The Secret Magistrate

By Secret Magistrate

Every criminal case starts in a magistrates’ court, and most end there. Last year, the 14,000 magistrates of England & Wales dealt with almost 1.4 million cases.

But, what exactly does a magistrate do? Who are they? And how are they recruited and trained?
Are they out-of-touch and unrepresentative of society in 2020? Or are magistrates still fit for purpose with a role to play in today’s increasingly sophisticated and complex judicial system?

With remarkable candour and openness – plus a healthy helping of humour – The Secret Magistrate takes the reader on an eye-opening, behind-the-scenes tour of a year in the life of an inner-city magistrate – warts and all.

Chapters describe a wide variety of intriguing cases and bizarre characters such as:
The disqualified driver who drove away from court, The Sunbed Pervert, and – to be overlooked at your peril – Fifi the Attack Chihuahua!

A book for all those interested in the Criminal Justice System, in the workings of the courts, and in those who serve our communities – or who enjoy true stories of the best and worst of human nature.

“Hopefully, I might even persuade some of those reading this book to consider becoming magistrates themselves. Come and read about justice at the sharp end – arise ‘The Secret Magistrate’.”

The Secret Magistrate will be donating all their royalties to charity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bennion Kearny
• Release date: Oct 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781838099091

Book preview

THE SECRET MAGISTRATE

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Secret Magistrate

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Table of Contents

Title Page

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

FOREWORD

INTRODUCTION

1. YOU F***ER

2. ON REMAND

3. TRAFFIC COURT

4. TAKING THE CHAIR

5. ON TRIAL

6. KEEPING UP STANDARDS

7. MAKING THE GRADE

8. MIND THE GAP

9. SERVING THE COMMUNITY

10. KEEPING A STRAIGHT LINE

11. A WASTED DAY

12. PART HEARD

13. ON THE WING

14. OBSERVING COURT

15. THE CIRCLE OF LIFE

16. TRIAL AND ERROR

17. MAKING THE GRADE

18. FAREWELL FOR NOW

19. THE VERDICT

GLOSSARY

BIBLIOGRAPHY

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COPYRIGHT

First published 2020 by Hawksmoor Publishing

ISBN: 978-1-8380990-9-1

Kemp House, 152-160 City Rd, London, EC1V 2NX

www.hawksmoorpublishing.com

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Hawksmoor Publishing does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites mentioned in or on this publication.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that it which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my partner, the rest of my family, both two- and four-legged, and to everyone – district judges, lawyers, legal advisers, list callers, defendants, witnesses and fellow magistrates – who has provided the inspiration for this book.

FOREWORD

The volunteer magistrate, unpaid and not legally qualified, represents the community in the justice system. They represent a commitment to public service that is a very British value. That service has been offered for over 650 years and their courts were until recently a very visible sign of an accessible, public, open justice system through local courthouses.

Magistrates don’t hide their job away; they are proud of the role they perform and their communities know who they are and what they do. Or do they?

I was a magistrate for 30 years until 2018 and never ceased to be surprised by the lack of understanding of their appointment process, role, responsibilities, powers and constraints. Most perceive them only vaguely through the reporting in the tabloids of either an allegedly lax sentence (almost certainly without the reporter being anywhere near the relevant courtroom, or perhaps any other, and who certainly hasn’t bothered to understand the circumstances of the case), or a high-profile case that has been heard by a District Judge, mistakenly called the magistrate. Sadly, successive governments of all colours and persuasions have used this to attack, undermine, devalue and demoralise the institution.

This fascinating and highly readable book gives unique insight into all aspects of the work of criminal magistrates and their court and the satisfaction and frustration derived from working in it. To my knowledge, it is unprecedented in its range and detail. To the lay reader (and many who appear professionally in a magistrates’ court), it will demonstrate the breadth of matters that come before the entry tier of the criminal court system and how they are handled. These may only fleetingly include alleged murders, rapists and robbers – but the pages can definitely still claim all human life is here. Readers will see why justice must always have a human face, and how much care, concern and dedication is expended in trying to do the right thing by society when dealing with increasing numbers from whom most in that society would prefer to turn away and see them as someone else’s problem.

