Dichotomy

          “Oh, hello there, this is Rupert Grenville from S_____ Chambers,” said the voice on the other end of phone this morning.

            “Hello,” I said.

            “Listen, old chap, I just wanted to give you a quick call about our hearing this afternoon.”

            “How can I help?”

            “Actually, I hope to be able to help you, save a little embarrassment, if you know what I mean?”

            “Not really.”

            “Well, you see, perhaps I can just draw your attention to one or two points in your skeleton argument. Seems rather fairer to do this now than cause any humiliation later on eh?”

            He proceeded to criticise my arguments.

            “Thank you,” I said, once he was done.

            “Ah good,” he replied, “so you’ll be saving our time and dropping it then? Good chap.”

            “No,” I said, “see you in court.”

            What a prick. Did he think any of that would wash with me? It’s pathetic the way some of these barristers think they can frighten you into backing down. It just made me more angry. I went into court this afternoon and kicked ass, trouncing the bastard. It felt good.

            Now all I need is to vanquish this dichotomy between professional strength and personal weakness. It’s ever been easier to negotiate for someone else.

Afterglow

          You hear the stories, and it’s true. Driving lawyers are totally crooked. This morning I was sent along to represent some idiot who’d been caught speeding down a motorway. My solicitors had sent me along to argue that the police had failed to conduct their identification procedures properly following their codes of practice under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984. The argument might have held some weight if the client hadn’t voluntarily given the police his name. Even then, he might’ve had a shot if the police hadn’t been able to simply cross-reference the vehicle registration number against his name and insurance policy. But why stop there? To cap it all off the man actually hired solicitors and a barrister to go argue it wasn’t him, even though the only way he could have known about the hearing at all is if the documents were sent to his address – the self same address he’d specified to the police.

            But just in case the police identified him in court (as though there was anymore space to fit another nail in that coffin) the solicitors told him not to attend court. No doubt this was also done to ensure that I couldn’t ask him any questions and thereby confirm his guilt.

            What a load of nonsense. Ridiculous? Unethical? I should’ve refused to do it really. It was a step too far. Nonetheless, I summoned up the energy to lamely put it to the court that the police had got the identification wrong and had unfairly questioned him without warning.

            I was laughed out of court.

            I was angry about it on the way home, but gradually that anger waned. How could I be ethical and moral in my professional life when my personal life was reduced to a morally neutral set of random events?

            I’m like a man without a frame, floating in anarchy. The rules are dissolving but an afterglow of the old image remains – just enough to cling onto.

 

*

 

            I told my clerks I was going away again. My head clerk took me aside.

            “With all due respect, sir, if I could, I’d sack you.”

            I apologised but in truth, I couldn’t care less. After this morning I’d had it. I shouldn’t be dealing with that nonsense anyway. I’m too important to deal with such petty matters. If they really tried to get rid of me I’d just go find somewhere better.

Wise Silences

          Many years ago, at school, I was not one of the cool kids.

            Henry Ellacott was.

            “Didn’t expect to see you here Evans,” he said, walking into the waiting room at court this morning. He was my opponent. “Is someone suing you?”

            I am ashamed to admit I was slightly flustered. “No,” I replied, indignantly, “I’m here for a case,” and I told him the name of the case.

            “Ah! That’s my case. When’s your barrister turning up?”

            “What? I am the barrister.”

            “Oh! Really? I just assumed you were a solicitor or something. Really? You’re a barrister?”

            “Yes.”

            “Very well. At least it’s not your fault you’ve got such an absurd case then! I’m quite sure you’ve told them to give up and they’ve sent you along anyway. Yes yes, I quite understand. These solicitors do sometimes have a hard time understanding the law don’t they?”

            “I advised my solicitors to pursue this point.”

            “Oh.”

            “I suggested that they might succeed on it.”

            “Really? But that’s nonsense. I’ve been doing cases like this up and down the land in front of all types of courts and I’ve never yet lost on this point. Honestly, I wouldn’t bother if I were you.”

            “Well,” I said, “since we’re here now we might as well see what the judge has to say.”

            “Fair enough, I don’t suppose the judge will trouble me to actually speak anyway.”

 

*

 

            A short while later we went into court. My opponent sat quietly with a smug face while I briefly outlined the case.

            “Right, Mr Ellacott, I’d like to hear from you first in answer to Mr Evans’ point at paragraph four of his skeleton argument.”

            “Skeleton Argument?”

