The Defence

Highbury Corner Magistrates at Islington was one of my haunts in those heady days of Criminal Law practice, together with Camberwell Magistrates in South London, and Thames Magistrates at Bow Road in the East. I also sometimes strayed off my usual stomping grounds and headed to West London to attend juvenile court in Hammersmith, and right across London to places as far apart as Hendon, Westminster or Bromley, wherever my instructions required that I attend.

Criminal Law was always my favourite since from being a law student all those decades ago. And it was criminal defence, not prosecution. An unsuccessful attempt to join the Crown Prosecution Service as a prosecutor only reinforced this thought in my mind that I enjoyed being a criminal defence lawyer; visiting my clients when they were in police custody, or in prison - Wandsworth Prison, Brixton Prison, Wormwood Scrubs, Pentonville - getting to know them; seeking the most favourable outcomes for them, even when I knew they were guilty as hell. I guess there was a naughty side of me that took delight in this - siding with the bad guys, well, sort of.

Later when I moved on to more desk-bound roles, although equally intense and stressful - but better remunerated, the work was not quite as exciting, as, for example, springing my client out of jail who had been in custody for months and denied bail repeatedly; or successfully arguing for a suspended sentence for my client, even though I knew they deserved to be sent to prison. My overseas training was advantageous, because it came with the advocacy skills of a barrister that solicitors who are trained solely in England and Wales do not normally possess. I was involved in several Crown Court matters as well, the court where the more serious cases are tried, and where I sat behind barristers whom I had instructed. 

Given the limited audience rights of a solicitor in England, namely, audience rights limited to the lower courts, tribunals, panels, and so on, it is those lower court cases, especially some particularly fierce cross-examinations of prosecution witnesses that have remained in my thoughts for longer, since the advocacy itself was always my stronger side. 

Going walkabout

Settling into my new home has taken all week, but today Saturday, after taking care of all the necessary household chores the details of which I shall not bore you with, I set out on a walkabout of my immediate surroundings. I knew that my house is located in an area that is on the fringe of the city, but I was unprepared for an encounter with farm animals just five minutes walk from my front door, neither did I anticipate the sweet earthy smell of manure.

Suddenly, London doesn't seem any more like the concrete jungle that it used to feel like. I'm even considering procuring a pair of hiking boots to go a wandering in the countryside during the remaining few weekends of the summer; an activity that once during those giddy youthful days gone by of national youth service, was a favourite pastime of mine in the wild open spaces of the Jos Plateau in Nigeria.

Moving on

I like the word GENTRIFY. I was sorely tempted to use it in the title of this post, but I thought it might be giving too much away too soon. Let me start by offering my apologies to you guys for having been uncharacteristically silent on this blog for a while now. There is a good reason for this however, and it is this: I've been in the process of finding a new place to live. And finally this weekend, I am giving up my flat in London for a place in suburban Essex, a place that was once a little village, but which has now been swallowed up by the conurbation that is Greater London, but by gosh what a difference 20 miles makes. 

The new place is exactly that, new. Its a newly built development, very modern on the inside with an attempt on the outside to ape the traditional English look, mock Tudor and all. Those who know me will agree that I've often whined about the fact that for the last five years I've lived in a flat, without a garden, indeed one with no outdoor space at all. And guess what, I'm moving into a new place, which is not only a flat, it's a smaller flat than the one I'm leaving behind, also with no outdoor space and no garden! Worse still, the ground surrounding the building is completely concreted over. But it is located in a very lovely area indeed.

It has not been easy for me to justify the cost of living in the crowded, grotty, noisy, unfriendly part of inner-London that I have called home for many years now. I had a spell in leafy Surrey some years ago, but that was the accommodation provided for the staff of a hospital that was my then employer under which auspices I lived the life of suburbia without actually meriting it. It was at this hospital that I did my moonlighting while studying during the day. Now I am making the move to the suburbs under my own steam and it turns out it is not the financial nightmare that I assumed it might be (although I still have to factor-in travel costs, since henceforth commuting shall become a part of daily life), but I still do think I'm getting value for money.

Property in inner-London is outrageously expensive. The property market there is attractive to people from all over the world, hence ordinary men and women like us find that we are having to compete with Arab Sheikhs from the Gulf States for the same property. The nosedive in value of the UK's Pound Sterling brought on by the recession has not helped either, because suddenly London property is even more attractive to foreign property investors than before.

