Murderers and Other Friends (6 page)

Such cases were among the foolish things that happened in a forgotten age, before unemployment and Aids and the breakup of nations into murderous tribes left us no time to mind about the bollocks at all.

Advocates are meant to have some sixth sense which enables them to have an immediate insight into the characters of witnesses, detect liars and recognize secret sympathizers. In fact, first appearances are frequently misleading, and so it was in the case of a juryman in the Free Wales Army trial, another strange engagement during my early years as a QC.

The Public Order Act makes it illegal for a private army to gather, or drill, or wear uniforms in order to subvert the government, or cause people to fear that that is its intention. This was what it was alleged the Free Wales Army had done when half a dozen or so men with varying political beliefs, and a wide range of levels of intelligence, were put on trial at Swansea Assizes. It was not long before the Prince of Wales was to be installed in Caernarvon Castle, wearing a uniform specially designed for him by Lord Snowdon, and kneeling in front of his mother. Dire rumours were abroad suggesting that the Welsh freedom-fighters planned to fly a radio-controlled helicopter full of pig shit over the historic ceremony; its automatic doors would open and the load would be deposited on the royal group. I don't believe that this fell scheme was ever within the capacity of the army, any more than its other plan of fixing magnetic mines on to Welsh dogs, who would leap at attacking English tanks, stick to them and explode. All the same, the judge seemed anxious to keep the case going until Charles had safely assumed the mantle of the Black Prince. In an effort to show no partiality for England or Wales, the powers that were had chosen a Scottish judge to try the case. Each morning the court was carefully searched for bombs, and when it was declared safe the judge would enter nervously, while the defendants sang some stirring anthem in the Welsh language.

I was very grateful to the army for introducing me to the beauty of the Gower peninsula, where I lived for many weeks. In the evening the Welsh barristers would entertain us, often singing, to the tune of ‘Bread of Heaven', the words:

Bread from Morganses,

Beef from Evanses,

Beer from the Royal Oak!

‘Oh, John,' said one old Welsh QC late at night, ‘tell me honestly. With our beer and our singing shall our profession
ever
die?' While Welshmen were prepared to plan military insurrection in the hills, I didn't think it would.

The fatal misinterpretation of a juryman's character happened to me at the start of the trial. In those distant days you were allowed to challenge a number of jurors without giving any reason. That right has now been removed from the defence, wrongly, I think, because you should be tried by a collection of people who at least look like your peers; after all the prosecution can ‘stand by' as many jurors as it pleases. I had instructions from my clients to challenge any potential juryman who was wearing a collar and tie or carrying the
Daily Telegraph.
When one of nature's bank managers, showing these outward and visible signs of respectability, appeared in the jury-box and was about to take the oath, I climbed to my feet and was on the point of sending him packing. ‘Don't challenge him!' an urgent Welsh whisper came from somewhere behind my left shoulder. ‘He's winking at the boys in the dock!' Three weeks later the bank manager was still winking. The truth of the matter was that he had a nervous tic.

Most of the police officers by whom we were surrounded were named Dai, but in the manner of the Welsh (Jones the Milk or Williams the Post) the nature of their work was added to their name, so we had Dai Exhibits, Dai Scene of the Crime and Dai Book and Pencil (who supervised the parking arrangements). I wanted to call the officer who said he'd found fuse wire in my client's possession, and when I asked who he would be I was told, I suppose in a spirit of harmless fun, ‘Oh, you want Dai Plant.' Another officer, perhaps Dai Exhibits, produced what he alleged to be a Free Wales Army jacket, a sort of battledress top covered with various shields and badges. I took him through these decorations.

‘Officer, please tell the jury, is that the badge of the Westminster Bank Rowing Club (let's say)?' ‘Yes, it is.' ‘And is that the insignia of the Swansea Ramblers' Association?' ‘Yes.' ‘And on that shoulder, the Bowling Club Supporters badge?' ‘It would seem to be.' ‘And that, the Cardiff Choral Group?' ‘Yes.' ‘And what about that little golliwog on the right arm, is that a badge for those who have collected enough labels from jars of marmalade?' ‘It might well be.' ‘Then tell the jury, officer, why do you call it a Free Wales Army jacket? Why not call it a golliwog marmalade jacket?' I won a little laughter in court, and it seemed to have been one of my more successful cross-examinations. But when the case was over, a number of dubious characters were seen coming from the public gallery and all of them were wearing golliwog badges. To this day I don't know if the politically incorrect device had any sinister significance.