            “Yes, you’ll find it at partition seven of the trial bundle.”

            “Ah, I’m terribly sorry, yes, here it is. I hadn’t realised my Learned Friend had prepared a skeleton. Very well. But we don’t really need to trouble with that do we? I mean, this will only take a minute.”

            “Mr Ellacott this hearing is listed for two hours, and if I wish to trouble you with a point I will do so.”

            “But Sir, with all due respect, this need not take so long, it is only a simple point, if I could just explain…”

            “You may not. Please turn to Mr Evans’ skeleton argument and answer the point.”

            The hearing proceeded in this fashion for an hour or so by which time Henry’s face was a picture of exasperation. I had hardly been called on to say a word while he had been battered over and over again with the points contained in my written argument. At this stage the judge took note of one of his points and turned to me to ask me for my submissions on it. I began to answer the question but was interrupted almost immediately.

            “No no no!” said Henry, “you don’t understand. The judge was trying to ask you a different question altogether.”

            He began to attempt to re-frame the judge’s question for me.

            “Mr Ellacott, your arrogance exasperates me. I am perfectly capable of asking my own questions, thank you, and unlike you, Mr Evans appears to have a perfectly capable grasp of their meaning.”

           

*

 

            Sure enough, though at length, I won the hearing having barely spoken. I had a work experience boy with me who was clearly marvelling at my skill, though his youthful innocence blinded him to my marginal part in affairs.

            Henry walked past us on his way out. “That judge had no clue!” he said, “I’ll appeal him and then he’ll look the fool!”

            “Sometimes,” said my solicitor when Henry had gone, “cases are won on what is not said, rather than on what is.”

            Wise words, no doubt.

            Despite my win owing a great deal to the judge and my opponent’s attitude, I still feel good. A win is a win and the buck always stops with the barrister. Thus I get the blame if I lose and the credit if I win, regardless of how the case had been set up and prepared by those who came before me. Winning is therefore important, and satisfying when it occurs. Today, on account of this win, and a few others lately, I feel I might even be worthy of Sharona.

Perpetual Proliferation

          At work this morning I had to laugh off my hangover. I was getting through cases, what more do they want?

            I met Robin for lunch today and discussed dry legal cases. He’s suddenly become so incredibly dull to me. I can’t really explain it. I suppose in some ways he even reminds me slightly of Annabell, living and breathing work. This perpetual proliferation of legal anecdotes, spliced with occasional grumbles about government gambits, is truly taxing on the soul.

            At some stage I should give up these adventures, and probably Ed too, if I’ve any sense, but I hope to God I never become as boring as Robin. As boring as I used to be, I suspect.

Weakly Jarred

 

          I had an all day employment conference today. My client was some high ranking manager in a big European retail company. Some guy that ranked even higher than her had apparently been bullying her for being a woman. I couldn’t make up my mind about the case. On the one hand it was clear she’d been intentionally left out of meetings and overlooked for promotions and raises, but on the other hand she was whinging about some ridiculous moments that she seemed to think were appalling transgressions of her personal dignity.

            She gave a presentation once, and at the end the guy had the cheek to state, in front of others, that while he liked one of the ideas he wasn’t so keen on the main one. As if! How could he! And in front of others! And then, on another time, he met her in the corridor and told her she didn’t have time for breaks, she should be at her desk. Shocking! And then, on another time, he called her a ‘silly so-and-so’! And then, on another time…

            It lasted all day but towards the middle of the afternoon the company contacted my solicitor and made a very surprising offer at a higher level than my valuation of the case. I had a long think and asked some more questions, but I couldn’t find any reason for the inflated offer other than a desire to make my client sign a confidentiality agreement preventing the matter being reported to any third party. It made sense and I told her to sign on the dotted line.

            A good day’s work, and I’ve never known so much about ‘marketing and product development’.

           

*

 

            I invited Sharona to join me after work with some friends from Chambers (Scheherazade was away, fortunately). As we walked about meeting them one at a time I was apparently introducing Sharona as ‘a blues singer from New Orleans’.

            After a while she took me aside. “You can just call me Sharona, you know.”

            I was thrown, and then jarred as I saw my error. “Sorry,” I said, weakly. “How about Mircalla instead?” I added.

            She had the kindness of heart to smile and so we returned to the others.

 

Northwich

          There’s no romance killer like a tedious day’s work.

