Court Out

Chapter Two





“No. Way. Like absolutely no way!”

Serena is still laughing, leaning forwards in the burgundy leather cube chair she is occupying, her intonations making her sound like a Californian sorority princess. Her wine glass is also leaning forwards at a precarious angle so I hastily take it from her hand.

“What did Robert do?” she snorts.

“What? When the Judge literally ran out court before giving the shortest summing-up in the history of the profession or when the jury came back two minutes later and found the Defendant not guilty?”

“Both!” she chuckles.

“He took it remarkably well. I think he was in shock, no-one has ever seen our Judge move that fast before! Even better though, Mr. Walsh came into Chambers later in the day and dropped off a bottle of whisky as a present. I’ve put it on Robert’s desk”

“Why on earth would you do that? Wouldn’t Sebastian want it?”

“Maybe, but seeing as this bottle came missing about two-thirds of its contents I doubt he’d be brave enough to take a swig!”

We both fall about giggling. The bar is packed with solicitors and members of local Chambers who are making merry this Friday night. This particular watering hole is our regular haunt given its proximity to Chambers and the unmistakable fact that regardless of what time of day you visit, there are always at least two other barristers in here. Accordingly, the owners changed the name three years ago to ‘Bar-Bar’.

Most people labour under the common misconception that we have shares in the place. Whilst untrue, I’ve often thought that to be a very good idea given the extortionate prices of their drinks.

Serena gets to her feet.

“The usual?” she asks.

I hesitate for only a second, “Better make it a large one!”

As she walks to the bar I can feel my mobile vibrating against my leg from somewhere deep within the recesses of my bag. It takes me a good few minutes to retrieve it from the precarious depths inside, narrowly avoiding being stabbed by numerous uncapped biros and the odd piece of cutlery I’ve amassed. I really must sort this out.

By the time I have hoisted it out, I’ve missed the incoming call. I scroll through the display to find that it was Sebastian and I have a warm and fuzzy moment. Despite the fact that I rarely make it home on a Friday night before midnight, he always likes to know how I’ve got on in court.

I send him a quick text as it’s way too loud to hear in here anyway and if I step outside then I run the risk of some opportunists stealing our seats before Serena gets back; I’m really not in the mood for a fight with some of the commercial lot about who has proprietary rights.

I glance up to the crowded bar and manage to spot my partner in crime talking to the barman and laugh as I notice a very old, very married member of the judiciary blatantly checking out her rear view.

Serena is a couple of years older than me, having celebrated her 31st birthday in January. We met after uni at Bar School and instantly clicked. I remember our first ethics lecture together when our eyes met over a discussion about what we were supposed to do when a Defendant told us they were guilty but still wanted to be represented at trial.

“Depends how much they’re paying me!” whispered Serena who then fell about laughing at the disapproving look on my face. I couldn’t help but join in and we went for a drink at a nearby student pub after the session ended.

I learned that Serena, having happily progressed through higher education was, like me, hoping to join a criminal set of Chambers in the Midlands. That night we bonded over several bottles of terrible house Chardonnay and far too many shots of even worse tequila. As we stumbled, late, into our seminar the next morning still half-cut, our friendship was cemented.

Over the course of the nine months we worked together, revised together and got very, very drunk together. Whilst Serena is definitely not a ‘girl’s girl’, she must have seen something in me that she could relate to. We spent hours in my little room in halls worrying about our assignments, planning what we would wear to various socials and moaning about the various men in our lives. I feel like a seven year old for saying it out loud, but I suppose apart from Sebastian, she’s my best friend.

As she makes her way back to our table, trying to carry a bottle of wine, two glasses and not catch her heels on her wide legged suit trousers her face is screwed up with the effort of the manouever. She’s doing a much better job at it than I could have.

Her messy blonde hair has been twisted into an impromptu chignon and her face is devoid of any makeup save for her usual single coat of brown mascara. She manages to thrust her wares onto the table without falling over or spilling a drop; something which I never manage.

“Cheers!” I pick up the bottle of decent rose and pour two large glasses for us. It’s ice cold and much appreciated after the long week we’ve both had. She picks up her glass and clinks it against mine.

“Cheers,” she replies. “I’ve had a nightmare day in front of Judge Stinky.”

I should point out that he’s not actually called Judge Stinky, but is simply referred to as such given his penchant for dousing himself liberally in Old Spice before venturing out of his front door each morning. Being stuck in his courtroom on a warm day could be classed as cruel and unusual punishment.