At the end of the trial I stayed away from the Welsh lawyers' singsong to compose a final speech. It seemed that the essence of the charge was that the public had been put in fear by the Free Wales Army's activity. I was prepared to argue that no sane person could have been in the least alarmed by the military manoeuvres of the little handful of men in the dock. I relied on the fact that they all had high-sounding titles; in fact, they were all commanding officers with no men to command.

‘“There lived a king, as I've ‘been told,”' I quoted from
The Gondoliers
,

‘In the wonder-working days of old,

To the top of every tree

Promoted everybody . . .

When everyone is somebodee,

Then no one's anybody!'

Therefore, there was no one of any real importance in the Free Wales Army. This argument, frail as it may look now in print, seemed to appeal greatly to the jury and the judge, who might have starred as Tessa or Fiametta at some distant prep school, and clearly enjoyed the Gilbertian joke. However, I was interrupted by violent protests from the dock. Our clients were outraged by my suggestion that the Free Wales Army was not a formidable and alarming fighting-force, and I was instructed to abandon this line of argument. After I had done so, they received quite modest sentences and the dreaded helicopter never flew over Caernarvon Castle. I had discovered that the object of the accused in political trials was not acquittal but martyrdom, and my failure seemed to be a matter of all-round satisfaction.

Among the barristers who also became friends during my legal life was Jeremy Hutchinson. He is tall and apparently languid, although he was ferociously hard-working at the bar. His father had married into the Bloomsbury Group and Jeremy would address the juries from Dagenham or Brent Cross in the high and plaintive tones which might be heard in any drawing-room where Lytton Strachey or Virginia Woolf were holding forth on the pathos in Shakespeare's sonnets or the vulgarity of Arnold Bennett. ‘Can you imagine, members of the jury,' he would say, ‘this poor, poor man? Taken to the police station. And asked questions. Over and over again. For simply hours! Can't you understand why this poor, poor man, treated like that, would say simply
anything.
Just to get home. Away from the
boredom
of it all!' Curiously enough, the jury were entranced with this mandarin eloquence and Jeremy had a high degree of success. He was junior counsel to Gerald Gardiner in the Lady Chatterley case, the prosecution of the publisher of D.H. Lawrence's novel in which words, used by many people in their daily lives, caused a great stir when they were first seen between the covers of a book. Later Jeremy successfully defended a book called
The Mouth and Oral Sex.
He was much helped in this case by the judge, who, after Margaret Drabble had given evidence as to the merits of the work in question, unwisely asked her, ‘Why is it important to read about oral sex now? We've managed to get on for a couple of thousand years without it.' When Miss Drabble appeared taken aback by this thought, he said, ‘Witness! Answer the question.' To which she replied, ‘I'm sorry, your Lordship. I was just trying to remember the relevant lines in Ovid.' After this, it was said someone in court was heard to murmur, not altogether inaudibly, ‘Poor, poor his Lordship. Gone without oral sex for two thousand years.'

Jeremy had a habit of referring to the judge, or the prosecutor, as ‘the poor old darling' if they did anything particularly unpleasant, and this was a figure of speech I never forgot. He came from the strange old days and had been one of the marshals to the judge who indulged in baby-talk. Now we meet occasionally, have lunch and tell each other what a joy it is not to be barristers any longer. He was a great defender and, as a one-time husband of Peggy Ashcroft and former vice-chairman of the Arts Council, brought a much-needed breath of civilization to the Old Bailey.

I first met Ann Mallalieu when she had just left Cambridge, where she was the first woman President of the Union. She's blonde and beautiful and, when she was called to the bar, I led her in a number of trials. I believe the jury thought that if a nice girl like her was on my side my case couldn't be all that bad. We went to Birmingham together and spent some time defending the seller of a work unattractively entitled
The Return of the Enema Bag Rapist.
Ann's father and uncle were both Labour ministers, and she added this dubious book to the presents in her father's Christmas stocking.

