Court Out

Chapter Five





Farrington Crown Court is predictably busy this Monday morning. As I join the queue to enter the building I see many familiar faces waiting to gain entry: Bill is trying to surreptitiously make his way to the front of the line without being detected. This is never a good idea. Whilst in theory you can pull the ‘Don’t you know who I am card’ whilst sweeping past the waiting members of the public, sods law dictates that most of those you cut in front of will be on your jury and won’t be impressed by your belief that you are superior to them.

I wait my turn, grateful that at least my portion of the queue is underneath the outside canopy, protecting my hair from the rain. One drop of moisture will undo all of my hard work straightening it this morning and cause it to revert to something the eighties forgot. Eventually, after the usual rigmarole with security I make my way to probation to pick up the pre-sentence report for Mr. Lenihan.

Whilst in the probation corridor I quickly whip on my wig and gown having carried them over. The rules state that we can’t be seen outside court in them and after my jaunt with Mr. Walsh on Friday, I’d better be careful. I then walk up the four flights of stairs to the court, being extra careful not to trip on my gown. The last thing I need today is another trip to A and E. There is a lift but given the amount of carbs I’ve consumed over the last three days I’d better at least make some kind of effort to burn some of it off or else I’ll have to buy new suits to accommodate my growing bum. Whilst I’m all for shopping, I normally like spending my money under happier circumstances.

My plan to grab a conference room and read Mr. Lenihan’s report is cut short by the appearance of Ms Goodridge. A small lady with long dark curly hair, beaded purple top and flared jeans steps in front of me and speaks

“Miss Chase? Are you Miss Chase? I’m Gillian Goodridge, I think you’re looking for me?”

I note with dismay that she has a piece of A4 paper in her hand that looks suspiciously like my Chambers website profile.

“Yes,” I say. “Please come with me.” I take her into the empty conference room and indicate that she should sit in one of the four plastic chairs placed around a worn looking table.

“Right, I’ve read through all of the prosecution papers in this case and have to tell you that at the moment, it’s not looking too good. My advice to you is that if this allegation is true, admit it now so you get full credit when it comes to sentence.”

Her brow furrows.

“What does that mean?”

“Ah, my fault, I forgot that this is your first experience before any court. Well, if you plead guilty today, the Judge will give you a third off any sentence. But, that’s supposed to be a carrot for the guilty not a stick for the innocent. If you haven’t been living with Mr. Lukes as a married couple then this is your chance to tell me what has been going on so we can try and sort out what is the best plan of attack”

She looks at me with narrowed eyes.

“But they’ll never believe me. I know how this works. I didn’t do it, but it’s not worth all the hassle.”

“Well try me,” I say. “Sometimes it’s better to get a fresh perspective on things, see how I react. After all, if I take the garb off then I’m just a member of the public too.”

She picks up my biro from the table and begins to tap it on a sheaf of documents that she has bought with her. I can see that something is troubling her as she stares fixedly at the wall. Finally, she speaks, turning to look me in the eye.

“Ok, but you’ll be straight with me right?”

“Right,” I promise.

It turns out that Mr. Lukes is in love with an ex-girlfriend of his who takes their children to the same school as Ms Goodridge. He lost his house having been made redundant and had been sleeping on her sofa until he could get back on his feet. The icing on the cake was that in an attempt to make his ex jealous and realize what she was missing, he asked Ms Goodridge to be seen in public with her acting like she was his new beau.

“Well you’ve certainly got yourself into a bit of a mess,” I comment. “But as long as you haven’t been receiving money from him we should be ok.”

“Not at all!” she replies defiantly. “Even if he had any to give then I wouldn’t take it. He’s a mate.”

A short while later we leave the conference room, Ms Goodridge walking towards the court cafe, head held high whilst I have a cursory look for Mr. Lenihan. There is no obvious sign yet. Ms Goodridge surprised me, her story was both plausible and one that I think could be accepted. More importantly than that, given her lack of any previous offending, it’s important that she gets her day in court and is allowed to have her case tested before a jury. Who am I to tell her to give that up?

