Questions Bloody Questions

All was peace and calm at Dulux Towers, preparing Seed Sensation toast, two slices, and a couple of boiled eggs for a gentle breakfast before another round of slapping and nicking cases at the Coryton Palais de Justice. The quiet only corrupted by mumblings of the BBC Breakfast Show and a coughing pigeon. The recognised clatter of the letter box disturbs my reverie and drew me away from the vision, and my thoughts, of Ms Carol of Kirkwood, oh how I have gained such an interest in warm fronts and other such meteorological terms in recent years. I face the usual bundle of envelopes comprising bills, congratulations from the pen of a direct seller as to my potential winnings, if I were to subscribe to “What” immediately, and the Law Society Gazette. The Gazette is required reading for all those who haven’t kept up with the legal news online or thinking of sideways shifting their employment situation. Then the discomfort hit home, a crisp white envelope with handwriting, I recognise as, belonging to Delores Watson. I didn’t have to open the envelope to know what was contained inside; it was that time of the year again.

Mrs Watson’s highlight of the year was to invite a “select” group of guests to her bonfire night soiree. An evening billed as full of merriment which consisted of a pathetic bonfire near the compost heap, a few supermarket fireworks then drinks and a finger buffet. Each year I always feel obliged to accept her invitation though, by the 6^th of November I promise myself “never again”. These events are tedious in the extreme full of small talk and feet itching to get the hell out. There was the single highlight, once, of Percy Watson, Mrs Watson’s then 15 year old son who vomited into the fish pond having liberated a bottle of red plonk from the drinks cabinet earlier that evening. Concealed mirth vied with shaking of heads and uttered words of concern as to young Percy’s welfare. Mrs Watson was mortified but assured the assembled guests that the incident was fault of a nasty dose of salmonella connected with a meal of chicken and cashew from the local takeaway. The events of that night kept chattering tongues busy at WI meetings in the scout hut in South Coryton for weeks after, giving much relief to Mrs Delaware, whose son was sent down from Oxford within days of the new term, rumours of an incident with a barmaid had failed to be confirmed. In any event the focus shifted from Master Delaware to Master Watson for a while.

It’s not the repeat attendees that fill me with dread, its Mrs Watson’s efforts to introduce fresh blood on the guest list each year. It’s these that I wish to avoid. You may think that the chance of meeting new, potentially interesting, people may the very reason why I should RSVP with unbridled confirmation. However I am a lawyer and, worse still, a defender of those suspected of criminal offences as such I am a target.

If you are ever to clink glasses with me at the annual torture fest I ask you, nicely at first, not to invite me to espouse legal pronouncements as to your various legal problems. I really don’t want to go into the concept of self help when dealing with your neighbour’s leylandii trees nor consider attacking a will made by your maternal grandmother who departed some three years previously. Firstly, I don’t ask you to open up shop and pop round to Dulux Towers to fix that annoying drip in the bathroom sink, nor instantly shin up a ladder to install a satellite dish. I recognise that not only don’t you want to work for free but are here to socialise not ply your trade so why should I? Additionally I, quite often, won’t know the answer to your particular point so don’t ask me to apply s25 Matrimonial Causes Act 1973 to your situation, get yourself off to a divorce lawyer and even pay the fees, he will tell you whether you are entitled to contact with the family moggie or not; advice to go for a 50/50 division, lengthwise, was not happily accepted.

The sin of all sins is to ask me the trite question “What happens if you know they did it?”, the question can take various forms but the answer is always the same. Perhaps I ought to prepare a typed sheet and hand it out each time it is asked. If I did, it would be along these lines:

“I represent a client; I am not the decider of fact that is a matter for a Jury or Magistrate. The client gives me instructions and I help him to get his side over in Court. Part of my role is to advise as to the strength of evidence; if it is strong I say so. Even with overwhelming evidence, if the client still denies the offence, I will continue defending him in the hope that there is an acquittal.

