Humorous anecdotes about the trials and tribulations of Toby Potts, a newly qualified barrister climbing the greasy pole to fame and fortune, or so he hopes.
Toby Potts, fresh from Bar School, and clutching his graduation diploma, is a young, aspiring barrister, full of hopes and dreams and intent on becoming the leading criminal advocate of his time. He can hardly wait to get on his feet and impress the jury with his incisive cross-examination, his mastery of all things legal, and his spellbinding final speeches.
Sadly, reality kicks in, and Toby finds the path to fame and fortune far from smooth and uneventful. His trials and tribulations take Toby from his Call to the Bar, his experiences in pupillage, his first brief when he represents the wrong client, through to his great tour de force at the Old Bailey when he goes head to head with the Honourable Mr. Justice Boniface, known to one and all in the profession as Old Sourpuss, and many adventures in between.
Chambers politics, strange clients, solicitors who come and go on a whim, and even stranger and eccentric judges, all have their part to play in Toby’s climb up the greasy pole. Moments of courtroom drama, and many more moments of high fiasco, mark Toby’s initiation into the heady world of the Criminal Bar. So much to learn, so little time.
Will Toby succeed where so many have failed? He has the determination, he has the self-belief, but does he have what it takes to reach the pinnacle of the profession? Only time will tell.
One thing is certain - never a dull moment! Why be ordinary, Toby was once told, if you have it in you to be extraordinary?
Excerpt
ORDER IN COURT
CHAPTER ONE
PARTING IS SUCH SWEET SORROW
Thankfully, January had all but blown itself out, with February just around the corner. For me at least, February heralded Valentine’s Day, with chocolates, flowers, a sexy card and a romantic diner à deux with Susie, the love of my life and with a spring wedding in the advanced stages of planning, soon to be Mrs. Toby Potts.
If I had my way, I’d abolish January altogether, a totally depressing month. After the euphoria of Christmas and the false dawn of New Year’s Day, January was a month of gritting the teeth through the sleet and snow and a biting North wind, incessantly grey skies and a pervading air of gloom and doom made worse, if that were possible, by the taxman knocking loudly at the door.
As I was also to discover, January was the month when divorce petitions were hitting the courts in record numbers for all sorts of reasons. The rictus grins around the Christmas dinner table as the in-laws made merry mischief with carping comments about the Brussels sprouts and the congealed gravy, and the fourth bottle of vin ordinaire releasing the usual inhibitions that had been maintained, with difficulty, since Christmas Eve. Then there were the presents round the tree which never failed to disappoint, with the breadwinner giving “Her Indoors” a shiny new set of saucepans and oven gloves with a cheeky motif. The kids were screaming the house down because they hadn’t received a new Playstation or DVD player or BMX bike which Santa, smelling of mothballs and strong peppermint sweets, had promised them when they visited Hardy’s department store, and besides, they’d told him they’d been good children, and to have their word impugned by some beery Bozo from Neverland simply added insult to injury.
With the in-laws barely out of sight and wending their way home, the recriminations began. “Her Indoors”, who had kept up the pretence of bonhomie with the help of copious slugs of cooking sherry, finally snapped and flung the new set of shiny saucepans at the breadwinner, telling him to shove them where the sun never shines. For his part, the breadwinner brought up the subject of the Brussels sprouts, bad move, and not even the congealed gravy could pour oil on the troubled waters.
The final straw was usually the New Year’s Eve dinner dance, overpriced and overhyped, with enforced jollity the order of the night. It was when the breadwinner asked that gorgeous dolly bird on the next table for yet another dance that “Her Indoors” lost the plot, told him to drop dead, and stormed out.
Belinda Beveridge, known as Bee, was one such casualty of a marriage that had broken down irretrievably after four short years of wedded bliss with only Hugo, now two years old, to show for it.
The brief to represent Bee came by the usual circuitous route. I was not Counsel of first or even second choice, but I was available, and Michael, Chambers’ first clerk, had put me forward.
Bee had petitioned for divorce on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour and infidelity, and reading her account, she was spot on. The lead up to the petition had all the usual ingredients: Tom, her husband, had suddenly taken to working late at the office; there was the pungent aroma of a different perfume when he returned in the early hours and no amount of showering could loosen its tacky grip; and the disconnected calls on his mobile phone on the rare occasions Bee answered it, usually when Tom was taking yet another shower.