            I was sent to Northwich Magistrates Court this morning to deal with an offence against the Town and Police Clauses Act 1847. For those of you less familiar with this important act, it includes provisions against people being found drunk in a public place.

            Yes: this is an offence. So watch out.

            And for those of you less familiar with the important town of Northwich, it’s in Cheshire, just south of Manchester. To get there entails a three and a half hour train journey from London with a change at Stockport. It had to be some kind of joke by my clerks, further revenge for my late absenteeism. I will have to work harder to return to their good books.

            As though all this were not bad enough, the court didn’t have time to hear my grave and weighty matter this morning and so postponed it to this afternoon. I was therefore stuck in Northwich with nothing to do all morning!

            In the afternoon the trial began in earnest. I ruthlessly cross-examined the police officer on his observations of my client. How had he been able to establish the man’s drunkenness? ‘Is it not possible that his breath smelt of alcoholic medication?’ ‘Did you not realise he was hard of hearing so that when you asked him to walk in a straight line he thought you were inviting him to take some more wine?’ ‘I mean: some wine, not more, of course.’

            He was convicted and fined £20. A worthwhile day, without doubt, and one which you, the tax payer, can feel proud of.

            So the case finally ended late afternoon but I still had a four hour journey to get back home to the others. Ed and Sharona greeted me upon my return with enthusiasm born of thumb twiddling. I was not in the mood. I made up an excuse that I had a bit of work to do and came online to write this. And now, I’m going to bed.

Shamelessly Preventing Justice

          Today I represented a man accused of Grooming, an offence under the Sexual Offences Act 2003 which usually entails a dodgy old man spending too much time with a young boy or girl with intent to take that relationship further. Not pleasant.

            I met the man in the lobby of the magistrates court in which he was due to appear. He was absolutely repulsive. He flaked dandruff everywhere and poisoned the air around himself. The sheer stink of the man was unbelievable, and that’s not counting his breath. I had to have a conference with him and I nearly died. He had a horrible habit of leaning in whenever he wanted to say something. I developed a symmetrical habit of moving away and twisting, as though to stare pensively out of the room.

            Like so many of these freaks I’ve encountered before, he entirely failed to appreciate the circumstances in which he found himself. He wouldn’t comment sensibly on the allegations against at all. Instead, he repeatedly told me what a tragedy it was that British Rail no longer sent steam trains running along the tracks for him to watch. He lamented that it just wasn’t the seventies anymore.

            In the end I managed to persuade the prosecutor to accept a guilty plea to harassment instead of grooming, which rather saved his bacon and prevented registration on the sex offenders register. I’m not sure how proud I am of that. But still, it’s my job.

            I told Sharona all about it when I got home this evening.

            “It’s amazing,” she said, “you’re amazing. I could never do that. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I wouldn’t want to, just that I couldn’t. Maybe I could come watch you sometime, see you in action?”

            “I’m not sure about that.”

            “Please! Come on! I bet you look amazing in that wig and gown. I bet you’re all sexy and dominating in the court room.”

            “He’s not,” said Ed. “He’s just as much a loser there as anywhere else.” He’d spoken with slight irritation and I felt it was out of turn and unnecessary. Nonetheless I bit my tongue and only frowned slightly.

            “We’ll see,” I said.

            “While you’ve been pricking about shamelessly preventing justice we’ve had all day to get to know one another a little better eh Sharona?”

            I wasn’t entirely sure what he was trying to pull here.

            “Don’t you ever have classes to teach?”

            “Sure, it happens.”

That Strange Man

          Today was Ed’s challenge, but it rather turned out to be mine. I was representing a man accused of murder, but when I say ‘accused’ I really mean ‘guilty’. He had stabbed his previous co-worker over forty times in the middle of a department store in the South of England (for obvious reasons I cannot be more specific). He was completely insane and therefore fitted the Insane Clown Posse challenge perfectly. I was only doing a very early preliminary hearing. His trial (on the issue of insanity) would be conducted by Queen’s Counsel further down the line.

            This morning on the train I began to get cold feet about the whole thing. The plan was for Ed to just hang around at the back of court and then take a moment to talk to the Defendant before the hearing started properly. The problem was that if he did something stupid (which is likely in any circumstances) then I could be brought up before the Disciplinary Committee for associating with him and encouraging activities that bring the profession into disrepute. I told Ed to sit in a different carriage of the train.

            “You’re kidding me.”

            “No, shouldn’t you be at school anyway?”

            “School holidays mate.” He grudgingly trudged off to the next carriage.