If the client admits the offence then the situation changes; I will not allow him to give evidence protesting innocence, which would entail misleading the Court. I would be able to test the prosecution case to make sure there is enough to convict and I would look for any gaps in the evidence, it’s what I do. If the client wants me to forget that he admitted the offence so he can perjure himself or get me to mislead the Court, I will decline and invite him to seek alternative representation. I would have already advised as to the credit he would obtain when being sentenced after a Guilty plea.

As for why I represent alleged murders, muggers of old ladies, abusers etc,. All suspects are entitled to a defence/representation. If society picks and chooses who is represented then we are commencing along a slippery path that I would not like to travel.

Loopholes you ask? Yes I look for them, it is my job, I will look for gaps in evidence and lacunas in the law and use them to the best of my ability and go as far as my professional ethics allow.”

Now where was I? Ah yes breakfast. Now, having been distracted, I am off to feast on burnt toast, 2 slices, and hard boiled eggs.  I must remember to post my RSVP acceptance on the way to court.

My Coryton not yours

As mentioned above Coryton is a borough in a metropolis. As such it can not be confused with any Coryton that is not in a borough within a metropolis. People of Essex this is not your Coryton. My Coryton is elsewhere, if it exists at all of course.

Welcome to Coryton

Hello and welcome to Coryton, this is where I live and practise my profession. Perhaps I should introduce myself first, Lancelot Dulux, a Criminal Defence lawyer. Enough about that as you will find out more about me what I do as the blog progresses.

Coryton is a largish borough in a very large metropolis somewhere in the UK. It is a microcosm of the land as a whole; it has, like the curate’s egg, good bits and bad. Entering the borough from the South you will find yourself surrounded by leafy streets with leafier front drives before the houses and leafier still gardens. An affluent middle class island with the standard nuclear families, double garages and just manageable mortgages. Nothing much happens here which catches the eye of the local men in blue. True, there is the odd “domestic” i.e. a spat between family members, usually partners of varying seriousness. There is always a smattering of offences wherever you are, just not many here. However all is not bad news as we have more of Coryton to discover.

I say “bad news” when describing the lack of criminal activity as many people who fire the economy rely on others being kind enough to commit crime and dance along with the circus we call the Criminal Justice System. Without crime and criminals there would be, amongst others, less police officers, magistrates, probation officers and, more importantly, no need for defence lawyers. These people spend money and support local traders, keep away from benefit queues and generally keep themselves to themselves, appearing in various rings of the aforementioned circus.

Moving away from the South let’s visit the centre of Coryton, a large shopping area with pedestrianised areas allowing for ease of fulfilling your prescription for shopping therapy. A veritable temple to Mammon, small shops, big shops, department stores, banks, cafe’s etc.. A wonderfully fertile field for criminal enterprise. Here crime takes on many guises. Shoplifting by the hungry, needy and greedy. Fraud of many variations. Violence is also an ever present, maybe at one of borough centre’s pubs and other watering holes has served that five drinks to many to a nasty drunk or the local gang is flexing its muscles around the meeting point at McBurgers.

So, I hear you not asking, where do all these people come from that populate the shopping area? Well, reader, some from the South of the borough, who fill up their car boots with legitimately sourced products, return home and pull up the metaphorical drawbridge, they are not the issue. Coryton is, as mentioned earlier, a large borough with many politically drawn wards. Many of these are not as leafy as the South, some only have trees to as a place to allow the pit bull to have a rest and lift its leg. Perhaps one of the wards of note is Crudington.

Crudington is a “new” estate in the borough, purpose built council housing. A place that seemed to be a target to drop dysfunctional families from other parts of the metropolis. Here live all sorts of people. There are those that struggle day to day to earn an honest crust and are what would some describe as the “salt of the earth”, these are in the majority perhaps. The ward also has more than its fair share of those who feel that a life on innocence is not for them. A hotch pot of car thieves, druggies (takers and dealers), angry young men are some that inhabit the area.

This is only a very small pen picture of my stamping ground, more will follow. In the meanwhile this is Coryton and you are welcome to it.

PS it gets better, maybe