I know this seems a bit exaggerated, but when the Sheikhs and Russian oligarchs buy up all of the very expensive houses, the not so rich then compete for the not very expensive ones. Then those like us who are on the lower rungs must be content with what property remains, but there are millions of us. So we have overcrowding, astronomic property prices and exorbitant rents. But then there is always the option of moving further out of London and having carefully considered it, living in inner-London for me is really not worth all that cash I've been throwing at it.

So I've taken this option and I'll be moving over the next few days. It might be a while before I get the internet connected, so I'll likely be scarce around here. But don't worry about me because I'll be busy taking in the fresh air and enjoying my new surroundings, the plush carpets and the recessed lighting throughout the flat, which I admit was the clincher for me. I said it's a smaller flat than the one I currently live in, but small has its advantages too. Firstly, its easier to keep clean and there aren't too many nooks and crannies for things to get lost in.

My experience of moving house is that you never realise just how much stuff you own until you have to pack up all your stuff because you're moving house. The prospect of packing my stuff together has been so scary that I've avoided doing it until now that there's no more time left. Fortunately my nephew has offered to come and help me out, but its a bank holiday weekend and he has insisted that he must go out on Friday night, the and Saturday night as well. So he'll probably be so hungover on Sunday that he won't be of that much help to me in the end. I really should be getting on with it.

 

On that Ship in a Bottle

Since I heard that Anglo-Nigerian artist Yinka Shonibare's artwork was the next commission for the Fourth Plinth at London's Trafalgar Square, I've been itching to go and see it. It was entirely impossible during the week, I simply could not squeeze out any daylight time to visit Trafalgar Square and yesterday was a typical bank-holiday-weekend Saturday, since it rained all day.

This morning I was on my way to church, but I made a detour and drove to Westminster with my fingers crossed, in the hope that I might find a place to park in order that I would physically walk onto the Trafalgar Square itself, take a close-up look at the artwork and perhaps take some photos too. But this was not to be. It's interesting how on Sundays everybody in London suddenly becomes a tourist, especially when the sun is out. First of all, even those astronomical Westminster Council parking charges don't deter visitors, so of course there was nowhere to park. Then the crowds! Right before my eyes as I sat in gridlocked traffic, I could see the mass of humanity emerging from the Underground and everywhere else heading towards the square.

I soon realised that there was no hope at all that I would accomplish my mission and still make it in time to church. So I pulled out the camera as I sat, and took photos of the artwork while struggling to maintain control of the car. The photos I've posted are the best ones.

What is important about this artwork is that it is the first commission on the Fourth Plinth to address the historical symbolism of Trafalgar Square. Trafalgar Square was built in the 1840s to commemorate the death of the great Admiral Horatio Nelson at the famous Battle of Trafalgar. Atop the tallest structure in the square is a statue of Nelson himself and this structure is known as Nelson's Column.

Within a shell of thick glass, Shonibare's ship is intended to depict Admiral Nelson's ship, HMS Victory, but the 37 sails of the ship-in-the-bottle are made of richly patterned traditional West African fabric, textiles that are commonly associated with African dress and symbolic of African identity and independence. According to the Fourth Plinth commissioners, "the history of the fabrics reveals that they were inspired by Indonesian batik design, mass produced by the Dutch and sold to the colonies in West Africa. The work therefore deals with the complexity of British expansion in trade and Empire, made possible through the freedom of the seas that Nelson's victory provided."

This is the first work of public art by an African artist prominently displayed in a public place in the United Kingdom. When asked how he managed to get the ship inside the bottle, Shonibare would not tell. The work was sponsored by Guaranty Trust Bank, a Nigerian Bank.

My Sleepwalker

The phone on my desk rang. It was Silla from reception asking if I was available to see a client who was very upset and wanted to see someone right away. I asked what the problem was and Silla said the woman didn't speak much English, but that she had indicated that her son was in some kind of trouble with the police. From the tone of Silla's voice, I knew she really wished that I should see the woman. I respected Silla, for her many years of experience, and for that Mauritian flair with which she expertly and confidently executed her duties at the front desk. So I deferred to her judgement, set aside what I was working on and asked that the woman be shown in. 