“Not only did he make me wait all day to get my case on, he then wanted to hear submissions about a completely irrelevant point of law. I swear he does it on purpose so that he has someone to talk to all day!”

I nod and silently agree with her.

“Oh well, at least it’s the weekend now and you can turn your finely tuned mind to more pressing matters”

“Too right,” she replies, “Only three months to go until D-day!”

Serena is getting married in October this year in what promises to be the most extravagant event of the decade. Her long suffering fiancé, Ewan is working every hour God sends to try and pay for whatever new must-have items take her fancy.

I dread to think what the total cost is now; the budget started life with a very respectable maximum figure of about £20,000 but that was before the handmade Swarovski beaded tea lights, before the Vera Wang gown that she had to try on that ruined every subsequent selection, before the thirty minute orchestrated firework display to Michael Buble that will take place outside at midnight. In short, her pursuit of the title ‘Mrs. Bevington’ is costing a pretty penny.

I have tried to point out that at midnight most people will either be drunkenly dancing to Abba or will have passed out under the buffet table. Serena isn’t having a buffet as we know it though, she’s adopted the American version known as ‘cocktail hour,’ an excuse to have a whole deli counter worth of food available to your guests containing luxuries such as caviar, lobster, smoked salmon, golden emu eggs (Ok, you get the point) all served with an unlimited host of rainbow flavoured alcoholic drinks potent enough to knock out a small elephant. Or a large barrister.

I have been given the role of being one of Serena’s bridesmaids during the impending nuptials. So far this has simply involved drinking a lot of champagne whilst walking around potential venues and telling her that no, despite the huge bow on the back of her wallet-busting rehearsal dinner dress, her bum does not look big in it.

We had quite an argument about her initial concept for the bridesmaid dress. I know it is the responsibility of the bride to make sure that she is the most beautiful, poised female present, but I do think she almost took that duty a little too far; her first suggestion for me and the other two girls was a vision in royal blue taffeta with puff sleeves and a drop waist.

I swear, before I agreed to this I wrongly assumed that such crimes of fashion were left where they belonged, in the eighties. I think her initial vision for us also included spiral perms and pink blusher. Happily, she saw sense when we pointed out that her wedding photographs would be ruined by three women looking as if they were attending a bad-taste fancy dress party, not an elegant wedding. The dresses that were eventually picked are stunning.

Sebastian has had to put up with me venting copiously about the dress saga and he still thinks I’ll be in the retro monstrosity, so I’m quite looking forward to the look on his face as I glide down the aisle looking elegant and poised.

“What’s next on your to do list?”

“Well, I’ve found a man in London who’ll rent me some sky blue butterflies to release outside the church. They’ll go perfectly with my colour scheme!”

“Butterflies?” I falter, “But surely you’ll need quite a few of those to make an impact? Plus, what if it’s raining?”

“Oh, that’s not a problem, he has two hundred Adonis Blue that we can have. If it rains, I just won’t bother releasing them.”

“But surely you’ll still have to pay for them?”

“Of course, but think how amazing they’ll look if I can pull it off. They’re totally worth the cost and their owner is included in the price to sort them out after.”

“I should hope so, I thought for a nasty minute you were going to say you’re having customised butterfly nets made so that the guests can retrieve them for you.”

A wild look flashes across her eyes.

“Lauren, that’s a marvel-”

“No! No! No! That’s not a good idea at all Serena, it’s a terrible one. Anyway, I thought you’re under strict orders to cut back on the budget, not increase it?”

She gives a heavy sigh and rolls her eyes.

“Ewan needs to chill out. You only get married once and given that I earn more than him anyway he has no cause to tell me what I can or can’t spend my money on.”

“Don’t you mean ‘our’ money?” I ask cautiously.

This is a touchy subject with Serena as whilst she is more than happy to put all of their earnings into a single joint account, she has never let Ewan forget that all is not equal.

If it wasn’t for the fact that she spends far more than she puts in I might consider sympathising with her, but as Ewan has to pay his share of the bills plus Serena’s monthly House of Fraser card bill and cover any cash shortfalls, my alliance remains firmly, but silently, with him.

Serena’s vent continues.

