Of Cabbages and the Court

It was the second day of the patent trial my husband will testify in, so this morning I went as an observer.

Our only photo of the front of the Royal Courts of Justice.

The Royal Court of Justice fronts onto The Strand in London. It's a huge building, covering almost an entire city block. With it's Neo-Gothic arches and spires, it's almost cathedral-like, and you fell nearly compelled to confess to anything just walking into it.

But for the security check point just inside, you might imagine you were inside a church. This front hall is wide, with high vaulted ceilings. Marble memorials to justices past line the hall, with oil portraits of other judges glaring down at you from higher up, red robes and full-bottomed (shoulder length) white wigs showing their office.

Up a wide flight of stairs you find a display of judicial regalia from the past. In one case is a judge's robe from 1781, making it the oldest known robe in existence according to the accompanying description. Very impressive indeed, it is made of black silk velvet, with gold lace, and a long white wig. The description notes that it was "accepted in lieu of inheritance tax."

Another robe is red velvet, with a short ermine cape, this one was obviously for high ceremonies. Other robes resemble those of a catholic or Anglican priest, with red or purple hoods hanging down the back. There is a three cornered judge's hat, with black cockade. Black shoes with large cut steel buckles complete a Victorian judge's ensemble.

I find the court room where my husband is to testify and go inside. The courtroom is small, and tiered, a bit like a tiny arena or theater. The walls are paneled in quartersawn oak up to the height of a normal ceiling, and then there is a stone upper arcade. High up the windows are leaded glass with pointed tops. A very large skylight pierces the dark oak ceiling. The two side walls are covered in tall oak bookcases stuffed with row upon row of legal tomes in suites of matching bindings. The peculiar claustrophobic sensation specific to Victorian architecture pervades the space. A library ladder stands ready.

Amid all the dark imposing Victorian finery, a few concessions to modernity stand out. Several microphones dangle from cords stretched across the width of the room. Signs request that you turn off your cellphone, take no photos, and use no mechanical means of recording. A wide piece of packing tape adhered to the elegant molding of the judges' bench holds the docket microphone at and advantageous angle.

The Judge's bench is forward, higher than the rest of the room. An oak canopy overhangs it, and a set of large paneled doors partially covered by a green velvet curtain lead into the judge's chambers. Under his bench is the desk of his clerks, who each wear their own black robes. To the judge's left, and a little lower, is the docket box from where testimony is given.

Barristers and lawyers come in singly and in small groups. You can tell them apart because the barristers are the ones in black morning coats with tails, and vests. They wear white swallow tail collars, like a parson in a Jane Austen film. Some enter already wearing the black robe that goes over their suits, while others carry them, along with their white wigs. They deposit stacks of binders tied into bundles with red tape on their table.

Historically, the robes were once brighter, and heavier. But when King Charles II died, black robes were adopted in mourning. Finding the new robes much more comfortable and affordable, the barristers refused to go back.

The barristers are the stars of the show. They are charismatic men and women who inspire respect, and a touch of jealousy in the lawyers who work beneath them.

A stack of documents tied with red (pink) tape can be seen in the window of a barrister's office.

The courtroom is arranged like this: Between the two rear exits there are three long benches for observers and lesser court staff. In front of these are three long tables, ranked one behind another where the barristers and lawyers sit. As an American I expected to see a table each for the prosecution and the defense, on opposite sides of an aisle. But here the only division between prosecution and defense is a "great wall of China" built over the long tables, and up and over the long benches behind them as well. Composed of boxes full of thick binders, each thick with documents which are evidence in the case, this great wall is deconstructed at the end of each business day, and then re-erected each morning by clerks. Sitting at the table, the barristers and lawyers will not be able to see their opponents for the wall of boxes between them.

At some point I realize how conspicuous my rumpled off-white linen jacket must be in the crowd of black and charcoal suit jackets. I take a seat at the very end of the last bench.

As the commencement of their work day nears the barristers don their robes, and wigs. The first witness assumes his place in the docket, and I imagine how nervous he might be waiting for the judge to enter.

Exactly at 10:30AM a blond woman in a black robe (whom I had noticed earlier at the table under the judge's bench) comes in from the chamber doors, and says in an almost conversational tone "All rise." We do so as the judge enters. He's a small man in a big black robe with red at his lapels, his balding head not covered by a wig. We all bow, the practiced lawyers and barristers managing to do so even as they take their seats.

We're barely back in our seats before the defenses' lead barrister begins to grill the prosecution witness without further ceremony or preamble. It's almost as though the conversation is continuing from moments before rather than yesterday. His voice is quiet, a bit hard to distinguish sometimes with the clatter in the hall outside as other courts get down to business. He has a proper Queen's English accent. From time to time, in full flight of a complicated multi-part question, he reaches up and adjusts his wig slightly, never hesitating in his speech. There is no pacing, or emphatic gesticulating; only a quiet man standing in place, as he delicately picks apart his opponents' evidence, word by word, phrase by phrase. The only other sounds are of papers shuffling as passages are sited for consideration, and the occasional creaking and popping of the old wooden benches. I can see over the shoulder of the men in front of me as they share copies of documents, heavily marked with notes and coffee stains.

At one point a woman enters the court quietly. She wears a flamboyant pile of curls on her head, and a subtly sage suit that seems almost colorful here amid the sea of black. She sits quietly for a while next to a judge's assistant whose shiny bald head is set off by a pair of black earphones. Presently she leaves again, as quietly as she came, giving a small bow toward the bench on her way out.

From my corner, I can only make out the barrister's wig over the great wall of boxes, and sometimes occasionally I catch a glimpse of the side of his face. He might be a preternaturally intelligent cauliflower with only the white wig to be seen bobbing about on his dark head. And as much as I understand of the minutiae he is sifting, I might be no more than an ordinarily endowed cabbage! I notice that the numbers "1939" have been deeply scratched into the back of the bench in front if me, and imagine someone sitting just where I am seventy years earlier.

At one point the defense barrister asks the witness if there are any "scientific or technical terms"that need defining in the document they are parsing. When the witness answers for a second time that he doesn't think so, the judge interjects that the question might be more for his benefit, and a low chuckle rises from the audience. At another point the barrister asks the witness if something "is not only common sense?" The witness pauses, as though considering that he may have just been slightly insulted, and the large dark Victorian clock on the wall can be heard ticking loudly in the sudden momentary silence.

Comments

[Robin]

SO. COOL. I loved reading your word-painting, Pamela! I'm very taken with the "red" tape picture. I never knew the derivation of that term. Awesome.

[Ariel]

Your writing painted the picture almost as well as if I was watching a movie of the proceedings. It's an interesting reminder of how "foreign" even an English place can be.

[Pamela Farmer]

Robin, I love the red tape picture even though it was mostly shear luck. It's like a little hole in time, where we can peak into the past, isn't it?

Ariel, yes, foreign, steeped in tradition and absolutely fascinating.