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The
Times September 2010 - 1
The
Times September 2010 - 2
Chris
Mullin Daily Mail Article
Boris
Johnson interview 1998
The
Jones Family
Michael
Chronology
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Hedgeman - The Book
The Berlin Wall
Into
the Roaring Nineties
1991
Stanton Turns Really Nasty
Annus
Horribilis
The
End Of The Annus But Not The Horribilis
The
Judgement
The
Hand Of Peace
Fame
The
Big One
No
Carte Blanche
Come
On Stanton Pay Up
April
Fool
Niniteen
Ninety Seven
A
Little Help From The Lord
Guestbook
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FAME
It was Friday, 7th October 1994. Radio WM rang at 6 am; they wanted
me for a live, 7o'clock news item. At that time in the morning it is
a ten minutes van journey away from Pebble Mill; leave it much longer
and it would take the interviewer half an hour through the most disastrous
traffic bottle neck in Britain.
The Outside Broadcast van arrived at the bottom of our croft and it
did not surprise me, that the initial signal call test indicated the
fullest extension of the radio antennae from its roof. In our area,
high TV aerial masts are a visual symbol of a communication black spot
area. Twelve years after and we can't get the WM digital signal. We
were the first spot in the country to let the cable company dig up pavements
and lay their fibre optics underground. Bournville Village Trust didn't
like aerials, particularly those massive ones. Go two hundred yards
up our croft's steepish incline and you get back to normal reception,
without need of ugly, outside contraptions. The BBC Radio 'Perfection
Syndrome', is so fastidiously particular about the quality of its sound
that they refused my request for interview by phone. They reckon being
at the scene of interest adds atmosphere, even on radio. This was first
of many a broadcast from this spot outside the house; true I spent hours
at the studio. Other BBC regions required my services and insisted on
taking their signal from a quality line from Pebble Mill rather than
phone from my home.
There was no peace for the wicked; on concluding the outside broadcast
and retreating indoors, dying for a cup of tea, Central TV rang saying
they would be here in a couple of minutes. This was the only media time
I experienced absolute panic; 'butterflies' would be severe understatement.
My performance would go out to millions and I would be judged by it.
Both Maureen and I had been beamed to millions from the 'Esther Show,
but then, so were the Stantons, at the same time; the pigs-ear of their
ill-tempered performance made it so easy for us. Somehow, I now imagined
being interviewed at length about complex legal issues. I comforted
myself about my capability of conducting a spirited defence in the High
Court, without counsel but my mind was a complete vacuum. Then I calmed
myself; no one had the factual knowledge of Stanton v Jones than I.
Then panic again: would the interviewer wreck me? Perhaps he would pursue
me for shortening the life of a poor old man - put up to it by the Stanton
thespian ability. Of course, the TV local and national News recording
requirement was for a two minute, or even shorter, slot. The cigar smoking,
reporter and presenter was a real pro who loved his job and the people
he worked with and amongst. He sussed out the scene, getting his cameraman
to take shots of our living room and fantastic view of the garden contrasted
with the height gloom and closeness of the hedge. Then, standing with
the hedge at my back and microphone and camera in front of me, he sensed
my tenseness. He called a halt to everything and putting down his cigar
that was mostly never lit; he took my hands and said,
"Relax, just let your arms and hands go limp, there's no hurry,
I'm just going to ask you one or two questions, move your arms and point
out the things you are talking about". I did the interview perfectly,
and so confidently, the first take was accepted.
When 'BBC Midlands Today' arrived, I was practised, relaxed and confident.
They were less concerned about the subject; that is me, the Stantons
and the hedge - than technical competence and, that is something they
went about with infinite care. From now on I began to appreciate broadcast
quality, and you really can tell the difference between ITV and BBC
though I had not noticed nor thought about it before. Yes, they gave
much attention to the hedge and me at all ranges and angles; they were
not at all concerned about accurately portraying my cause, as long as
it was brief and to the point but, if my performance was bad, they made
sure they did a professional, excellent, technical job of portraying
it. Thus I learnt a very important lesson - one must concentrate on
gaining the sympathy, not only of the interviewer but of the technicians;
Maureen and I definitely did in the Esther show, without trying, that
is why we were a success and actually cheered by the technician blokes
as we left the studio.
However, BBC Midlands Today did a number of 'takes' of me before achieving
satisfaction, although I knew their first one was best; it always was
and I did so many interviews with only one take, I cannot count them
now. Maybe it was my interviewer who, with multiple tries was trying
to improve himself. Any how, they went away and I was tired, needed
my breakfast and, had not yet had time to answer all those calls of
yesterday that filled the answer phone and, as a matter of fact, never
did. Eventually I had to empty that electronic box for it to make room
for the volume of new calls flooding in; it was obvious it was going
to be impossible to get to the phone, every time. Breakfast? You must
be joking. Of course, some amongst yesterday's unanswered and now disposed
voice mail had got through again. I was prime news and the professionals
were quite well aware that reliability of contact by phone was zilch.
