Duckwaxing before the Beak

On representing clients in court when you are a young and terrified solicitor

I was never very good on my feet in court (nor did I aspire to become a Rumpole, the Lincoln Lawyer or Atticus Finch), but in my early days as a solicitor, and before I decided what to do with my life (I still haven’t)  I did occasionally find myself appearing before the magistrates. In my first court appearance I was at least as nervous as Gladys, my client, who had been charged with stealing a kipper.

Let me start by explaining what it is all about.

Magistrates’ Courts deal with the majority of cases in England. Many courts still have lay magistrates - Justices of the Peace (“JPs”) – who are public spirited people without formal qualifications who give their time for free to help in the administration of justice.

Magistrates do have the power to fine and send to prison those who are guilty of crimes. If they feel that they do not have sufficient power because of the seriousness of the offence they can send the case to the Crown Court. They are an essential part of the administration of justice.

They are addressed in court as their worships – the chair, sometimes being referred to as the Beak (but not to his or her face). They sit on a raised platform in high backed chairs with the Royal Coat of Arms behind them. Below them is the clerk to the court who is always legally qualified – a solicitor or a barrister.  As part of their training, magistrates also adopt a magisterial look which is a combination of disapproval, boredom and superiority.

Norfolk (where I live) used to have many Magistrates Courts, but sadly most have now been closed following “rationalisation” of the courts system. Now we only see courts in the larger towns which means that many people have to travel long distances to get their taste of justice.

Grimston Magistrates. One of the quaintest was the Grimston Magistrates Court which was a tiny building in a tiny village not far from King’s Lynn. It was established no doubt to keep the “plebs” under control – especially as it was in the centre of several large estates owned by landed gentry, as witness the names of the local justices of the peace at the end of the nineteenth century: Sir William ffolkes Bart (Hillington Hall), The Earl of Romney (Gayton Hall), Raol Elsden Everard (Congham Hall). The court seemed to exist solely to punish poachers. There is a recorded instance (in the book “I walked by night” by Lilias Rider-Haggard) of a man being given 21 days’ hard labour by the Grimston Magistrates for poaching.

I only once appeared in Grimston court. There were pigs next door and perhaps that confused me because I came in through the wrong entrance and managed suddenly to join the magistrates on their raised platform.  They put on their look of maximum disapproval at the confused solicitor who had appeared in their midst, particularly as at that moment the pigs decided to utter loud grunting noises.

Before Pigs in the Grimston Court came -

Gladys and the Kipper (written in 1988)

Gladys arrived at the office straight from the police station distraught and smelling slightly of fish. She had been caught red-handed slipping a kipper into her handbag. She took a long time to tell the tale. After an hour and a half, it became clear to my inexperienced mind that this was no hardened shoplifter. "Gladys and the Kipper" was to become my first defended case.

Whenever you appear in court, no matter how old you are or how familiar you are with the case, you always tense yourself for the hearing (at least I did). The day, however sunny and warm, does not hold the same charms for you as it will when the case is over.

The rest of the world knows this. On 'Court' days I find that people go out of their way to annoy me; the herd of cows moving through the village of Gayton from one field to another normally does so when I am far away. But on court days the herdsmen will ascertain my time of arrival, then deliberately launch their charge in my path as I arrive. The cattle amble from one end of the village to the other, pausing repeatedly to admire semi-detached gardens.

When I clear this obstruction, I race to gain lost time, only to catch up with a convoy of vehicles all going at 22 miles an hour behind a milk float. At this sedate pace we trundle into town where traps have been laid in the forms of a lollipop lady who thrusts small children into my path, and a car which quite unreasonably wants to turn across the oncoming traffic.

I reach the office late only to find that my three most annoying clients have already been on the telephone. I return their calls. They all whine and complain. And I feel like telling them to go and take a cold shower. But I don't. And so it goes on until I head to court on the office bicycle and everyone in the office breathes a sigh of relief.

Some time later I represented Mrs Rhum and Mr Thatcher (no relation to anyone who might have been Prime Minister at the time) also on a shoplifting charge. Mr Thatcher was a small-time criminal. He had a string of convictions including a fairly recent prison sentence for deception. Mrs Rhum looked older than she did when I acted for her eight years earlier.

She wore extravagant if tasteless clothes and had a covering of make-up as thick as a layer of builder's plaster. She also drinks. Every time she has been to see me my room has been sprayed aerosol-style with an alcoholic haze.