“He is such a miser. He never shuts up about how much money I’m spending on the wedding. Doesn’t he realise that it’s his big day too? I wish he’d get a proper job instead of schlepping off to work at that awful call centre everyday wearing that cheap looking uniform. It’s so embarrassing when I have to introduce him to colleagues and explain that he cold-calls people for a living. God, imagine making minimum wage being hung up on two hundred times a day!”

“Hey!” I squawk, “I used to work in a call centre too remember, when I was at uni. Don’t knock it. You may think your powers of advocacy as a barrister are second to none, but anyone who can get someone to buy something blind over the phone is a master of persuasion if you ask me!”

She pauses and considers her options whilst taking a long drink from her glass.

“Yeah, whatever, but it wouldn’t hurt him to be more ambitious, you know, make more of himself. He has a degree for Christ sakes! I’d love to be taken on surprise luxury holidays, or treated to a champagne dinner once in a while. It’s not fair.”

“Have you lost the plot? It’s called a honeymoon!” I retort incredulously.

I’m getting quite annoyed at this point as for reasons best known to her, Serena is determined to interpret her whole relationship as ‘glass half empty’ at the moment. Given what she is holding, the irony is not lost on me.

“Yeah, well if I find out that we’re going on a cheapie budget job then the honeymoon may be over quicker than the wedding.”

I bite my tongue this time and pour us some more wine. How have we managed to get through that much of the bottle already? As I steel myself to resume the subject of further Ewan bashing, it appears I am no longer the focus of Serena’s attention. Neither for that matter is Ewan.

Serena is looking over my shoulder to a group of people that have just managed to squeeze into the bar and are making their way to the seats by the window. There are six of them, three men and two women. Initially, I don’t recognise any of them, but then a tall, very thin black woman in a tight navy suit and cheap looking red shoes comes into view. As she runs her hand through her straight, bobbed hair, Serena vocalises my realisation.

“Oh my God, that’s Lucinda isn’t it? What the hell is she doing here?”

“Damned if I know, I didn’t realise they had broomstick parking outside”

“And isn’t that Holly too?” she asks, nodding towards a squat brunette in an unflattering beige linen suit and cream kitten heels.

I nod, temporarily lost for words.

When we were at Bar School, Lucinda Green was one of the twelve members of our small group sessions. Confident to the point of cocky she monopolised most of the discussions with her egocentrical interpretations of the rules of advocacy, and forced the rest of us to listen to her rambling opening speeches, right-wing charging ideas and frankly corrupt negotiation techniques.

Due to the nature of our close-knit group, we all spent a lot of time socialising, discussing our plans for the future, career paths thus far and revision techniques. Lucinda made it clear to everyone that because of her ‘connections’ (Her uncle was a barrister in a set of Chambers in Manchester) she considered herself above such concerns.

She found a willing sidekick in the form of Holly Rones, a short, plain girl who copied her every move, mimicked her mannerisms and also managed to alienate the entire class.

I always felt sorry for Holly, as had she been willing to complete the course on her own terms instead of Lucinda’s then I expect she would have been well liked. Lucinda on the other hand was a total lost cause.

The last time I had seen either girl was at Call Night, an antiquated tradition where successful students are officially ‘Called to the Bar’ by joining an Inn of Court. Lucinda had gotten incredibly drunk on the free champagne and had become very loud and obnoxious to anyone who had the misfortune of trying to make conversation with her.

This culminated with her telling the then Lord Chief Justice “not to be silly” when he asked her whether she was worried about the future of the Bar. It goes without saying that this went down like the proverbial lead balloon.

Following that inspired piece of networking, Lucinda had been quietly asked to leave. As you might have expected, at that point, she was in no mood for going quietly and after knocking a tray of canapés to the floor in anger, flounced out, dragging Holly with her. Rumour had it that her uncle’s head of Chambers got wind of her performance and renounced his offer that she could join them as a pupil. This was a truly devastating blow.

To become a pupil barrister it takes a lot of hard work, but even more luck. When I first applied over eight years ago there were at least three thousand applicants for six hundred places in Chambers across England and Wales. The number of criminal pupillages was a small percentage of that figure. Given the current state of the Criminal Bar (Don’t ask…) things have got much harder.

I still thank my lucky stars that I managed to fluke the process and get a place, followed two years later by Serena who had to play the Russian roulette of the applications process for a little longer.

I watch the group carefully.

“You’re right, how odd. Do you think it’s a coincidence they’ve just walked into a room full of lawyers or-”

My question becomes redundant, as having spotted our table, the two women approach our table purposefully; Lucinda leading the way with Holly as always, in her wake.