The Birmingham Evening Mail arrived in the person of Suzanne Virdee;
she became very important to me; little did she realise, as she followed
on the previous BBCTV callers, that she would become their ace presenter.
She is a brilliant girl and a complete professional; presentation of
the inaccurate for the sake of the headline is complete anathema. She
recognised the years ahead this story would play and gave me her private
telephone number. I reciprocated by giving copies of legal documentation,
detail and advance notification in the years to come that would be appreciated
by the conscientious reporter. The photographer, 'Roly' (I got to know
him well - he took thousands of click, zip, clicks zips) also came and
the front page, main headline story appeared later in the day
I had been too busy to call at our newsagent, who had delivered the
Guardian earlier, to collect papers but had reserved a Daily Telegraph
for me. Friends and family, who had seen reports of Kathy Mark's exclusive
and, the Birmingham Post headline and front page pictures, had to wait
to offer their calls of congratulation, as did those who had heard me
on the Radio WM 7 o'clock news. Then the Daily Mail rang asking if I
would be in at 2 pm, immediately followed by a similar call from the
Times. It was only eleven and I had not recovered from the amazing,
previous day, hungry and exhausted yet again after five hours of a yet
another, so very different life experience from yesterday's High Court
profile - requiring this time exacting, demanding, personal concentration.
Photographers had been crawling over our garage roof yesterday afternoon
and scores of pictures of Stanton and me outside the Court were taken.
It was time to pop up to our news agent to see what was already in the
papers: it was astonishing, but there was nothing in depth. Of course
the Telegraph was a day ahead with their personal exclusive and they
followed it up on the Saturday and Sunday. It mattered not, the story
was ideal for the weekend press. In fact it appeared that my manner
in releasing the news as I did squeezed the best out of the media. Then,
gulping a coffee, I examined what I had been talking about all morning
with the realisation it was not about the law at all. All the questions
and the answers were about this appalling neighbour feud. The phone
calls carried on and I began to stall; it was time for the answer phone
to take the strain as I was beginning to go silly; then the London taxi
arrived and the driver was told to wait; Maureen spotted the none stop
London to Birmingham bloke after a few minutes of his hovering dissolutely
outside the house and entertained him with coffee and snacks. Luke Harding
of the Daily Mail (he afterwards became the leading overseas correspondent
of the Guardian) and Dominic Kennedy of The Times had shared the taxi
costs; they sat on our settee and I sat opposite them. They could not
see the sky; both jumped up; made their way to the window and cried,
"So that's the hedge". By now I had gone really silly with
tiredness but Maureen brought us some of the sustenance their taxi-man
was shovelling down. They all wanted the loo at once and were back to
ravish the food and gulp down the coffee. I entertained them about crabby
old man Stanton spraying his hose over the hedge for days on end; Maureen
picking the raspberries under her umbrella; the water company arriving
to put a stop to it. Stanton was determined to protect his property
from the ravages of his neighbour's secateurs and pruners but, not to
the extent of having his water turned off. Well, it only needed a phone
call to Severn Trent, didn't it? Then there was the time he dislodged
me from my ladder by thrusting an iron conduit through the rung next
to my goolies. The policemen had roared at that one: now it was the
reporter's turn; my silly mood was infectious: what about being up amongst
the birds, at the crack of dawn, to saw down a five foot spike of hedge;
they roared. Then Luke Harding giggled,
"What colour is you dressing gown"? If the stupid man thought
I would be climbing to those heights, in a dressing gown with a saw
with such precarious intent he must be joking. In any case how long
does it take to slip into gardening clothes? I don't use a dressing
gown. With Leylandii at such a height we have complete privacy - I just
get up, make the tea and bring it up to Maureen completely starkers,
then I get showered and dressed. True, on these early mornings; Leylandii
raids at the crack of dawn, those latter processes were dispensed with
in my urge to get out and make progress before the Stantons came out
screaming with protest. Luke sussed out the intrusion into my married
privacy that was to become his story centre piece, got up and charged
into the other room to enquire,
"Mrs Jones, Mrs Jones, what colour is your husband's dressing gown"?
Maureen answered instantaneously; appreciating she would disclose her
husband's primitive nature to the tabloid press, or reveal her own weakness
in some way, answered,
"Blue". That is how six million read it the next day and how
false facts may become history.
