A Philadelphia Lawyer in the London Courts by Thomas Leaming
A Philadelphia Lawyer in the London Courts by Thomas Leaming
THE LAW COURTS BUILDING ON THE STRAND-A COURT ROOM-PARTICIPANTS IN A TRIAL-WIGS AND GOWNS-COLLOQUIAL METHODS-AGREEABLE VOICES-SIMILARITY TO AMERICAN TRIALS.
Leaving the busy Strand at Temple Bar and entering the Law Courts Building, one plunges into that teeming hive where the disputes of millions of British subjects are settled by law. Here the whole kingdom begins and ends its legal battles-except the cases on circuit, those minor matters which go to the County Courts, and the very few which reach the House of Lords.
The visitor, strolling through the lofty Gothic hall and ascending one of the stair-cases to the second floor, finds himself in a long, vaulted corridor, sombre and quiet, which runs around the building. There are no idle crowds and there is no smoking, but, curiously enough, frequent refreshment bars occupy corners, where drink as well as food is dispensed by vivacious bar-maids.[A] Here and there, a uniformed officer guards a curtained door through which may be had a glimpse of a court room; but no sound escapes, because of a second door of glass, also draped with curtains. Groups of litigants and witnesses await their turns or emerge with flushed faces and discuss their recent experiences before returning to the roar of London. Barristers pace up and down in wig and gown, or retire to a window-seat for conference with their respective solicitors.
A mere sight-seer, having thus visited the courts, passes on his way, but as the administration of law, from the Lord Chancellor to the "bobby," is the thing best done in England and commands the admiration and imitation of the world, the courts deserve more than a casual visit.
Passing the officer and the double-curtained doors, one enters the court-room, which is usually small and lofty, with gray stone walls panelled in oak, subdued in color and well lighted from above. The admirable arrangement of seats sloping steeply upward on all sides, instead of resting upon a level floor, brings the heads of speakers and auditors near together; and the bright colors of the judges' robes-scarlet with a blue sash over the shoulder in the case of the Lord Chief Justice, and blue with a scarlet sash in the case of most of the others, together with various modifications of broad yellow cuffs-first strike the eye.
The judge's bewigged head, as he sits behind his desk, is about twelve feet above the floor. On his left, at the same level, stands the witness, who has reached the box by a small stairway. At the judge's right are the jury, seated in a box of either two rows of six or three rows of four, the back row being nearly on a level with the judge. In front of the judge, but so much lower as to oblige him to stand on his chair when whispering to his lordship, sits his "associate," a barrister in wig and gown, whom we should designate as the clerk of the court.
Facing the associate is the "solicitors' well," at the floor level, where, on the front row of benches, sit the solicitors in ordinary street dress. Then come the barristers-all in wig and gown-seated on wooden benches, each row with a narrow desk which forms the back of the seat in front. The desks are supplied with ink wells, and with the inevitable quill pen. The barristers keep their places until their cases are reached and then try them from the same seats, so that there is always a considerable professional audience. For the public there is little accommodation-usually only a few benches back of the barristers and a meagre gallery above.
The solicitor, whose client may be the plaintiff or the defendant, has prepared the case and knows its ins and outs as well as the personal peculiarities of the parties and witnesses who will be called, but he is unable to take any part in the trial and can only whisper an occasional suggestion to the barristers he has retained, by craning his neck backward to the leader behind him. This leader is a newcomer into the case. He is a K. C. (King's Counsel) who has been "retained" by the solicitor upon payment of a guinea followed by a large "agreed fee," and he leaves the "opening of the pleadings" to the junior immediately back of him, while the latter, in turn, has handed over the preparation to his "devil" who is seated behind him.
Thus, the four men engaged on a side, instead of being grouped around a counsel table, as in America, are seated one in front of the other at different levels, rendering a general consultation difficult when questions suddenly arise. The two men on each side of the case who know most about it have no voice in court, for the devil is necessarily as mum as the solicitor, and the name of the former does not even appear in the subsequent report of the trial. How this comes about requires some acquaintance with the different fields of activity of barristers and solicitors, which will be referred to later.
In thus glancing at an English court, an American's attention is sure to be arrested by the wig. The barrister's wig, for his ordinary practice in the High Court, has a mass of white hair standing straight up from the forehead, as a German brushes his; above the ears are three horizontal, stiff curls, and, back of the ears, four more, while behind there are five, finished by the queue which is divided into tails, reaching below the collar of the gown. There are bright, shiny, well-curled wigs; wigs old, musty, tangled and out of curl; some are worn jauntily, producing a smart and sporty effect, others look like extinguishers. So grotesque is the effect that it is difficult to realize that these men are not mummers in some pageant of modern London, but that they are serious participants in grave proceedings.
Not only the eye, but the ear will convey novel and favorable impressions to the observer. He will be struck by the cheerful alacrity and promptness of the witnesses, by the quickness and fulness of their responses, by a certain atmosphere of complete understanding between court, counsel, witnesses and jury, and more than all, by the marked courtesy, combined with an absence of all restraint, and a perfectly colloquial and good-humored interchange of thought. It is hard to define this, but it certainly differs from the air of an American tribunal where the participants seem almost sulky by comparison. The Englishman in his court is evidently in his native element and appears at his best.
The voices, too, are most agreeable, although many barristers acquire the high-pitched, thin tone usually associated with literary and ecclesiastical surroundings. Besides superior modulation, the chief merit is in the admirable distribution of emphasis. In this respect both the dialogue and monologue in an English court room are far less monotonous than in an American.