When I first met Tim Cassel he was a prosecutor whom I found full of charm. He dropped his case against the projectionist in a blue movie cinema I was defending when I told him of my client's excellent war record. Tim's father was an elegant barrister and judge who tended to speak in Victorian upper-class Cockney, saying things like, ‘Me poor old eyes ain't strong enough to read the document what you gave me.' He was once trying a burglar who had handcuffed a householder before robbing him. Judge Cassel insisted on demonstrating the way these handcuffs worked by putting them on his own wrists, and he brushed aside the prosecuting counsel's frequent attempts to dissuade him. When he was helplessly manacled, the judge allowed the prosecutor to explain that the police never recovered the key to the handcuffs. Tim's father had to be led off the bench and the local ironmonger was sent for.

Ann was made a Labour peeress by Neil Kinnock and Tim's political views make Mrs Thatcher look like a member of the Workers' Revolutionary Party. Fierce political arguments seem to add excitement and passion to their marriage. Ann gets up at around four in the morning in their house across the hills from us, delivers a few lambs, drives to London, and after a day in court makes for the House of Lords, where the sight of her cheers the elderly Conservative peers enormously.

Geoff Robertson is a more radical barrister. He is an Australian and was a Rhodes Scholar with Bill Clinton, which shouldn't, however, be held against him. When he was at Oxford he came to help in the
Oz
trial because he had known Richard Neville at university. He looked up the law, worked tirelessly and had many good ideas, although perhaps his judgement left him when he decided we ought to call Marty Feldman. The fact that we won the
Oz
appeal was, in a large part, due to Geoff's industry. He was soon called to the bar, came into my chambers and acted, for years, as my junior in a number of curious and sometimes sensational cases. He was always cheerful, looked boyish and sat behind me, shouting brilliant ideas at my back while the judge fired destructive comments at my face. Often I felt like slipping out from between them and putting them in direct touch with each other. Geoff is a much better lawyer than I could ever be and he supplied the legal arguments. In return I think I handed on to him my father's secret of the art of cross-examination which must, he used to say, never be confused with examining crossly. It should be used to lead the witness, gently and with courtesy, through a number of propositions with which he has to agree until he has no alternative but to say yes to the final and, you hope, the fatal question.

I have been accused, mostly by women, of having few men friends, and it's true that my idea of hell would be an eternal, black tie, all male dinner of chartered accountants. An English middle-class education has made me allergic to sport and my only interest, when forced to take part in any sort of game, is to lose it as quickly as possible in order that it may be over. I have a fear, implanted in my childhood, of locker-rooms and the smell of sweaty gym shoes and I believe that exercise is a serious health risk. I am therefore cut off from many masculine preserves and my men friends are often people I work with: directors, actors and a very few lawyers, of whom Geoff is the one with whom I went through most triumphs and disasters.

We went down to Brixton Prison together when we acted for John Stonehouse, a Labour minister who staged a fairly convincing death by drowning, leaving his clothes in a pile on a Florida beach in order to defraud an insurance company. He was arrested in Australia because he was suspected of being Lord Lucan, the vanished aristocrat wanted for murder. We got Mr Stonehouse bail and then he decided to conduct his own case, with disastrous results.

Geoff and I had some gruelling, as well as hilarious, times together. I was known to vomit in the lavatory before arguing cases in the Court of Appeal or the House of Lords, and Geoffrey, for all his legal brilliance, would suffer prolonged bouts of nervous indigestion.

Once we defended a large, mournful man who was accused of issuing death threats to a rich South African. He did this by ordering a succession of funeral cortèges to call at the South African's house. Nothing could have been more unnerving than having a black-clad undertaker knock at the door in the dawn mist and announce that the hearse was waiting. Our client advertised in
Time Out
for a number of helpers and a young girl student, among others, applied. She was also in the dock. Many years later I was handing out bursaries to young playwrights in the committee room of a television company. A woman appeared who had written an excellent play about life in prison. I looked at her for a long time and then I remembered where I had last seen her: it was in the dock at the Old Bailey where she was sitting next to my lugubrious client, the sender of funerals.