Dominic Kennedy reported in the Times more legalistically and horticulturally.
We were shortly to be awarded second prize in the Bournville Garden
Competition on a judgement made by the experts in mid-summer, remembering
they had assigned top place last year. We sadly were relinquishing our
first prize cup awarded for 1993.
Non-gardeners must appreciate that every garden goes through phases
and, the only way to assess it properly is at fortnightly intervals
throughout the year; perhaps monthly in November, December and January
although more points would be scored in those visits as more skill is
required to provide a variety of interest plants. Sometimes, it maybe,
that the performance of a single plant at a particular period of a week,
fortnight or month will be the pride of its owner. On my walks through
the estate I enjoy at high summer a particular pink standard rose, next
door but one; a couple of weeks earlier an orange climber entwined with
a dark blue clematis; sometimes for some reason they do not exactly
synchronise maybe due to rainfall or sunshine level favouring one or
the other; when they do together it is a magnificent sight, perhaps
there is a delightful scent for their owner as they come out of the
front door. Then, in the first flush of spring, there is an aubrietia
trailing over a low, south facing wall - a factor bringing it on three
weeks before similar north facing spots. I used to alter my way home
from school to pull up and park opposite such a house. The blue was
so vibrant I have never seen such, anywhere. In autumn I would stop
and gaze at a gable end of an old house covered in Virginia creeper.
It autumn hues were breath taking - it was best to catch it at its exact
prime not many days before or after. Now, this is the point of my story.
I cannot grow mildew free asters - and that includes Michaelmas daisies
- and, I adore some of the blues and purples. I think it maybe because
there is no where in my garden achieving all day sunshine - due of course
to trees. However there is a wild one that seeds itself and travels
in our locality; it is mildew free; the 'fastidious, gardening elite'
weed it out; it is, I admit a wishy-washy blue, not worthy of a place
on its own if space is at a premium. Our wild daisy plant establishes
itself as a perennial and en masse is striking, particularly in the
first week of October, or thereabouts, when it is at its best. Now my
first consideration in the design, structure and development of my garden
was the creation of views; this despite the loony, Leylandii constrictions
imposed on me by barmy neighbours on my easterly and southerly sides.
We must not confuse views with vistas, a single view of the lawn, boundaries
and beyond. As one walks down the croft, the eye is drawn to our wrought
iron gate set in an ivy clad arch. I planted a small golden yew taxus
baccata standishii about fifteen yards into the rear garden exactly
in line of the beholder walking down the pavement in close approach
to the house. I have a number of treasured views that come into their
own at peak times when the plants are at their most spectacular. I had
one more distinct advantage on my garden's way to fame - the skill of
the photographer garden lover (and what a wonderful job he made) on
the complete front page of the Daily Telegraph Weekend Garden Supplement.
My deliberately contrived perspective of a pathway winding from the
left-hand side of the living room patio window with light blue daisies
spotted with lemon centres spilling from either side was a site for
sore eyes but the photographer had enhanced so as to give a royal garden
winding its way into the misty distance. It was not the judgement of
high summer when the prize was awarded or that commendation of the Lord
Justice Elizabeth Butler-Sloss two days before,
"Oh, he has a bee-yoo-tiful garden".
Of course we were treated to a weekend fest of headlines, court reports,
gardening articles and above all the introduction to the common language
stock of the word 'Leylandii'. There were multiple photographs of the
hedge from the Jones side; of Maureen and me together in our garden;
of me alone, outside the court; and of the surly, old man Stanton but,
nothing of his son or of their garden and hedge from their side; my
disagreeable neighbours had disappeared and repelled all reporters;
his immediate who could supply a camera shot had not offered a glimpse.
Our Monday morning post was extensive; our fellow, Loire Valley coach
passengers to whom we had said Goodbye, only a week ago, were generous
in their response. We only together for five days and only knew one
another by our first names. The couple seated behind us apologised for
bearing the name Stanton but were as delighted as the others were over
our success. We read the letters and displayed the cards and then -
nothing. Both the holiday and probably the most exciting week most could
experience in a life time were at an end. Exhilarated? Yes. Still excited?
Yes. Happy? Yes. What was the impact on the neighbourhood?
