Called to the bar down the Bailey...
2nd February 2005
Daily Mail online by John Edwards
The guard at the visitors' door of the Old Bailey just kicked out about nine people because they had mobile phones tucked away. You could turn a court case into a live show now if ever someone got one past the scanner.
It's going to be quite the thing one day. "This is our Johnny getting ten years from a judge at the Bailey. Doesn't he look great?"
The guard had caught a big group before there was trouble. Everyone went across the road to the Viaduct Tavern, which was one of the best spots from which to watch public executions when they were the best entertainment in London.
The mobiles were dumped on a table. Some of the people had two. There was a pyramid of them when they were all down.
A guy in a light grey suit and grey trilby put his hand on all the phones. Only the people with him knew what he said. The language of Irish gipsies is like it came from Star Wars. One went to the bar and said he was from Co. Cork.
Two of them would stay in the Viaduct and look after the phones. The rest went back to the Bailey with some Guinness inside them.
The guard waved them through to a gallery. The man in the dock turned towards the noise and signalled with his eyes.
The police had charged him with serious assault and car theft. Just one car, his friends and relatives had been saying. The cops made it nearer 12 cars. Other offences as well.
The fun would be when he gave evidence. Then someone who knew Irish gipsy talk would be ready to interpret.
The rate was about £35 an hour to tell the court just what the guy was saying.
Interpreting in court and at official inquiries is one of the bright new careers.
Some of the big money made by those close to the legal professions are paid to people who sit around and do nothing much.
What's the most popular language, a security person was asked. There was a list, she said and began to read. It could be Gujarati, Chinese, Vietnamese, Bengali, Hindi, Turkish, Somali - many more. The list ended with Welsh.
When an interpreter gets into the case, he is the number one man in court, the only one who understands.
While the gipsies were shuffling into the public benches, a judge in court down the hallway was explaining why he adjourned the case before him the previous day.
"The interpreter was not interpreting correctly," he said crossly. "But I will say no more than that."
The language being explained to him was that of Moldova, which is between Romania and the Ukraine. This language is a mystery even five miles across the border but much used in West Arabia, London, formerly known as Kensington.
The gipsies were shuffling their feet and talking as loud as parrots. The usher was shouting 'shhhh' at them all the time.
And there were still two men over in the Viaduct Tavern looking after enough phones to open an exchange. Also drinking stout as if it was being pumped from a well straight into their mouths.
One had fingers full of gold sovereign rings. Four were easy to count. There were more than that.
One usher said the families were always put into the Old Bailey galleries because it kept them away from the lawyers, the judge and any relatives from the wounded side. There had been some good fights before isolation came in.
Most judges said 11.30am seemed a good time to break the morning sessions. Lawyers, gowns flying, made for some benches in the cold, marble halls and opened neat files. The statues scowled down at them through the usual winter gloom.
More of them swept into the canteen and bought coffee. Witnesses and clients surrounded the lawyers, talking urgently about their view of 'fit-ups' and lies swilling out of the witness box.
One woman turned an unlit cigarette nervously in her fingers. The lawyer pointed through the window. Smoking was allowed outside only.
The inside of the Old Bailey used to have smoke in layers like the beginning of a forest fire. The smell was different and exciting.
The gipsy case hadn't moved one inch because of misplaced documents. By lunch the whole troupe in the gallery looked bored.
The jury made a show of following the moves as if they were taking in history. A dress code for jurors didn't appear to exist any more.
The 12 people in this court looked like they had been caught in a great natural disaster and turned up in the only clothes they salvaged.
All the gipsies headed for the Viaduct. A guard on the public entry door said next time they would have to stay in court at least 20 minutes. Those were the rules.
They nodded and laughed. The phones were all in two trilby hats right next to the bar. There must surely have been more than nine gipsies now. This is about the right number in one pub to make the air raid sirens go off.
Plenty of other people from the Bailey were ordering beer.
The woman usher closing up the court was told it hadn't been a very interesting morning.
"I guarantee it will get better," she said, making you think she was talking about what might happen soon up in the gallery.
