CHAPTER SEVEN
A floor of barristers usually elects its most senior member to be Head of Chambers. That title once conferred considerable power and prestige. However, these days, his main function was to chair meetings of the Floor committee and monitor the Floor clerk. If he wanted more power, he had to seize it himself, as Derek Hoogland did in Thomas Erskine Chambers.
Hoogland was a barrister in South Africa before migrating to Australia twenty years ago, for reasons never disclosed. After joining the Sydney Bar, he swiftly rose to become one of the top five commercial barristers in the country. When he became our Head of Chambers, six years ago, he could have easily accepted the honour without shouldering much responsibility. But that was not his way. He had to control every organisation he belonged to, even a pissy little Floor like ours. Soon, he had the Floor committee under his thumb and the staff answering directly to him. He obviously wanted to lead the Floor to a bigger, brighter future that was locked away in his mind.
Nobody opposed his power grab because nobody cared. As long as the lights came on, phone calls were answered and mail was delivered, everybody else on the Floor was happy. If Hoogland wanted to knock himself out running the show, without pay, he was welcome to do so.
Of course, there was a real danger that he would misinterpret the acquiescence of his colleagues as a carte blanche and overstep the mark. If he did, they would push back hard. An old barrister once told me that a barristers' floor should never give the title of Head of Chambers to someone who wanted it. That always ended in tears. I sensed that Hoogland would prove him right.
Every Friday evening, Hoogland hosted a drinks party for Floor members in his room. One measure of a barrister's status is square-meterage. His room was about twice the size of most. Glass-fronted bookcases stuffed with law reports lined three sides. The fourth side had a long window overlooking Philip Street. At one end, delicate French chairs faced a partner's desk; at the other, a chaise longue sat between two standing clocks. It was all antique reproduction furniture that arrived on the same truck. None was chipped or scratched. There was no sense of evolving taste or personal whim.
As I entered, the grey woven carpet caressed the soles of my shoes. I'd heard a rumour that Hoogland made the cleaners vacuum it all in one direction. I had no reason to doubt that.
About half the barristers on the Floor were present, chatting in small groups, according to their specialities. Hoogland stood in a corner with several barristers. He was tall and spindly, with a gaunt face that would frighten flies. Ill-hidden menace seemed to leak from his pores. His pinstripe Bar trousers belonged to a by-gone era.
He spent his life shuttling in a late-model Mercedes between his mansion in the Eastern Suburbs and Thomas Erskine Chambers, except when he jetted off overseas on a five-star holiday. Most of his clients were big corporations that wanted to get out of a bad contract or sidestep inconvenient legislation. Well-coiffed men with clean fingernails and sharp suits regularly trooped into his room for advice. When he went to court, he explained to judges why the natural and ordinary meaning of a contract or statute was not, in fact, its natural and ordinary meaning. The real one was hidden from view. Indeed, it could only be found after consulting a pile of ancient judgments and applying a host of Latin maxims. He rarely had to cross-examine witnesses and, when he did, sounded like he was conducting a market survey. Wayne Newhouse called the commercial barristers on the Floor "Nancy boys who fight over money." He was right.
My only serious chat with Hoogland was at the Floor's most recent Christmas party when chance threw us together. When I mentioned that I did criminal defence work, he looked like he wanted to send me around to the tradesman's entrance. He explained that, during his early years at the Bar in "Sith Afrika", he represented a few "bleeks" accused of serious crimes. "They were all convicted, I'm afraid, and got long sentences. I decided that criminal work was not my forte." I bet many of his clients, rotting in prison, came to a similar conclusion.
While we talked, he kept looking over my shoulder for someone worthier of his attention. I tried to chat about rugby and discovered he was the only white South African I had ever met not interested in the sport. He probed to see if I was a wine buff and drew a blank. Then his bull-necked wife charged up and dragged him away to meet someone else.
The booze and snacks now lay on his desk. I poured a glass of white, grabbed a handful of chips and shuffled over to the fringe of the group around him. Most were barristers to whom he farmed out work. His patronage allowed them to pay off huge mortgages and cover expensive school fees. I sometimes dreamed of enjoying his favour and earning $5,000 a day, plus GST. However, I would need to know something about commercial law, beyond what I remembered from law school, and laugh at his jokes, if I detected them.
Hoogland held up his glass. "You know, this wine reminds me of a lovely drop I had last year, driving through Alsace. I stopped at a tiny winery and knocked on the door of a tiny farmhouse …"
I listened with a quarter-ear as he described an obscure winery that produced liquid gold. Everyone else listened spellbound and caressed him with laughter that was almost erotic. Then a close confederate told a pointless tale about skiing in Zermatt the previous winter and almost being buried under an avalanche.
The conversation drifted for a while until Hoogland asked if everyone was happy with the performance of the receptionist. When met with blank stares, he complained that she frequently lost his calls and was rude to clients.
Hoogland had already chased a couple of staff off the Floor. Was he starting a new campaign? Tania seemed quite competent. Solicitors usually complain if a receptionist doesn't treat them like royalty. None of mine had complained about her.
I tried to bite my tongue, without success. "Actually, several of my solicitors have commented on how pleasant she is." That was stretching the truth, but someone had to speak up for the defendant.