John Clay, our dear neighbour from two doors away, took early retirement
and called in two or three times a week with his tiny Jack Russell,
'Holly'. John was an enthusiastic, leading member of the local Bowling
Club - the Men's section of course - in those days, gender segregation
was complete - twelve years after it is still rigorous, but just as
highly competitive, internally. The club was and is elitist and exclusive
with a membership of eighty, mostly couples, all of whom would deny
that. There is a tennis club and a cricket club, scouts, guides and
numerous small groups but no pubs. The URC church is central with C
of E, Methodists and Quakers on the periphery. There is a hall for a
variety of events, an elected village council of ten residents and an
AGM. Most importantly is the local primary and the school run; we had
been part of that for seven years but our grandsons had left by this
time. Here was a vibrant village for a minority but, my guess would
be that at a given time the vast majority would scarcely know their
neighbours on both sides. Our window cleaners frequented the pubs just
outside the area (none allowed within on Cadbury land) and they told
me I was referred to as the 'Hedgeman'.
John Clay said that Stanton v Jones was almost the sole topic of conversation
particularly since the Esther show. Well, if they all gossiped now,
there would be five or six years before the whole thing was finished.
Paul Terry, son of old man Stanton, lives in the upper part of Tillyard
Croft. As he swept down in one of his Jaguars, he would cast a deprecating
eye at what lay beneath him. Little love was lost between him and his
left hand neighbour, in fact some tree trouble lay ahead. The spinney
lay beyond his bottom boundary but a real Stanton buddy lived to his
right. His name was Mr Twist and his real pal was old man Stanton so
you may guess whose side he was on; he was not the sort of bloke to
take a dispassionate view. At that precise time, what I had heard of
him was not at all good gossip (and that is not to insinuate anything
of a sexual or violent nature) but it was pub talk and I told my informant
not to tell me. However, Twist told Pete Spybie, (a neighbour who knows
everyone and who you ask if you want to know what is going on) that
the Stantons had won the appeal. I mention this because so many will
believe anything - particularly the tabloids. Nearer still were Mr and
Mrs Williams, my neighbours on the south side growing a Leylandii Hedge
as objectionable as themselves - I was reserving action on this when
we had rid ourselves of the Stanton nuisance. It was impossible to fight
on two fronts - that was Hitler's downfall. The old man's next door
but one neighbour, Mrs White was also his supporter. There would be
one or two more. That anyone should not like me hurt Maureen but I enjoy
being hated by pathetic characters unable to recognise truth. All the
media was on our side, speaking for their countless millions who also
were.
Mrs Judith Scott aged fifty-six lived in Kingstanding with her aged
mother who had dementia. She had tree trouble but these were Ash. At
any given time I had dozens of seedlings in my garden. They have to
be pulled up well before establishing themselves. If all the people
were to disappear, Ash trees and Bramble would inherit the earth of
the Midlands - quite quickly. This is what was happening to her fifty-one
year old, salesman neighbour's garden. One day a paper advertising tree
work was pushed through the letter box and Judith responded to the telephone
number asking for a call and an estimate. The intention of this action,
given in court was that she would discuss this with Mr Green. That did
not happen. The 'cowboy tree operators' called next day when Judith
was out and made her mother a cash offer to clear the overhanging trees.
The lady was very feeble, elderly and terminally ill, accepted this
but the men made incursions over the boundary, cutting away and illegally
removing wood without right. Mr Green returned from work and immediately
called the police; the young attending officer believed his exaggerated
story based on the brazen evidence of the cut branches. Judith returned
home, was immediately arrested, taken to the police station, put in
a cell, given access to the duty solicitor and eventually charged despite
the desperate need of her mother for her care. In fact the old lady
was taken to hospital where she died of liver failure. Judith had to
bear the double stress of detention, wrongful criminal charges and the
bereavement. The Evening Mail kindly gave me a contact number; I offered
my support and ensured that she was adequately represented. The duty
solicitor was a young Sikh; she continued with him; he was very good
and secured legal aid. I went to Sutton Coldfield Magistrates Court
where the case was adjourned; time was needed to find the rogue tree
men but, they were not traceable. The telephone number Judith used was
of no further use in supplying the vital witnesses. I met Judith, a
very nice lady, undeservedly in great trouble, in crisis in fact. I
went to the adjourned hearing by train as Maureen needed the car. There
was only one reporter and I was not recognised which suited me as the
solicitor was handling it well, and could not cope with complications.
Paul Terry Stanton was in the court room and without difficulty at all,
managed a cynical sneer.
Half a dozen giggling, gum-chewing local lads were brought in; they
were charged with disturbing the peace, drink related offences, obscenities
or whatever. They showed utter disrespect and at one point were requested
to deposit gum on the paper the usher put in front of them. The case
against them was adjourned for social reports.
Judith's name was read out and she went into the dock. The Crown Prosecution
case, with the help of Mr Green, their star witness, was overwhelming.
He seemed to get away with a lot; Judith told me it was lies and exaggeration.
