I\u2019m waiting for Leon inside the cavernous interior of the Penderel\u2019s Oak on High Holborn. Despite the time, the pub is pretty busy. A mixture of suits and workmen cluster in the numerous booths and, whilst they segregate along lines of attire, both groups tuck into similar fare: full English breakfasts and pre-work pints. Today\u00a0is round one of Leon\u2019s application for a defined contact order to see Damian, his son. After helping him fill out the required paperwork, I\u2019ve agreed to be his McKenzie Friend for today\u2019s scheduled hearing.<\/p>\n
I\u2019ve bagged a small table by the window and spy him outside way before he makes his entrance. He\u2019s wearing Paul\u2019s old pinstripe and Mostafa\u2019s cast-off wingbacks meaning that he looks a bit shabby but about a million times smarter than usual. I don\u2019t make him suffer as he walks in and looks around for me. Raising my hand, I shout his name and wave as he scowls over. Relief slashes his face, but it\u2019s gone in an instant. The prospect of an impending court hearing would do that to you too.<\/p>\n
He folds his long legs clumsily under the small table, knocking it off balance and spilling my drink over documents. I curse inwardly but make a real effort not to show my annoyance. He doesn\u2019t need it. Not today.<\/p>\n
\u201cShit, sorry. Was that important?\u201d he asks. It is, but there\u2019s nothing to be gained from telling him that so I give him my best gallic shrug and press on.<\/p>\n
\u201cRight. The bundle. You got your copy of the bundle on you mate?\u201d Leon looks at me blankly so I rephrase: \u201cThe folder. You know, the one with all the paperwork in it. This thing.\u201d I lift up my binder. Coffee drips off it and onto my suit trousers. I lower it quickly, swear inwardly again, smile.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat? Was I supposed to bring that?\u201d Leon asks, his voice starting to rise.<\/p>\n
Oh Jesus<\/em>, I think. Yes! Yes, of course you were supposed to bring that, you\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cNo matter,\u201d I say, nice as pie. \u201cThe court should have the copies we mailed through last week and anyway, worst comes to the worst, we\u2019ve still got my copy.\u201d I wink reassuringly as I lift one of the pages in front of me. The page, laden with latte, promptly tears in half. Leon\u2019s eyes widen as his hand clenches into a fist. Cheque, please.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Principal Registry of the Family Division is directly opposite the Penderel\u2019s Oak. A slab of light concrete, mighty in its ugliness, we smoke a cigarette in its shadow. A queue is<\/p>\n already building: smart suited barristers with trundles of bundles caw and squawk at each other, starting the ruffling of feathers gently in preparation for the flurry of flapping in the eyrie of courtrooms above. Their clients stand close by, men and women, young and not so young, rich and poor: carrion all. Leon gives a sharp intake of breath and hisses poison.<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s here!\u201d<\/p>\n I follow his gaze and see her. Perched on heels, wearing a charcoal grey pinstripe trouser suit, Leon\u2019s ex is the only client who seems to be in direct conversation with her brief. They look so easy and natural that I would have assumed her predator rather than prey; she certainly looks the part. Her legal eagle is tall, gaunt and bald. A thin, bloodless smile twitches across his beak but doesn\u2019t manage the craggy flight up his face to the narrowed eyes, shielded by steel rimmed spectacles. Leon\u2019s ex screeches with laughter, her long taloned claws reaching out to touch him briefly on the arm before letting them trail to her side and then, finally, up to her mouth. Her eyes are locked on his but I would swear that she is surveying us through her peripheral vision.<\/p>\n \u201cOh Christ she’s tooled up, man, she’s got a brief with her!\u201d Leon is still hissing but the increasing panic causes his pitch to rise.<\/p>\n \u201cRelax, it doesn’t matter, it’s to be expected.\u201d I say but I can hear the tremor in my voice. It does matter. I didn’t expect this. Why did I think I could do this? Leon’s crazy. Not crazy, hot-headed. Maybe crazy? Either way, he’s toast. I breathe deeply, calm myself down, try and edit my last thought: we\u2019re toast. The doors open and the queue begins to migrate in. We look at each other. His face is ashen and drawn, his eyes, of course, wild.<\/p>\n \u201cI really need a piss.\u201d he says.<\/p>\n \u201cCome on.