If it causes some readers to inquire more about the magistracy and even consider applying to join its ranks then that is all to the good. One of the principal claims to an ongoing central role in the justice system is that the magistracy must be able to demonstrate that it is indeed representative of the communities it serves – age, gender, ethnicity, sexual orientation, socio-economic group, educational achievement – all must be included in the search for the best people to do the job. That’s not to say that a defendant, witness or victim should expect to see someone like them on the bench in front of them – that’s neither possible nor desirable. All members of the judiciary must be scrupulously fair and even-handed in their administration of the law, and continually trained to ensure they keep that perspective. It is all of society’s job to ensure that everyone feels they will be fairly treated in any court in England and Wales they are called before, irrelevant of the make-up of the particular tribunal. The magistracy, unique in its size, powers and unparalleled history will only deserve to survive if it has the authority and public confidence that comes from that diversity.

Perhaps, having read this book, more people will feel it right to ask the Ministry of Justice why they allowed the defenestration of such a great institution to occur. There is still time to rebuild it, though in the aftermath of the pandemic (assuming we can even be confident we have now reached the aftermath), there will be all too many excuses to duck the challenge.

Malcolm Richardson OBE. Chair, Magistrates Association, 2015-17

INTRODUCTION

I have been a magistrate for several years now, and sit regularly in an inner-city courthouse. Every criminal prosecution – large or small – starts its journey in a magistrates’ court, and the overwhelming majority end there too. In 2019, my 14,000 or so colleagues and I dealt with almost 1.4 million cases. We are truly at the coalface of English justice. It is a role that I take great pride in, and enormously seriously, and I work as hard as I can to improve my overall knowledge and competence.

As a result, I always take a keen interest in articles, blogs, and books on our Criminal Justice System. When, in early 2018, I heard on the grapevine about the imminent publication of a book by a renowned legal blogger – The Secret Barrister – who was telling it ‘as it is’ about the law and how it is broken, I was one of the first in line to buy a copy.

As I turned the pages of this coruscating, witty, and forensically researched polemic – spellbound and increasingly bemused and angry as more and more desperate stories unfolded about the iniquities and unfairness of the system, the drastic and draconian cuts to the Ministry of Justice budgets, court closures, and the decimation of the right to legal aid, amongst many others – I found myself simultaneously nodding in agreement and shaking my head in anger and disbelief at the carnage that was being unveiled.

To a degree, I had already seen some evidence of the decay even when sitting in a magistrates’ court: the ever-increasing number of litigants in person deprived of legal aid and professional assistance, the number of cases delayed by court papers not being emailed to lawyers in advance, the late or total non-disclosure of evidence to the defence, behind the scenes foul-ups, lack of court staff, and even the broken down and unrepaired lifts, but nothing really prepared me for the devastating level of detail and vituperative attack that emerged in that book.

I came to Chapter 2, intriguingly titled The Wild West: The Magistrates’ Court, and so engrossed was I at the prospect of discovering so many new things that I decided to leave reading this until the end; after all, I thought I had a pretty good handle on magistrates and the job that we do, after the years of service that I had already put in.

By the time that I was ready to return to that chapter, my knowledge and level of understanding of the Criminal Justice System, and its alleged shortcomings, were significantly greater than when I began. I was enormously grateful to whoever The Secret Barrister is for lifting the lid on so many issues that – in his or her opinion – predicated against a smooth running and in some cases, perhaps even fair, courts system.

The Secret Barrister writes beautifully, and I was soon drawn into the stories recounted from his or her own dreadfully frustrating experiences in the magistrates’ courts, and I quickly found myself recoiling and questioning myself. Did I recognise the litany of incompetence, ignorance, and sheer pig-headedness outlined within this chapter, which contained a forensic and detailed (albeit often hilarious) attack on every aspect of our being? Attention was drawn in particular to our apparent age, lack of diversity, lack of formal legal qualifications, our slowness, and amateurism.

Wait, there’s more.

We were also seen as unrepresentative of those we judge, naïve, poorly recruited, inadequately trained, out of touch, and unable to grasp or interpret much of the evidence presented before us. We also didn’t understand fundamental legal points, judgments, and principles. Our very purpose and existence were put under the microscope and into serious question.

The attitude towards us and our capabilities was perhaps best summed up by The Secret Barrister’s description of a bench’s impartiality and judgement as, You’re normally facing a combination of General Melchett starting Captain Blackadder’s trial by commanding, ‘Pass me the black cap, I’ll be needing that,’ and Alan Partridge suggesting to a lawyer interviewee that ‘with the greatest respect, the police are hardly likely to arrest a man if he’s innocent, are they?’