She was distraught and broke down in the witness box and it was implied
it was put on for sympathy. The case was referred to the Crown Court
which was apparently what the solicitor wanted - technically speaking
he was proved to be correct, but the thing had already gone on about
three months and that meant months more before the poor woman had time
to grieve. As she walked passed PT Stanton, he yelled at her,
"I hope you go to prison".
I walked to the station and phoned Maureen, who had offered to pick
me up, with the time of the next train and its e.t.a at Selly Oak; it
was derailed coming into the station and there was no way of letting
her know as she had left the house; we both waited ages and ages; a
nightmare.
We now come to the contemporary part of my story. My case had made Judith's
case famous. Publicity was the last thing she wanted as she was a very
private person - one good thing I heard was her own grown up children
were now taking good care of their mum.
I was walking down the street towards the Crown Court and noticed a
crowd of reporters and cameramen. I saw one of them spot me, say something
and they all turned with their cameras one hundred and eighty degrees
and photographed my approach. We had stacks of time and I talked about
my case but there was nothing of news value; I made friends with these
newsmen; they gave me their cards and asked to be tipped off when anything
interesting turned up. No doubt they would get my spontaneous reaction
when Judith emerged, innocent or guilty. It was neither; the court was
not in session due to legalities. The chief prosecution witness, Mr
Green had been arrested himself and was appearing before a Wolverhampton
court. The Crown prosecution could not proceed without him - hence the
endless conference. The case was adjourned again.
At the resumed hearing the CPS told the Judge it was not in the public
interest to pursue the case and asked that it lie on the file. I didn't
get to hear about it but the parties knew what was going to happen.
Apparently the Judge was very angry and stated the case should never
have come to court. With two appearances of the bewigged of both sides
on two occasions, appearances in the magistrates court and police time,
thousands of pounds of public money was thrown away. At last the poor
woman could grieve in peace. Of course in a technical sense, Mr Green
was wronged but, he got his retribution with a vengeance.
At about this time I joined C.A.S.I.A. and sent my £5 annual
sub with a £5 donation and was told I couldn't do that so I joined
Maureen up as well - really one shouldn't make decisions for somebody
else but really trivialities are a bore. The joining was an act of principle
and the money was for the financial support of the organisation only.
There was no way I was going to be active or go to any meetings for.
The letters stand for 'Campaign Independent Adjudication of Solicitors'',
or something. What was a certainty in life was that however corrupt,
vile, unprofessional, incompetent a colleague was he would be supported
by fellow solicitors - with one very important, worthwhile exception.
If the guy was convicted in a court of law he was discarded, shunned
and treated as a leper by his fellows and, rehabilitation was long and
arduous. By now my experience demanded willingness by the Law Society
to exert discipline to enforce ethical standards; it had no intention
of ever giving it. In fact the governance of the society was in itself
wanting in, if not the legal then certainly the moral stature. The media
was full of anecdotal misdeeds and in my own good time when my own legals
had finished I would add to them and, thoroughly disillusioned, prove
rigorous attempts to rectify appalling mistakes would be absolutely
a complete waste of time. Media had to be careful otherwise a writ would
be slapped on the presenter's breakfast table. It seemed that the judiciary
possessed innate sympathy for the closed collegiate of the law profession.
Speak to any talk show host - all will substantiate that solicitors'
letters are their most common item of mail - I have had my share of
insidious, frightening, bullying ones. Ask any solicitor, and if you
get a really honest answer they will tell you that the exertion of power
is the most satisfactory part of their profession. We were at the fag
end of four very tired, hated Tory governments. The last one was elected
by mistake; no one ever admitted voting for it; it was still only half
way through its term with utterly discredited ministers staggering,
some of whom had politically assassinated its previous leader. Hopelessly
split, still to painfully linger on, unwanted and unloved. In sharp
contrast, here was Labour under a brilliant new leader with plenty of
talent untested but straining at the leash to snatch the fruits of office
so tantalising within reach. Here was virgin territory for single issue
politics to thrive and it threw out talent, a tiny proportion of which
was willing to have a go at solicitors. It would have been more if it
wasn't for the fact that many belonged to the profession themselves.
This is where C.A.S.I.A. thrived for a while. The media were always
willing to have a go at the lawyers and the idea of 'Independent Adjudication'
latched on. However the organisation was signally bad at exploiting
its opportunities. I reluctantly agreed to join a demonstration in Victoria
Square, Birmingham. It consisted of a lot of private, individual demonstrations
against miscarriages of justice due to their own lawyer's mistakes.