The door opened and a 30-something year old Somali woman entered my room carrying a child in her arms, a toddler. Following behind her was a lean bespectacled teenager. The resemblance was obvious to see, I could tell immediately that these two were mother and son. Mrs G's frustration was clear, so I did the best I could to get them to relax. I then got down to the business of finding out what I could do for them. Mrs G spoke little English, but her son A, who was 18 and attended school, acted as our interpreter.

The story was that sometime the previous week, policemen had visited their home and invited A, the son, to the police station. After the visit to the police station on that date, the son had been released on police bail and was requested to attend the police station again today. Mrs G had accompanied her son to the police appointment this morning, and, (thrusting the charge sheet at me), said her son had now been charged with the offence of breaking and entry.

Their neighbour next door, a female Polish immigrant, had made a complaint to the Police that she had been awoken from sleep in the middle of the previous night. On waking she realised that what had roused her were sounds and movements in her bedroom. She lived alone in her flat and normally left her bedroom window open at night during the summer months. She was alarmed, fearing that there might be an intruder in her bedroom so she switched on the bedside lamp. To her utter dismay she found a black man standing before her, inside her bedroom. She screamed, and the black man seeing that she had awakened, suddenly turned around, rushed to the open window, climbed out, and vanished into the darkness on to the roof of the kitchen extension of her building. She called the Police immediately and some officers were sent over to make sure this woman was alright. 

Seeing that she was okay the officers requested that the woman attend the police station in the morning to make a statement. In making this statement in writing at the police station, the woman suggested that the black man in her bedroom bore a striking resemblance to the young son of the Somali family that lived next door to her. (I know all of these facts because I later got to read the statement that this woman gave to the police. During their first visit to my office, Mrs G and her son had only told their side of the story).

Now what Mrs G said to me during that first visit was that throughout his childhood A had suffered from somnambulism. He had been a serial sleepwalker, but that as he reached adolescence the incidence of sleepwalking had reduced significantly. The family had been living in London since her son was about six years old, and as a child he had received medical treatment for the condition. She was afraid that his sleepwalking might have resumed, although apart from this present incident, there were no recent incidents that she knew of. She thought her son could have been sleepwalking when he climbed out of their upstairs bathroom window in the middle of the night, and made his way on to the roof of their patio extension. He must have crossed over to the roof of the neighbour's kitchen extension, crawled across that roof to the neighbour's upstairs bedroom window, which was open, and climbed into the neighbour's bedroom.

The son himself had no recollection of the incident. He told police that he did not remember climbing out of the bathroom window of their house. Mrs G said her son's bedroom was down the corridor from hers, and that she had heard nothing. But his bedroom was directly next to the bathroom, and going by the allegation made by the neighbour, she feared that her son might have done that which he was now accused of doing. I accepted the case because I thought this would be interesting. My client (A, the son) was due in court the next Monday morning.

Early Monday morning I arrived at the Camberwell Magistrates Court and obtained the Advance Information documentation from the Crown prosecutor. He (or she) is obliged to make these available to me. In this bundle of documents is contained the victim's statement, and the statements and reports of the police officers who had attended the scene and conducted the investigation. I also noted from the papers that the victim had subsequently positively identified my client as the "black man" she saw in her bedroom.

On the basis of the information contained in the Advance Information bundle I advised my client to plead "Not Guilty", and this is what he did when the charge was read out to him in the crowded courtroom. 

Monday morning in any magistrates court is busy because of the overnight cases from the previous weekend. Detained cases are given priority. These are mostly remorseful young men who let alcohol get the better of them during the Friday and the Saturday night just gone. On this day there was a wife beater too. I said the courtroom was crowded, but half of the public gallery was taken up by what seemed like the entire adult Somali population of the borough where my client resides. 

I genuinely doubted that the prosecution would be able to prove (to the standard of proof that is required) that my client "broke into and entered" the victim's "dwelling place, with the intention of committing an offence", the legal definition of the crime of 'breaking and entry', which is what my client was now charged with. I realised that the mental element, (the intent), was a crucial element of this offence and that the prosecution would have great difficulty in proving that my client indeed climbed into his neighbour's bedroom, if at all, with the intention of doing something unlawful.

