Unwinnable Trial

Today I had what can only be considered an unwinnable trial. Unwinnable? Yes, completely and absolutely unwinnable. That case that every defence lawyer inherits that is beyond your powers of advocacy, expertise and persuasion. That case in your diary that you eye with distain as the date rapidly approaches. A trial date that perhaps does not quite fill you with dread, but one you look forward to just as much as a routine prostate examination. A case where you ponder case strategy with your colleagues whilst slurping numerous pots of coffee, brain storming on what the hell you can say to, firstly, make the client think you have tried your best, but secondly and much more importantly, to avoid making yourself look fecking stupid. A case with no logical defence, where any right-minded person would think ‘You know what, I am well and truly fecked.’ This was undoubtedly one of those very cases.

Hours, or perhaps minutes, of reading the statements had left me no nearer my goal of pulling off the great escape. I was devoid of inspiration. I had no helpful case law. I had no rabbits up my sleeve. Nothing that I could use to blow the prosecution case out of the water. Nadda. Zilch. Only one thing for it. A lesson they do not teach you in law school – the Tiberius ‘turn up and hope for the fucking best’ James defence.

On arrival, I realise that my client – Mr Hate All Authority – is late. A slight difficulty, as I need to speak to Mr Hate All Authority to work out what exactly he disagrees with in terms of the prosecution case. Granted this should have been done weeks ago, however Mr Mr Hate All Authority had presumably a more pressing requirement such as binge watching Jeremy Kyle, increasing his collection of horrendous tattoos or a concerted effort to add to his 85 convictions, anything other than attending for an appointment with me. His lack of giving a shit and refusal to attend my office, I feared, had removed the slightest chance we had to help him avoid a potential prison sentence. Oh well. A warrior’s death.

I checked the prosecution witness list with the elderly usher. “All present Mr James,”she scoffed. Bollocks. I am not a religious man, in fact this job is enough to turn any man away from religion, but I had long ago concluded that our only ‘prayer’ of winning was a no show by the prosecution witnesses. As I have shit for luck, the seven police officer witnesses led by Sergeant Bullied at School were of course all in attendance and presumably willing to give evidence on oath that Mr Hate All Authority was a lying bastard. A day of drinking coffee and putting their feet up, clearly appealing to Yorkshire Constabulary’s finest.

I quickly spot the said police officers on the court corridor. I stifle a laugh as I notice their new trendy police baseball caps. PC School Prefect and PC Personality of a Dog Shit look particularly ridiculous. I avoided eye contact, as I do not want to be a two-faced swine and wish them good day. I decide the only thing to do in the circumstances was to sit in a room titled “Solicitors Room” and read how the USA was unintentionally trying to goad the rest of the world into a nuclear war, whilst contemplating jumping out of the window and pissing off. Eventually the prosecutor locates me, a perfectly pleasant yet serious foe. Ignoring a joke at PC School Prefect’s expense, she insists on knowing what Mr Hate All Authority’s defence is. I respond honestly and immediately, “Not a bloody clue.” The prosecutor smiles, before realising I am serious. Very serious. Eventually my adversary walks off, a little perplexed that I have no intention of giving a feck in the absence of Mr Hate All Authority. She mutters something about the Criminal Procedure Rules as she walks away.

“I’m not having it. Not guilty,”
Mr Hate All Authority shouts at every opportunity on his arrival, twenty minutes after the trial should have started. Fighting the urge to punch him in his throat, I try and obtain some meaningful instructions. ” I wasn’t fucking driving alright,” he insists. A little distracted by the ‘only god can judge me’ tattoo now inked upon his hand, I pause for a moment. The irony. I eventually focus and read out the statements. As I do so, PC School Prefect choses that very moment to walk past the conference room and Mr Hate All Authority chooses to respond by shouting so that every person in the court building can presumably hear, “What the fuck is that on your head, you daft cunt?!”

Mr Hate All Authority points directly at PC School Prefect and directs further random insults, before collapsing in a fit of giggles. I try to pretend I want him to stop, but to be fair, it is relatively amusing. Distracted by the fashion faux paus of PC School Prefect, Mr Hate All Authority suddenly slips from his hard stance of innocence and proclaims,
“I wasn’t driving that fast. Wish I had of hit the fecker now.”

Superb. Guilty plea duly entered and the lay bench persuaded to impose a Community Order after Mr Hate All Authority suggests he is due to start working the week after next. Clearly a made up role and consequent miscarriage of justice but in my client’s favour for once. Not a bad day after all. File closed.