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director, entered the witness box and identified his stolen wallet, which was wrapped in cellophane and labelled ‘Prosecution Exhibit A’, being handled carefully as it had been examined for fingerprints. With some reluctance and a great deal of delay, the prosecution had agreed to providing the fingerprint evidence which had given me, when I read it, a good deal of quiet satisfaction. We had started after lunch and by four o‘clock the New Bullingham beamed at us and said, ‘Would it suit the convenience of you two gentlemen if we stop now and we hear the chief prosecution witness in the morning?’ We beamed back and told him that would suit our convenience perfectly.
    When I heard that the Bull was going to try the case at the Old Bailey, I thought it was because they wanted someone to crack down, in the most ruthless manner, on the fashionable crime of Underground wallet-pinching and that we were in for a blood-stained corrida. Having seen the New Bullingham, I ventured to ask his clerk, whom I saw, by chance, halfway through a pint of Guinness in Pommeroy’s whether the Old Judge was not in fact sickening for something?
    ‘My Judge is not sickening for anything,’ Bullingham’s clerk was an imperturbable Scot, ‘except the Lord Chancellor.’
    ‘What’s the Lord Chancellor got to do with it?’
    ‘There’ve been complaints to the Lord Chancellor about my Judge’s rudeness to witnesses and members of the Bar.’
    ‘He was quite even-handed in his rudeness,’ I agreed.
    ‘My Judge,’ the clerk was clearly loyal, ‘was quite fair in that way. But the Lord Chancellor told him he wanted to hear no more of such complaints. Or else.’
    ‘Or else what?’
    ‘According to my Judge, the Lord Chancellor simply said “or else”. So my Judge made a New Year’s resolution.’
    ‘To be polite to everybody?’ I suggested.
    ‘To be, Mr Rumpole,’ the Scottish clerk drained his glass, ‘absolutely charming to everyone, including yourself.’
     
    ‘Hello, Rumpole. How can I help you?’
    ‘I was thinking more in terms of helping you, Chair.’
    ‘Our Marketing and Administration Director calls me that.’
    ‘She calls you more than that, Ballard,’ I assured him. ‘And she really longs to call you “darling”.’
    ‘Rumpole!’ Soapy Sam looked shocked. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
    ‘I’m talking about the fact that Luci with an “i” finds you devastatingly attractive, and also the fact that there’s no accounting for tastes.’
    After meeting the old Bull’s clerk in Pommeroy’s, I had called into Chambers to give some thought to the next day’s cross-examination in R. v. Timson. I noticed that Ballard’s light was on. Having a delicate task to perform on behalf of the love-lorn Luci, I told myself that there was no time like the present and pushed open his door. I discovered him seated in front of his computer, manipulating his mouse and looking, as people engaged in this process always seem to do, with puzzled irritation at his screen. I settled myself in his clients’ chair and the proceedings opened as set out above.
    ‘What do you mean, Rumpole?’
    ‘I mean that Luci with an “i” loves you, Ballard. She was extremely chuffed to get your e-mail. In fact, it’s no exaggeration to say that she was over the moon about it.’
    ‘I sent her an e-mail about contract cleaners for Chambers. She’s considering sourcing a new firm for the task.’
    I noticed that Ballard had learned to speak in Luci’s language. This might be of some encouragement to her.
    ‘It doesn’t matter what she was “sourcing”. She was excited by the attachment.’
    ‘The attachment was a new firm’s estimate.’
    ‘Oh, come on, Ballard!’ I might, as an old-fashioned legal hack, have added ‘Don’t fence with me!’ ‘You know your message didn’t say that at all.’
    ‘Of course it did. Anyway, how would you know, Rumpole?’
    ‘Because she showed it to