Why I've lost a little bit of faith in the British Justice System

Yesterday I discovered the outcome of the court case against my mugger, in which I was called to give evidence on Tuesday. The result came in a WhatsApp message from Rhiannon. Neither the message nor the medium came as much of a surprise. Notwithstanding the fact that I get about 600 WhatsApp messages a day from Rhiannon anyway, I had given up hope of hearing anything through the official channels. My experience of the Justice system this week has been – to put it generously – shambolic. Still, at least it’s all good blog fodder…

For those of you who don’t know the original story, I was mugged back in September after a night out in East London. I wasn’t hurt, and the mugger only took Rhiannon’s stuff so it was basically a victimless crime. But nevertheless, it was all a bit scary. It was a classic hugger-mugger scenario: one guy started chatting to me and them randomly embraced me while the other dipped his hand into my bag (Rhiannon’s bag) and took the purse. The only way they put a foot wrong was that I caught him doing it. And, being incredibly brave, I naturally pursued him quite forcefully until he retreated into a nearby estate and a gang of his mates emerged, telling me in no uncertain terms to leave it. At that point I decided to let it go – I mean it was only Rhiannon’s stuff and I have a very pretty face.

We called the police and they were there in minutes. And then the mugger re-emerged, now urging police to search him. Astoundingly the purse was no longer about his person(!) Luckily he was known to the police and so, rather than let him go, they just kept antagonising him until, inevitably, he lost his temper, and they arrested him. I gave a statement, and later that week was told he’d been charged and I would be required in court in February.

At the time I asked if I would be allowed to be behind a screen to give my evidence. I didn’t much fancy bumping into him again on Old Street after the trial. I was told an application would be made. Two weeks ago I had a text message summoning me to court and saying that special provisions had been made for me to be behind a screen. This was all very efficient, I thought. How wrong I was…

 I arrived at the court slightly nervous about the prospect of bumping into the defendant or some of his friends or family. The entrance area to the court is a large open-plan foyer with rows of benches where people were waiting to go into court. A woman from Victim Services approached me with a clipboard and bellowed across the room.

"HELLO CAN I TAKE YOUR NAME PLEASE?"

"Samuel Jones" I whispered, trying not to make eye contact with the waiting people. "SAMUEL JONES" she echoed with all the subtlety of a sonic boom "AND WHO ARE YOU HERE TO GIVE EVIDENCE AGAINST?"

I whispered his name.

"SORRY," she bellowed, "I CAN'T SEE THAT NAME HERE. WHAT WAS IT AGAIN?"

I repeated it, quieter this time to make a point. My point was evidently lost on her.

"OHHH YES, CRIMMY MCMUGGERSON*. OK, FOLLOW ME PLEASE."

I followed her through to a room which looked like it had last been decorated in 1962 and sat down. A security door closed behind us and I began to relax. Then she turned to leave me.

"So I just...wait here...do I?" I asked.

Yes, she told me; at some point the prosecution lawyer would arrive with my witness statement and give me a briefing. I soon began to witness the briefings of the other people waiting with me; they were held quite openly – using full names and details of the respective cases – in this room (despite there being a private interview room next door).

I waited in total for two and a half hours, and finally the prosecution lawyer arrived. She was a small, yellow-toothed woman with straggled bronze hair and a slightly bemused expression. She introduced herself and began my long-awaited briefing...

"So, you're Samuel, thanks very much for coming in today because you know without people like you, you know we couldn't get the bastards, now, here's your witness statement, have a read and make sure you're familiar with it all, you can take it into the court but it doesn't look good if you have to read it in the dock so try and familiarise yourself with the details of the...err...the...what was it...a theft isn't it?"

She scanned the page herself.

"Yes, that's right," I assured her, trying not to frown visibly, "I'll have a look over it.”

"Great, now when you get into court I'm going to ask you some questions so you can give your version of the story, then the defence lawyer will ask you some more questions trying to make it sound like you're lying, just stay calm and say what it says here, then the magistrates might ask you some questions, ok?"

"Erm...yeah...ok."

"Great, I'll see you in there, someone will come and get you."

That was my briefing.

Shortly afterwards a court usher arrived to take me down to the court. She led me in but the magistrates clearly weren't ready for us so they shooed us out before I'd quite got through the door. Which was rather a blessing because, I’d noticed, there was no screen in the court.

"I didn't see a screen," I said tentatively.

"Oh did you want a screen?" she asked dumbfounded.

"Well yes, I put in an application. I was told it had been granted."

"Oh well I didn't know about that. I'll have to ask them about that."

"Ok, if you could."

She left me waiting in the foyer - back where I'd started, anxious that I might be surrounded by the defendant's friends and family. A minute later she emerged with the prosecution lawyer.

"What's this about a screen?" she demanded of me.

"Well I asked if I could have a screen. I was told the application had been granted - I can show you the..."

"Well I didn't know anything about this. First I've heard."

"Right. Well I did ask..."

"Well it's too late now, you have to make an application in advance."