On the day I defended Gladys, the intoxicating charms of Mrs Rhum still lay a few years ahead. Gladys, trembling like a leaf, her doctor, a shop assistant and I (who felt I would never need another laxative in my life) presented ourselves in the draughty corridors of a local magistrates’ court.

I was opposed by the chief county prosecuting solicitor. I don't know why they needed to bring out the big guns. They would have achieved the same result if they had sent the office cleaner.

The county prosecutor opened so portentously that for a moment I thought we had become mixed up in a murder case by mistake. With great ceremony he produced the kipper and placed it on the table in front of him. The police had thoughtfully kept this exhibit deep-frozen and we were able to make do without clothes pegs on our noses. About half-way through the county prosecutor's speech Gladys broke down in tears and was given a glass of water by the court usher. This is the panacea for all dramas in court. Three sips later and Gladys had regained her composure. The county prosecutor continued with his monologue.

Briskly he moved on to his evidence. In quick succession he called the store detective who said Gladys looked shifty as she misappropriated the kipper, the checkout lady who said she thought it was all a bit fishy and the arresting police officer.

Then it was our turn. The pace slowed down dramatically. Gladys had had time to delve deeper into her past. We roamed round her world, seldom getting anywhere near the subject of supermarkets or kippers. High up on their benches the magistrates fidgeted and looked cross. The more I tried to control Gladys, the less coherent she became. The county prosecutor made light work of her.

Gladys had been so absent-minded that she had left her purse in another shop before she went to the Acne Supermarket. Surely the shop assistant's evidence would absolve her? But the shop assistant suffered from stage fright and stood in the middle of the court like a rabbit caught in a car headlight. She was speechless and could remember nothing. Eventually I prised the information out of her by a series of leading questions.

My closing speech was almost as long and incoherent as Gladys's evidence. When I sat down after 45 minutes the magistrates did not feel the need to retire. They just nodded at each other and pronounced Gladys guilty. Before I had a chance to start another Jong speech in mitigation they gave her an absolute discharge. As we trooped out of the court, I took a last look at the kipper. It was a fine specimen. I could understand why Gladys was attracted to it.

Time went by, and I had become a little less scared by the time Mrs Rhum (sans cola) appeared on the scene.

She had been drinking before her court hearing and was quite mellow when she and Mr Thatcher were ushered into the presence of the three magistrates. The Clerk to the court read out the charge to them: that they did steal one slab of margarine, one bottle of sherry and a tin of baked beans to the total value of £7.47 contrary to the Theft Act.

They pleaded guilty and I turned in a mitigation speech which lasted all of two and a half minutes. After retiring for half an hour the bench returned and the lady chairman of the magistrates addressed Mrs Rhum: “Now, Mrs Rhum" (which she pronounced as with Coca Cola) "is that how your name is pronounced ?"

  "Rhum," said Mrs Rhum (as in "sitting Rhum") adding meaningfully, "with a haitch, dear."

 "Well, Mrs Lounge," said the lady chairman (momentarily confusing her mnemonics), "you·must realise that you have committed a very serious offence but we have taken into account your sad circumstances. We have decided to give you an absolute discharge. Now you may go."

 "Thank you, dear," breathed Mrs Rhum, gathering up Mr Thatcher and departing from the court. Outside, they both looked at Mr Thatcher's  watch  (not  too  badly damaged from its fall from the back of a lorry). "Are they" (as in 'Pig and Whistle') “open yet?" muttered Mr Thatcher. "Yes time for a quick one," (as in gin and tonic) said Mrs Rhum.

Outside the court I found that the world had become more reasonable again. I set off cheerfully back to the office. The man who nearly knocked me off the office bicycle clearly did not mean to. The furniture van blocking the road as it tried to back into a narrow entrance, was only doing its job. And that evening I gave a cheerful toot to the cows in the field on my way home.

Duckwaxing (1991)

I had to start somewhere, so I drew and threw my trump card, indeed my only card.

"My client is a Duck Waxer" I told the somnolent bench of Magistrates. The effect was immediate and dramatic. To a man (or rather to two men and a woman) their beaks turned towards me and I had their undivided attention. They were not on my side yet, but at least they wanted to know why this man was talking about waxing ducks in the middle of a gentle morning of mitigations.

Traditionally, nervous young solicitors who aspire to be advocates are sent to the local Magistrates' Court to do a few pleas in mitigation, meaning that they are putting in a good word for their clients who have admitted their offences, be it speeding or failing to pay their TV licence. The theory is that they cannot do much harm, but the chances are that they will do little good either: the bench will sit with ill-disguised impatience through long monologues delivered with the enthusiasm of a maiden speech in the House of Commons. The solicitor will believe that what she is saying is sparklingly original. The Magistrates will know that they have heard it all before.

