Highdown Harry: My day in court

Our regular fiction column tells stories from the life of Harry, who always seems to find himself in some kind of trouble

Prison certainly gives you time to think. As I sat in my cell, I had a flashback to how I ended up here … 

I’d never set foot in a courtroom before, let alone a Crown Court. That was where all the serious stuff happens, the stuff you see on the evening news. It certainly wasn’t where I, Harry, belonged…

Feeling nervous, I stepped out of the taxi dressed in my best suit and looked up at the imposing edifice perched high above me. History tells us that the ruling classes were good at locating important buildings like churches and courts in raised positions, so the mere mortals like us have to look up at them. A long flight of steps led up to the entrance.

My route was blocked by a few elderly winos who were lounging around near the bottom. I attempted to hurry past but they were having none of it. A heavily-bearded man with a mass of tangled hair, in a dirty raincoat that would have put Columbo’s to shame, held up his hand to stop my progress. Had my mind not been on other, more important matters, I might have seen them in time and given them a wider berth. Now, though, they closed around me like a pack of wolves surrounding their prey.

The Colombo look-a-like appeared to be their leader. Expecting him to request some loose change for a ‘cup of tea’ or some other liquid refreshment, I paused and began to feel about in my pockets. My assumptions proved wrong, however, as in a rich educated voice, albeit slurred by alcohol, he began to question me.

“Are you a solicitor, son?” he asked.

“No, I’m not,” I assured him.

“Oh, so are you a barrister then?” he persisted.

I shook my head. “No, I’m not a barrister either.” I stepped to one side, keen to be on my way, but he stepped in front of me and grabbed my arm with surprisingly strong grip.

“What about a judge then son? Is that it – are you a judge?”

This time I afforded him a sympathetic smile. “No, I can promise you that I am most definitely not a judge.” The elderly wino released his grip on my arm, a triumphant smile spreading across his bearded features.

“In that case, son,” he told me matter-of-factly, “You’re screwed!”

The realisation of how completely he had just kippered me up hit me like a 10-stretch as the other members of his little group all rolled around on the steps laughing. I opened my mouth, trying to think of a witty riposte with which to come back at him, but my mind was completely blank.

Later that morning, in court number six, my judge delivered a punch line every bit as good as Columbo’s. As I stood trembling before him my mind went similarly blank, but this time I couldn’t simply shake my head and move on with my life as I had done on the steps outside.

Not for another 10 years, at least…