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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

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

THE BIG ONE

We had lived through four and a half years of roller-coaster litigation, with its peaks, troughs, anticipation and disappointments, since an evil neighbour took us to court. It had spoiled my enjoyment of life at sixty-seven, despite a comfortable retirement pension. If the Stantons won all they were claiming, our home would be sacrificed; that and utter ruin was the extent of their desires. If we won, there would be no monetary gain - far better; it would mean release from the trap, immense relief, security and a chance to live life to the full. I had slept well, was bubbly and raring to go, and selected with glee my bright blue party tie - then put it back and chose my favourite one, suppressing my confidence. Whatever you do, don't be too cocky. I was about to go into the witness box in front of Britain's brightest journalists and be cross-examined by one of the arguably brightest young barristers, and I was looking forward to it. The Stantons wished to brand me a vicious vandal who had mutilated their property and murdered their matriarch. I intended to portray my family as victims of violence from a neighbour and his son, who had carelessly dispensed with any civilised obligation to appreciate what their selfish demands were doing to us. Goody, goody gum drops, as we used to say as kids.
Ian went to school at his usual early time and drove into town on his own. The media pack was waiting outside our house and photographed us getting into the car; then they slipped round the block to record the Stantons leaving in Paul Terry's very smart Rolls-Bentley, PTS 1. A much bigger pack was already at the court house. We walked past some display windows to reach the doors and were asked to go back and do it again - "I wasn't quite ready for you," said a cameraman. We obliged, laughed at him when he squeezed himself into a doorway, and did a couple more repeats. The stills in the papers were good; I have just looked at the faded cuttings of eleven years ago and yes, we were smart - put on a bit of weight since.
Cameras are not allowed in the court building. We went up in the lift to the empty top-floor court room. The journalists hadn't arrived; there was no need, for I had sent in a comprehensive press release. I had also offered to sell copies of the previous judgements and transcripts, which had cost me £550, but nobody took me up - Ray Burford said it was illegal anyway, as they were crown copyright. Readers and viewers would not be interested; all the reporters had gobbled up my single sheet, and the best part was the chronology:
1989 Jones sawed 5 ft off the top
1990 Jones sawed another 4 ft off; Stanton knocked Jones down
1991 Stanton convicted of actual bodily harm
1992 Jones wins right to cut trees
1993 Stanton appeals
1994 Stanton loses appeal
That was televised from my paper that evening.
Mary, my brother's widow, was first to arrive; we hugged. Sadly she had not long to live, but she enjoyed the next two days and was particularly intrigued by our barrister - she was not the only one. Then came Denis and Irene, who had a boundary-tree dispute of their own; Denis had tracked me down and begun to campaign for a law, and became a loyal, long-lasting friend. The journalists began to flood in - Dominic Kennedy of the Times, Suzanne Virdee of the Birmingham Evening Mail and others - and all had received my releases. Then I glanced to the left. Both Stantons were there, with their chief witness Roy Finch (who had given his evidence two years ago, very unusually), their solicitor Abe Lincoln, and Mr P., their fresh-faced counsel, who did not look as happy as when I had seen him joking with the first barrister I sacked four and a half years ago. They all looked miserable, though I had never seen a Stanton smile. Paul Terry had the same transparent pallor as his mother - was it because they had never eaten meat?
Ian came in, having caught up with Ray Burford and Philip Kremen, our barrister, and John Wetherell, our expert witness. The court filled and still others came in to stand with their notebooks.
The Recorder entered and we stood in absolute silence. I had warned the journalists to expect a boring morning while our appeal about disclosure of the BVT correspondence was heard. Instead the judge began with a tirade against both solicitors over a secret, tripartite meeting a month before: "I particularly asked if there was anything else I ought to know." Philip calmly handed up the file of indexed letters I had laboriously prepared, then suggested the appeal be adjourned and resumed if anything cropped up; having only two days, we should proceed with the trial at once. The Recorder acceded with delight, and Mr Peperall, after a gasp and a brief conference, agreed. I had worried for three weeks that the trial would run out of time; we had just gained half a day. The Recorder then invited the Stanton counsel to continue his examination of Mr Finch, very briefly, since we had all read the transcript. Counsel made the best of it.