Her suspicions were finally confirmed when she was driving ‘by chance’ past his office in the City and saw him emerge with a younger and very attractive girl firmly attached to his arm. He could hardly take his eyes off her, the cheating bastard! And after all she had done to make the marriage work, the culinary delights she had created in the kitchen, sex freely available on demand, the son and heir they had both craved, all this came crashing down in a few short weeks.
Bee, with nothing else to do but sit at home and rue the day she ever met the slimy toad, decided to play the part of the gumshoe to plan her revenge, so one evening she waited outside his office, and when she saw Tom and Miss Right emerge, she followed them to a small mews house in Belsize Park. As she was later to discover, and to rub salt into the wounds, Tom was paying the rent on this sordid little love nest!
She drove home in a blind fury, went through the house, gathered up everything that belonged to him and threw the whole lot out of the window. Into the car again, she drove back to Belsize Park, where she posted a pack of his favourite condoms through the letterbox, small, Featherlite and seductively flavoured with eau de rat. Tom was small in that department, but what he lacked in size, he more than made up for in effort. As Tom and Miss Right looked out of the window, Bee could be heard screaming obscenities by all the neighbours for miles around.
The police were called, and Bee was arrested. She was later charged with threatening behaviour and criminal damage to Tom’s property, which included several sharply tailored Savile Row suits.
Tom was an investment banker, which meant giving investment advice to the super rich and being paid obscene amounts of money for the privilege. Coupled with his annual bonuses, he was already well on his way to his second million, and the sky was the limit. With his cheque book at the ready, he instructed a very smart and expensive firm of divorce solicitors to represent his best interests, and the divorce battle lines were drawn.
For his part, Tom had no wish to press the charges brought against Bee by the police, but Miss Right was having none of it. She could just about stomach the ranting and raving outside their love nest, but the packet of small condoms was the last straw. The slight on her lover’s manhood was too much to bear!
Bee’s parents stepped up to the plate. Her father knew somebody who knew a solicitor in a small firm who specialised in divorce, so he was duly instructed together with a down payment. Her solicitor didn’t do crime, who in their right mind would, but he knew somebody who knew a small firm of solicitors who specialised in crime, so he farmed the criminal matters out in return for a small referral fee. As Bee’s only source of income was Tom’s monthly allowance, as small as his marriage tackle, she was eligible for legal aid. Small was very much the order of the day! As for me, it was an irresistible combination: a scorned woman on legal aid! Hardly likely to excite my bank manager!
A conference was duly booked in Chambers at 4.30, the traditional time of the day when busy practitioners return from a busy day in court. Busy was very much the order of the day!
Bee was accompanied by a trainee solicitor, in keeping with the legal aid certificate. I didn’t catch his name, and it didn’t matter, as he knew absolutely nothing about the case. Clutching the file, he seated himself at the back of the room and began doodling in his notebook, leaving me and Bee to strut and fret our hour upon the stage.
As was my wont, I began with a review of the evidence. A good tactic, as it showed the client I had mastered the complexities of the case as well as bringing the Trainee up to speed. After my recital, time to put flesh on the bones. This meant gently exploring her defence, which, if the truth be told, I hadn’t yet spotted.
“Now, Mrs. Beveridge,” I smiled reassuringly for no obvious reason, “I need to know what you say about all this.” Legal aid hadn’t extended to taking any evidence whatsoever from the client. The brief contained the cryptic comment: “Counsel is instructed to take the client’s instructions and to represent her at trial”. This was a euphemism for me to do all the spadework and for the solicitor to take the lion’s share of the legal aid payment. Were it ever thus!
“Bailey,” she replied, “Ms. Bailey. I prefer to be known by my maiden name. I don’t wish to be associated with that scumbag of a husband in any shape or form!”
Start as you mean to go on was her Mantra!
“Of course,” I replied soothingly.
“Have you read the background to this?” she asked, glaring at me.
“I’ve received a copy of your statement in support of your divorce petition, helpfully forwarded by your divorce solicitors. It’s all very sad.”
“Sad!?! Is that all you can say!?!” she exploded. This was not going to be easy, and the trainee solicitor was no help at all. He had wisely chosen to stay well out of it, and was now doodling frantically in his notebook, head down. “I gave that bastard the best years of my life, and what do I get in return?!? Tossed aside for a slapper!”
