Part Eight
John Deed had a rare moment of peace and tranquillity in the morning while Coope passed back and forth. As someone who was unruffled, quiet and organised, she was a necessary part of his existence and was the one clerk who had got used to his habits that drove to distraction some of her predecessors. He stretched back in his chair and opened up the Times from which the useless and unwanted supplements fell out onto the floor. Bending carefully over, he extracted the thin "Sports Supplement" for the educated readers of Hampstead Heath who had the unaccountable desire to 'move with the times' and join the national obsession with footballers and the mysterious and utterly uninteresting differences between the various teams.
"Do I really want to read yet another article about David Beckham?" He sighed, recalling more unpleasant times from his old school when he had pushed at the limits of ducking out of compulsory rugby which was a sport that he loathed and detested. Fencing was the sport which attracted him, the precisely poised, cool nerve articulation of the practiced hand and bodily positioning and the rapidly calculating brain. It was a private sport practiced alone with your best friend who had a similar understanding and appreciation of an ancient skill. As skilled practitioners it rooted them in an unbroken chain back into the Middle Ages in the same way as his calling to the Bar anchored him in England's ancient liberties. Both gave him standards to uphold, much needed in this slipshod modern world. In the same way, he felt that a virtuoso concert violinist occupied the same assured reach back for that strength in tradition. Being steeped in these values, he remained bemused that the fifth raters like Sir Ian Rochester could ever hope to bend him to their will.
While his shapeless musings flitted their way through space and time in the rare moments when he had that luxury, Coope announced that he had two visitors who wanted to see him urgently. A combination of the peremptory knock and Coope's expression told him to expect trouble. John Deed glanced at the headlines for the forthcoming trial of Tracy Pilkinton and Ritchie Atkins and, with no stretch of the imagination, concluded that this may have something to do with the visitors so he carefully folded the paper in two so that the front page was invisible to even the likes of Sherlock Holmes, let alone these two authority figures, as blind as they were arrogant.
John Deed sighed as the besuited forms of Sir Ian Rochester and his overzealous sidekick Lawrence James sat down before he was going to politely offer them to take a seat, as is their habit.
"John, old man" Sir Ian spoke with false heartiness. "We thought we would just drop by while we are in the area and have an informal chat." The fixed smile on Sir Ian's face did not deceive John Deed who noticed the hard glitter in his eye.
"Oh yes." John Deed said in a languid tone. "Pray continue with what you've rushed away from holding the Lord Chancellor's hand and are burning to tell me."
"I suppose you've read all about it in the papers, John old man," Sir Ian continued, grasping for an easy point of entry to his ready made schpiel.
"About what, Sir Ian." John Deed summoned up a convincing appearance of being in total ignorance of Sir Ian's tortuous hinting. Teasing the pair of them gave him mild amusement." I'm a busy man these days so you will have to enlighten me."
Sir Ian's smile became more of a grimace and he reached automatically for a pencil in his inside jacket pocket which he fiddled with and promptly broke in two.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Deed. It's on the front page of the Times. Don't you read it, dammit? "Sir Ian's false heartiness reverted to his normal feelings of enmity that was twice as strong as his force of personality. "It's this infernal Tracy Pilkinton trial…….."
John Deed affected an annoyingly leisurely perusal in depth of the article though, in truth, he had combed through it very carefully in relation to the trial documents. In the silence, Sir Ian was shuffling his feet while Lawrence James grew more stony faced.
"We have important business with the Minister shortly. We did not come to be treated with your usual lack of respect." Lawrence James said, breaking the stony silence.
"So what scintillating words of wisdom have you to offer me." John Deed said, laying the papers down knowing full well what they were after.
"Only this, old man." Sir Ian desperately reverted to smarming his way through Deed's priggish obstinacy."It's just that we, in the Lord Chancellor's Department feel that Niven's judgement in the extradition hearing was fundamentally unsound. It did not go down well with the Minister mark my words." Sir Ian's behaviour bordering on the manic."The minister felt that, well reasoned though Niven's judgement was in its way…"
"…..I thought it was well reasoned in every way……" murmured John Deed.
"………it did not take full regard of the feelings of the family of the murdered photographer in Florida. After all, you stand for human justice as, don't we all." Here Sir Ian almost looked as if he was girding up his loins to stand up for the weak."So why not, old chap, and press for this wrong headed judgement to be overturned……….."
They're afraid of political embarrassment, that's all it is, John Deed's inner ear spoke clearly above Sir Ian's blandishments as he carried on in this vein for quite the most repetitious fifteen minutes he had ever endured. At least when he threatened and blustered, the man was out in the open.
"My mind is made up, Ian and well you know, nothing you have said can sway it."John Deed finished in his quiet tones which cut through Sir Ian's noisy outpourings.
Sir Ian glared like a goldfish who had found that banging up against the invisible glass sides of the bowl wasn't going to work. He backed off and tried another angle.