Some of these made my heart bleed because family members were serving
life sentences. They were all too familiar; the cases needed exposure
with TV documentaries. However most were less serious although one or
two involved sad family cases. It was hardly the stuff of one single
issue, demonstration stuff. A reporter recognised me and I explained
that at the moment my solicitor was serving me well but there would
be some complaints about my earlier professional representation of my
case. The media thought the demo not worthwhile other than the most
cursory attention on the local news. I kept up my membership for years
and the organisation achieved worthwhile reforms particularly when Geoff
Hoon became Solicitor General. It maybe, that the very existence of
C.A.S.I.A. prevented the Law Society's unhealthy tolerance of the very
worst excesses of its members. In any event, tighter rules were enacted
by the Lord Chancellors Department. It was sad when leading members
quarrelled so badly amongst themselves that the issue had to go to court.
The organisation had secured limited company status and registration;
under the relevant laws, this restricted freedom of manoeuvre. There
were legally necessary meetings, special meetings and exceptional general
meetings attracting only small numbers as the membership was tiny; certainly
not because of disinterest. I was telephoned by both sides and sent
copious quantities of paper explaining with great bitterness the issues
at stake. I was too busy and involved in the intricacies of my own affairs
to take part let alone travel to one of these meetings. Eventually the
distressful news came through of the sudden death of a leading contender
and I can't remember any further communication. C.A.S.I.A. now has an
excellent web site.
Ray Burford scarcely needed pushing; I pushed him all the same and
he engaged in phone calls to the opposition and got some feedback, how
much it is impossible to say. I expect records are in his files as to
length of calls for those would go on his expense sheet and we expected
to win now. There was no question of the Stantons agreeing a settlement
but I encouraged Ray to get payment of my costs of the appeal (as awarded).
He failed.
Eventually we got a hearing date for the remainder of the substantive
part of the trial. To remind you, this had started two years before,
directly after the preliminary judgement was read -
I had the right to reduce the height of the hedge.
All of this last two years was occupied by the length of the Appeal
listing and now we were waiting for the resumption of the main trial.
We had the three final months of 1994; then Christmas; now January is
nearly over. Towards the end of February we called on John Wetherell,
our tree expert, to produce a supplement to the report he had already
produced for the court; he had as yet not gone into the witness box
for the big trial. His new photographs illustrated six years of growth
since I lopped five feet off the top to produce those lurid pictures,
three years before they were produced before a judge. A year after,
I had sawn away another four feet; after that the trees had burgeoned
thick green, rampant growth, and grown back to the original height.
As March began, the listing clerk had lost and hadn't established contact
with the missing Recorder Woltan; this might mean another judge. All
this is a mystery but I had given the media notice immediately I was
given a date - and when it was cancelled. There was always a bit of
instruction on Leylandii and bullying neighbours in my news releases.
Then by mid April Recorder Woltan had been traced and a hearing listed
for the 13th and 14th of July - however, by June the court decided it
would be 25th and 26th September.
Stanton did not waste time - he wanted to carry on a bit of digging
in his hole and spend a bit more money; he took us to court on a tortuous
diversion. It would be interesting to know who thought this one up and
the precise reasons. Was it to frighten or punish me; put me in a worse
negotiating position? Use up my financial resources; just the irrepressible
desire in the old man's mind urging him to dig still deeper down his
hole, rather than fret away doing nothing. Or was Freda's maternal,
ghostly voice still nagging her son from beyond the grave?
A notice came of an application to the court to re-re-re amend the
particulars of claim. Now they wanted 'aggravated' and 'exemplary' damages.
In essence this meant the Stanton camp was demanding a fine so stiff
that it would stop me ever attacking the trees again; on top of that
a sum was demanded to compensate the old man for his wounded emotions.
This was bad, ill thought through, legal advice, as the judgement expressed.
The estimated time for the hearing was set down at 10 minutes - absolutely
ridiculous; so ridiculous it makes anyone with the slightest bit of
commonsense wonder what planet the perpetrators of this nonsense were
on.
I was at court with stacks of time to spare and, seeing no one I knew,
sat down on one of the benches near the court door. All this was brand
new. The Birmingham County Court had at last moved from the musty oak
panelled Victorian Building to this new accommodation. It was converted
from Lewises - a building my mother had taken me when three years old
to see Father Christmas. Since the turn of the nineteenth century and
two world wars, Midland families visited Lewises when they came to town
on the tram; there was no need to shop anywhere else because you could
buy everything here. The architecture remains and now washed and cleaned
is still the imposing part of the city centre character it has always
been. The interior has been gutted and is white, light and modern. The
extensive floor I was on is open in the middle and offices are situated
around the periphery to take advantage of the windows.