Passing the superficial impression and coming to the underlying substance, there is extraordinarily little difference between law courts on both sides of the Atlantic. Not only is the common law the same, and the legislation of the two countries largely parallel, but the method of law-thought-the manner of approaching the consideration of questions-is precisely identical, so that, upon the whole, the diversity is no greater than that which may exist between any two of the forty-six states. Indeed, so complete is the similarity that an American lawyer feels that he might step into the barristers' benches and conduct a current case without causing the slightest hitch in the proceedings, provided he could manage the wig and that the difference of accent-not very marked in men of the profession-should not attract too much attention.
That the law emanating from the little Island, which could be tucked away in a corner of some of our States, should have spread over the vast territory of America and control such an enormous population with its many foreign strains, and that, as the decades roll on, it should thrive, improve, and successfully grapple with problems never dreamed of in its origin, indicates its surprising vitality and stimulates interest in the methods now in vogue in its native land.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] Very recently these bars have been moved to restaurants on the lower floor.
* * *
"Please believe me. I didn't do anything!" Thalassa Thompson cried helplessly. "Take her away." Kris Miller, her husband, said coldly. He didn't care as she was humiliated for the whole world to see. What would you if the love of your life and the woman you considered your best friend betrayed you in the worse way possible? For Thalassa, the answer was only one; she's going to come back stronger and better and bring everyone who made her suffer to their knees. Let the games begin! ***** "I hate you." Kris gritted out, glaring into her eyes. Thalassa laughed. "Mr Miller, if you hate me so much, then why is your dick so hard?"
Blinded in a crash, Cary was rejected by every socialite—except Evelina, who married him without hesitation. Three years later, he regained his sight and ended their marriage. "We’ve already lost so many years. I won’t let her waste another one on me." Evelina signed the divorce papers without a word. Everyone mocked her fall—until they discovered that the miracle doctor, jewelry mogul, stock genius, top hacker, and the President's true daughter… were all her. When Cary came crawling back, a ruthless tycoon had him kicked out. "She's my wife now. Get lost."
Aria Thorne was born into a pack that treated her like dirt beneath their paws. Born as a StillBlood, she was mocked, beaten, and branded "broken." Her only chance at escape? A forced marriage to a fallen Alpha whose scars ran deeper than flesh. Lucien Vine was once a man of legend. A ruthless warrior. A king among Alphas. Now he's a shadow, crippled and discarded by the very pack he once led and bled for. Lucien saw nothing but another chain when the new alpha forced him to wed a StillBlood. She was nothing more than one more curse. However, fate has a perverse sense of humor. Because the Broken Luna possesses a hidden ability that she is unaware of, and the only person who might be able to awaken it is the Crippled Alpha. Will they ruin one another? Or rise together and set the world on fire?
For eight years, Cecilia Moore was the perfect Luna, loyal, and unmarked. Until the day she found her Alpha mate with a younger, purebred she-wolf in his bed. In a world ruled by bloodlines and mating bonds, Cecilia was always the outsider. But now, she's done playing by wolf rules. She smiles as she hands Xavier the quarterly financials-divorce papers clipped neatly beneath the final page. "You're angry?" he growls. "Angry enough to commit murder," she replies, voice cold as frost. A silent war brews under the roof they once called home. Xavier thinks he still holds the power-but Cecilia has already begun her quiet rebellion. With every cold glance and calculated step, she's preparing to disappear from his world-as the mate he never deserved. And when he finally understands the strength of the heart he broke... It may be far too late to win it back.
I sat on the cold tile floor of our Upper East Side penthouse, staring at the two pink lines until my vision blurred. After ten years of loving Julian Sterling and three years of a hollow marriage, I finally had the one thing that could bridge the distance between us. I was pregnant. But Julian didn't come home with flowers for our anniversary. He tossed a thick manila envelope onto the marble coffee table with a heavy thud. Fiona, the woman he'd truly loved for years, was back in New York, and he told me our "business deal" was officially over. "Sign it," He said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He looked at me with the cold detachment of a man selling a piece of unwanted furniture. When I hesitated, he told me to add a zero to the alimony if the money wasn't enough. I realized in that moment that if he knew about the baby, he wouldn't love me; he would simply take my child and give it to Fiona to raise. I shoved the pregnancy test into my pocket, signed the papers with a shaking hand, and lied through my teeth. When my morning sickness hit, I slumped to the floor to hide the truth. "It's just cramps," I gasped, watching him recoil as if I were contagious. To make him stay away, I invented a man named Jack-a fake boyfriend who supposedly gave me the kindness Julian never could. Suddenly, the man who wanted me gone became a monster of possessiveness. He threatened to "bury" a man who didn't exist while leaving me humiliated at his family's dinner to rush to Fiona's side. I was so broken that I even ate a cake I was deathly allergic to, then had to refuse life-saving steroids at the hospital because they would harm the fetus. Julian thinks he's stalling the divorce for two months to protect the family's reputation for his father's Jubilee. He thinks he's keeping his "property" on a short leash until the press dies down. He has no idea I'm using those sixty days to build a fortress for my child. By the time he realizes the truth, I'll be gone, and the Sterling heir will be far beyond his reach.
Omega Lyra, once betrothed to Alpha Kyle, is forced to sew his new Luna's wedding dress. On the wedding eve, an out-of-control Kyle violates her; the chaos that follows kills the bride, and Lyra is falsely branded a murderer. Kyle binds Lyra as his nominal Luna to torment her-for three years, she endures mockery and isolation, finding solace only in late-night piano playing. His coldness and closeness to the late Luna's sister Rhea shatter her hope. Humiliated at Kyle's birthday banquet, Lyra demands to end their bond. Fleeing, she awakens hidden Alpha powers but is attacked by rogues-Beta Darren, who secretly cares for her, saves her. Now, Lyra must evade Kyle's family, find her lost sister, and fight for a place in the wolf world, turning her painful escape into a journey of redemption.
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