The last two days were a new experience. When I moved to London six
months ago I had promised myself that I would visit one of the
numerous courts within walking distance of where I live, and when I
heard about Open Justice Week I saw the perfect opportunity to
finally do so.
Despite sailing
through my court reporting exam, passing my 100 word per minute
shorthand exam and – ostensibly – being qualified for what I was
about to do, I had never actually set foot in court. I had never
applied any of this to a real situation.
I don’t really
know where the court is back home, in Middlesbrough, but it’s hard
to miss court buildings in London – particularly the Royal Courts
of Justice, the first that I visited. This colossus of Gothic
architecture rises imposingly out of The Strand, with its huge arches
and spires towering above the end of Fleet Street.
My most direct
experience of the dark, intimidating main entrance had always been on
television. Having seen people emerge into a swarm of cameras and
journalists had done little to educate me about how things actually
work there, however. It took me a while to overcome my apprehension
and persuade myself that, yes, this was also the door that I was
supposed to use and that, yes, I was allowed to do so.
After taking the
plunge I emerged into the vast great hall and onto an ornate marble
floor that stretched into the distance. The entire building was as
ostentatious as it appeared from the outside, but once I had passed
through the security gates I realised, as families and school
children began to pass by, that everything was probably going to be
ok. It was hard to tell where to go next from the cause lists on
display, given my difficulty in making sense of the limited
information available, but the lady at the information desk suggested
I should either go to courts one to nine to see a criminal case, or
court 73 for the Leveson Inquiry. Still feeling a little overwhelmed
I settled for the more straightforward option, and headed for court
73.
After bumbling
around the rabbit warren of corridors, pretending I knew where I was
going and trying to veil my ignorance by looking as confident as
possible, I eventually found the place. It got easier as I got closer
to the gaggle of journalists hovering outside, and it also became
clear that we weren’t all going to fit inside the courtroom. I
opted to head for the annex, the glorified tent in the car park into
which proceedings were being beamed via a multitude of enormous
plasma screens. On my way down I had a chance encounter with Lord
Leveson himself, who didn’t seem too impressed by the slightly
sweaty, bearded man ambling down the stairs towards him.
Simon Hughes MP was
giving evidence, discussing an intrusion into his private life by
journalists working for The Sun. He told the inquiry that in 2006,
when he was favourite to become the next leader of the Liberal
Democrats, The Sun had managed to get hold of his mobile phone
records, and with them evidence of calls to a gay chat line. The
sequence of events led, he said, to him becoming the 4-1 outsider in
the race. I would later spot the story in The Evening Standard, and
it became one of the main talking points from the day’s
proceedings.
By the time I had
settled into my surroundings I realised that, as the Leveson Inquiry
is broadcast live to the public anyway, I should probably try and
find some proceedings that were a little less accessible. I made my
way back into the main building and up the stone steps to the first
floor, where criminal hearings were taking place, passing by
portraits of stern looking old men in wigs and the occasional suit of
armour. It was reasonably intimidating to me, so I can only imagine
how it must feel for those people whose visit is motivated by
something more pressing than idle curiosity – appealing a criminal
conviction, say.
Unfortunately more
or less the only proceedings still running by this stage concerned an
application that was subject to reporting restrictions. A quick
search for section 71 of the Criminal Justice Act 2003 on my phone (I
decided to leave my hefty copy of McNae’s, the court reporting
bible, at home) led me to the conclusion that, whilst the case might
be very interesting, I wouldn’t be able to say anything about it
later.
I decided I might as
well make the short trip down Fleet Street to the Old Bailey. I
wasn’t planning on going until the next day, but it was only a
short walk. Upon my arrival I quickly discovered that I couldn’t
take my mobile phone inside, even if it was switched off, so decided
to stick to my plan and return the next day. It wasn’t until later
that I was told about a café who will look after your phone for £1,
but given my lack of familiarity, and the probable willingness of
many Londoners to ‘look after’ my phone for £1, I think it was
probably for the best that I didn’t start asking around in the
nearby greasy spoons.
I returned bright
and early the next day and, to my surprise, joined the back of a long
queue for the public galleries. I waited for half an hour whilst the
two security staff thoroughly searched people one by one, and family
members rushed up the stairs to the front of the queue. Three of the
schoolchildren in front had to be turned back after their phones –
and one calculator – were discovered.
Eventually it was
decided that the public galleries were full, and that everybody who
wasn’t a family member would now have to go and see if there was
still space in courts one to four. I did so, got straight in and went
up the stairs to the galleries, where I asked the guards which courts
were sitting. I chose court four, a drugs trial, and quietly opened
the door to take my seat. This wasn’t easy, because more or less
the entire courtroom was constructed of ancient oak that creaked in
response to the slightest of movement.
I had already missed
the start of proceedings, so was unable to get the defendant’s
address and had little information to go on. Because of this I won’t
be naming the defendant here, lest I risk defaming somebody. As I
settled down the only noises coming from below were the
stenographer’s quiet tapping and the booming, accusatory tones of
the prosecution counsel, who was questioning the defendant. This
alternated with the friendlier voice of the defence counsel, and the
considered, drawling tone of the judge’s interjections as
proceedings continued.
To my surprise, the
proceedings were not particularly difficult to follow. The defendant
was accused of knowingly importing £215,000 worth of cocaine on a
flight from Barbados. He had been identified by a drug detection dog
at Gatwick airport, where he was found to have more than 3kg of
cocaine hidden in three suitcases. His defence was that he did not do
so knowingly, because he was under the impression that he was
transporting either cash or gold on behalf of a close friend who had
asked him to do so. He said he had been promised between £2,000 and
£3,000 in return, which he planned to use to pay for a personal
training course.
The proceedings
ambled along at a relatively sedate pace, punctuated by the
schoolchildren who sidled in and out, and pausing only when the jury
was asked to rise briefly so that counsel could speak with the judge.
After a few hours I quietly retreated out of the courtroom and made
my way back outside into the throbbing noise on the streets of
London. I would have liked to stay longer, but I had exhausted the
time I had available.
My two days in court
had been an extremely interesting experience, once I had overcome my
apprehensions. The Old Bailey had seemed more accessible than the
Royal Courts of Justice, perhaps because the inside of the building
itself is much less extravagant than the one I had visited the day
before. It could equally have been that I had a day’s worth of
experience behind me, or it could have been that I actually got to
see a proper drugs trial.
Regardless, this had
been a valuable insight into the world beyond what is normally
portrayed by the ranks of cameras positioned at the entrance. As
I made my way past them, wondering who they were waiting to pounce
upon, I was quietly satisfied that I had now undertaken my first
foray into court reporting. Admittedly there still seem to be
16-year-olds with more experience of court than me, but we all have
to start somewhere.
Copyright remains with the author.