I was concerned; no one had been in or out of that door, clearly marked
with the court and its number. I rechecked the summons. It was nearly
time for the hearing and Ray Burford had not arrived; I looked around
and saw the approach of Mr P. the fresh faced, Stanton barrister. He
approached the door without hesitation and I said,
"My solicitor has not arrived and I will oppose you, myself".
As we entered what was only really an office I noticed the plain suited
judge, submerged behind his desk typing on his lap top. At this point
an out of breath Ray entered and we were asked to be seated on any of
the few available chairs. The barrister introduced both him and us and
said very little; the explicit, self explanatory paper was on the desk
between the lap top and the bulky case file; he addressed the judge
as "Sir".
Ray followed with few words; again his objection to the application
had already been put in writing. The judge said he had no alternative
but to give judgement on behalf of the plaintiff but allow us costs.
These covered not only Ray's appearance today but, the reconstruction
of my three year old defence, this time by professional counsel. It
is unusual for costs to be awarded contrary to judgement; in this case
it was because the claim was a previous omission in the first case -
the barrister accepted this without opposition. I was appalled that
four years after making the original charges based on six year old evidence,
the claimant was allowed to have another bullying bite at the legal
cherry. It wasn't an omission it was second thoughts.
Up to this point my very brief, clever but amateurish conglomeration
of legally competent advice from varying sources, hammered out five
years ago, had stood the test of time; now it would be freshly drafted
by top counsel in the light of the decline of the plaintiff's case over
his last painful, losing years.
Our barrister told us he wanted the trial to start fresh from the beginning
again. Ray did not and I agreed. We desperately needed to continue with
the same judge (and the Court of Appeal had not only backed his judgement
in glowing terms but slightly enhanced it in my favour). We all had
the transcripts, particularly of the more than half a day's trial, two
years ago, concerned only with the Stanton witnesses. Of course we would
have to give way to Counsel's advice but what of the repetition of legal
procedure, the tortuous further delay and, the expense? John Wetherell,
our tree man had produced an updating addendum of evidence presenting
robust growth, particularly of the hideous appearance from my side of
the hedge taken by the Stantons six years ago and used to get the case
into court. It was a horrific picture then but a lot of my skilled work
and natural growth as a result had taken place. John had also just taken
samples of fungal growth from a stump. In the possibility that it was
a symptom of disease, he had sent it for expert laboratory examination;
it proved to be benign. This evidence was retained in case of a challenge
in court. However this little foray into court was over. Had not Ray
turned up I might have been rude to my disadvantage. The court system
was being trivialised by a nasty neighbour dispute - this was vexatious
litigation exploited by lawyers and it needed a courageous judge to
deem it so.
Then, out of the blue another tricky little challenge was presented
which was to assume even greater importance. We had a letter from our
opponents asking permission to see all our correspondence with Bournville
Village Trust. My first solicitor, whom I sacked, had produced copies
of a couple of letters - later, when I was representing myself I exhibited
further letters; now Stanton was exerting his legal right to see the
remainder of the correspondence. There were case law precedences for
such disclosure. Personally, I could not see any advantages he might
gain and my initial gut feeling was 'let him have them'. Then a strong
feeling developed that he should be refused his bullying demands. I
know the Stantons disliked the Trust as all residents did. Later I found
out it was more a pathological hate as they thought the Trust had conspired
and encouraged me. There was so much early popular resistance to the
development of Tillyard Croft; this developed and was maintained as
a nasty prejudice. As we were the first in residents a quarter century
ago we were subjected to patronising hostility and the residue of this
was the only, but still powerful local support the Stantons had. This
tended to be passed on a bit when the oldies died, moved into care and,
sold their houses to younger families. For our first ten years we kept
an open house; officers popped in for coffee (and defying the George
Cadbury tradition, often for something stronger); they openly criticised
there own trustees for giving way to the capricious demands of the existing
residents; one officer described the old man as a crook. What I did
not realise was the succeeding generation of officers hated his guts
even more than their predecessors because he was surly, ill mannered
and rude; these attributes were inherited by his son. However all BVT
correspondence was careful and neutral. So we refused and also informed
BVT of our decision to decline. Ray had a phone call and a letter; the
secretary said if a court ordered him, he would have no option but to
comply - in any case I had the correspondence so why couldn't we give
it them?
Then we put an unintentional spanner in the works - Philip Kremen could
not take the case on that late September, desperate listing date. A
year ago we accepted his colleague in chambers to act for us in the
Court of Appeal - since then far too much had gone on; both the legal
and arboricultural issues were highly complex; Counsel and expert witness
were geared up to these. Neither had my knowledge as the actual participant
but, mine was so precise and detailed as to what I had done to the trees
and, for what reasons, it would clutter things up; our treeman suggested
that a schedule be presented and I would support it in the witness box.
