Divorce as an area of practice was never for me. Matrimonial disputes often generated passions beyond all reason, and the lawyers were always cast in the role of scapegoats. I did not mind the trivia of undefended divorces before a County Court judge. They were relatively well paid, and wholly untaxing. And they had their humorous moments. I remember a petition for divorce which contained the allegation that ‘We were married on the 1st March 1961, and we separated on March 4th 1961. During that time, we gradually drifted apart.’
But when it came to disputes over money, and especially the custody of children, I cried ‘halt’. And ‘cried’ is a wholly appropriate word for the experience which proved the defining moment for me in my rooted aversion to acting any more for husbands or wives in that arena.
I represented a husband in what proved to be a highly acrimonious and emotional contest over the custody of his two infant children. He lost; his wife was granted custody, with only limited weekly access being permitted to my client. Some few days later, I opened the morning paper to read that he had availed himself of that access in the most terrible fashion. He drove himself and his children to a country lane near Leeds, connected the exhaust to the car interior and so murdered them, also killing himself. Even now, as I write these words, the anguish that came over me at the time remains with me. There are occasions when to speak of professional objectivity is to defy human experience.
It followed that the chambers where I started my professional life was on the face of it unlikely to propel me onwards and upwards. Fortunately (how often do I say that?), the criminal law to which its members were essentially confined fitted precisely with my temperament and aptitudes. I was destined for the criminal courts. As a new boy, that meant the magistrates’ courts. Then, as now, the greater proportion of criminal cases are disposed of there. Motoring offences, minor assaults, and a wide variety of petty offences of dishonesty are their lot. For a young advocate, they are an invaluable apprenticeship.
Unlike the procedure in the higher courts, the defence generally has no idea of the detailed evidence to be presented by the prosecution until the case gets to court. Thinking on your feet is an imperative. And another difference is that if (as frequently happens) things don’t go too well, the consequences for the client are rarely serious.
I recall my many appearances in those courts not for the generally trifling nature of the cases, but for so many occasions where humour took pride of place over dignity and formality. I remember the sheer fun. It came unexpectedly, but even now –more than half a century on – I remember some of them with unrestrained delight.
As it happens, the first had nothing to do with crime. Pocklington is a thriving market town in what was once the East Riding of Yorkshire, about forty miles from Leeds. It is often described as the gateway to the Yorkshire Wolds. It has a well-known public school – and a magistrates’ court.
On a cold winter’s day during my pupillage year I went there to represent a young man in Affiliation Proceedings. This process was used if an unmarried woman became pregnant and alleged that a certain man was the father. If she satisfied the magistrates as to her claim, then the man would be ordered to pay weekly maintenance for the child until it reached the age of sixteen. Of course, this was long before DNA made issues of this kind obsolete.
The tiny courtroom was heated only by a coal fire, regularly and noisily stoked up by the court usher when not occupied with other tasks such as swearing in a witness. The girl gave her account, my client having been her boyfriend. At the relevant time, they had been in her parents’ house. The parents went to bed, leaving the young couple in the sitting room downstairs. The girl alleged that it was then that they had unprotected sexual intercourse.
I called my teenage client, an agricultural labourer of limited intellect. ‘The girl says that on that night you had sex with her on the sitting room sofa after her mam and dad had gone to bed. Is that true?’
‘Yes I did.’
‘Did you take any precautions?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘What precautions did you take?’
‘I wedged a chair under the sitting room door knob.’
Humour (intended or otherwise) was not the monopoly of witnesses. One morning I was sitting in Dewsbury Magistrates’ Court, waiting for my case to be called. The defendant in the dock was addressed by the chairman.
‘Young man, we see that you are not legally represented.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘The charge against you is quite a serious one. We think that you should have legal aid so that your interests can be looked after.’
‘I don’t want it. The Good Lord will take care of me.’
‘The bench thinks that you would be well advised to have the services of someone who is better known locally.’
This prompts me to say that there were indeed advantages in being represented before the magistrates by an experienced local solicitor who appeared frequently before them, rather than by a member of the Bar, who might have been thought to have the edge as an advocate. I learned that lesson in my very early days. The experience still brings a rueful smile to my face.
I was instructed to represent a bookmaker in an application before magistrates at Leeds for a betting office licence. There were objections, but suffice it to say that on any impartial view of the merits, the application was bound to succeed. The objectors were represented in court by Jack Levi, a very well-known Leeds solicitor, whose extensive practice often involved his personal role in representing clients before local benches.
The appointed day came. The magistrates came into court. As protocol dictated, all those legally involved stood up until the bench was seated – in this instance, all except Jack Levi. At once, from a seated position, he addressed the chairman of the bench.
‘Please excuse my rudeness in remaining seated, Your Worships,’ he said. ‘The fact is that I have been very poorly.’ (Repeated thumping of his breast with a clenched fist.) ‘My doctor has advised me that I should take a break. But when I discovered that my opponent was to be represented by a rising young star of the local Bar, I felt that I owed it to my clients to turn up and do my very best on their behalf. I hope that you will understand.’
The chairman responded. ‘Of course, Mr Levi. We fully understand. We are concerned for you, and you may remain seated throughout the hearing of this application, whether dealing with witnesses, or addressing the court.’
Do I need to tell you the outcome of the application? I prefer not to do so, though the phrase ‘defeat from the jaws of victory’ may give you a clue.
I am unsure whether what took place is properly characterized as a demonstration of part of the art of the advocate, but (like so many other episodes during my times in those courts) it was something I never forgot!
In another court in the West Riding of Yorkshire I was before a bench renowned for its toughness. At the end of my submissions, I placed heavy reliance on the burden of proof ‘beyond reasonable doubt’. I was heard out with scarcely concealed impatience. The members of the bench put their heads together for a very short time. It was clear to me already