There is a pecking order in all local courts. The nervous young solicitor arrives at least 20 minutes before the proceedings are due to start, in order to have an anxious chat with the Clerk, and to obtain a good position in full view of the Magistrates. He is representing a spindly youth who had been caught breaking and entering. He will sit and tremble alone while the court staff exchange anecdotes, and laugh so loudly that the nervous young solicitor almost falls off his seat.

The Magistrates usually enter about five minutes past ten. By then the nervous young solicitor can stand the strain no longer and retires to the loo for the fifth time that morning.

When  he returns, he finds that his anorak, his brief case (which in truth is a Marks and Spencer shopping bag) and his case papers have all been pushed to one end of the solicitors' bench and his  and their place have been taken by an experienced old hand who has arrived ten minutes late, and who at that very moment is "just mentioning" a couple of small matters which he knows their Worships would like to get out of the way before the business of the day starts in earnest.

An hour and forty minutes later the experienced old hand finishes with his little matters and looks around him with a leer of satisfaction.

He does not then, as he should, pick up his papers and leave the stage clear. Instead he sits there while the nervous young solicitor is made doubly insecure by having to speak not only to a hostile bench, but also in the intimidating presence of the experienced old hand. With a shrill falsetto voice he pipes his plea in mitigation on behalf of a spindly youth while the experienced old hand mutters sotto voce so that the Magistrates just cannot quite hear: "lot of rot" or "the man does not know what he is talking about".

As the nervous young solicitor pauses for breath, the bench, having been thinking hard about when they might decently expect to stop for a coffee, rise and make for the retiring room. He, not having the heart or courage to interrupt them, subsides to his seat and awaits the sentence. 

Typically the return of the Magistrates with their decision is treated with the same air of expectation as the result of the Eurovision Song Contest or the final bingo game of the night at the local ex-cinema.

The chairman of the magistrates settles into his chair, adjusts his tie and scratches his nose. He moves his papers from left to right, then some of them back from right to left. He shifts his bottom again. His haemorrhoids are causing him discomfort.

The spindly youth represented by the nervous young solicitor sways slightly. The magistrate picks up a pen and puts it down. The spindly youth looks at the tattoo on his left hand. He swallows.

Eventually -

"Stand up" orders the magistrate’s clerk, oblivious of the vertical stance of the spindly youth. The spindly youth looks puzzled. He rubs his tattoo, perhaps hoping that a genie will appear and make the magistrate vanish.

"George Edward Perkins" continues the magistrate unaware of the problem his previous command had caused for master Perkins, "You have pleaded guilty to a very serious offence. We have listened to what your solicitor has said but we have come to the conclusion that, having regard to your antecedents, there is only one punishment we can give you".

Here he pauses again. He shuffles his papers again and picks up a looseleaf book before resuming.

"For the first offence you will go to prison for 3 months and for the second offence you will also go to prison for 3 months. Both sentences will run consecutively."

The spindly youth gulps. His girl friend, who until then has been sitting silently at the back of the court, gasps and then sobs. But the solicitors in court (except the nervous young solicitor) know that the magistrate has not finished. If he had meant to pass an immediate prison sentence, a number of police officers would mysteriously have appeared before he started to speak.

The magistrate wants to prolong the suspense further. If he had been a juggler he would have given a five-minute display of hurling books, pencils, pieces of paper and paper clips into the air before concluding. He isn't, so he confines himself to taking a sip of water, and saying:

"But this sentence will be suspended for a period of 18 months. I must warn you......."

And he did. Of the very nasty things which could happen to the spindly youth if he so much as overstayed at a parking meter or allowed a dog to foul a footpath within the next one and a half years.

White and shaking the nervous young solicitor leads his client from the court. Onlookers would find it hard to tell which of them has just avoided an immediate prison sentence.

As time goes by, nervous young solicitors like myself cease to be young. Few get to the stage where they can guarantee to have the court eating out of their hands at every court appearance.

But every now and then something goes right, and when your duckwaxer client is charged with shop lifting you can, if you talk long enough about duck waxing distract their worships from thinking too hard about all those nasty previous convictions. They will at least be pecking out of your hands, because they will want to go home and tell their wives and husbands how to wax ducks.

Quite undeservedly my client was given a conditional discharge.

Footnote: There is less to duckwaxing than meets the eye. After a duck has been plucked, it is dipped in hot wax. This then forms a skin which, when removed takes with it all the remaining feathers.