"Another thing, the minister wanted to impress on us, Deed." Sir Ian said ponderously,"Is that the circuit judges have brought on themselves a somewhat elitist and antiquated outlook. In this modern age you should be prepared, shall I say, to bend to the winds of modern times….………Like that Sports supplement which I am sure you have thrown away as part of your exhibitionist way of proclaiming that you are living in a backwater while the rest of the human beings move on elsewhere…… "
"………..Yes , yes, Ian. You will recall our Biology teacher a long time ago who said that the activities of the poor lemmings in simultaneously hurling themselves off a cliff was one not to be admired or emulated. Her words were ones that I remember well. Nice legs as well, I remember," at which point John Deed smiled wickedly.
"As it happens, I am intending to buy a football shirt for my leisure times and show that I have moved up with the times even though a stuffy stick in the mud like you will remain in isolation…."
"Never were any use at rugby at school were you, Ian." murmured John Deed just loud enough to be heard. "You always seemed to develop a mysterious limp just before games. At least I refused to indulge in a barbaric game out of principle………."
Sir Ian finally went red in the face and grasped Lawrence James's silk suit irretrievably creasing the right shoulder pad and hustled him out of the room before Deed revealed more of the weasly sneak of a schoolboy that he had been. He hustled Lawrence James out of the door with more strength and force than his general build suggested he possessed and the door slammed bang shut behind them.
"Didn't they want to stop for a glass of sherry?" Coope asked innocently.
"I'm afraid that they had to dash off to queue up for David Beckham's autograph." John Deed said with a straight face so even Coope wasn't sure if this was a case of the judge's whimsical sense of humour.
John Deed had other matters on his mind as he assumed the rich red robes and wig of his profession. It was not that he was a snob about these matters, just that he had the same sense of ritual and performance as a Shakespearean actor did at the Globe. It would have cheapened the occasion to have dressed otherwise and in this, John Deed was steeped in tradition which he trusted more than this modern age however liberal his political inclinations were.
He made his way with his measured tread out onto his own stage, the judge's throne upon which he sat on high, overseeing the characters in a play that would determine the fate of two individuals in what promised to be a complicated case. He looked down on the severely robed figures of the chief protagonists, the slim shape of Jo Mills in more formal attire than when he had last seen her and the portly shape of Brian Cantwell. There was this moment of silent anticipation in the court before John Deed's sonorous tones let the play commence.
John Deed had a rare moment of peace and tranquillity in the morning while Coope passed back and forth. As someone who was unruffled, quiet and organised, she was a necessary part of his existence and was the one clerk who had got used to his habits that drove to distraction some of her predecessors. He stretched back in his chair and opened up the Times from which the useless and unwanted supplements fell out onto the floor. Bending carefully over, he extracted the thin "Sports Supplement" for the educated readers of Hampstead Heath who had the unaccountable desire to 'move with the times' and join the national obsession with footballers and the mysterious and utterly uninteresting differences between the various teams.
"Do I really want to read yet another article about David Beckham?" He sighed, recalling more unpleasant times from his old school when he had pushed at the limits of ducking out of compulsory rugby which was a sport that he loathed and detested. Fencing was the sport which attracted him, the precisely poised, cool nerve articulation of the practiced hand and bodily positioning and the rapidly calculating brain. It was a private sport practiced alone with your best friend who had a similar understanding and appreciation of an ancient skill. As skilled practitioners it rooted them in an unbroken chain back into the Middle Ages in the same way as his calling to the Bar anchored him in England's ancient liberties. Both gave him standards to uphold, much needed in this slipshod modern world. In the same way, he felt that a virtuoso concert violinist occupied the same assured reach back for that strength in tradition. Being steeped in these values, he remained bemused that the fifth raters like Sir Ian Rochester could ever hope to bend him to their will.
While his shapeless musings flitted their way through space and time in the rare moments when he had that luxury, Coope announced that he had two visitors who wanted to see him urgently. A combination of the peremptory knock and Coope's expression told him to expect trouble. John Deed glanced at the headlines for the forthcoming trial of Tracy Pilkinton and Ritchie Atkins and, with no stretch of the imagination, concluded that this may have something to do with the visitors so he carefully folded the paper in two so that the front page was invisible to even the likes of Sherlock Holmes, let alone these two authority figures, as blind as they were arrogant.
John Deed sighed as the besuited forms of Sir Ian Rochester and his overzealous sidekick Lawrence James sat down before he was going to politely offer them to take a seat, as is their habit.
"John, old man" Sir Ian spoke with false heartiness. "We thought we would just drop by while we are in the area and have an informal chat." The fixed smile on Sir Ian's face did not deceive John Deed who noticed the hard glitter in his eye.
"Oh yes." John Deed said in a languid tone. "Pray continue with what you've rushed away from holding the Lord Chancellor's hand and are burning to tell me."