“Serena! Lauren!” she cries, “How amazing to see you both. You’re looking so, so well. It’s nice to see it is true that those working in the provinces can be more, well, comfortable with their appearances.”

Bitch.

She continues, “Gosh, I’m amazed to see you both together again after so long. Are you on a mini-pupillage with Lauren, Serena?”

This comment is directed at Serena with a sickly sweet smile and a voice that rings with insincerity. A mini-pupillage is the barrister equivalent of doing some unpaid, on the job work experience for a week or so within a set of Chambers.

Serena smiles and considering her words carefully, replies.

“Don’t be silly, Lucinda, you know that I’m a member of Chambers with Lauren now too. Just because you never got pupillage doesn’t mean that the rest of us can’t.”

If I didn’t know Lucinda, I’d have missed the look of sheer contempt that passes over her face.

“Pupillage?” She looks incredulous. “Oh I don’t need a pupillage anymore. Who wants to be self-employed anyway? Not me, not when I have Andrew.”

At this, she thrusts her left hand into Serena’s face, displaying a diamond engagement ring roughly the size and shape of a Ring Pop. It reminds me of the one Jordan had during her first marriage.

Holly pipes up for the first time.

“Isn’t it amazing? Lucinda designed it herself. It’s three carats of near flawless diamond. It makes her hand look so elegant.”

Serena is quick off the mark.

“Yes, lovely hand, shame about the fa-” sadly she’s cut off before she can finish.

“Ohh, how sweet, you have one too Serena!” interrupts Lucinda, noticing Serena’s fourth finger is also adorned with a stone. “Oh, no wait, mine isn’t from Elizabeth Duke. Shame,” she says with mock pity in her voice, “Maybe next time.”

Luckily, before Serena can register this comment, Lucinda continues. “I’m currently working for a firm of solicitors in the city as an in-house consultant. You know, a specialist. I’ve been allowed to instruct Andrew on this huge case we have coming up. I’d love to tell you about it, but it’s all very hush hush, massive media interest, very famous client. Not like the pondlife you two have the privilege to represent. Shame, it must be so unsatisfying for you, moving from one pub fight case to another.”

“By in-house specialist, do you mean tea girl?” I ask.

Holly shoots me daggers. Lucinda ignores me.

“The only downside is that the trial is being held here!” At this, she assumes a face that makes her look like she has caught whiff of something unpleasant. “Andrew and I have come up to look at somewhere to stay for the trial. I mean, who would commute when you can have a luxury hotel suite?”

I decide to humour her. “Who indeed?”

Serena finally finds her tongue “So when do we have the honour of your residence in the city?”

“Oh not for about a month, I’ll make sure I look out for you when the trial starts. If I see any desperate looking cases, I’ll point them in your direction. Or in your case Serena, any personal shoppers.”

With that she turns on her stiletto heel and strides towards the four men across the room that she entered with. Holly looks stunned at having been left alone with us and confusion flickers across her face as she decides whether or not she was supposed to follow Lucinda. Eventually she mumbles something which sounds like it could be “Goodbye” and practically runs over to her mistress. I mean friend.

“What a total nightmare,” I say. “I always hoped that her personality was an act she used at Bar School as some sort of self-defence mechanism to protect herself from criticism. Not so then.”

“Nope.” replies Serena. “That woman wouldn’t know the difference between self-defence and self-pleasure, which might explain her abysmal criminal law final marks!”

“Why, of all places did she have to re-surface here?” I postulate, “Have we done something terrible lately to upset the karmic balance of things? Have you been kicking puppies again Serena?”

She laughs, then her face becomes downcast.

“Hey!” I take her hand “What’s wrong? If you have been kicking puppies then obviously I can’t condone that but-”

“It’s just some of the things she said. How can it be fair that an uber-bitch like Lucinda gets everything handed to her on a plate whilst I have to struggle to make ends meet?”

I let this go. “Well at least you can rest assured that you have the lovely Ewan. Can you imagine the man who has to vow to live with her until death parts them? God, for their wedding present I’m tempted to pass on the details of a hitman. Poor sod!”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “He’s probably really hideously ugly and just marrying her for her father’s money. I mean, he’s a criminal barrister so he’s hardly going to be Mr. Rich.”

“Too true, I bet not only did she design that ring, she probably had to pay for it herself.”

This revelation cheers Serena up instantly and she drains the dregs from her glass.

