I’m thinking of becoming a magistrate. Before applying, I was advised to attend a few sessions and find out how it all works. My first case was a bag theft from a London pub. The accused, an Algerian football ace, pleaded guilty through an interpreter. The court heard that his glittering football career had been cut short by ‘an accident’ and he was currently living in London ‘with the support of friends’. The magistrate, a kindly, soft-spoken redhead, fined him £60 and made a note of his ‘good character’. She reduced his fine by £20 as a reward for pleading guilty. The defendant lounged against the rail of the dock looking irritable and impatient as his sentence was pronounced.
Outside the court, he spoke to his lawyer without a translator. Perhaps he used the interpreter as a ploy to make himself appear more harmless and passive. The case struck me as an outrage. The fine of £40 seemed a tiny penalty for stealing a woman’s purse and other belongings on a Friday night. What he deserved was a passage back to Algeria where his countrymen could enjoy the benefits of his good character.
A white youngster with a runty look was accused of carrying a knife in public. He smiled and waved at his wardrobe-sized relatives who sat in the public gallery near me. All were blond and heavily tattooed. They bunched together on the seats like overstuffed suitcases. The magistrate told the accused that ‘carrying a bladed weapon’ is a very serious offence. Then she released him until the following Monday.
Defendants on remand are held in a glass cage under the supervision of hulking security men. The guards are all dangerously obese. It seems to be a job requirement. I watched as they led in a tall, handsome black man, aged about 45, with a trim grey beard and an expression of intelligence and refinement. He might have been a Hollywood actor. Even his shapeless grey prison clothes looked elegant on him. His lawyer told the court he was an alcoholic and a heroin addict who still lived with his mother. His offence was to steal bottles of whisky on five consecutive days from the same branch of Tesco. Obviously, he’d hit the shop repeatedly in the hope of being arrested and imprisoned. He got his wish. His mother wasn’t in court. Perhaps he was trying to cut the apron strings and start an independent life, albeit in jail.
An Asian youngster, 21, glared at the court combatively. Despite his weedy stature, he’d attacked a stranger in the street and put him in hospital. During the beating, he screamed ‘faggot’. He received 120 hours of ‘unpaid work’ which the magistrate increased to 180 ‘in recognition of the homophobic slur’. This was his second offence. Clearly he was a closeted gay man, with sado-masochistic leanings, who was attempting to express his libido through violence. What he needed was a long jail term suspended for a year on condition that he join an S&M club.
Some cases are hopelessly sad. An unemployed woman was accused of smoking crack in public. She was 30, short and stout, with nervous eyes and blotchy skin. The world’s greatest portrait artist would have struggled to make her look attractive. What hope did she have in a society where beauty fuels success? A previous conviction for smoking crack was read out. ‘It wasn’t me,’ she shouted. ‘Please stop talking,’ said the magistrate before fining her £80. She hastened from the courtroom in her cheap nylon clothes. Her limbs rustled as she moved.
After several sessions, I began to see patterns. Many of the male lawyers have ponytails or long grey hair falling to their collars. Others sport pinstripe suits, flamboyant ties and matching pocket squares. They look like failed rock stars. Female lawyers have fewer opportunities to display their plumage. They wear dark trouser suits, forgettable blouses and boring shoes. The visual prototype is ‘Tory MP’s wife opening a job centre’ or ‘Hillary Clinton at a funeral’.
Each magistrates’ court should have a jet that takes off nightly and transfers undesirables to South Georgia
The cushiest job belongs to the probation officers who are always present but rarely speak or do anything at all. In every court, the most attractive figure is the usher. He can dress as he pleases and he lounges on a jump-seat near the exit, watching the drama unfold. After each case, he strolls out to the waiting area and brings in fresh meat for the court to devour. He has no responsibilities. If violence erupts, he hides under his chair while the goons beat the troublemakers to a pulp. Everyone likes the usher.
As for joining the bench, I fear that I lack the right temperament. I saw seven magistrates in action and all were posh white females. The younger ones were smiley and eager to please. The older ones were chilly and irascible. I much preferred their attitude.
I’m far too impatient to dispense justice without a proper range of sanctions at my disposal. Each court should have a private jet that takes off nightly at 7 p.m. and transfers undesirables to South Georgia. Until that facility is available to the bench, I’ll reserve my application.
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