Rumpole and the Primrose Path by John Mortimer Page A

for worse, would be resumed.

Rumpole and the Scales of Justice
    ‘The Scales of Justice have tipped in the wrong direction.
    That’s all I’m saying, Jenny. Now it’s all in favour of the defence, and that makes our job so terribly hard. I mean, we catch the villains and, ten to one, they walk away from Court laughing.’
    Bob Durden, resplendent in his Commander’s uniform, appeared in the living-room of Froxbury Mansions in the Gloucester Road. He was in conversation with Jenny Turnbull, the hard-hitting and astute interviewer on the Up to the Minute programme.
    ‘You’ve got to admit he’s right, Rumpole.’ She Who Must Be Obeyed could be as hard-hitting and astute as Jenny. ‘Things have gone too far. It’s all in favour of the defence.’
    ‘Why don’t you - and the Commander, of course - try defending some unfortunate innocent before the Mad Bull down the Old Bailey? You’d have a Judge who’s longing to pot your client, and is prepared to use every trick in the book to get the Jury on his side, and a prosecutor who can afford to make all the enquiries and is probably keeping quiet about evidence that’s slightly favourable to the defence, and a Jury out for revenge because someone stole their car radios. Then you’d find out how much things are slanted in favour of the defence.’
    ‘Oh, do be quiet.’ She Who Must didn’t have time for a legal argument. ‘I’m trying to listen to the Commander.’
    Bob Durden ruled the forces of law and order in an area, half crowded countryside, half sprawling suburbs, to the north of London. When the old East End died, and its streets and squares became inhabited by upwardly mobile media persons, ethnic restaurants and the studios of conceptual artists, it was to Commander Durden’s patch that the forces of lawlessness moved. He was a large, broad-shouldered, loose-lipped man who spoke as though he were enjoying some secret joke.
    ‘But aren’t there cases when the police haven’t been exactly on the side of the law?’ said Jenny Turnbull.
    Well done, Jenny, I thought. It’s about time someone asked that question.
    Hilda, however, took a different view. ‘That girl,’ she said, ‘should learn to show respect to the people she’s interviewing. After all, the man is a Commander. She could at least be polite.’
    ‘She’s far too polite, in my opinion. If I were cross-examining I’d be a good deal less respectful.’ I addressed the television set directly. ‘When are your officers going to stop bribing witnesses by putting them up in luxurious, all-expenses-paid hotels, and improving on confession statements?’
    ‘Do be quiet, Rumpole! You’re worse than that Turnbull woman, interrupting that poor man.’
    ‘You know who I blame, Jenny? I blame the lawyers. The “learned friends” in wigs. Are they part of the Justice System? Part of the Injustice System, if you want my honest opinion.’ The Commander spoke from the television set, in a tone of amused contempt to which I took the greatest exception. ‘It’s all a game to them, isn’t it? Get your guilty client off and collect a nice fat-cat fee from Legal Aid for your trouble.’
    ‘Have you got any particular barrister in mind?’ Jenny Turnbull clearly scented a story.
    ‘Well, Jenny, I’m not naming names. But there are regular defenders down at the Old Bailey and they’ll know who I mean. There was a case some time ago. Theft in the Underground. The villain, with a string of previous convictions, had the stolen wallet in his backpack. Bang to rights, you might say. This old brief pulled a few defence tricks and the culprit walked free. We get to know them, “Counsel for the Devious Defence”, and quite frankly there’s very little we can do about them.’
    ‘Absolute rubbish!’ I shouted fruitlessly at the flickering image of the Commander. ‘Trevor Timson got off because he was entirely innocent. Are you saying that everyone with previous convictions should be found guilty