“Well,” I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, “We’re not here to discuss whose fault it is that the marriage broke down….” Wrong tack.
This was like a red rag to a bull. “Why not?” she shot back, “If you’d bothered to read my statement, you wouldn’t be asking such stupid questions!”
“I have read your statement,” I was not going to be browbeaten, “and I’m sure the court will take into account the background to these charges, but that’s mitigation, not a defence.”
There was long and awkward silence.
“Are you married?” Bee suddenly demanded.
“Not yet,” I replied cheerfully. “Engaged, with the wedding fixed for the spring.”
“Well I hope your fiancée has better luck than me,” she retorted, with hot tears welling up. “You men are all the same, sex mad, can’t keep it zipped up! And it’s not as if the little prick has anything worth showing!” An unfortunate choice of words.
This was going from bad to worse, and very little to show for it. Time to bring the conference back on track.
“Looking at the charges,” I began firmly, “you’re charged with threatening behaviour. The prosecution case against you is that you used threatening, abusive or insulting words or behaviour towards the occupants of the mews house. Now, as we know,” I continued before Bee could interrupt me with another outburst, “there is a witness statement from the female occupant Ms. Harmony Young setting out exactly what you said and did, and if she’s believed by the court, that amounts to threatening behaviour.”
Bee glowered back, but mercifully said nothing. I had lift off.
“As for the criminal damage of your husband’s property, as I understand it, you didn’t damage it but simply threw it all into the garden?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Bee had had her rant, and was now a spent force.
“Good. The fact there was a steady rain all night may not help, but nothing that a good dry clean wouldn’t put right.”
Bee nodded. Did I detect the faintest smile of appreciation? Almost too much to hope, but I pressed on. “We need a short statement from Mr. Beveridge’s tailor,” I looked pointedly at the trainee solicitor, “confirming that a Savile Row suit is for life, not just for Christmas, if you follow my meaning.”
He took a moment or three to come on board, reluctant as he was to enter the evidential arena, but slowly he turned to a doodle free page, grunted, and made a note. Hallelujah!
Bee had calmed down a little. “So what do you suggest?”
“The Crown Prosecution Service are always open to offers. If they can tick the right boxes and come in on budget, they’ll play along, and as I understand it, your husband isn’t pressing charges, which is more than we can say for his suits.”
Bee didn’t see the humour. “OK, whatever you say. I’m past caring.”
I smiled encouragingly. “If we can get the CPS to drop the criminal damage charge, they’ll want something in return, so I suggest you plead guilty to threatening behaviour, and with a lot of good mitigation, I’ll try for a conditional discharge. No promises,” I added quickly to cover my back, “but I’m hopeful.”
To my relief, her solicitors came up with the goods. A short and pithy statement from Messrs. Mellish & Sanders, Savile Row tailors to the Great and the Good since 1839, confirmed that many of their clients married, divorced and died in one of the best suits money could buy, and true to form, the CPS played their part. They dropped the criminal damage charge, Bee pleaded guilty to threatening behaviour, and after mitigation that was a model of its kind, though I say it myself, she was given a conditional discharge. At one stage it was touch and go. The Chairman of the Bench was a bloke, who looked singularly unimpressed, but he was outflanked and outnumbered by two women, one of whom nodded vigorously throughout my submissions. I felt I’d touched a raw nerve.
Bee was gracious enough to thank me through clenched teeth before leaving court to pick up the pieces of her broken marriage. Mercifully, the trainee solicitor was nowhere to be seen, no doubt back at the office with his feet up protecting the public purse.
* * *
My encounter with Bee left me shell-shocked. Here was a pleasant if somewhat hot-headed woman whose dreams had turned into a nightmare in four short years. Although I knew nothing about divorce law, I expected her to be well looked after financially by the errant Tom, and little Hugo’s future was assured, but that was cold comfort to her as she faced an uncertain future.
I couldn’t understand why Tom had decided to throw it all away for a life of unbridled passion with Harmony, or until he tired of her allure and moved on to his next conquest. If Bee was right, and the little prick couldn’t keep it zipped up, Harmony’s tenure of the love nest was far from secure.