"Right, yes, well I did that and it has actually been granted," I murmur again, trying to remain patient.

"Well we didn’t know, I mean I can ask them but they'll probably say no because it's not a case of violence or whatnot and then the case will be thrown out, I mean is that what you want?"

"Erm...no...but..."

At this point the usher steps in again.

"Oh just a little screen. I can put up a screen in no time. Let him have a screen."

"Well the thing is there's a procedure, he has to apply..."

"I've got a screen through here - it's not being used..."

"But we have to make an application. It's out of time now..."

"Well yes I did actually make..."

"Oh tell them I'll bring the screen, it's only..."

"Ok, well we'll see but it's too late now really..."

"Right but I mean I did..."

"We'll see..."

She disappears back into the court room.

Two minutes later she emerges with the defence lawyer.

"You are a policeman right?" she demands.

I look over my shoulder. She’s definitely talking to me. Just to clarify, this is the prosecution lawyer. My lawyer, essentially. The woman appointed by the Crown to put my case - that I was the victim of a mugging.

"No I'm not"

"You're not a policeman?"

"No"

"Well it says here you're a policeman"

"I thought he was a policeman," the defence lawyer chips in. "It says here on your statement."

She points to the top of my statement, which does indeed have 'Police Officer 269757' written next to the word 'Occupation'.

"Right," I say, "well I think that's an administrative error."

"So you're not a policeman?" the defence lawyer clarifies.

"No," I reassert, "I'm not a policeman. I'm The Victim". I try to give the word some gravitas.

"Well I thought he was a policeman." says the defence lawyer.

"I thought he was a policeman," the prosecution lawyer echoes.

"Well I'm definitely not a policeman." I say, definitively.

"Well what are you?" the prosecution lawyer asks.

"I'm a researcher," I say.

At this point the court usher decides to pipe up.

"He's a journalist," she says, "doing a story about the court system".

It strikes me that now isn't really the time for jokes.

"No I'm not!" I say, probably slightly too emphatically, because they both seem to be taking her seriously. "I work in television. I'm a researcher but…like…for quiz shows, I'm not a journalist."

"Well I thought you were a policeman," the prosecution lawyer reminds me.

Unsure what else to say on the matter, I change the subject.

"What's happening about the screen issue?" I venture to ask.

"Well I don't know," the prosecution lawyer says, clearly exasperated, "I mean you're supposed to apply in advance..."

"Yes, well the thing is, I mean, I did..." but she's already heading back into court. The defence lawyer follows muttering something about thinking I was a police officer. The court usher follows her. I'm left alone again. We've attracted quite a few stares from the other people in the foyer. My attempts to keep a low profile seem somewhat thwarted.

A couple of minutes later the court usher emerges again.

"Right they're ready for you now."

"In court? To give evidence?"

Two minutes ago both the barristers thought I was a policeman. This is so not Ally McBeal.

"Yes," she says, cheerily. "Don't worry about your barrister, she's just like that. She's a bit of a drinker." I glance at her to see if this is another one of her hilarious jokes. It isn't. "She's probably been on the bottle," she adds, rolling her eyes.

"Good." I accidentally say out loud.

"Ok, in you go..."

And there I am, walking into the witness box, which IS behind a screen, though I notice that it has a fairly substantial hole in it, and I'm in front of a highly reflective pane of glass. And there's the defendant, staring back at me in the reflection, his expression saying "I can't believe you asked for a screen... you big wuss".

The actual court proceedings were relatively unremarkable. I was asked a few slightly unhelpful questions by the prosecution lawyer:

"But it was plain daylight?"

"Well no actually, it was 5AM."

"But your friends were right there – they saw it too?"

"Well they were about twenty yards ahead."

I can’t help but think our case might have been stronger if she’d at least read my statement, which outlines all of this. But considering five minutes ago she thought I was a policeman I feel we’ve made progress.

The defence lawyer was more helpful to me. She 'put it to me' that I might have had more than the two drinks mentioned in my statement but didn't push the point that that was a remarkably small quantity to have drunk by 5am on a night out. She didn’t really question my version of events at all actually. She didn’t seem to feel the need to. And so I was dismissed. I was free to go.

And so, it transpires (via my WhatsApp message from Rhiannon) is the defendant. Acquitted of all charges.

To be honest it's something of a relief. I wouldn't want to live in a country where a man could be convicted on the basis of that kind of trial. Where was the evidence? I had hoped there might have been some CCTV, some other victims…something else. But it seems there wasn't. Just my word against his. Mine and my alcoholic lawyer. Nevertheless I can't help but feel a little bit aggrieved, my faith in the Great British Justice System just a little bit diminished. I know it was never going to be Rumpole of the Bailey but I wasn’t expecting a scene straight out of Night Court. My advice to you all: just don’t get mugged in the first place. In fact, just don’t go out with Rhiannon. It can only bring trouble.

* Some names may have been changed. Not Rhiannon’s; that really was Rhiannon.