Second Six

Counting down to ‘being on my feet’ in court is like counting down to Armageddon: a necessary evil, a rite of passage. I am as prepared as I can be, and yet, I will never be prepared enough. I have sleepless nights in the weeks leading up to my first case. My instructions come through at 5.14pm the afternoon before the morning of.

 

Aaron Daniels. Croydon Magistrates’ Court.

Possession of a Class B drug with intent to supply. Ketamine. 4kg. Suspected street dealing.

Previous convictions: Possession of Class B drugs x2. Cannabis.

 

Giselle is on standby. She takes me through everything I need to know. Again. From walking through the court door. To the listings board. To the cells – if he’s there. If he pleads ‘guilty’, I know what to do. If he pleads ‘not guilty’, I know what to do. My plea in mitigation is fit for purpose. I have her mobile number and Blackstone’s practitioner’s text at the ready. I look at Giselle for reassurance. If she wasn’t an Iron Lady, I would swear a wetness to the whites of her eyes.

‘You are ready, Stella.’

 

Grace and I celebrate the first day of our Second Six with a pie and a pint before rushing home to catch up on sleep. We survived and I only had to call Giselle four times. We brace ourselves for a physically and mentally demanding six months ahead. Every day represents a different court, a new defendant, a new set of case papers; a new experience. The learning curve is steep and exhausting but exciting – if only I could let myself feel it.

It is hard to surrender to the moment or trust in the knowledge and experience that is building alongside my ability to learn. It is the magpie who determines the success of my cross-examination, closing statement or the judge’s mood. I surrender to fate whenever it eyeballs me from wherever it perches, yielding its demented power, foreboding in its solitude. My fatigue mounts as I struggle to mitigate the constant threat: delaying my arrival at court to make sure I lay eyes upon the magpie’s mate. Only then can I begin my performance as a competent and self-assured advocate. Delaying evening respite to wait for the next train; there has to be another one around here somewhere.

 

Rupert Heston-Jones QC has asked Grace to attend a client conference with him. Again. He has asked me to make the tea. Again. I don’t notice it at first but Grace does. She flushes with fury on my behalf. Like it’s not hard enough, Stella. Like it’s not hard enough to be relied upon for the ‘hard skills’ to justify being instructed at all. To stand nose to nose with overconfident male peers to argue that the sky is blue when they say it is green and to be patronised for the pleasure. Let alone to be a black woman.

And then there is ‘Rigor Mortis’, whose inflated ego relies on her being the only black woman in Chambers. Who won’t give me a break lest there be two of us. Who sends me emails to ‘remind’ me of the requirement in Chambers that pupils ‘demonstrate exceptional ability’. She is not sure that I am tenancy material. She is confident that I ‘understand’ the meaning of discretion, within the context of a threat, she neglects to add. ‘Rigor Mortis’, who speaks with such an affected accent that I wonder if she has permanent toothache. So stiff, so hateful.

 

Jules is Chancery Lane via Billericay, Essex, and the University of Oxford. I needn’t worry about not having applied; she lived the horror for me. She is intelligent and selfless and witty. Her one-liners are well timed and well delivered.

‘That positive attitude of yours, Jules! I hope it’s catching.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I made some good chav mates at uni and now I’ve got you!’

 

We bond over abscesses at Bar School.

‘Stella, why are you walking like a pirate?’

‘Jules, why are you sitting with one arse cheek in the air?’

Pilonidal abscess, located at the top of the bottom, in between the buttocks. The humiliation. She cares not for the volume of her voice, when she asks, ‘Do you get it on your arse often?’

If she ever exposes me like that again in public, our friendship will be over.

 

Wednesday, 11.24am.

‘Is it too early to go to the pub?’

Jules is a Family Law barrister being driven to destruction by her belligerent client. If he doesn’t get contact hours with his children at tomorrow’s hearing, ‘someone is going to get hurt’.

‘I’m not sure that’s going to help your case. Try not to say it out loud.’

 

I’ve finished my Crown Court sentence. It’s not too early, we decide. If we get a table, they’ll think we’re going to have lunch.

‘Perfect.’

‘On my way.’

‘Be there in ten.’

We turn up in trainers. Because there is no one to impress.