I finished the chapter with my head reeling and blood boiling, and I threw the book down with some force, feeling that I had been subjected to a succession of body blows – some decidedly below the belt. My first reactions were anger, frustration, and disbelief at how inaccurate, out-dated and indeed, patronising I found some of the accusations and generalisations, given how dedicated, hard-working, experienced, sensitive, skilful and prepared so many of my JP colleagues are. I could barely prevent myself from biting back.

When I eventually calmed down and thought about matters more rationally, and less emotively, I realised that I found it ever so strange and hard to reconcile that the author could be so devastatingly accurate about much of the Criminal Justice System… with the sole exception of the magistracy. How could he or she have got it so wrong about us?

Then it finally struck me; perhaps The Secret Barrister is correct about us after all? I wondered what other evidence I would find about the value and future of the magistracy.

It did not take me long to find more criticism, when in a blog post from the 19th of August 2015 The Secret Barrister proposed – as the adopted motto of much magistrates’ court justice – the decree of the Queen of Hearts when presiding over the trial involving the stolen tarts, Sentence first – verdict afterwards.

I discovered much vitriol elsewhere on the Internet with magistrates widely described as a waste of space and the three wise monkeys or worse. In turn, please forgive me if I did not laugh when I read that hoary old chestnut of the collective name for a bench of magistrates – a miscarriage of justices.

Thankfully, there were far more serious information and insights to be gleaned from reports such as Sir Robin Auld’s Review of the Criminal Courts of England and Wales in 2001, the Ministry of Justice’s 2013 research on The Strengths and Skills of the Judiciary in the Magistrates’ Court, and the Leveson Review of Efficiency in Criminal Proceedings in 2015 which provided a far more balanced view of the magistracy and its benefits – and its shortcomings too.

I thought about the best way to proceed, and decided to just let the public, and indeed myself, make up their minds for themselves. I would simply record a year or so in the life of an ordinary inner-city magistrate and describe exactly what we do and how we do it. I’d discuss our recruitment, training, and assessment, and also outline all the obstacles, dilemmas, problems, and issues that we face, and have to deal with every day in the courtroom.

I would be entirely open, truthful and honest and not gild the lily or gloss over difficult subjects, although in order to protect both the innocent and the guilty, I would need to change all names and places as well as any facts that would help to identify court users on both sides of the bench. All opinions expressed in what follows are, of course, mine and mine alone, and do not represent those of anybody else within or outside the system.

The final chapter of the book attempts to sum up my, perhaps changed, views of the magistracy and its future and to what extent I agree with some of the criticism I have outlined previously. Hopefully, I might even persuade some of those reading this book to consider becoming magistrates themselves.

So, here we go, come and read about justice at the sharp end – arise The Secret Magistrate.

1. YOU F***ER

Today is breach court day when the probation service prosecutes defendants charged with failing to comply with the requirements of their community or suspended sentence orders.

There is always a packed court list, and today is no exception with 28 cases down for us to deal with. The reality, however, is generally not so daunting.

By their very nature, we are dealing with people who are accused of disregarding court orders, so for defendants to get to court by 9.30 am for a 10 o’clock start is far beyond the wit, capacity, organisational ability and sometimes even desire of many of them, who straggle in throughout the day, or simply fail to turn up at all. Their absence or tardiness is eventually recognised with a warrant without bail being issued against them, which means that they will be arrested and kept in custody until their next court appearance. Last year, 70,000 such warrants were issued across England and Wales.

I am the bench chair – or presiding justice as we were recently renamed – a pompous and clunky, albeit gender-neutral, title that neither resonates with me, nor trips easily off the tongue. That means that I sit in the middle and play a speaking role in court, but I am not in charge, as we are all equal and every decision is made after consultation with my colleagues.

It is a bench of only two magistrates today rather than the customary three, something that happens far too frequently nowadays with the ongoing problems of magistrate recruitment and availability, subjects that we will return to later. That means that the two of us ideally need to be singing from the same song sheet, as we will obviously be unable to come to a majority decision.

My colleague, Fran, is a newly-appointed magistrate who, on meeting for the first time, surprises and disconcerts me by mentioning that she saw me in action when she was doing her court observations recently, and that she considers me to have been soft in my sentencing.

I grit my teeth and smile warmly and welcomingly at her, whilst hiding and controlling my true feelings, which are far less charitable. I mention that every case is different and that there are very often mitigating factors to take into account which mean that the most severe sentences available to us need not necessarily be applied.