            I frowned. School seems so long ago now I can’t even remember when the holidays are.

 

*

 

            In court I donned my wig and gown and proceeded down to the cells below the court. When the guards discovered that I planned to meet the murderer they made me empty out my pockets and hand over absolutely anything that could possibly be used against me. I wasn’t even allowed a pen.

            The cell itself was tiny. There was a little table with two plastic and metal chairs around it. The table and the chairs were all screwed into the floor. My client sat on one side and looked up as I came in, a calm, plain expression on his face. He didn’t look like a murderer. He was only 20. He looked relatively normal, if perhaps a little geeky.

            I’d read his file carefully and discovered that he’d been carefully analysed by psychiatrists. He didn’t regret his actions, indeed he thought that the lady he’d killed would simply go to heaven faster. He, meanwhile, had responsibly taken himself out of society so that he couldn’t be a danger or a burden to those around him. I scarcely knew where to start with the contradictions.

            We spoke for twenty minutes during which period I tried to explain the procedure of the hearing. He was not interested but kept asking which prison he’d be taken to afterwards, and whether or not he’d have access to computer games.

 

*

 

            Once in court I looked about and spotted Ed lurking at the back, dressed in his suit. It was one of his teacher’s suits and it showed; he was plainly no lawyer. At this point I realised my critical error. Because of the severity of the case my client would only be brought into court at the same time as the judge. He’d then be guarded closely throughout the hearing. Ed would never get close.

            The Judge came in, dressed in his red and purple robes (he’s very important). The Defendant was brought in quickly from below the dock. I turned to watch, one eye carefully monitoring Ed. I saw him rise gamely from his seat and sidle up to the dock. I inwardly tensed. This particular Crown Court has open docks (not surrounded by bullet proof glass) so it would be possible for Ed to get right up to him. No one would expect it. I saw Ed lean over and whisper something to my client. I speedily turned around and looked at the Judge, in the hope nothing would happen.

            “What was that? Can I what?” said my client, very loudly.

            “What on Earth is going on?” asked the Judge.

            “I’m sorry Your Worshipfulness,” said Ed, nervously backing away. I cringed. Fortunately the Judge didn’t make anything of it and the hearing proceeded according to plan.

 

*

 

            Afterwards, back down in the cells, I explained the outcome of the hearing to my client. He clearly didn’t care. Curiosity got the better of me and I asked what he’d been asked by That Strange Man.

            “I think he said he wanted to know my favourite song. I wasn’t sure.”

            “How truly singular,” I said. “What would your answer have been?” I added, as though an afterthought.

            “‘Top of the World’ by the Carpenters, there’s nothing to beat it,” he said, gleefully.

Honest Back Slapping

          This morning I was sent to Wycombe Magistrates Court. As I walked in the door my heart was in my mouth, fearing I might see the officer that found me in the early hours a couple of weeks ago. I can’t believe I was so stupid, risking so much over a bit of heartache.

            I was representing a young teenager accused of Grievous Bodily Harm. There was another young lad standing trial with him and he was represented by Jim, another barrister in my Chambers a few years ahead of me. On the train on the way up Jim pointed out that the only link between our boys and the assault was the report of a woman who claimed she had seen them out of her window. This same woman was the mother of the original prime suspect in the case. Her boy had originally been accused but his mother said he was with her the entire night and that she’d seen who’d really done it. Meanwhile, our boys had been interviewed and protested complete ignorance of the situation. The victim himself didn’t know much about it, having been attacked while staggering drunkenly down a dark alley.

            Sure enough Jim tore the case to shreds even as it began. Half way through the case, before either of our boys even had to give evidence, Jim invited the magistrates to dismiss the case and they did. I had barely said a word.

            I walked out of court and explained the result to my boys family and they were positively ecstatic.

            “It was nothing,” I said, “honestly.”

            This elicited a further round of back slapping and praise singing.

            I’m really beginning to like this job.

Can you Convince me of Certain Matters?

          Amongst my ‘real’ work I’ve slowly developed a bit of a practice in privately paid driving cases. I don’t enjoy the work at all but irritatingly I keep winning, so the solicitors keep giving me more.

            Today I went to Bicester Magistrates Court to represent a business man accused of, God forbid, speeding. As usual I had a selection of technical defences that the solicitors had conjured up for me. Unusually I actually had one of the solicitors there to watch me and speak to the client.

