My first day acting as an agent for the newly formed Crown Prosecution Service did not begin well. Most of my time had been spent in courts with the dock behind the advocates, but this one was on the wall to the magistrates’ left. I placed myself next to it, incurring the wrath of the locals.
I soon moved.
Then, after the first three cases, the clerk handed me a note: ‘Isn’t it usual to ask for costs?’ He was a talented close-up magician and, if the morning list ended early, would do tricks. The one I found fascinating was changing a £5 note into a £10 one. No matter how close I got or how often he showed it to me, I could never see how it was done. So useful in paying fines.
After lunch that day I had to deal with the traffic list. In the morning there were three police officers acting as gaolers but in the afternoon there was only one: a large, balding, perspiring man. Shortly after the session began he passed me a note: ‘I’m off to the Black Bull. If you need me ring WAL 1234 (or some such) and ask for Tom.’
This happened quite often as the weeks went by and eventually I mentioned it to the senior of the gaolers, an engaging Scot who was a few months off retirement. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘our Tom does like a drink in the afternoon.’
The third member of the police staff at the court was the matron, in whose room so many deals over bail had been struck in pre-CPS days and to an extent still were. In the corner sat her almost mute husband, recovering from a stroke. His duties were to take a single sheet of lavatory paper to any prisoner in the cells. When I asked why just the one, I was told any more and there would be attempts to block the lavatory or set fire to it.
Many matrons provided tea and sandwiches. One could have run a successful cafe with her immaculate seeded ham and cheese rolls. Not this one. Tea, maybe, but no food. The sergeant advised me to bring my own mug, which he would store for me. ‘The others don’t always get washed between use.’
James Morton is a writer and former criminal defence solicitor
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