\u201d I reply but I’m thinking: Me too…<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Leon and I are pretty much the last ones in the line meaning that we\u2019re pretty much the last ones through the door. A full on, airport style x-ray bag check and walk through metal detector awaits us on the other side. Leon\u2019s quiet gasp causes my heart to flutter: surely he can’t have\u2026 what? What can’t Leon have? I look at him and wonder just what he is capable of having or not having and come up blank. His hands shake as he empties his pockets into the tray but there’s nothing there to worry about: just keys, an old wallet, his mobile. He passes through the metal detector undetected and I feel slightly ashamed of myself. I bleep on the way through and the guard confiscates the knife and fork I’d been going to eat my packed lunch with, snugly rolled into a paper serviette inside my suit jacket pocket.<\/p>\n \u201cYou had me worried there for a minute, mate.\u201d I say as we head up in the lift, just the two of us owing to my delay at security. \u201cGoing through the metal detector,\u201d I add. \u201cI thought you looked a bit worried.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, yeah!\u201d Leon smiles at me. He moves closer, pulls something from his pocket. I hear a click and a pop. \u201cForgot I had this on me didn’t I?\u201d<\/p>\n I look down at the small Tupperware container which looks just like the one I’ve brought my lunch in only much smaller. He’s popped the vacuum seal on it and unclipped the top for me to see the contents. It’s full of hash.<\/p>\n \u201cOh Jesus,\u201d I manage just as the lift doors slide open and we arrive in the bustling communal waiting room.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The morning nose dives from here. We check in with the clerk who looks clueless when I mention the bundles sent through the post but smiles radiantly and says she’s \u201csure they’re somewhere\u201d. We vainly look for one of the private waiting rooms but, being the last in line, there’s no chance. Leon thinks he’s found one when he sees an open door but triumph quickly sours when he marches in on his ex and her brief nestling in for a final summit meeting. He returns looking shaken. So we settle ourselves into the main waiting room with the rest of the frazzled dads. I find a couple of seats next to the drinks machine, facing the entrance to courtroom 2, and I do my best to give Leon some last-minute prep.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cRight then, I can’t speak once we’re in there but I can type notes on the laptop for you, got it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGot it. Make ’em big.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWill do. And Comic Sans<\/span>. There are two ways to address the magistrate, what are they?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSir or your honour?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSir or your worship. What if it’s a woman?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThen I’m dead.\u201d<\/p>\n I look at him, gauge he’s joking. Probably.<\/p>\n \u201cVery funny. Odds are it will be, so what are you going to call her?\u201d<\/p>\n He lowers his head into his hands, sighs, slowly looks up.<\/p>\n \u201cMadam?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGood guess, but not right. Ma’am. Now let’s go through that again.\u201d<\/p>\n Leon dutifully trots through the names and gets them all right this time.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay, good,\u201d I say. \u201cHer brief will try and get you to engage with him directly so he can push your buttons, don’t let him, stay looking at the magistrate and address everything you say to her and don’t interrupt the brief, no matter what he says, okay?\u201d<\/p>\n Leon nods his head and I’m feeling better about this. The box of hash flashes into my head and I lean into him.<\/p>\n \u201cYou’re sure you’ve told me everything, mate? No nasty surprises waiting for us in there?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d he tries, affronted. \u201cCourse, what else could there be?\u201d his eyes drift up to the left.<\/p>\n We sit back and stretch, take a look around. Every so often two groups emerge from one of the courtrooms, the first peacock sure and strutting, the second feathers ruffled and winged. A tannoy directs the next flock through but the numbers in the waiting room stay fairly constant as new faces drift in.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I take a walk around and manage to collar the clerk and ask her if she’s managed to locate the errant bundles.<\/p>\n \u201cOh yes!\u201d she smiles. \u201cThey were couriered across to Wells Street this morning. We’re in the process of transferring all the non-criminal family cases over there, you see.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut our case is here in Holborn today, right?\u201d I reply. Her smile drops a notch.<\/p>\n \u201cYes sir, that’s correct.\u201d she says.<\/p>\n \u201cSo .. we need them couriered back here today, yes?\u201d I say. There’s no smile now as she responds.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019ll see what we can do, sir. Don’t you have a copy with you?