            “They sent me down from the office,” she said, referring to the solicitor’s office in Manchester, “to see how you do it.”

            “Well,” I said, slightly bashful at the implications, “I just do what you tell me to.”

            “Listen to him!” she said to my client, who was sitting by our side. “To hear him you wouldn’t think he’d won 34 cases in a row for us would you?”

            “I don’t know if it’s quite that many.” I said, concerned at the pressure mounting on the present case.

            “It is!” she said. “We have a little statute in the corner of the office that someone built for you. We keep adding little mementos to it every time you win. There are 34 of them.”

            “How extraordinary!” said my client, “I’m glad to know I’m in the hands of the best of them!”

            I smiled.

            At this moment the prosecutor came around the corner and asked me for a word. I excused myself and joined him in a conference room.

            “Listen,” he said, “it seems to me we’ve got a few problems with our case. One of our officers isn’t turning up, and between you and me, we’ve had a few problems with the laser devices in this area. If you were able to convince me then I might just be able to drop the case.”

            “Consider yourself convinced,” I said. A prosecutor can’t just drop a case in court, but if he can refer to discussions with Counsel for the defence that have drawn his attention to certain matters then, well, that’s another thing.

            “Thanks,” he replied, laughing.

            I walked back outside to the waiting area and approached my client and solicitor nonchalantly.

            “The prosecutor is going to drop the case,” I said.

            “What?” said the two of them in chorus.

            “He’s agreed that the evidence against you is insufficient.”

            “How do you do it?” asked my solicitor in amazement.

            “It was nothing, honestly. Just luck, that’s all.”

            “35 cases in a row is nothing to do with luck Mr. Evans,” she said. “I only wish I’d been in there to watch the magic happen!”

            “Thanks,” said my client, “honestly, thanks. You really have saved my bacon.”

            Sometimes this job can be so amusing. The flipside, however, is that when things go wrong for equally chance reasons you get all the blame.

           

*

 

            No text from the girl at the bus stop yet.

Elizabeth

          This morning I had to go to Oxford Magistrates Court to deal with a crazy man. My clerks think this is all very funny. This man was something else. He had parked outside a church in a restricted car park. A little old lady came out and told him he had to move but he wasn’t having it. He claimed he went to church there every Sunday and had a right to park there. The little old lady (vicar’s wife) insisted he leave. He started yelling and swearing at her in the street and several people called the police.

            I took him through this account in conference before I went into court. I wanted to know why we were fighting a trial. I wondered what possible defence he could have.

            “So you admit you swore at the lady then?” I said, once he’d told the story.

            “Yes, but I had permission.”

            “I see. Whose permission did you have?”

            “The trains.”

            “What? The… trains?”

            “Yes, trains. They aren’t the way they used to be. I like the old 70s BR carriages best myself.”

            “Right. Er…”

            “They’re going to bring out a carriage in that old style soon, for a one off trip across the country.” He smiled. “I hope I can be on it!”

            “I hope so too. Now, about the old lady.”

            “Don’t ask me about her. I’m reporting her to Elizabeth.”

            “Who?”

            “Elizabeth.”

            “Who’s that?”

            “Elizabeth, man.”

            “Yes, but how can she help, why would you report the vicar’s wife to her?”

            “She’s the Queen, man. Don’t you youngsters know anything anymore?”

            “Right. Er…” I paused, unsure how to deal with the matter. “George, do you know where you are right now?”

            “Yes, I’m in one of Elizabeth’s courts.”

            “That’s right. Do you understand why?”

            “Yes. I’m going to have my chance to report that woman to Elizabeth.”

            “No, George. Elizabeth isn’t here, and you’re on trial for verbally abusing the little old lady.”

            He caught my eye suddenly, “She’ll listen,” he said. “Sometimes I see things in the dark.”

            “What? I didn’t quite catch that last bit.”

            “I see things. I see them best when my eyes are closed. I see them on the underside of my eyelids.”

            “What sort of things George? No! Wait. I don’t think I want to know. Just let me explain. You’ve told me you admit abusing the old lady, so you have to plead guilty.”

            “It doesn’t matter. I’ll see things. I’ll explain. I’ll see Elizabeth and explain. She knows. She can see things too.”

 

            We went into court after another ten minutes of this and were heard by a male District Judge. The situation came fully to light after about five minutes and he did not take kindly to it, apparently placing the blame for my client’s insanity on me. It became all the worse when my client started addressing him as ‘Elizabeth’ even after several increasingly severe warnings.