2nd February 2005
Daily Mail online by John Edwards
The guard at the visitors' door of the Old Bailey just kicked out about nine people because they had mobile phones tucked away. You could turn a court case into a live show now if ever someone got one past the scanner.
It's going to be quite the thing one day. "This is our Johnny getting ten years from a judge at the Bailey. Doesn't he look great?"
The guard had caught a big group before there was trouble. Everyone went across the road to the Viaduct Tavern, which was one of the best spots from which to watch public executions when they were the best entertainment in London.
The mobiles were dumped on a table. Some of the people had two. There was a pyramid of them when they were all down.
A guy in a light grey suit and grey trilby put his hand on all the phones. Only the people with him knew what he said. The language of Irish gipsies is like it came from Star Wars. One went to the bar and said he was from Co. Cork.
Two of them would stay in the Viaduct and look after the phones. The rest went back to the Bailey with some Guinness inside them.
The guard waved them through to a gallery. The man in the dock turned towards the noise and signalled with his eyes.
The police had charged him with serious assault and car theft. Just one car, his friends and relatives had been saying. The cops made it nearer 12 cars. Other offences as well.
The fun would be when he gave evidence. Then someone who knew Irish gipsy talk would be ready to interpret.
The rate was about £35 an hour to tell the court just what the guy was saying.
Interpreting in court and at official inquiries is one of the bright new careers.
Some of the big money made by those close to the legal professions are paid to people who sit around and do nothing much.
What's the most popular language, a security person was asked. There was a list, she said and began to read. It could be Gujarati, Chinese, Vietnamese, Bengali, Hindi, Turkish, Somali - many more. The list ended with Welsh.
When an interpreter gets into the case, he is the number one man in court, the only one who understands.
While the gipsies were shuffling into the public benches, a judge in court down the hallway was explaining why he adjourned the case before him the previous day.
"The interpreter was not interpreting correctly," he said crossly. "But I will say no more than that."
The language being explained to him was that of Moldova, which is between Romania and the Ukraine. This language is a mystery even five miles across the border but much used in West Arabia, London, formerly known as Kensington.
The gipsies were shuffling their feet and talking as loud as parrots. The usher was shouting 'shhhh' at them all the time.
And there were still two men over in the Viaduct Tavern looking after enough phones to open an exchange. Also drinking stout as if it was being pumped from a well straight into their mouths.
One had fingers full of gold sovereign rings. Four were easy to count. There were more than that.
One usher said the families were always put into the Old Bailey galleries because it kept them away from the lawyers, the judge and any relatives from the wounded side. There had been some good fights before isolation came in.
Most judges said 11.30am seemed a good time to break the morning sessions. Lawyers, gowns flying, made for some benches in the cold, marble halls and opened neat files. The statues scowled down at them through the usual winter gloom.
More of them swept into the canteen and bought coffee. Witnesses and clients surrounded the lawyers, talking urgently about their view of 'fit-ups' and lies swilling out of the witness box.
One woman turned an unlit cigarette nervously in her fingers. The lawyer pointed through the window. Smoking was allowed outside only.
The inside of the Old Bailey used to have smoke in layers like the beginning of a forest fire. The smell was different and exciting.
The gipsy case hadn't moved one inch because of misplaced documents. By lunch the whole troupe in the gallery looked bored.
The jury made a show of following the moves as if they were taking in history. A dress code for jurors didn't appear to exist any more.
The 12 people in this court looked like they had been caught in a great natural disaster and turned up in the only clothes they salvaged.
All the gipsies headed for the Viaduct. A guard on the public entry door said next time they would have to stay in court at least 20 minutes. Those were the rules.
They nodded and laughed. The phones were all in two trilby hats right next to the bar. There must surely have been more than nine gipsies now. This is about the right number in one pub to make the air raid sirens go off.
Plenty of other people from the Bailey were ordering beer.
The woman usher closing up the court was told it hadn't been a very interesting morning.
"I guarantee it will get better," she said, making you think she was talking about what might happen soon up in the gallery.
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