I fill in the requisite form to inform the court that this will be a ‘not guilty’ plea and hand it to the Prosecutor, a jovial man who is from a small set of Chambers just outside of Birmingham. I can remember his first name, but his surname escapes me entirely. He has a perfunctory look at the top sheet and looks up at me with a quizzical look on his face.

“Eh? Not guilty? But she’s bang to rights?”

“Innocent until proven guilty Glenn. All will become clear soon,” I tease.

“Have you filed your defence statement?” he asks, referring to the mandatory document required in criminal proceedings where the defence have to set out the exact nature of why they contest the charges against them.

“Not yet, we’ve just done it and I’m about to ask our usher very nicely if he’ll do me some copies. Are you doing the trial?” I wonder, mentally planning my trial strategy against him.

“Nope, I’m off on holiday for a few months so it’ll be sent out. Right, I’ll tell the court we’re ready.”

“Thanks, I just have one other person to see then I’m all yours.”

I resume my position in the conference room and fish out Mr. Lenihan’s report. As I read the first page a feeling of dread envelops me. It is clear from the document that Mr. Lenihan maintains his innocence in respect of the assault despite pleading guilty. Worse than that, he has told the author of the report that he only pleaded guilty because Serena told him to. His exact phrase is ‘My barrister said that no-one would believe me and not to waste her time because she had better things to be doing than representing a liar like me.’ God, this is not good. I step back out onto the concourse and shout

“Mr. Lenihan? Mr. Brian Lenihan?”

A man wearing an ill fitting polyester suit stands up and approaches me. I know from his report that he’s forty two, but he looks a lot older. He has dark hair tied back in a stringy ponytail and a long thin moustache. His beady eyes look me up and down before speaking.

“You’re not the bird I had last time”

I sigh. Here we go again.

“No Mr. Lenihan, you were represented by Miss Taylor on the last occasion. I’m afraid she wasn’t available today, so you have me. If you’d be kind enough to follow me, there are a number of things I need to discuss with you.”

I don’t wait to see if he responds to this, but turn on my spike heel and walk back to the now familiar cupboard. Happily he has acceded to my request and has perched on the side of the table. I weigh up the merits of telling him he’s not in a barn and decide against it; at the moment we have bigger fish to fry.

“I have here a copy of your pre-sentence report. In it, you appear to have said that you were pressurised into pleading guilty. Firstly, do you accept that this is what you said?”

He looks at me defiantly.

“Yes, too right that’s what I said!”

I take a deep breath. Crunch time.

“Ok, second question, do you maintain that that is actually what happened?”

“Hell yes. That bitch made me do it. I was all ready for my trial, had all my defence witnesses here too. She told me that if I had a trial I would definitely be found guilty and I’d go to prison for twice as long because of it. I mean that’s a lot of porridge.”

I exhale. If this is true then Serena has really messed up. I’m going to have to explain all of this to the Judge in a minute and hope he’ll allow Mr. Lenihan to remove his plea. Serena will have to come to court to explain herself too.

“Right Mr. Lenihan, I’ll make the court aware of your position and don’t forget that the Judge will have a copy of this report too, so all is not lost yet.”

I spend a few minutes reminding him of the possible consequences of this route and leave him, satisfied that he knows his options. Why on earth would Serena have done this? Of course, it may all be a load of nonsense concocted by Mr. Lenihan in an attempt to backtrack, scared of what the Judge might do to him today. Relief washes over me. Yes! That must be it. He’s just panicking about going to prison and wants to buy himself more time.

I open the brief and look for Serena’s endorsement from the last occasion. It’s customary to get Defendant’s ‘signed up’; asking them to put their name to a paragraph on the back of the brief confirming that they do want to plead guilty and that no pressure has been put on them to do so. Despite several minutes spent carefully poring over the pages, I can’t find anything resembling this. Damn. I turn on my phone and try Serena’s number several times but her phone appears to be switched off.