"I suppose you've read all about it in the papers, John old man," Sir Ian continued, grasping for an easy point of entry to his ready made schpiel.
"About what, Sir Ian." John Deed summoned up a convincing appearance of being in total ignorance of Sir Ian's tortuous hinting. Teasing the pair of them gave him mild amusement." I'm a busy man these days so you will have to enlighten me."
Sir Ian's smile became more of a grimace and he reached automatically for a pencil in his inside jacket pocket which he fiddled with and promptly broke in two.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Deed. It's on the front page of the Times. Don't you read it, dammit? "Sir Ian's false heartiness reverted to his normal feelings of enmity that was twice as strong as his force of personality. "It's this infernal Tracy Pilkinton trial…….."
John Deed affected an annoyingly leisurely perusal in depth of the article though, in truth, he had combed through it very carefully in relation to the trial documents. In the silence, Sir Ian was shuffling his feet while Lawrence James grew more stony faced.
"We have important business with the Minister shortly. We did not come to be treated with your usual lack of respect." Lawrence James said, breaking the stony silence.
"So what scintillating words of wisdom have you to offer me." John Deed said, laying the papers down knowing full well what they were after.
"Only this, old man." Sir Ian desperately reverted to smarming his way through Deed's priggish obstinacy."It's just that we, in the Lord Chancellor's Department feel that Niven's judgement in the extradition hearing was fundamentally unsound. It did not go down well with the Minister mark my words." Sir Ian's behaviour bordering on the manic."The minister felt that, well reasoned though Niven's judgement was in its way…"
"…..I thought it was well reasoned in every way……" murmured John Deed.
"………it did not take full regard of the feelings of the family of the murdered photographer in Florida. After all, you stand for human justice as, don't we all." Here Sir Ian almost looked as if he was girding up his loins to stand up for the weak."So why not, old chap, and press for this wrong headed judgement to be overturned……….."
They're afraid of political embarrassment, that's all it is, John Deed's inner ear spoke clearly above Sir Ian's blandishments as he carried on in this vein for quite the most repetitious fifteen minutes he had ever endured. At least when he threatened and blustered, the man was out in the open.
"My mind is made up, Ian and well you know, nothing you have said can sway it."John Deed finished in his quiet tones which cut through Sir Ian's noisy outpourings.
Sir Ian glared like a goldfish who had found that banging up against the invisible glass sides of the bowl wasn't going to work. He backed off and tried another angle.
"Another thing, the minister wanted to impress on us, Deed." Sir Ian said ponderously,"Is that the circuit judges have brought on themselves a somewhat elitist and antiquated outlook. In this modern age you should be prepared, shall I say, to bend to the winds of modern times….………Like that Sports supplement which I am sure you have thrown away as part of your exhibitionist way of proclaiming that you are living in a backwater while the rest of the human beings move on elsewhere…… "
"………..Yes , yes, Ian. You will recall our Biology teacher a long time ago who said that the activities of the poor lemmings in simultaneously hurling themselves off a cliff was one not to be admired or emulated. Her words were ones that I remember well. Nice legs as well, I remember," at which point John Deed smiled wickedly.
"As it happens, I am intending to buy a football shirt for my leisure times and show that I have moved up with the times even though a stuffy stick in the mud like you will remain in isolation…."
"Never were any use at rugby at school were you, Ian." murmured John Deed just loud enough to be heard. "You always seemed to develop a mysterious limp just before games. At least I refused to indulge in a barbaric game out of principle………."
Sir Ian finally went red in the face and grasped Lawrence James's silk suit irretrievably creasing the right shoulder pad and hustled him out of the room before Deed revealed more of the weasly sneak of a schoolboy that he had been. He hustled Lawrence James out of the door with more strength and force than his general build suggested he possessed and the door slammed bang shut behind them.
"Didn't they want to stop for a glass of sherry?" Coope asked innocently.
"I'm afraid that they had to dash off to queue up for David Beckham's autograph." John Deed said with a straight face so even Coope wasn't sure if this was a case of the judge's whimsical sense of humour.
John Deed had other matters on his mind as he assumed the rich red robes and wig of his profession. It was not that he was a snob about these matters, just that he had the same sense of ritual and performance as a Shakespearean actor did at the Globe. It would have cheapened the occasion to have dressed otherwise and in this, John Deed was steeped in tradition which he trusted more than this modern age however liberal his political inclinations were.
He made his way with his measured tread out onto his own stage, the judge's throne upon which he sat on high, overseeing the characters in a play that would determine the fate of two individuals in what promised to be a complicated case. He looked down on the severely robed figures of the chief protagonists, the slim shape of Jo Mills in more formal attire than when he had last seen her and the portly shape of Brian Cantwell. There was this moment of silent anticipation in the court before John Deed's sonorous tones let the play commence.