A Judge Writes

[note- due to the length of this post, we have added our comments in the corpus of the text [blah blah ].

Rumpole,

Having only recently been made aware of the existence of your puerile publication, I have been spared the torture of all your previous infantile, scatologicaly tainted fulminations. However, while ignorance was bliss, I now find myself morbidly drawn to peruse your vomitous outpouring much as rubber-necking motorists are fascinated by the site of a deadly crash. [ Rumpole adds: "or lawyers standing in line in Judge Mills Francis courtroom. You love us, you hate us, but you can’t put us down, can you?"]

My unfortunate masochistic compulsion subjected me to a slanderous condemnation of me and my brethren. Perpetrated by, the perhaps, appropriately named, Miss Trial.

It has been said that “He who steals from me my purse steals trash. T’is something—nothing. T’was mine—T’is his and has been slave to thousands. But he, who filches from me my good name, robs me of that which enriches him not and makes me poor indeed.” [Rumpole adds," we recently wrote that…quoting the bard we so love. Find your own quotes, Scalia."].

Thus, in an effort to climb out of the poorhouse, I take keyboard on lap, and file my refutation of Miss Trial’s libel.

I first posit that one’s perception of reality is skewed by one’s pre-view of reality through lenses crafted by the observer’s experience while illuminated by the prism of the viewer’s personality. In short, what you “see” is what you get…and what you get is what you are (ain’t sophistry great!). [Rumpole adds, at this point one can clearly see the effects of alcohol consumption by the author.]

In casting us and condemning us as callous, conscienceless and calculating computers concerned and caring only for case ciphers and curtailing court calendars, Miss Trial fails to credit us with basic human decency; fails to “see” in us the natural desire to do our jobs to the best of our abilities. ["Abilities" now there's the rub.]As such, given the aforementioned premise, what poor Miss Trial “sees” in us must, sadly, be what she “sees” in herself--through her glass darkly. [Rumpole adds " there is now a serious shortage of “C”’s due to over usage."]

Does she care nothing for her client’s fate? Does she not try to do her level best to insure her clients are treated mercifully? I do not say justly for if we were all to receive justice, we would all be in deep doo-doo (Latin for excrement).

Miss Trial’s miss-missive proves the wisdom of the aphorism which counsels that “you should not sling mud, for in doing so you may miss the mark, but your hands always end up dirty.”


Judges do care for “numbers”, but only to the extent that reducing the numbers promotes justice (tempered by mercy). After all, justice delayed can be justice denied. Trite but true. If you disagree, ask your client’s opinion next time you visit him at TGK; that is, if he is not a participant in correction’s newly implemented self-release program. [Rumpole get serious: examine your premise, your honor. To give some defendants justice, others get the fast track? Something doesn't square about that. ]

I and my colleagues do care about our charges’ fates. I and my colleagues try to do our level best [Rumpole notes: “level best” a much used phrase by Janet Reno] to see that justice is fairly and mercifully meted out to all who come before us. It is only human to want to do the right thing. We like to be able to look in our mirrors and be pleased by our reflections—albeit, with rapidly graying and thinning hair (our hirsute sacrifice upon the altar of justice).
[Rumpole retorts: Sorry Judge, but we were present when one of your late colleagues, Judge Snyder told a new judge: "In 99% of the cases you can do what ever you want. In 1% of the cases, you have to follow the law. We do not accept the premise that all of your colleagues are motivated to do a good job. We have seen too many petty bureaucrats run from their shadow rather than do the right thing.]


Lower numbers mean that cases resolved at arraignments or early on do not transform attorneys into headless flightless poultry; dissipating their time and energies on endless and needless preparation for cases that will inevitably settle for the same result--many attorney work hours and depositions later. Attorneys will be better employed fruitfully preparing for cases that need to go to trial. Cases that need to be tried will actually have time to be tried. Just think of it—trial courts trying cases. What a concept! It boggles the mind.

Lower numbers, Miss Miss the Mark but Dirty Handed Trial, foster hope that your incarcerated client’s case may get tried before she dies of old age.

Yours affectionately,

Judge Not-so-Mad No-Bull-Ingham
[Rumpole notes that readers of the Rumpole of The Bailey remember he constantly fought with the Mad Judge Bullingham. We appreciate this Judge’s literary reference .Now try reading some case law instead of fiction.]

PS. Rumpole, I thought you croaked. It seems your chronicler shares Miss Trial’s looking glass and is as careless with the truth as he is with the hearts of women who come within his lecherous ambit. Nevertheless, I must say it is refreshing not to be subjected to your eternal carping about your client’s presumption of innocence; about the “golden thread” that runs through our system of justice; about the dastardliness of the prosecution. The Old Bailey is now the serene bastion of justice it should be having been rid of your oratorical bombast upon your exile to the colonies.

PPS. It seems you chase away all attorneys who are truly respectful of the judiciary—prime example: we have a new barrister lately arrived from across “the pond” now practicing at the Bailey—fine chap named Sy Gaer.

Rumpole responds: Our favorite bard wrote "Why what's a matter, that you have such a February face, so full of frost and storm and cloudiness?"
Much Ado About Nothing.

Dear reader, the effects of excessive alcohol comsumption, Chateau Thames or Chateau Miami River have takeir toll. Late at night, when no one is around, the darkness of the room interrupted by the glow of a small screen, and the silence of the night puntuated by the tap tap tap of an inebriated and bitter magistrate, thinking what might have been, while cursing the darkness, as he attacks a lonely but proud blogger named Rumpole.

"Puerile publication?"

As our favorite poet was moved to write:
"I am a true labourer;
I earn that I eat,
get that I wear,
owe no man hate,
envy no man's happiness,
glad of other men's good, content with my harm."

As You Like It.