The statistics of marriages breaking down in the first four years were frightening, in the region of 40% at the last count. Even though the Lord had blessed their union till death do them part, it seemed to make little difference, and divorce lawyers were kept fat plying their trade in human misery. Still, I comforted myself in the knowledge that 60% of marriages made it past the four year benchmark, and anyway, as they say, there are lies, damned lies and statistics.
I loved Susie and she loved me, and as far as I was concerned, that counted for everything. And besides, a life of unbridled passion with the likes of Harmony sounded positively exhausting. After a long day in court, defending the innocent and holding high the sword of justice, it would be back to the love nest, off with the kit and a torrid tumble in the sack satisfying her every demand, and all before a drink and a chance to unwind. I felt faint at the very thought!
It wasn’t going to happen to us, but I suppose Bee had said exactly the same when she and Tom were being showered with biodegradable confetti, shortly after they had plighted their troth.
I hadn’t seen Susie properly since the New Year’s Eve celebrations at the Cricket Club. Not that I was much of a cricketer, but according to village gossip, it was the best bash for miles around, with fireworks and dancing till dawn to the accompaniment of the Chiltern Valley Stompers. It was supposed to be ‘black tie’, but that pretence was quickly abandoned by the young and active, leaving only the Wrinklies to bring a thin veneer of respectability to the proceedings. They pushed off soon after the chimes of Big Ben heralded the New Year, leaving the field to the Hooray Henrys and Henriettas, with copious quantities of alcohol to keep the party going and fuel what my parents’ generation would describe as ‘inappropriate behaviour’. Cricket with lager cans was a particular favourite.
One thing and another kept me in Town for the following weekends, although we phoned each other regularly, so I was greatly looking forward to Valentine’s Day and a night of romantic bliss with Susie all to myself.
As luck would have it, I was out of court the following day, so I had no professional commitments to dull the appetite. The true romantic in me had booked a double room at the Feathers Inn, within easy walking distance of La Bella Italia, fine Italian dining, or so they claimed, and all was set for the big night.
Was it just me, or was there a certain unspoken tension between us? I sensed it from the moment I picked Susie up. The meal was good enough, although fine Italian dining was a relative term, and the wandering troubadours were a bit naff in their Neapolitan outfits belting out endless renditions of ‘O Solo Mio’, but they meant well. We made love that night, but I had an uneasy feeling that something was wrong. I put it down to Big Match nerves, with the nuptials rapidly approaching.
It was over breakfast that she dropped the bombshell.
“Toby Darling,” she took my hand in hers and looked intently into my eyes, “I’ve got something to tell you.”
Oh my God, she’s pregnant! The shame of it all, and what would the parents say? We’d be social pariahs, unable to hold our heads up in polite society.
“It’s been a lovely evening, and one I shall treasure for years to come.” This sounded ominous. “The truth is, Clarence House have been in touch.” She paused, looking for the right words. “I told you about my work in Lesotho, it’s Prince Harry’s project in memory of his mother.” I nodded. “Well, he’s asked me personally to go back, he phoned me last week.”
I was stunned. I was being second bested by Prince Harry, and what did he have that I didn’t? OK, he was a Prince of the Realm, and called the Queen ‘Grannie’, and he had an apartment in Clarence House, and a country estate, or several for that matter, and he was dashingly handsome, and an accomplished sportsman, and the ultimate party animal, but was he a qualified barrister?!? No he was not! One in the eye for him!
“When? And for how long?” I stammered.
“It’s just for a year,” she replied, “and if I go, I leave at the end of the month.” She paused, still squeezing my hand. “I told him I’d discuss it with you first, and let him have my answer in the next few days.”
I was groping for the right words. “It’s come as a bit of a shock,” I said, trying to control my emotions. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“If you don’t want me to go, I won’t, and that’s that, but,” she continued, “we’re still very young,” I’d heard that one before, “with the rest of our lives before us, and I can’t think of anybody I’d rather spend it with than you.” She smiled reassuringly. “I love you, and always will, and it’s only for a year.”
There was a long silence.
“Then you must go,” I smiled, putting on a brave face, “and if I read in the press you’ve got engaged to Prince Harry, I shall never forgive you.”
Susie laughed. “There’s only one man for me, and that’s you!”
“What about the wedding plans? You know the parents have been flapping around like wet hens for months.”
“I’ve told Mummy and Daddy they might have to postpone it for a year, they’re disappointed of course, but they understand.” She paused. “Thank you for being so kind and considerate, my darling. I do love you, you know that, it’s only for a year, and it will soon fly by.”
