knew that was why I gave him work.
Danny Bishop–nice guy shame about the face. He was scarred from his cheek to his chin. Legend had it that he went out with his client’s girlfriend and was offered the choice–his balls or his face. Most people knew that although he had chosen the latter, the experience had taken his balls anyway.
The trainee was following him, smart-suited and relatively eager, she wasn’t to know that they all looked the same to me; even the ones who were pretty much my own age.
Trailing up the rear, both physically and metaphorically, was David Bannatyne. He had his own firm until he left his wife and developed a habit of picking up young men and taking them home only to find that they had loaded his gear into his car and driven off into the sunset without him.
These were my Ronin, the ones who were going to save the day. In spite of their personal problems, if you could actually get them into court, they had a flair not often found in the more clerical amongst us.
They perched their backsides on any available ledge and looked at me expectantly. As was usual, Lavender handed out the coffee before I dispatched the files and instructions for the day’s work. I started with the trainee.
‘HMA v Marjorie Pirie; it’s a High Court trial. Donnie Dunlop has already been instructed and he appeared on the last date in court–it was continued from the fifth of June because a crucial prosecution witness went into premature labour. It’s straightforward. Just do exactly as counsel tells you and don’t bad mouth the judges to the client.’
‘Why would I do that?’ the youngster protested.
‘A friend of mine agreed with a divorce client that the Sheriff was a bastard for giving his wife an interim aliment settlement of £250 per week.’
‘So?’
David Bannatyne shook his head and got up to refill his coffee.
‘Have you never heard of murmuring a judge?’ he asked.
The bemused trainee shook her head.
‘Well, it’s a criminal offence–a judge can say anything they want to you, but if you make any smart remarks back, inside court you’ll get done for contempt, outside court, it’s called murmuring.’
‘Thanks, David–I’ve put you down for the jury trial. It’s on the list for today but it’s unlikely to start. I think, as usual, they will have a number that will plead. This won’t–inside the file I’ve put a list of recent cases. Andy Gilmore was stopped by police–they searched his car because it was messy with CDs–and they thought the CDs were stolen. In the course of the search they discovered cocaine–it was an illegal search because it’s arguable that they didn’t have justifiable cause to stop and search in the first instance.’
‘Cheers, Brodie–take it you thought I was the man for this case because I could argue that my car is messy?’ He pulled the file from my outstretched hands–a smile curled round his lips.
‘What am I doing today?’
Danny Bishop looked tired, he was in his early fifties and, although the scar had faded, time was pulling the left side of his face down faster than the right giving him an odd lopsided grin.
‘A two cop breach–in the district court.’
‘Cheers.’
I turned to face Robert Girvan who was looking at me expectantly.
‘You’re going to be watching my back in Edinburgh-Sheriff court–I’m covering the custodies.’
He looked at me as if to question whether that was everything–I knew that I should warn him that all hell could break loose around me, but somehow I couldn’t find the words.
‘The two summary trials are pretty straightforward. Smile at the fiscal and see if you can get them both put in the same court. One is a breach of the peace. My client assures me the witnesses won’t turn up.’
Robert winked at me. ‘That’s the kind of trial I like.’
He liked it because I still paid him for a full day in court.
‘And the other?’ He waited with interest.
‘The other one is solicitation–Maggie Jones giving a client a blow job in his car.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Brodie, why are we taking this to trial?’
A grimace flickered across his face. I hadn’t fancied doing this trial either but Maggie was a ‘good client’, namely she was a heroin addict who did anything and everything to fund her habit. Repeat business was always handy.
‘Okay, Brodie, tell me the defence to this one–please don’t say it was because she didn’t swallow.’
Our humour at anytime of the day is black or lavatorial–preferably both.
‘No, it’s not–better than that, Rob. The arresting officer didn’t see any money change hands–so our argument is that she wasn’t soliciting, she was doing it for fun.’
‘Terrific–at this point I’d like to state it’s me who has to make that argument in court, not you.’
‘Trust me,’ interrupted Lavender. ‘Brodie would rather be making any spurious point than what she’s got to do today.’
My eyes locked with hers, daring her to say anything more. As usual she ignored me.
‘Well–you’re not saying anything and they’ll find out soon enough. Brodie, in her wisdom, is representing Roddie’s whore.’
‘Which one?’ asked Robert. ‘Not Kailash?’
Lavender nodded.
Robert stood up. He tilted his head and spoke softly.
‘Why?’ is the last thing he said as he left for court.
I had stopped asking myself the same question–I was already in too deep.
At around 9.45a.m., Edinburgh Sheriff Court resembles ‘Paddy’s Market’. Squalor and clamour abound, as young men with cheap suits and even cheaper tattoos scramble for justice. At the same time, lawyers with overdrafts and considerably more expensive suits clamber for clients–it’s hard to work out who is more desperate.
Preoccupied, I pushed my way through the throng. Journalists jostled with juvenile delinquents, and all of them seemed to want a piece of me.
‘Hey, Brodie!’ A young man, proudly sporting a tattooed blue line across his neck with the immortal words ‘CUT ME’, called out to me. ‘I’m thinking of changing my lawyer.’
Tattoo Boy knew that the press were here to see me and he wanted to be part of the action. Young men like him are known as ‘dripping roasts’, highly prized at the Edinburgh bar for being cash cows. Their criminal activities, and subsequent trials, bought most of the Mercedes cars parked outside court. I didn’t like to turn down such a plea as his, but I had other things on my mind. For one, Jack Deans was bearing down upon me.
‘I hope you’re not feeling as bad as I am, Brodie.’ His voice sounded rough, like heavy-duty sand paper. I was feeling dreadful and he was always guaranteed to bother me one way or another. I’d ignore him. That was always classy.
‘So, Lord Arbuthnot is no more,’ Deans mockingly intoned. ‘How does it feel to be representing his killer? Real step up the old career ladder there, eh?’ I kept ignoring him, this time because I had no answer, not for Jack Deans or myself.
BBC Scotland moved in to the gap that had opened up as I moved away from Deans. I had no comment for them either. Disconcertingly, I heard a reporter describe me on camera as the rising star of the Scottish bar. For how much longer,