It was a 'Not Guilty' plea then, so the matter was to be adjourned and a date set for trial. At this point I interjected, saying that my client would be relying on medical evidence in his defence. For this reason, a reasonable period of time was required to obtain the medical report. I requested an adjournment for four weeks, and my request was granted. The next date would be for a case management conference, a date for the court to assess the preparedness of the parties for trial.

Leaving court with me and surrounded by several loudly chattering Somali men and women, Mrs G was smiling, looking happier than I had ever seen her before then. I shook many appreciative hands, and I wondered why, since this was only the beginning of this case.

"Now to see to that medical report", I thought to myself, as I left them and headed back to the office.. (To be continued).

Parking woes

Some months ago I wrote this post commenting on how I thought it is nightmarish finding parking space in this city where I live. This morning, I didn't find a place to park the car in the council estate behind our office building, where I would normally park for free while at work. I had noticed that in recent weeks finding parking space in that estate had become even harder than before. Today someone explained to me that the construction work on the the East London Line extension, a new railway line that runs directly behind our building, means that several more people, namely, railway construction workers, are coming into the area each morning; and that most of these people are driving their cars to work. Ah, so that explains it..

Anyway I got to work and there was nowhere to park. So I was forced to park on the street in front of our office building. I parked the car in what I thought was a parking bay, at the cost of £2 for each hour you remain parked there. I was careful to buy the ticket and display it on the dashboard, since the very first thing I was to do on arrival at my desk this morning was to grudgingly write a cheque for £60, payable to Parking Services, London Borough of Hackney, in respect of a parking penalty charge I'd received last week for parking in front of the building without displaying a ticket, much to my chagrin. £60 is a lot of money to just throw away.

At 10am I went down to the parking meter and renewed my ticket. The new ticket was valid until about 11am, and I displayed this ticket prominently on the dashboard as required. At noon, I repeated the exercise. By this time I had already spent £8 just for parking, and the day wasn't even halfway through yet! Then at 1pm I went down again, but this time, there was a penalty charge notice stuck under my windscreen wiper. Yes, another one!! I was livid! As careful as I had been and after spending all that money, here I was again being slapped with another penalty charge for another £60! It was lucky the parking attendant was nowhere in sight when I arrived at the scene, because I couldn't trust myself to not have smacked him in the mouth with my fist before he even had the chance to explain.

I carefully examined the penalty charge notice and it appears that although I had been buying parking tickets as I should have, the spot where I was parked was not a parking bay at all. I should not have parked there in the first place. I had spent all that cash this morning just for parking, and all I got in the end was a fine!! I was so miffed that although it was just past 1pm, I went back into the office, shut down my workstation and fled from the office in a fit of fury.

Tomorrow, I shall abandon this car at home and travel to work peacefully (and cheaply), by bus. I take back everything I said when I had just got the car. I stated then that I willl be driving everywhere, but now I'm not so sure any more.

Swine flu

The UK government is doing its best to keep people from panicking. On the radio we're being informed that swine flu is a mild illness, only to be informed a few minutes later that the 17th person to die from the disease in the country has just died, and that the person was previously healthy and was not known to suffer any underlying health problems. Then some senior medical person in the government comes on air and tells us that the outbreak of the disease is nearing epidemic proportions in the London area, and that GP surgeries are having difficulty coping with the massive influx of people reporting flu-like symptoms. Then a government minister comes on and tells us not to worry and that we will all be ok. It's all very confusing.

I think there has been a failure by the authorities to contain the outbreak of the disease at the time when they still had the chance to do so, and now they are refusing to accept responsibility for this failure or even to acknowledge it. This is only the summer, it's not even the flu season yet. They tell us that the outbreak is set to get worse later in the year and that more deaths are inevitable. But at the same time they tell us not to worry.

My friend in Australia told me of the panic in that country when the disease first arrived there. Relying on what the UK government had been saying all along about the disease, I tried to reassure him that it was only a mild ailment and that he need not to worry so much. That was a few weeks ago. Now with the news reports coming through as to how virulent this outbreak has become in the London area and news of the deaths, (two previously healthy people died yesterday), I'm not so sure anymore. In fact, I've become a bit scared. I'm avoiding shaking hands with people, washing my hands at every opportunity and keeping away from all forms of public transport for the time being.