“Not for me it won’t. Every day I’m parted from you will seem like an eternity. I wonder if there’s a job for an aspiring lawyer in Lesotho,” I added as an after-thought. “Perhaps Prince Harry could pull some strings.”
Susie laughed. “We’ll keep in touch of course, emails and phone calls, although the postal service from Lesotho is not the most reliable in the world.”
Predictably, the parents took the news well enough, although the two Georges were less than pleased. Costs had been incurred, and with the postponement, deposits lost, so the carefully controlled balance sheet was shot to pieces. Still, as the mothers were fond of saying, you can’t put a price on happiness. Not what the Georges wanted to hear.
Two weeks to the day, I drove Susie to Heathrow airport in my father’s car. Terminal Three was like a refugee camp, with the flotsam and jetsam of life sprawled around in a mound of empty crisp packets and cans of drinks, either waiting to go back home or hoping to persuade the Border Agency to let them in without a visa. Some had been there for months. It was a depressing sight.
And then it was time to say goodbye. A last lingering kiss, with both of us putting on a brave face. Susie promised to email me the moment she landed, and I promised to email her every day to keep her abreast with my burgeoning practice, so that wouldn’t take long.
It was like that scene in Casablanca, with Humphrey Bogart doing the noble thing as Ingrid Bergman walked slowly towards the plane, one last look back, a fleeting smile from both of us, the music reaching a crescendo, and then she was gone.
I stood by the window in the terminal hall, watching as the plane taxied out and took off into the leaden grey sky. Suddenly I felt terribly alone.
Professional Reviews
Order in Court
5.0 out of 5 stars. Order in Court is the book I didn't know I needed to read until I opened the first page.
By Twisted Book Curmudgeon on April 19, 2016
Format: Paperback
***** 4.5 Cranky Stars *****
Many years ago, in another life, I worked in London for Barristers and Solicitors. An educational filler, taken because my parents insisted I learn a trade, equipped me with the now rare skill of shorthand. This is the reason why I found myself mainly temping for a bit of extra cash with the legal fraternity.
Order in Court took me right back to those days, reminding me of the wit, the banter, the absurdity of some legal cases, and how seemingly normal people can behave incredibly badly when the pressure comes on.
If, like me, you enjoy human train wrecks – this is the book for you. I cannot remember laughing so hard in a long time. My personal favourite: Jack Dawson and his encounter with Bill Syke’s dog, Bullseye, where the aforementioned Dawson ended up in the latrine. I laughed so loud, I woke my husband and since he was awake, I read him the passage. He laughed too.
Told with a dry wit, understated and self-deprecating humour, Osborne provides an acute observation on human nature through anecdotes of court cases. I read this book over the course of a few days – as a series of journal articles – where each case was more excruciating than the next.
Buried amongst the humour and wit, however, are some keen insights into the legal world and class system. Hierarchical, competitive, unspoken boundaries between race and class, and often, how the quality of justice is dependent on the price one can afford for a defence.
Order in Court is the book I didn’t know I needed to read until I opened the first page.
Highly recommended.
Order in Court
4.0 out of 5 starsthe adventures of Toby arouse sympathy
By Kalyan Panja on April 18, 2016
Format: Paperback
Everything has its value, especially in an era in which the entry into the world of work is increasingly difficult and complex. The language used by the author is accurate and uses a sophisticated lexicon even too polished, here and there with some special terms. However the adventures of Toby arouse sympathy and inspire sweetness, telling a hypothetical reader his vicissitudes and sorrows for the hardships endured.
Order in Court
5.0 out of 5 stars. The Life of Toby Potts-Fact or Fiction!
By jco plimmer
Format: Paperback
In these troubled times it is good to read a book which is an excellent blend of accurate narrative and sound humour; David Osbornes background as a successful barrister does much to add credence to the storyline which makes it all the more relaxingly readable.The adventures of Toby Potts might well mirror the early life of the author and we are left guessing as to which bits are fact and which ,if any, are fiction!! We hope he has changed the names to protect the innocent and his wife knows what he used to get up to!! Having read the Authors previous books based on the life of Toby I very much hope that this will continue into a full series much like Rumpole of The Bailey. An enjoyable read in all respects-lets have some more!!