Hoogland's glare slipped between several bodies and punched me on the nose. "I don't think that's the common experience. Your solicitors are probably easy to impress."
I considered defending my instructing solicitors - many of whom were had to distinguish from their criminal clients - and couldn't be bothered. "Well, I think she's fine."
"That's just your opinion."
Not being among friends and not wanting a fight, I shrugged and drifted back to the desk where I scooped up more chips. I joined a couple of criminal defence barristers chatting in the middle of the room. Geoff Hoskins was extremely tall and Felix Slater extremely fat. They looked like a comedy duo. Geoff was describing how he recently represented a client so stupid that, after robbing a liquor store, he forgot to take off his ski-mask. He drove through three suburbs before a cop in a parked patrol car spotted the mask and arrested him.
Geoff said: "When he claimed he was innocent, I asked him why he was driving in a mask. He said he was going to a fancy-dress party. I said people don't usually wear ski-masks to fancy-dress parties. He said he was pretending to be a robber. I said: 'I'll pay you that one. But why was there a bag of cash on the seat next to you?' He couldn't answer that question."
Felix said: "He pleaded guilty?"
"Yes, thank God. Got four on the top and three on the bottom."
"Well, if crooks were smart, we'd be out of business."
"Very true."
Felix described how, the day before, a prosecutor annoyed one of his alibi witnesses so much that she rose to her feet and refused to answer any more questions. "Then she walked straight out of the courtroom. The Court Officer chased her outside and demanded that she return, but she refused."
I said: "You're kidding? What did the judge do?"
"Fortunately, he aborted the trial. Now we'll have to find the stupid woman and subpoena her to appear."
The Bar Association had just announced the names of that year's crop of new silk. We discussed the 20 names and, following an age-old tradition, poo-pooed the quality of most. Indeed, we were forced to conclude it was a non-vintage y
ear.
Felix said: "The only decent one is Ben Kennedy."
Geoff said: "Son of Alex Kennedy?"
"Yes, but definitely got appointed on merit. I've appeared against him in a couple of personal injuries matters. Always well ahead of the game."
"Wasn't he junior counsel to Terry Riley a few years ago, when Riley was murdered?"
"Yes, and he fingered the culprit. If he hadn't caused so much trouble, he would have got silk earlier."
We started gossiping about other barristers. Stories I'd heard several months or years ago came back around wearing new clothes.
My wine glass was empty and I wandered back to the desk. I was filling it up when someone said: "Hi."
I turned and saw a woman in her early thirties with hair pulled back to expose a broad, expressive face lightly dusted with makeup. She wore a plain white blouse and grey skirt. Was she visiting from another floor?
"Hi," I said warily.
"You're Brad Norton, right?"
I smiled. "You're not a process server, are you?"
She laughed. "Don't worry, I'm the new reader on the Floor."
All barristers had to spend their first year "reading" with an experienced junior barrister. Most floors gave free, if pokey, accommodation to one or two of them. Our clerk must have sent around an e-mail announcing this woman was the new reader, and I didn't open it. "Oh, then you're umm … sorry, I've forgotten your name."
"Helen Lawson."
Dick Lawson was our Head of Chambers when I arrived on the floor. Soon afterward, he was appointed President of the Court of Appeal. I mentally photo-shopped his face, to remove his sour expression, and saw a strong family resemblance. "Oh, any relation?"
"Yes, daughter."
The Bar often resembles a medieval guild into which parents introduce their children. They use their contacts to get them onto the right floors and obtain them work. Then, in the fullness of time, if they have enough muscle, they secure them silk and an appointment to the bench.
Dick Lawson obviously pulled strings to get his daughter onto our Floor and would pull plenty more to promote her career. Unless she had some deep mental abnormality - of which there was no sign - she'd go far.
I said: "Who's your tutor?"
"Frank Jeter."
Frank was a gangly guy with a big commercial practice whom I barely knew. "Let me take a shot in the dark: a friend of your father?"
A slight blush. "He was often Dad's junior."
And so it goes. "Is he feeding you work?"
"Some. I've also got some from other barristers on the Floor. I'm surprised at how busy I am."
I wasn't. Many of the barristers on the Floor were heavily indebted to her father. "What sort of work do you do?"
"Mostly commercial stuff, and some probate."
"No crime?"
"Zero. In fact, that's what I want to talk to you about. I've got to spend 10 days reading with a criminal law barrister. I asked Wayne Newhouse if I could read with him, but he refused and gave me your name."
The Bar Association would not give her a full practising certificate unless she spent ten days toddling around after a criminal law barrister. I said: "Why did Wayne refuse?"
"He said he's not a good role model."
I laughed. "That's very true."
"Really?"
"Yes, he's one of the bad boys of the Bar. He'd teach you stunts you should not try in court. So, he gave you my name?"
"Yes. Said you're a very promising young barrister."
"Hah. He was pulling your leg."
"Maybe. But can I spend some time with you?"
It would be churlish to refuse. "Sure, no problem. However, I'm not in court for a few weeks - just got lots of conferences with clients, and you won't enjoy them."
"OK. But when you do have a trial, you'll let me know?"
"Of course."
"Thanks."
She glanced at her watch and said she had a dinner to attend. As she wandered off, I looked around and decided to start my weekend as well.