\u201d<\/p>\n I think about the sorry, solitary, caffeine sodden bundle, smile weakly and walk away as the tannoy asks for Andre Horton-Da Silva to make his way to Court Room 2.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Leon isn’t there when I get back to our spot by the drinks machine. I decide to buy a coke and crack my lunch open early but the dispenser swallows my only pound coin. I’m about to start banging on the side when the coin return button doesn’t work but quickly decide this isn’t the right time or place. I look around for someone who might be able to help but there’s just the same court clerk beaming away. I sigh, sit back down and pop open my lunch. The remains of last night’s stir fry stare back at me, cold, but surprisingly aromatic. I reach into my suit jacket pocket and am briefly surprised to find nothing there, but then my earlier mugging at the metal detector returns and I finally swear, albeit under my breath.<\/p>\n The lift door pings open and silence deadens the room in a sudden wave. I turn to look and freeze at the sight. A stocky figure dressed in orange fatigues stands in the lift doorway. His hands are not just cuffed but heavily chained and seem to be connected to another thick chain, tied around his waist. Two guards flank him, each gripping one of his heavily muscled forearms and begin ushering him in my direction, towards the recently vacated courtroom 2.<\/p>\n As he draws closer I start to see the detail in the tattoos which sleeve his lower arms and crawl out of his shirt, up his neck and tip toe across his face. Unreadable passages in gothic script merge with monochrome images and patterns, most indiscernible but all part of the same tapestry, its complexity unfathomable. A necklace of knives point upwards from high around his neck and the only message I can read is etched on each cheek where on his left it reads \u201cAlready\u201d and on the right \u201cA Legend\u201d. The trio move silently to within three feet of me and one of the guards, a woman who could be any age between thirty-five and sixty, her close cropped hair strung with grey, looks down at me, her mouth a thin pale line. I see Leon enter the room from the toilets just in front of them and he immediately stops as he takes in the scene. I\u2019m pleased to notice that he seems as shocked as everyone else but then his head tilts to one side as he makes eye contact with the prisoner and he nods slowly and seriously at him.<\/p>\n \u201cAndre,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n \u201cLeon,\u201d the prisoner nods back. The moment catches and holds as something passes between them. Then the guards continue ushering Andre Horton-Da Silva through, past Leon and into courtroom 2, where heaven only knows what kind of family hearing is about to take place. I stare at Leon and think again how little I really know about him. I open my mouth to ask him…what, exactly? But it’s too late, time has run out. The tannoy sounds again and this time it’s our turn. Courtroom 4 awaits.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Courtroom 4 is out the waiting room and up a winding staircase. The highest of all the courtrooms, an eagle’s nest or a vulture\u2019s perch, let the outcome decide. We make the landing just as the now familiar sound of the lift pings again. For one crazy moment I expect to see the boiler suited convict with his jail jewelry and prison guard entourage but of course it’s not. Leon’s ex and her barrister stare out implacably as the doors slide open. My heart jumps and I hear Leon hiss and I grab his elbow to begin pulling him in when I hear the clack of heels coming up the stairs.<\/p>\n \u201cExcuse me!\u201d calls the clerk. \u201cExcuse me! You wanted your bundles couriered from Wells Street?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes?\u201d I say, hope daring to rise.<\/p>\n \u201cI managed to speak to the clerk there. They should be here by three.\u201d<\/p>\n My heart sinks. I look at Leon, look at the door to courtroom 4.<\/p>\n The room seems to suck us in as we move forward.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The courtroom is more modern than I’m expecting it to be. Brightly lit and thoroughly bland, the three magistrates sit in a line at a long, elevated desk at the far end. Curling around in front of them is a longer, horseshoe shaped desk. We take the side to the magistrates\u2019 left and Leon\u201ds ex and her brief the one to their right. The three magistrates, solemn, aged and bespectacled, stare seriously out as though bemused at our amateur legal flight…<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Leon, nervous but determined, delivers his case well enough, addressing the magistrates directly and pausing only to look at my prompts on the laptop periodically. Then the first hammer blow: the brief steps up and says that in the light of the Cafcass report he urges the bench to set a fact-finding hearing for twelve weeks\u2019 time with no order being made prior to this, owing to the severity of the nature of the allegations contained therein aforementioned report.