deference of a good gentleman’s gentleman, and he often wished Felicity would conduct herself with more decorum and less familiarity. That said, he had long nurtured a wistful, unarticulated passion for Felicity, and the confusion of his feelings probably contributed to his generally careworn demeanour.

While Henry was busy with his phone call, Leo decided to take the opportunity to consult Felicity.

‘Felicity …’ began Leo.

‘Yes, Mr D?’ Felicity had finished on the computer and was sorting through late-afternoon mail.

‘Felicity, do I strike you – I mean, someone of your age, as …’ Leo paused, searching for a better word, but
finding none. ‘Old?’ He and Felicity had always had a close understanding, and she was one of the few people with whom he felt he could be so blunt.

‘Old?’ Felicity wrinkled her brow. ‘Well, you’re getting on a bit, Mr Davies, no use pretending you’re not. But I wouldn’t say
old
. I mean, for your age you’re holding up really well, aren’t you? A bit like Terence Stamp, or Anthony Hopkins—’

Leo held up a hand. ‘OK. That’s fine. Stop there.’

Felicity, happy to think she’d said the right thing, leant forward and said in a cheekily conspiratorial whisper, ‘I think you’re lovely. Whatever.’ Then she handed him some papers. ‘These came in for you from Bentleys.’ Leo took the papers without comment and left the clerks’ room.

Felicity watched him go. What had that been about? Perhaps Mr D was having some kind of midlife crisis. He didn’t seem a likely candidate. Those looks, and him so good at his job. He could charm the knickers off anyone, light up a room just by coming into it. She’d seen people smile just hearing his voice the other side of a door. It was something beyond charm, beyond sex appeal. The secret Leo ingredient. He needn’t worry about getting old, with all that going for him.

These were hardly Leo’s thoughts as he trudged upstairs. He went into his room, chucked his robing bag in a corner and dropped the papers on his desk. Unlike the rooms of most barristers, his was a haven of sharply defined order, no piles of books and papers littering the desk and floor, or stacks of briefs lining the window sill. Leo believed that focused thought and proper concentration required an uncluttered environment, and his polished desktop was bare except for his laptop, a PC, and a counsel’s notebook
and some pencils and pens. The only concessions to homely distraction were two framed photos of Oliver on a bookshelf of All England law reports, and three austere and extremely expensive Anselm Kiefer prints on the wall opposite.