We discuss the mechanics of the breach court where the prosecutor outlines specifically what it is alleged the defendant has failed to do. This typically takes the form of not turning up for probation supervision appointments or unpaid work, or failing to keep to the terms and constraints of their daily tagged curfew.

If the breach is denied by the defendant, then the case has to be put to the test by means of a trial. But most breaches are admitted, even if reluctantly, and it is then a case of seeing if there is a reasonable excuse before deciding upon a suitable punishment.

Given that so many offenders have chaotic, disorganised, and feckless lifestyles, and all too often suffer from mental health problems or addictions to alcohol or drugs that make it next to impossible for them to follow instructions to the letter, should they turn up we are likely to hear a succession of explanations, justifications, and excuses – some more credible than others – as to how and why they were unable to get out of bed or leave their home in time to attend their appointment.

We must remember, and take into account, that many have no home to go to, or struggle to find the necessary bus or train fare. We will have to sort out the wheat from the chaff and decide whether their explanations are plausible and acceptable.

We are magistrates and not social workers – although all too often it is hard to tell the difference – and day after day we see situations that leave us in anger, despair (or a combination of the two), and wonder, as to why so many desperate people in desperate circumstances are put into the Criminal Justice System (CJS). They are left to flounder when they really need understanding, plus help and support from social services that are oversubscribed, underfunded, or no longer exist. It is a vicious circle, and we are often left to pick up the pieces.

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We go into court at 10 am and see, to my relief, that we have been blessed with an excellent breach prosecutor who, from past experience, I know will be fully prepared and have actually read her case files beforehand, unlike some of her colleagues who sometimes appear to be making it up as they go along. The legal adviser, a qualified lawyer who is there to assist and keep an eye on us and ensure that our judgments and decisions are lawful, is also experienced and battle-hardened.

All augurs well although, as feared if not unexpected, nothing is ready for us given the late arrival of those who have actually managed to turn up. Far more worrying is the fact that more and more defendants are litigants in person, unable to afford a lawyer, or unable to obtain legal aid because of the reduction in the threshold for legal aid eligibility. They either defend themselves, which further slows down proceedings as everything must be carefully explained to them, or have to rely upon the assistance of the overworked and overstretched court-appointed duty solicitors who provide an exceptional service, although there are firm rules about whom they can and cannot represent.

So, almost as fast as we descend a few steep flights of stairs – the lift being out of order, as it has been for many months now – it is now time to plod back upstairs to the retiring room, a draughty and starkly unwelcoming anteroom, full of contemporary furniture – contemporary if it was still 1965 – and munch some unappetising Ministry of Justice (MoJ) issue biscuits. They’re a brand that exists nowhere else on this planet.

Apparently, though, we should be grateful for small mercies as I discover we are currently one of the few remaining courthouses where the magistrates still receive free biscuits! Way back in 2013, the courts were told to stop purchasing biscuits for magistrates as an austerity measure. It’s good to know we are so valued, although I understand that there has recently been a change of heart and policy, and all courthouses will now continue to receive their biscuit allocation! A triumph for common sense, if not for our stomachs and taste buds.

I notice, in passing, that HM Courts & Tribunal Service (HMCTS) is proudly trumpeting the appointment of a new caterer and the imminent opening of a new café at Croydon magistrates’ court. I await a similar announcement at our court, but hardly with anticipation and bated breath. Some of my older colleagues still reminisce fondly about the days when a tea lady wheeled her trolley and serviced the retiring room. Those times are long over, and austerity rules.

As an aside, I remember being advised by a judge at my swearing-in ceremony (when I officially became a magistrate) to tuck into the free biscuits provided, as they would be the only perk ever offered to us magistrates. How right she was!

It is hard to overstate the amount of time lost and wasted almost every day as we wait for something to happen and for court proceedings to commence. The late or non-arrival of defendants, complainants, interpreters and witnesses, court papers not being emailed in advance to lawyers, the refusal of prisoners to leave their cells, the regular and unforgiveable failure by the overstretched Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) to disclose necessary evidence and information to the defence until the day of trial, the lack of court staff, over-running or late starting conferences between defendants and their lawyers, the need to view CCTV or, more often nowadays, body-worn camera footage, all contribute to a seemingly never-ending series of frustrating and largely avoidable delays. Magistrates often seem to spend more time hanging around in the retiring room, trying to keep warm, or cool in the summer months, than doing their duty in court.