As Mr. Lenihan’s case is called on into court I hear my heart beating in my ears and feel slightly nauseous. It’s one thing when you have to explain your mistakes to a crowded court, but to have to land a friend in it is a whole different story. I push open the heavy door and see with horror that the well of the court is full of barristers from our set of Chambers, including a number of very senior members. In my head I try and formulate a paragraph that will let the Judge know what has happened without telling everyone assembled.

I take my seat at the front of the court and wait for the Defendant to be identified. After Mr. Lenihan has confirmed his details, I rise shakily to my feet and speak

“May it please Your Honour, I represent the Defendant and my Learned Friend Mr., Mr.-”

Oh no. What’s Glenn’s surname? I look helplessly over to where he is sitting in the hope that there will be something identifying near him. Most barristers write their name in big letters on the side of their Archbold so they don’t get stolen, but I can’t see one anywhere near him. After a long pause, I accept defeat and lean over.

“What’s your surname?” I whisper.

He looks at me mischievously, playing with a calculator in front of him.

“What’s it worth?” he sniggers.

“It’s worth the use of your right foot,” I threaten, indicating to my heel hovering precariously close to his toes.

“Shepherd” he squeaks, quickly moving his foot out of the danger area.



I straighten up and give the Judge a winning smile.

“I represent the Defendant and my Learned Friend Mr. Shepherd prosecutes. As Your Honour will have seen from the pre-sentence report, there is an issue over the guilty plea entered on the last occasion, so it is my application to adjourn for a hearing to determine whether or not that plea can be vacated”

Phew, no mention of Serena, no mention of coercion. All good. I look up to see if I can read what the Judge is thinking. With a sinking feeling, I remember that this Judge is a civil barrister, sitting part time in the Crown Court.

“Miss Chase, remind me please of the circumstances in which a Defendant can vacate their plea.”

I do, skimming briefly over the relevant passages in Archbold. I hope this will satisfy him.

“Miss Chase, in this case, what do you say is the reason for the need to vacate the plea?”

I answer this question as obliquely as I can, making reference to various paragraphs in the pre-sentence report without actually reading them out.

“Ah, I see Miss Chase. So what you are actually saying is that the barrister who represented him on the last occasion forced him into pleading guilty?”

I enjoy playing poker. I love the thrill of waiting to see if you have a winning hand, the rush of beating the other players and the victory when you take the pot. Unfortunately, I have the world’s worst poker face. You can tell instantly by looking at me what type of cards I have; I’m easier to read than The Sun. Regrettably for me, this characteristic doesn’t only apply when I’m playing cards, and I know at this moment I’m most likely scowling at His Honour.

“No. That’s not what I said. I said that that is what the Defendant alleges to have happened,” I answer, trying to keep my voice even.

“I’m sure you’d agree it’s quite a serious allegation he makes, asserting that having a trial would be a waste of his counsel’s time?” he retorts, clearly unimpressed with my efforts.

“Well yes, but of course that allegation will need to be tested”

He frowns back at me, sits up straighter and delivers his final blow, speaking slowly and clearly.

“So Miss Chase, who was it again that represented Mr. Lenihan on the last occasion?”

With a heavy heart I consider giving an incoherent reply but know that I’ll just have to repeat it until he is satisfied. Instead I answer.

“The allegation has been made against Miss Taylor, Your Honour”

I can hear murmurs around me and know that by lunchtime Serena will be the subject of many conversations, most versions exaggerated to include all sorts of dishonesty. I’d better contact her as soon as possible to let her know myself before one of the gossip-mongers gets to her.

The case is eventually adjourned until later in the week to try and get to the bottom of what went on with Mr. Lenihan. My other case with Ms Goodridge goes without a hitch and we are miraculously lucky to get a trial date set for two weeks time given that it’ll only take a day or so to complete.



As I walk back to Chambers I try Serena’s mobile again. This time it rings a few times then goes to answer phone. Maybe I’ll see her in Chambers later.