Then Philip rose with his own file. There was real drama. He tempted providence: "This letter from the Bournville Trust informs Mr Jones that he had won the first ever garden cup - did you know about that?" The arboriculturalist did not. "Have you ever visited Mr and Mrs Jones's garden?" He never had. The wretched man had now to defend a report made six years earlier, when my works were only half complete; he was used to simple cases where his word as an experienced tree man went uncontested. Abe Lincoln told me in an unguarded moment, "We did not appoint him; it was a good move of yours to appoint a 'quality' arboriculturalist." I had been advised by a tree-botanist to consult the leading local authority expert, who guided me out of the area to find someone of sufficient stature. Finch was fine for estates, but this was beyond his scope. It was harsh to condemn him afterwards, for he tried to be loyal to his client - beyond what is legally acceptable in an expert witness. Stanton did not pay his last fee.
My brilliant barrister (so described by hard-bitten court journalists that day) continued his remorseless destruction and pulled from under his bench his two-feet-by-one-and-a-half trump card, "The Picture", the astounding photograph from the Esther show. He asked the witness if he recognised it. He did.
"This was taken two years ago. Have you seen the other evidence that the hedge has grown beyond that, so it is now taller than the Jones's house?" He had.
"Then how does this correspond with your evidence that Mr Jones's actions would induce disease that would kill the trees or let the weather destroy them?"
"I plainly got it wrong."
Ray nudged me and moved his lips silently; I wrinkled my face, shrugged, and turned back to enjoy the verbal mugging. Next day the Birmingham Post cartoonist, Gemini, drew a court usher staggering in with a massive Leylandii in a tiny pot, captioned, "It has grown since the case started, m'lord."
Ray nudged me again and I turned irritably, then broke into a broad grin and stifled a chuckle: he had written on a sheet of paper just three words - YOU HAVE WON.
Philip softened towards the witness, and his words were plainly meant for the judge: an expert witness must keep his independence and never distort to enhance his client's case. He then destroyed the rest of the evidence bit by bit, until, leaving the stand, Finch was heard to say, "That barrister is an animal, not a man."
The court adjourned for a two-hour lunch. We met in a consultation room, where a delighted Mary was introduced to Philip, who was as usual restrained and cautiously optimistic. It was a fine, sunny, dry November 29th. Over coffee Ian and I talked through events; then outside Philip asked, "Be perfectly honest, what would be your attitude to not going on the stand tomorrow?" I winced and spluttered, "I shall do as my professionals advise." "After all this time you are fully entitled to your day in court - no need to decide now; I wish to catch my opponent unawares." I said nothing; my brain had been working on replies to a multitude of questions from Mr P.
The afternoon was of excruciating boredom. John Wetherell answered in scarcely audible, measured tones, taking great pains to show no hostility to a fellow professional and giving a balanced view. The judge congratulated him on his generosity; Maureen thought he had gone too far. His dated addenda showed the uninhibited growth of the trees, and his view was substantially that of the opposition expert, who, faced with what he had seen on site and the photographs, had to tell the truth. The tension was everyone waiting for me to go on the stand; it soon became obvious they would wait till next day, and everyone dozed. Mr Peperall asked about the lurid photographs that had started the case - did they not prove I had carelessly mutilated the trees? John said he would have to ask me, and the barrister's body language indicated he most certainly would. But John helpfully pointed out that, given the magnitude of reducing a neglected hedge, the raw stumps showed unfinished works.
I wondered about my three-year-old counterclaim. A legal friend had told me that a defendant could include anything in one, including murder; I had included libel, the bodily harm in Paul Terry's assault, an Environmental Health action over persistent garden fires, and more. Mr P. had moaned to the old, experienced Judge Alan Taylor that he would have to plead against it; the judge patronisingly brushed him off: "You will soon get to know these neighbour disputes are about everything." There was enough in it to fill the whole of next day, if introduced.
Eventually the exhausted Wetherell was released. Philip asked for an adjournment and a private talk with the judge and the opposition counsel, pure lawyer talk of no interest to me, and handed Ray the names of two law books he wanted in the morning. Coming out of the loo through the double glass doors, I was besieged by reporters with microphones and my answers had to be impromptu: "This has been one more day of my ordeal with a neighbour from hell." That was headlined and shown on all the evening news. I had coined the phrase which named a formidable TV series. Philip saw it from his room at the Hyatt, an elite hotel entirely beyond our income bracket - then we winced, for it was coming out of our fees. No, it would be paid by Stanton - goodie! The normally staid barrister was roaring his head off: "You have wiped President Clinton off the front page. Neighbours from hell, neighbours from hell; I like that." It has become, like Leylandii, part of the language. There was no sub judice reprimand.
