Second-hand hearsay

Stories from the depths ... Café life for Junior Junior as she soaks up the tittle-tattle and innuendo ... Channelling F.E. Smith, Birkett and Marshall Hall ... The story must be true if told by another barrister 

The bar provides its members with an endless supply of gossip, rumour, slander, and scuttlebutt. 

I find myself craning over café tables, trying not to knock over my coffee as I lap-up the details of what happened to so-and-so, whichever floor is in dire straights for whatever reason, and who said what to which judge.

Perhaps the inordinate amount of time I spend in cafés is an indictment of my practice. 

Let's not dwell on that. Instead, why don't we have a seat? Yes, that table's fine. Have you ordered? Oh, a long black for me. And a muffin. And while we wait for that, I have such a good story for you. I heard it from so-and-so. 

*   *   * 

Madam Crown is wearing a very pained expression and the reason is not entirely clear. 

She paces behind the bar table before sitting, adjusting her wig, standing, pacing again. The accused studies her from the box, puzzled. Maybe this is a good sign, he thinks. Maybe my barrister has got her on the ropes. 

A knock.

His Honour wafts over to the bench like a novelty balloon struggling to stay afloat. He sees the pained expression on Madam Crown's face. He barely reaches his chair before asking the question.  

"Madam Crown? Something the matter?"

"Well ... well, yes. I'm not entirely sure how to put this ... Something has just occurred outside court which ... to be perfectly honest I don't really understand ..."

His Honour leans over the bench, his Ede & Ravenscroft angling towards her.

"Well - just spit it out, would you?" 

"Look. I was having a discussion with my learned friend outside court, and he mentioned some of the matters he intends to raise before the jury in his closing address."

"Well that's really a matter for him, isn't it?"

"It is, your Honour. It's just that, well, he told me that he doesn't intend to make any submissions regarding the case. In fact, he wants to tell the jury that the law is, for lack of a better word 'stupid', and that they shouldn't enforce it. I believe he wants to tell them that the politicians that made the law are ..."

"He said what?!" 

"... idiots."

Madam Crown slumps down in her chair. She needs a drink.

The learned friend to which Madam Crown refers is a young barrister who has found himself suddenly with the judge's full attention. We shall call him Mr Downing. 

"Is this true?" his Honour splutters. Mr Downing tries to rise to his feet, but is momentarily detained by robes lodged underneath the wheels of his chair. He falls back, then spends several seconds trying to tug his robes free. He is successful on the third attempt and mumbles that it is, indeed, true.

The judge closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. In great detail he explains to Mr Downing that he cannot tell the jury that the law is 'stupid'. With great patience, he assists the young barrister in understanding the respective roles of both judge and jury. The thesis coming to a close, he asks Mr Downing if the remarks have been understood. 

"And you're not going to tell the jury that the law is stupid, are you, Mr Downing?"

"No, your Honour."

The jury take their seats. Mr Downing rises to address them. 

He arches back, thumbs in his bar jacket. He knows he is on the cusp of an oratorio that will stand proudly alongside remarks of the greatest minds of the bar. He briefly ponders with which hand to gesture. The left hand, he decides. It is his gesturing hand, after all.

In his mind's eye he sees F.E. Smith, standing before the House of Commons in 1906, making his maiden address. 

He sees Birkett, Erskine, Marshall Hall. 

He breathes in the centuries of tradition. 

He ignores the sound of Madam Crown quietly sobbing at the bar table. 

He begins.  

"We have a separation of powers in this country."

Mr Downing pauses for effect, looking at each member of the jury, allowing the statement to sink in. 

"What that means, ladies and gentlemen, is this. The judge cannot tell you what the law is."

There is a soft clatter from the bench as the judge drops his pencil. In hindsight, this was perhaps where His Honour should have cut the submissions short. 

"You have to decide the law for yourselves. And the law in this case, ladies and gentlemen, is stupid. You shouldn't apply it. In fact, you should send a message to those idiots on Macquarie St. Tell them you won't apply a law as stupid as this one."

*   *   *

By the way, I swear this all happened. I heard it in a café, after all.