            He was found guilty and ordered to attend the nearest mental health centre for a full assessment.

 

*

 

            I sometimes wonder if insanity might be blissful oblivion.

            I fear it might rather be a permanent bad trip.

            But who can really choose? It’s not as though we have any choice. It could happen to any one of us, whether we live conventionally or not.

Whose Blood is that Sir?

          I’ve been so stupid.

            Last night I was a mess. Before leaving the internet café I logged onto an online poker site to try to take my mind off everything. Before I knew it I’d lost several hundred pounds and finished the first bottle of ginger wine. I staggered out into the night.

            I walked. And walked.

            I think I almost made it as far as High Wycombe, all the way from Oxford. I remember flashes of walking along the side of the motorway. So cold, so lonely. Everything was a blur. I remember nearly slipping onto the road. I remember nearly letting it happen.

            The next thing I knew I had a light shining in my eyes. I came to, dazed. I had a broken bottle in one hand. I was still wearing my suit from court the day before but it was all muddy.  I was stubbled, drunk and stinking. My shoes were completely fucked. It must’ve been about 4am.

            The light was coming from a police woman’s torch. At the combination of sights I leapt to my feet in confused alarm.

            “It’s okay,” said the officer, “I’m a police officer.”

            “Okay,” I said, “okay.” I was breathing hard.

            “Please put the bottle down sir.”

            I stared vacantly at the bottle in my hand for several moments, trying to understand my circumstances.

            “Am I in trouble?”

            “That depends, sir. What have you done?”

            Consciousness was beginning to assert itself in my head. I thought of telling the officer that her question was in breach of Code C.10.1 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act Codes of Practice for officers. I decided this would not assist.

            “I… I don’t think I’ve done anything. I was drunk… in Oxford. Where am I?”

            “Whose blood is that sir?”

            I looked down at myself. I was covered in blood. I gasped. “Shit!” I said.

            “Sir, please answer the question. Whose blood is it?”

            I gazed slowly at myself and then, for the first time, began to feel pain. The pain came from my palm, currently clenched into a fist. I unclenched it and saw a gouge straight across the middle. My skin was stained and sticky with old and new blood. I looked up and saw that the officer was watching me. I looked at my other hand and saw the bottle again. This time I noticed it was broken at the neck and stained with blood.

            “I see,” said the officer.

            She took me back to the station and bandaged my hand for me. I was interviewed about my activities the night before ‘just for the record’. I had to give my name. I was tempted to lie but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was so ashamed of my state. The officer typed my name into a computer and checked the Police National Computer for my record. I held my breath. Of course, I don’t have a criminal record, but the whole situation made me nervous. I was released back to the train station in High Wycombe, relieved but rotten to the depths of my soul. If I have one.

 

*

 

            “Where the hell have you been sir?”

            My clerks were calling, precisely two minutes after I’d plugged my phone in for re-charging, safely back at home. I hadn’t even cleaned up.

            “Ughh,” I said, not having to try hard at all to sound sick. “I’m sorry, I’m so ill.”

            “Good night was it sir?”

            “God damn it, no!” I put the phone down and dashed to bathroom to throw up.

           

It’s a fucking Wednesday. What’s happening to me?

           

*

 

            I slept for twenty minutes before Ed came into my room loudly and woke me up again. I groaned sorely.

            “Good to have you back, Evans. Been out Chick-Slaying have you?”

            I groaned again. “Shouldn’t you be teaching?”

            “Free period mate.”

            He looked at me with mocking amusement. I couldn’t decide whether to tell him about my night or not. I rubbed my index finger into my palm lightly and winced. Ed shook his head and left me to go back to sleep.

Tedious, Coded

          Today was one of the more tedious days of my career. To catch the aforementioned tree-surgeon fakers the police had conducted weeks of surveillance. This comprised hours of taped phone calls and meaningless video. The crooks had been smart enough to discuss their activities in code. It was my job to go through all this material and make a schedule setting out everything of any note whatsoever. It’s almost eleven at night now and I’m about ready to finish for the night. It’s going to be a miserable weekend!

Not Lacking in Principle

            Neurolinguistic Programming (NLP) seems like a lot of dangerous fun. I’ve been reading a book on it. If it’s half as successful as it claims to be then it’s difficult to see why all barristers don’t use it. It’s all about putting ideas into people’s heads and persuading them to think in one manner or another. And that’s my job!