“My round!” I say, standing up and stretching my legs from their cramped position. I steel myself to force my way to the bar, a veritable rugby scrum at the best of times.

The mood lighting makes it difficult to see where I’m going and within about a minute I’ve already dented my shins on various poorly placed low tables. As I reach the bar and start making attempts to attract the attention of the harassed looking bar staff I feel a firm hand pinch my bum. I ignore this, as one might ignore the first demand for an unpaid bill in the hope that it will go away. It doesn’t. The second squeeze is harder and designed to make sure I have to give its owner my full attention. I’m really not in the mood to either get into a fight with some lecherous old man or deflect the unwanted advances of a potential suitor. Given the mode of introduction, I suspect the former. I turn around. Bingo.

“Hello Judge,” I sigh, instantly clocking the circuit judge who was leering at Serena earlier.

“Ah, Miss Chase isn’t it?”

I consider my options. “Yes,” I concede grumpily.

I know it may sound like there are a number of obvious solutions to this predicament: either give the slimy old fool a good slap around the face, throw a drink at him, or just ignore him and walk away, but trust me, like elephants, Judges never forget. Knowing my luck, next time I have to make a tricky submission, or deal with a hostile witness, I’ll be in his court and need him on my side, not furious at me because I was the one who embarrassed him in front of a bar full of lawyers.

I flash him a winning smile, “Just give me a sec?” I purr and turn back to the bar where I wave my arms like a lunatic in an attempt to get served. Luckily, a passing barman senses my desperation and serves me quickly.

Arms now full of bottles and glasses I move away from the bar, smiling at him as I pass his side. Quickly, I holler “So nice to see you again Judge, hope you have a lovely night!” before hastily returning to our table. I shudder as I sit down feeling somewhat violated by the unwanted personal contact.

“Yuck.” I say as I attempt to unload my wares, spilling most of my glass in the process.

“Yuck.” Agrees Serena looking mock forlornly at the developing puddle on the table.

“So, have you figured out which one he is yet?” I ask, nodding my head over to where Lucinda’s group has gathered.

“Not a clue. I can’t really get a good look from here and there is no way on earth I’m going over!”

I crane my neck to see if I can get a better view. I can see Lucinda sat on one of the window benches, putting her about a foot above her party. Her long legs are crossed delicately and even from here I can tell she’s talking about herself by the way she keeps gesturing to her chest and looking at Holly for validation.

In front of Lucinda is a set of two benches with a small square table in the middle of them. Holly is sat next to two suited men on the bench to Lucinda’s left. Neither of these men looks particularly interested in the developing floorshow, so rise considerably in my estimation of them.

One is in his late fifties wearing a pale grey suit that almost perfectly matches his silver hair. His foot is tapping the table leg in what could be interpreted as either boredom or impatience. I can’t say I blame him.

The second man is younger, maybe mid-thirties with cheekbones to die for and a shock of red hair. I immediately discount him as being a candidate for Lucinda’s fiancé; her comments at Bar school about redheads used to make everyone cringe in horror. Despite my best attempts, I can’t see the two men on the opposite bench.

“Hmmm, the plot thickens,” I comment, munching on some spicy peanuts that have been provided by a passing waitress. “I’m sure it’ll become obvious when this trial starts and she’s parading him around at every opportunity.”

As the evening progresses and we get through more than our monthly recommended units of alcohol, I reach the point where the room is threatening to spin. I just about manage to get to my feet, remembering too late why vertigous heels are never a good idea when inebriated.

Serena follows my lead, knocking over a nearby bowl of wasabi peas in the process. The effect is similar to trying to walk on ball bearings and as I attempt to step forwards, one foot goes shooting out in front of me, causing me to fall backwards and land on my back on the floor.

Serena corpses with laughter and I can’t do anything other than join in. As she makes several failed attempts to winch me to my feet, sending peas scattering across the floor of the bar, I manage to knock Serena off balance too, sending her into the nearby table, causing her and it to go to the ground.

As we both lie horizontally, like a pair of turtles stuck on their backs I spot a familiar pair of tacky red shoes by my head. From this distance, I can see that one is missing a heel tip. The inevitable drawling comment comes from overhead

“Reduced to working on your backs already? Well you obviously need the money...”

Serena and I make eye contact from our prone positions then turn to look up at our tormentor. In unison and at a volume best suited to football games we yell,

“Lucinda, DON’T BE SILLY!”