Next morning I wore my light blue silky party tie, and I woke early, hyped up with delighted anticipation at facing that barrister from the witness box. Then I thought: I was Stanton's only hope; if they could wound me in front of the media it would be a consolation to them, and they had hurled so much muck at me some was bound to stick. Why give them satisfaction? But why shouldn't I hurl back? I really didn't know. The decision is not for an amateur, particularly when deciding for oneself. Both solicitor and barrister were earning a terrific fee; let them earn it. Philip had washed his hands of the decision, thinking I had invested enough of my life to be asked again.
He summed up yesterday's marathon between the two tree experts, the property experts' evidence from two years ago, and old man Stanton himself losing his temper. The reporters were now beginning to scribble. Ray whispered, "Are you going on?" I said, "That sort of decision is for you to take." He was agitated: "No, no, no, no, it is entirely up to you." "What are you getting bloody paid for, then?" "OK, no." "You are entirely correct; I concur one hundred per cent."
Philip had reached the latest re-re-re-amendment of the particulars of claim, lodged since the old man left the stand - a very serious mistake, for his lawyers must have forgotten that Stanton had said emphatically he would use the money to replace the trees, which, after my cutting, were by now taller than my house. Now they wanted to punish. The Daily Mail reporter said there was a hiss from a Stanton. Philip paused, made a tiny bow to the judge, bent down to Ray and said, "Is he?" "No." Then, punctuating the dead silence, he said, "I rest my case."
There was absolute astonishment among the opposition; everyone had expected me to be examined till lunch. Mr P., whose decision-making was worse under stress, said, "Your honour will no doubt have his own opinion as to why the defendant has refused to testify." My heart leapt into my mouth, but the judge replied, "Mr P., if it helps you in any way, I have no opinion about it whatsoever." Mr P. was visibly taken aback; the cocksure certainty he had held four years ago, reinforced by my first barrister's opinion, had been that I had cooked my goose by not testifying. Deprived of his whipping boy, he used his client's evidence that his wife had seen someone with binoculars looking at her: "This signifies a peeping tom at work." My heart sank as I constructed the headlines, but Philip was on his feet and the Recorder beat him to it: "Mr P., Mr P." As before, Mr P. went bright pink to the roots of his hair, blustered, and did his hopeless case more harm. Philip gave his closing statement and the judge adjourned till two pm to read his judgement.
The Stanton team was very angry; their patriarch had been denied his retribution, and they consoled themselves that I had funked the encounter. They gave few interviews; they hated the media. If they knew what elation their anger gave me, they would strike me as father and son had done before. The press pack faced a three-hour wait, so I told the local reporters there was no truth in the binocular story - we did not even own any - and that lurid headlines would be hateful. Dominic Kennedy of the Times, with Luke Harding of the Daily Mail (now at the Guardian), had already visited us, and learnt that I wore a blue dressing gown for dawn raids among the tree tops. Maureen, the only one who could know of any peeping-tom proclivities, told him she distinctly remembered using binoculars to identify an albino starling. I couldn't remember the starling, but I had bought binoculars for our younger son Martin's twenty-first. The Times reported it and the question resurfaced for years in TV documentaries: did Stanton grow his conifers because of an albino starling? I answered every time, "absolute, complete rubbish." Martin left home in 1977, and for twenty-two years the conifers had been too tall to see into the Stanton garden; by then Freda was dead. The Recorder mentioned that in his judgement.
Maureen went off with Mary to the shops, Ray to his office, and Philip we know not. I said to Ian, "Let's go and have half a pint - half only; I am not going to be smelling of beer." It was my best half pint ever; we half laughed and half cried as we wallowed in the Stanton misery. Ian said, "There will never be a time when I'll not buy my dad a beer." It is harder to refuse a half when a half has begun to percolate to the recesses of a man's soul, and I fetched another pint. My God, we were happy as we made our ecstatic way back for the coup de grâce.
The judgement ran to twenty-two pages, but the essential guts were the last lines: "Therefore I find the plaintiff's claim fails - I lift the injunction but will re-impose it if necessary or appropriate. It is not carte blanche for attacking the hedge and trees within it." That sting in the tail jarred a nerve in me, though not the journalists; it caused a lot of bother and massive media hype in the spring, but more of that in my next chapter. There was no mention of costs; was our home and financial security safe?
The shaken, ashen-faced Stanton counsel rose at once: "Of course, my client is responsible for the costs." The Recorder bowed and left. It was over. The Stanton pair were livid and seemed to be taking it out on their counsel; the team had moved over the years from cast-iron certainty to losing very badly. They told reporters they were appealing, with the whole of December to lodge it, and hired a leading QC to review the case, at a cost of three thousand.
