Is your name Oliver Owen?
It is.
You are a barrister in the chambers of the defendant, Mr Donovan, are you not?
I am.
Mr Owen, can you describe the responsibilities of a pupil-master to his pupil barrister — in outline only — please?
Certainly. It is the responsibility of the pupil-master to instruct the pupil in the skills of a barrister. It is also his responsibility to take an interest in the career of his or her pupil.
Thank you, Mr Owen. And would you say that the pupil-master’s responsibilities extend to informing the pupil of the tenancy application procedure in his chambers?
I would.
Unequivocally?
Unequivocally.
Would it be fair to say, Mr Owen, that a pupil who failed to apply timeously to his chambers for a tenancy because he was unfamiliar with the procedure could hold his pupil-master responsible for the detriment he suffers as a consequence?
All other things being equal, I would.
Now, Mr Owen, I would like you to cast your mind back to September 1978. It is a long time ago, I appreciate that.
I remember that month well, it was the month I was taken on as a tenant by 6 Essex Court.
You recall, do you, my own departure from 6 Essex?
I do. It was in the second half of September.
Did, shortly after my departure from your chambers, in 1978, a vacancy arise in your chambers?
Yes. Bernard Tetlow, as the late Lord Tetlow of Heme Hill then was, was appointed to the bench.
(Here the judge intervenes: May I say that it was the start of a most distinguished career on the bench by the Noble and Honourable and much-regretted Lord.) Quite so, my lord, and may I respectfully express my agreement with your lordship’s sentiment. Mr Owen, did the chambers attempt to fill the resulting vacancy?
Yes. We attempted to contact you to offer you the place.
You’re quite sure I would have been offered a place?
Yes. It was the view of chambers that you clearly possessed the necessary energy and intellectual ability.
When did you attempt to contact me?
Throughout October, I believe. We rang every chambers in the Temple, and every firm of solicitors we knew of.
And what were the results of these efforts?
We were unable to find you. It seemed that you had left the Bar. No one knew where you were.
Not even Mr Donovan?
Not to my knowledge.
(At this point I produce Exhibit 1, a letter, and pass it to the witness.) Mr Owen, could you read out the letter please? (He does. It is my reference from Donovan to Batstone Buckley Williams.) The letter is dated 26 October 1978, Mr Owen. Was it at this time that you were searching for me to offer me the tenancy?
(Oliver looks put out.)
Yes, I …
And what is your response to that fact, Mr Owen? (Again, Oliver looks uncomfortable.)
I must say, I am very surprised to read this letter. Mr Donovan must, or in any event should, have known that we were trying to locate you. He should have told us where you were.
Thank you, Mr Owen, I have no further questions.
(Another glass of wine while I watch Donovan cross-examine. Having long since scrubbed from his mind the business of my tenancy, he has been caught napping. He feebly puts a few questions to Oliver. They are the usual questions — can you be sure of all of this after such a length of time, etcetera — and they cut no ice. Donovan sits down with an expression of bafflement on his face: how could this be happening to him?)
I call my second witness. A rumble goes around the courtroom when he takes the stand, because he bears an uncanny resemblance to myself. Were it not for the fact that he is slimmer and more prosperous-looking, he would be my spitting image.
Could you give the court your name and occupation?
Certainly. James Jones, barrister.
Could you tell us something about your practice, Mr Jones?
I am a successful international lawyer based at 6 Essex Court. It will not be long before I apply for silk.
I see; and could you reveal your earnings to the court?
Yes: £180,000 per annum.
And could you describe to the court your room in chambers?
I work in a large room overlooking a Middle Temple courtyard. The walls are decorated with beautiful old paintings of horses and some interesting items from my collection of contemporary art.
What about your desk?
My desk? Well, it is a large Georgian walnut secretary.
Its cost?
Well, I don’t know; about £15,000, I should have thought.
Do you belong to any clubs, Mr Jones?
Only three; the Garrick, the Wig and Pen, the MCC.
Are you married, Mr Jones?
I am.
Do you have a photograph of your wife on your person?
Well, yes, as a matter of fact I do.
(He takes a snapshot of Mrs Jones out of his wallet and passes it to me. A gorgeous, raven-haired, soft-eyed woman is depicted. I raise the photograph for the jury’s inspection. After they have settled down I shuffle my papers and clear my throat for effect. Then I wait. I wait for absolute silence before I continue my questioning.) Mr Jones, do you actually exist?
No, I’m afraid to say I do not.
Then who, or what, are you?
I am the person you would have been had events taken a different course.
Let me see if I understand you, Mr Jones: you are the person I would have become had I been taken on by 6 Essex?
Correct.
I see. Mr Jones, the court will have noticed the difference, indeed the gulf, if I may describe it that way, between you and me — you are successful socially and professionally, you are blessed with a wonderful wife and so forth. I am none of these things. Can you be sure that, had I been taken on by 6 Essex, I would have gone on to become like you?
Yes. You undoubtedly possessed all the talent and determination necessary to succeed as a top commercial and international lawer. You were cut out for it, Mr Jones, you were meant to be me — Mr Jones, I am the real you.
Thank you, I have no further questions. Mr Donovan?
A flabbergasted Donovan shakes his head. No cross-examination.
Now it is for Donovan to present his evidence. He has only one witness: himself. He puts himself in the box and takes the oath.
He can say nothing. He stands there in silence, tongue-tied. Well, Mr Donovan? the judge asks. Aren’t you going to say anything?
Yes, I … says Donovan.
The judge raises an eyebrow. You are unable to speak, Mr Donovan?
Donovan says, Well, I … He stops again. Then, after a pause, he says, I have no evidence to give, my lord. I have nothing to say. He steps out of the box.
Just a moment, Mr Donovan, I say dramatically. Everybody looks at me: suddenly I am the centre of attention. You forget, Mr Donovan: I have yet to cross-examine you.
What happens next does not bear transcription. I tear Donovan apart. I do a Donovan on him: I pin him to the ropes and sock him with body-blow after body-blow. I cut him and outpoint him, I mash him in and knock him out: I Tyson him. The admissions come spilling out: Yes, it is my fault that you are not the James Jones you should be, the James Jones you were meant to be; yes, I take the blame for what you are presently suffering, I should have put chambers in touch with you in November 1978; yes, I have acted in a selfish and uncaring way towards you. I have been cruel, I admit it. I have ruined your life.