Got him out at last

I made it a point when I started blogging that I would never write about my work, not only because I am aware of my duty of confidentiality, but because I think work should remain where it belongs, at the office. Blogging for me is a hobby, something I've come to enjoy doing. But today something happened at work and I feel the need to share it here. 

My client had been in custody for well over a month. He has been refused bail twice in the last two weeks. First it was because the sureties had failed to attend court with their up-to-date financial details, the second because the name of one of the sureties appeared on the Police National Computer for some misdemeanor going back 15 years. The judge was not satisfied therefore that this was a suitable surety and in the meantime my client continued to be detained, much to my chagrin.

Today I was determined not to walk out of that courtroom with my client still behind bars. Conversely, it appeared that the judge was equally determined that bail was not to be granted and that my client would be spending this holiday weekend in jail. It was a battle of wills, the judge's against mine, and to cut a long story short I won in the end, because with the arguments that were put forward the judge's hands were tied. He had no choice but to grant bail, albeit grudgingly. The fact that the bail was granted reluctantly does not appear on the bail sheet. Bail is bail, reluctantly granted or not. My client is out, and that is what matters. And I feel just great.

That blue car

I've just taken delivery of that car I've always wanted, you know, that blue one with the leather trim interior and the wood effect dashboard. I didn't manage to sort out the insurance before the week's end and against the best advice of my friend Albert, I went spinning around in it this afternoon. And boy, it is something!

I haven't owned a car for the better part of 10 years, mainly because I convinced myself that I didn't need one. And there was a hint of the desire to do my own small bit for the environment. But driving around this afternoon listening to loud Aswad on the stereo, even though the traffic was heavy in parts of town where Premiership football was just disgorging its huge crowds of fans into the streets, I realised what I've been missing. Thoughts of standing all the way to my destination on a crowded London bus, or standing on a train station platform on a freezing cold wet morning flashed through my mind and I shuddered. It was nice and warm and comfortable in the car, and I've vowed never to go anywhere unless I'm driving there in this beauty. Within the last hour I must have looked out of my front window about 100 times already, just to make sure she's still sitting where I left her when I came in. I'm going out again shortly...

This G20 Summit

History teaches us that is it not very often when two or more countries agree on something that each country will act upon what was agreed on in exactly the same way. In the G20, there are 19 countries and the European Union, which itself is a political union of 27 member states, only four of which are represented independently in the G20. The way I see it, this is a hodge-podge of diverging interests and it seems clear that no form of consensus can ever be achieved in actuality, although on paper the final communique to be produced at the end of this summit will undoubtedly purport that there has in fact been consensus. Recent political history is replete with examples of agreements made on paper, on which are conferred as many different interpretations as there are signatories to the agreements.

The very nature of the G20 itself is such that there can and should be no disagreement. Yet, even before the meeting began it was well known, with regard to regulatory reform, that there was a split between the Anglo Saxon capitalist model of the UK and the USA on the one hand, and the more interventionist European model of Germany and France. Indeed, France's Monsieur Sarkozy even threatened to walk out if no firm measures were taken to rein in the banks and hedge funds.

Gordon Brown's brainwave of a fiscal stimulus, a major new initiative to kick start the various economies has come up against a solid roadblock. Angela Merkel, (and not her alone), has firmly indicated that she has no intention of letting the G20 write her national budget. Not to mention the recent cutting words of Brazil's Lula da Silva, blaming white blue-eyed males for the financial crisis. All in all, I expect little more than rhetoric from this summit, as opposed to solid and detailed figures. The rhetoric will lean towards highlighting the benefits of concerted international effort in dealing with the financial crisis, but few commitments will be had from governments, if at all.

Methinks that one positive outcome of this summit will be the formalisation of the shift of the balance of power from the traditional economic powers like the US, Japan, Germany and the UK, to the newer players like China and India. And particularly in relation to the issue of voting rights in the IMF, taking into account the fact that an enlarged role for the IMF inevitably carries a substantial price tag, a burden that the traditional powers will not be terribly keen to shoulder in the present economic situation.

While trying not to get bogged down with all this economic stuff that we have been bombarded with recently, most Londoners are basking in the limelight of Obamamania. Many know there are several heads of government in town, but everyone, including the almighty BBC, are following Obama around. It's almost like an Obama state visit. And Michelle, she's grabbing all the headlines.