This is really frustrating for us as we are all volunteers, giving up our time to help administer local justice for local people; we would much rather sit in court than the retiring room. It often appears that we are almost the last people whose needs are taken into account… treated as unpaid employees who are simply instructed to put up with the gradual disintegration of the court system, and get on with it, as best we can.

And that is just what we do. Almost without exception, magistrates have a well-developed sense of duty and responsibility, and whilst we might not be very happy about some of our working conditions, our lack of voice, and the endemic problems we see every day in court, we simply concentrate on doing our job to the best of our ability and without complaint.

Most of us magistrates also enjoy what we do despite the problems we face. According to a survey carried out in December 2017, 80% of respondents said they had a strong feeling of satisfaction with their role, 89% said they had a strong personal attachment to the role, and 91% said they would recommend the role to friends or colleagues. I am not so sure that an identical study conducted now would come up with similar answers.

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Eventually, we are ready to begin, and the morning starts to develop a rhythm as we dispose of a number of cases where the breaches are admitted. We mark them by adding extra hours of unpaid work or curfew to the existing community order. We make it clear to offenders that subsequent breaches will most likely result in the current order being revoked and their being resentenced for the original offence. This will inevitably result in a more severe punishment being handed out.

Then… a familiar figure enters the courtroom.

Ms T is a stooped and haggard woman of late middle age, but who looks far, far older; her body and mind desiccated and demonstrating clear evidence of decades of alcohol and drug abuse.

If we ran a frequent flyer programme in our magistrates’ court, she would be a founder member of the platinum club. Over the years, she has amassed well over 100 – in fact closer to 200 convictions – mainly for being drunk and disorderly, assaulting policemen, shoplifting to feed her habit, and abusing innocent passers-by in the street. In short, she is a total nuisance, but despite that, there is a certain charm and dignity about her and – at times – you can still see the woman she must have been before she was ravaged by her demons.

She has recently been given new housing of which she is extremely proud, and she vehemently denies not being at home when Serco staff, who administer the scheme, allegedly came (on two occasions) to fit her monitoring tag, I was waiting in for them and they didn’t come, and she is totally correct as they had gone to the wrong address. This is not a rare occurrence.

Vindicated, she looks triumphantly around the courtroom, espies me – well, she could hardly miss me sitting on a raised dais – and says in passing, I know you don’t I?

Yes, Ms T, we have met a few times before.

She gives a faraway smile, comments on her latest haircut, ’Orrible isn’t it? and leaves the courtroom, hopefully to stay out of trouble, but probably not for too long.

Our last encounter, which thankfully she had not fully remembered, occurred a couple of years ago when she came up in front of a bench chaired by me for the third time in only a couple of weeks. Twice she had been sentenced to a fine, which we let her off, on account of her having spent a short amount of time in custody waiting to sober up and for her case to be called on, meaning that she had nothing to pay. Now, we decided to fine her for real. This did not go down well.

A couple of hours later, I left the courthouse at lunchtime and she was hovering on the court steps, probably by now the worse for wear. Her eyes narrowed as she peered malevolently at me and shouted, Are you the fucker who just fined me?

Yes, I’m the fucker who just fined you, I replied, as I hurried on my way.

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The clock slowly and inexorably moves on its journey towards our lunch break at 1 pm when, without thinking, I instinctively make a cardinal error and stupidly accede at 12.55 pm to the entreaty from a defence lawyer that all presiding justices agree to at their peril, Please can you fit my case in before lunch? It’s really straightforward and will only take a couple of moments.

Beware the siren song of an advocate who is eager and determined to complete his workload before lunch in order to free him to move onto another courthouse. I have been bitten on so many occasions, and now keep a mental checklist of those miscreant lawyers who have kept us back the longest.

Today was no exception as the so-called simple case develops a life and unforeseen complications of its own and we finally escape at 1.20 pm, which necessitates a shortened lunch for all court users given that we have to start again at 2 pm. Never again, I vow, as yet another name is added to my growing blacklist.

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I come back after lunch giving an extremely wide berth to an exceptionally tall and fit-looking middle-aged man stripped to his T-shirt despite the bitter cold, muscles rippling, taking up martial art poses and stances, and screaming abuse into the ears of startled passers-by on the main road. I am not totally surprised when, a few minutes later, he is standing in front of us to answer for his alleged breach.

Jack has apparently breached his curfew on two separate occasions by stepping outside his hostel late at night to the adjacent dustbin area. There can only be