We had the court order within days: the claim dismissed; the defendant released from his undertaking; the plaintiff to pay the defendant's costs on County Court Scale II, to be taxed if not agreed. Nothing about re-imposing an injunction; no sting in the tail, no ambiguity about costs.
We were all hugs, kisses, pats on the back and handshakes. In a consulting room I thanked Ray and Philip for their brilliance and my family and friends for their steadfast support. The lawyers were cheered out and photographed walking into the sunset (figuratively; actually they walked East). I told the journalists at my press conference that the trees were at their highest for years and deprived us of daylight at the shortest time of the year; they must not expect rash decisions; I would try to negotiate, though the Stantons had always followed a policy of no compromise; but my rights had been affirmed in the county court and the Court of Appeal and I would be exercising them to restore my lost amenity. Then Maureen said there were some photographers outside - the understatement of the year. As we opened the double glass doors there were blinding flashes, and hand in hand we were led to a row of microphones. There were yells of "Kiss 'er." We obliged politely, though Maureen, who dislikes the smell of beer so much that she never kisses me after a midday drink, muttered, "Beer." The pack yelled for more passion. "At our age, let us have decorum on the court steps," I said, but we tried harder and there was a massive surge of flashlights. That picture was on all TV channels, local, national and international, and on the front pages. Our Australian friends saw us on their breakfast show, and over the months we learnt we had been on Canadian, Tunisian and Japanese TV. We celebrated with fish and chips.
There were already calls on our answering service. The first, from Judith Scott, the poor lady with the nasty tree neighbour, simply said, "Congratulations." Then Eric McInnis of Sky wanted to come to our party. "We are not having a party." "Well, have one, bring your neighbours in - I'm bringing the champagne." He and his cameraman set up the lighting; the neighbours were delighted to be on the telly. Pete Spyby's cork hit the ceiling and made its trademark, which made our minds up to have the house decorated after Christmas.
Life felt suddenly easy; we would go to the windows and shout, "We won!" It was the first of December and we planned a lovely Christmas despite the towering trees. I was asked a hundred times when I was going to cut them. "Not before Christmas. We have to wait for the possibility of the appeal, and even then I don't have carte blanche."
At the Bournville Garden Centre, run by the Watson brothers and a regular meeting place for passionate gardeners, I was greeted by Derek Watson, a big fellow whose nickname you can guess, and the customers clapped. He offered their tree services free if I displayed their board outside for the TV. I kept my promise but he didn't; life next to the Stantons is very difficult and complicated. We were recognised everywhere.
On the second Friday Granada invited us to Manchester for their weekend show 'Up Front'. It was a wickedly cold evening; the train heating had failed and we were perished. The pick-up car was not at the station and eventually, after an abject apology, we were told to take a taxi to the Victoria and Albert Hotel. It was plush, noisy and smoky, but warm at last. Maureen refused the mulled punch, so I had hers. Our room was 'Stones in the Park', with rock-star pictures; I'd have preferred archaeology or rockery stones. At 8.30 we were called to the studio, three hours before we went live, and found our way to the Green Room, which neither of us had any reason to know about. On the monitors Tony Banks MP was in an enraged argument with a Christmas war-toy manufacturer; he swore, "You just couldn't fucking care less, could you?" Luckily only the producer was listening.
I envied him; nine years earlier I would have loved to go on air on this topic, so much nobler than a sordid neighbour dispute. 1986 was the UN International Year of Peace and I had arranged a festival for peace, with stalls, carols and mince pies for multi-faith and political groups, and a candle-lit walk from Cotteridge Quaker meeting house to George Cadbury Hall. The Peace Pledge Union stall collected signatures against war toys, and I noticed that Freda and Bernard Stanton had signed. I wondered then why such hostility existed between us; the event did not bring much peace to our two families. I told Tony Banks about his language; he was a little put out, but his performance was excellent.
The presenters were both prima donnas, the man slightly worse; he had a script of researched questions, but didn't understand his subject, and his questioning was synthetic. One question I was not allowed to know, to catch me unawares. The theme was 'bad neighbours', and I shared the show with Danny Israel, who had taken his anti-Semitic neighbour to court and won; the man dangled bacon on strings over their shared entrance. Under present-day law the CPS would have prosecuted for racism.