<\/p>\n Leon looks at me with blank incomprehension.<\/p>\n \u201cCafcass? What the hell is that, man?\u201d he asks. I begin typing a reply but the chief magistrate has already swooped on Leon.<\/p>\n \u201cMr. Palmer, please remember to address your comments to the bench and not to your McKenzie Friend.\u201d<\/p>\n I feel the heat coming off Leon but, credit where it’s due, he keeps it together. Sort of.<\/p>\n \u201cApologies your honour,\u201d he begins. I wince and type \u201cyour worship<\/span>\u201d but Leon doesn’t see and carries on. \u201cI was just wondering if you could explain what this Cafcass thing is all about, I don’t know nothing about any of that.\u201d<\/p>\n The chief magistrate leans forward and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. \u201cCafcass, Mr Palmer, is the Children and Family Court Advisory Support Service. They will have contacted you by telephone prior to this hearing and amalgamated your comments into their report, a copy of which they should have sent you.\u201d<\/p>\n Leon tilts his head back and looks at the bench down the barrel of his flared nostrils.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, I didn’t hear nothin\u2019 from no Cafcass, your honours, so they can’t have been almagamatin\u2019 none o\u2019 my comments into nothin\u2019, now, can they?\u201d<\/p>\n I type \u201cYour Worship!<\/span><\/strong>\u201d again. The chief magistrate rolls her eyes and looks at her colleague to the left.<\/p>\n \u201cNot this again,\u201d she says quietly but audibly, Leon bristles. She has a hurried conference with the bench, ruffles papers and lifts folders \u201cMr. Palmer,\u201d she says, pushing the glasses up her nose again. \u201cThe court apologises if Cafcass has not contacted you in the production of its report. It seems that it was produced rather late in the day.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI might be able to shed some light on that matter, your worships.\u201d The brief flaps into life, one long finger raised. \u201cConsidering my client’s concern over Mr. Palmer’s… suitability for unsupervised parental contact and the serious nature of those concerns, she became understandably worried when, last Friday, Cafcass had still not contacted her regarding their report for this hearing. I pursued the matter and a telephone interview was arranged for later that day with the report issued shortly after.\u201d he pauses and flicks a look in our direction. \u201cI assumed that Mr. Palmer was issued a copy at the same time. It is… unfortunate if this has not transpired.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYour magistrates, this ain\u2019t right,\u201d Leon says. I cough, nose starting to run, and type \u201cYOUR WORSHIPS!<\/span><\/strong>\u201d But Leon presses on, oblivious. \u201cI can\u2019t get done like this when I ain\u2019t even seen the damn report. I gotta see my kid, man.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMr. Palmer,\u201d she begins, \u201cWhilst I appreciate your frustration, it is difficult for us to move matters forward until the safeguarding issues contained in the report have been properly investigated.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd how long is that gonna take, madam?\u201d<\/p>\n The screen is starting to blur as I type: \u201cYOUR WORSHIP!!!<\/span><\/strong>\u201d and cough again. \u201cMr. Palmer, I must ask you to moderate\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis whole trial\u2019s a load o\u2019 bullshit\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n The words are swimming before me now but I get out: \u201cSTOP TALKING! YOUR WORSHIPS!!<\/span><\/strong>\u201d\u00a0cough, cough.<\/p>\n \u201c…your language; Mr Palmer\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201c…an\u2019 that lizard\u2019s got me sewn up with a whole bunch o\u2019 lies\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMr Palmer\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201c…an\u2019 you trio a witches gonna damn well burn me at the stake over\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n Blindly touch typing: \u201cSHUT UP!<\/span><\/strong>\u201d cough, cough, sniff, sniff.<\/p>\n \u201cMr. Palmer!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201c…a load o\u2019 goddam hearsay!\u201d<\/p>\n There\u2019s a moment\u2019s stunned silence in the room. Exasperated, I get out: \u201cFFS!!!