Apparently this was exactly what the opposition wanted. We must have
our brilliant barrister and he desperately wanted to complete his challenging
case; he now had detailed, specific tree knowledge by arboricultural
researchers within recent weeks. John Wetherell said he had been on
a course with the Stanton expert when this had been expounded. So we
beseechingly asked our opponents to seek yet another date from the court,
giving the reason as Yom Kippur. They graciously accepted - they were
actually pleased because they wanted to go back to court yet again.
We heard later that the judge was not too pleased and he called a tripartite
meeting towards the end of October between himself and the two solicitors
to give them the final, irrevocable listing date for the 29th and 30th
of November. Ray rang me up to tell me this was a most unusual procedure;
he had never heard of it before. He was obviously chuffed with the experience
but, I was angry not to be involved. I was excluded from something of
vital concern.
Let us go back fourteen months and refer to the past yet again; Abe
Lincoln, the Stanton solicitor was either not a straight sort of guy
or totally incompetent; he should have lost his license to practice
for not producing that vital document in the Appeal Court; alternatively
he should have been suspended or subjected to severe reprimand. Nothing
happened to him. After the case was over, The Law Society said I should
take him to court.
We did not know that the Stanton property was or had been conveyed
to the three sons. If it was by Abe's own firm this was a very serious
matter and the court informed; the trial would have to be stopped for
the action was in the old man's name as owner of the property.
I never knew the actual date of the tripartite meeting but Ray told
me that the Recorder asked if there was anything else he ought to know;
he was not told about the property transfer or the intention to go back
to court again on the disclosure issue; I hope Ray was unaware of this
and there was no collusion. Go back to court they did on the 8th November.
I was completely in the dark until matters came to light in a couple
of year's time and then I was furious there was no communication with
the small court and the trial judge. Maureen came with Ray and me to
Lewises Building; only the barrister represented the Stantons. It was
yet another judge who decided we had to disclose all the BVT correspondence
and awarded costs against us. He was very kind and accidentally met
and spoke to Maureen afterwards and was very courteous and sympathetic
to the strain we were under. He explained that one side had to win and
one to lose and the legal precedences were stacked against us. Ray immediately
lodged an appeal which would be heard by the trial judge before the
final resumption - now only three weeks away. The Recorder was a part
time judge and his diary was full. The trouble was - only two days were
set aside for the trial; we now had the embarrassment of starting it
with the appeal- hence the initial fury of the judge at not being told
and no communication within the court system or the solicitors and himself.
Recorder Woltan had ordered that the trial would not start afresh and
would continue where it left off two years before. We all had copies
of the transcript that ended with the examination of the Stanton tree
expert - that was the end of the plaintiff's case. Plainly our tactical
and psychological advantage was supreme. Now Philip Kremen could get
to work on him in cross examination at the much delayed resumption.
I now had the job of putting together and photocopying five times all
the BVT letters received over twenty-five years. They had to be numbered
- about seventy and an index produced to describe them. It took me a
lot of time; most letters were inconsequential, out of date, quite private
but not embarrassing - approval of a greenhouse; permission for a lean-
to/conservatory greenhouse, inspection of foundations; disapproval of
residents burning garden rubbish; congratulations on getting conclusive
action against Stanton by Environmental Health. This was hardly the
stuff the Plaintiff needed to be disclosed before the court. This was
one reason I had to justify him letting him have his own way. For the
sake of completion so that I could swear I had included everything there
was a chunk about winning the first prize gardening cup, (competition)
judges visits, details of presentation etc. and repeated for this years
second prize. I kept the original file and a copy and took along the
other four copies to Ray, for himself; the court; the opposition, should
they win the appeal and for our Counsel - and boy, did he make use of
that?
I also took along the enlarged photograph about two feet by one and
a half feet; the 'Esther' technicians gave it me at the end of the show.
Ian took the shot two years ago from the garage roof - I was looking
at the camera, standing ten feet from the end of the hedge at the point
where the ground level sloped and the tree tops were at maximum above
ground level; my bald head contrasted sharply with the dark green of
the foliage - there was a mountain of hedge above me - that had grown
another seven feet by now. At the beginning of the show the TV camera
was focused on me then slowly moved from the top of my head to the top
of the hedge - it gave the impression to the viewer of the actual scene.
The audience gasped as the camera went higher and higher and sharply
introduced what the show was all about. It had been viewed by seven
million people but probably not by the judge or legal teams. It is now
on my web site. The exhibit was borrowed for a TV show and not returned
- I will call it 'The Picture' in my next chapter.
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