At eleven the show began, with Derek Hatton leading well wrapped-up tenants in an anti-drugs demonstration in Liverpool, then Nigel Evans MP, then the Christmas feature with Tony Banks. Danny and I came last, introduced with the TV news clips of the Stanton v Jones battle, which produced loud gasps at its length and cost. Then came the googly: "You deliberately broke the law, didn't you?" I was ready; I did not answer, and that threw him. "You deliberately mutilated an old man's trees disregarding his age." Brilliant stuff, introducing emotional heat. I replied that two courts had found I had not broken the law, that he had spoilt my family's enjoyment of our home for years, then sent his son to punch me to the floor in my own house. You could feel the audience sympathy move to me. The presenter turned to Danny, whose neighbour had also refused to appear. I could see Maureen in the audience, chilled right through, though the studio was stiflingly hot; she was ill over Christmas.
Granada had also brought in 'mediators', professionals and well-meaning amateurs from Christian groups, who were sanctimonious humbugs, considering themselves God's solution to warring neighbours. I asked how on earth they could find a solution if one or both sides were entrenched in a no-compromise mode - which is itself their punishment and retribution. Danny agreed. The show ended with a return to the ice-cold Hatton, and the car whipped us back to the hotel, where we used only one single bed so that I could wrap my arms around the shivering Maureen.
At breakfast Tony Banks was already at a window table, and I told him how I had admired him in 1983 for offering to give up his safe seat for Tony Benn. Granada paid all our expenses and a surprise cheque for £100 dropped through our letterbox in January, which did nothing to fill the hole in our finances. Counsel had demanded his £7,000 plus VAT up front - which reminded me of the name of our show - and Ray wanted a substantial payment on top of our regular ones. John Wetherell asked Ray for money and was told to wait for the costs, so he came to me; it was Christmas, and he was an architect of my success, so I paid him a thousand pounds. Ray was furious: "I should be the one paying him." Not a chance; John had yet to submit his full account.
Six days later, the day before it broke up, I visited the school I had retired from thirteen years earlier, as I had been invited to do every year. Few of my ex-colleagues accepted. The staff looked like pupils, but the Parents Association, of which I was the only staff member, seemed intact; we had not felt any older. It was the Head's party, for he was retiring early, at the same age as I did. Everybody recognised me and I had a lot of talking to do. It was the last time I went back. I was among the last to leave, with a twinge of sadness; a little tear ran down my face, and it took a moment or two in the car, wiping my eyes, before I could drive the twenty minutes home.
THE JUDGEMENT
It is twenty-two pages long and was composed well before the end of the trial. We did not buy a transcript of the final day's proceedings; there was no need. The Stantons obtained one for their Queen's Counsel to review over Christmas, at least another £3,000 and a complete waste of money. Only a tiny part was reported by a score of journalists and sent round the world; I skimmed it at the time, uninterested - it was over. I have just read it again, eleven years on, and realised I never made another copy; no one ever asked.
The Recorder says the way proceedings were conducted has no bearing on his conclusions, and pays tribute to both counsel: a neighbours' dispute is the most difficult type of case, nobody benefits but lawyers, and he must decide on the evidence. In eight pages he analyses the Court of Appeal's findings. The first works on the trees were carried out by the plaintiff, the second by the defendant, and thirdly they have regrown. The defendant's right is to maintain, repair and replace. Citing precedent, maintenance means keeping something in existence in a state that enables it to serve its purpose; a hedge must be maintained as a hedge, so its height must be maintained. If it is neglected for years, the work required is far greater than annual trimming. Mr P. made no submissions on repair, though the judge asked him, so reduction in height can fall within repair.
Was what was done in excess of the reasonable, appropriate or agreed? The Court of Appeal says the test is objective. The plaintiff insisted in evidence that he only wanted enough money to pay costs and replace the trees, then in May asked for exemplary damages - to compensate and to punish, where there is malice, fraud, cruelty or insolence. The plaintiff has not acted realistically or reasonably and the judge discounts his views on a reasonable height. He finds the hedge has been maintained reasonably and appropriately, bearing in mind the relative lengths of the gardens and the Bournville Village Trust guide of six feet six inches. On standard of maintenance he prefers Mr Wetherall to Mr Finch: when Finch said the trees were most vulnerable there was considerable wet-snow damage to other trees, yet nothing happened here. It was not open to Mr Jones to maintain on both sides. The trees look exceedingly healthy, and the situation is very different from when proceedings began.
Were he wrong, he would award £100 a year for expert advice over five years. The wife's concern was of being watched, but the trees were not at their lowest then and many houses overlook the garden; he would put the figure at £500. The increase in the value of the defendant's property is entirely irrelevant to compensatory damages.