<\/span><\/span><\/strong>\u201d<\/p>\n And only then does Leon finally look down at what I have typed. He stares at it for what seems like a long time before looking up at me and then, just like magic, the mist clears. I meet his eyes and see a calmness there but something else, it\u2019s the same way that the Andre Horton-Da Silva looked at him in the waiting room: the look of the samurai about to fall on his sword. He nods his head slowly as his eyes continue to meet mine but I\u2019m just off the pace, just too slow to understand what\u2019s happening, just too slow to stop him firing the bullets I\u2019ve unwittingly given him. Leon turns back to the shocked bench and addresses the chief magistrate directly, his voice firm and controlled:<\/p>\n \u201cFor fuck\u2019s sake, your majesty.\u201d<\/p>\n Cheque please.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cA supervised contact order? Two hours a week? What is that, man?!\u201d We\u2019re back in the Penderel\u2019s Oak, nursing pints, nursing wounds. Leon is shell shocked by the ordeal of the hearing and so am I, to be honest. I raise my glass and drink.<\/p>\n \u201cIn all fairness,\u201d I say, \u201cIt\u2019s a lot better than I was expecting by the end of it all.\u201d I know immediately that it\u2019s the wrong thing to say but, hey, why change the habit of the day?<\/p>\n Leon\u2019s eyes widen as he starts in.<\/p>\n \u201cOh, it\u2019s a lot better than you was expectin\u2019, is it? Well that\u2019s just great news, ain\u2019t it? Tell me one thing, will you? How\u2019d you like to see your kid for just two hours a week? Supervised? Like you wasn’t to be trusted, or somethin\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n I open my mouth to put him straight but close it swiftly. He\u2019s right, of course. I start to tell him so but he\u2019s finding his flow now.<\/p>\n \u201cAn\u2019 what\u2019s with all this Cafcass report thing? How they be springin\u2019 that shit on me all unawares? Now tell me you don\u2019t think that\u2019s fair, right?\u201d I nod my head but he doesn\u2019t notice.<\/p>\n \u201cTwelve weeks, that\u2019s what she said, the lady ma\u2019am or whatever she called\u2026\u201d I start to tell him but he waves me shut. \u201cNever even mind what she called, it all too late for that now, ain\u2019t it? Twelve weeks I gotta wait. Twelve weeks an\u2019 then we have that findin\u2019 of whatever hearing, what it called?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFinding of facts,\u201d I say. \u201cIt\u2019s a finding of facts hearing, it\u2019s meant to\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201c…meant to stitch me up good an\u2019 proper!\u201d he interrupts.<\/p>\n \u201cLook,\u201d I try again. \u201cAt least you\u2019re going to be getting some contact with Damian. I know two hours isn\u2019t great but it\u2019s something, right? Better than nothing?\u201d<\/p>\n He looks at me levelly and asks, \u201cAn\u2019 who\u2019s gonna be the responsible adult supervisin\u2019 that contact, eh? You?\u201d I look away, feeling the accusation in his tone and the shivers beginning to cramp my midriff. Before I can even begin to mumble he has the measure of me.<\/p>\n \u201cNaw, I thought not. You ain\u2019t really so good at that whole followin\u2019 through thing are you? Tell me, how you shapin\u2019 up for Mostafa\u2019s library march, you got your Liam Neeson outfit all sorted out yet?\u201d His eyes have now reduced down to narrow shards, freezing and hostile.<\/p>\n A wave of indignation begins to rise but crashes in resignation before it makes my lips. Leon stays perched on his seat, watching me squirm, taking no pleasure in how he has trapped me, how effortlessly he has got my number. I finish the beer, feel it hit the back of my throat, cold, sharp and very, very bitter. It boils down to the pit of my stomach where it sits like curdled acid. It\u2019s Wednesday and I\u2019m starting to feel very unwell indeed.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" In court no one can hear you scream.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":15088,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[247,696,27,1880],"class_list":["post-15058","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-children","tag-crime","tag-fathers","tag-justice","writer-cameron-dunham"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15058","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15058"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15058\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15125,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15058\/revisions\/15125"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/15088"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15058"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15058"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15058"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}8:50<\/h5>\n
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\nLeon doesn\u2019t notice: \u201cI bet you be hurryin\u2019 shit up if you wasn\u2019t seein\u2019 your kid, now wouldn\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n15:32<\/h5>\n