It was March 1990 and we still hadn't heard the official result of our Arbitration. The Slander case was due to begin in the High Court in the Strand, London. The day dawned and I made my way into London to the offices of our lawyers Waterhouse. Their building was in the lee of St Paul's Cathedral, allowing a perfect view of Royal Weddings,not that there was one that day. I arrived to be told by Martin Webster that the result was about to be issued. Talk about suppressed nerves. The Arbitrator's secretary was to deliver the award to the High Court, whilst we were beginning the Slander Case. Drama in the extreme! Off we went to that austere building housing the highest courts in the land.
Anticipation and No Fingernails
The case was scheduled to come before Mr Justice Popplewell, a well known judge. We all trooped into his court, only to be told we were moving to another one because of the noise created by the jackhammers of builders renovating nearby. The jury was late arriving, because they had been delayed on their way from the Old Bailey. The morning was thus wasted. Lunch was spent pacing the Great Hall that greets the visitor to the Courts. Our eyes scanned the throngs entering the building for the lady bearing the news we wanted. She didn't show, the case began.
Damned...
The courtrooms of the Strand are imposing rooms. Ornate woodwork and carved stone decorate the surfaces. The judge presides from on high. I guess it gives them authority. The jurors sat waiting expectantly as the case began. Zameen (my adversary's offshore company) versus Brazier Builders, (my company) and me. The truth is, it was him against me. His name? Mohammed Rafiuddin. His Barrister stood to speak. The opening remarks began with the message to the jury that I was a crook. Building a disastrous building and expecting to get paid. His voice boomed as he told how I'd accused Rafiuddin of fraud, by writing to the police. How if anyone was a crook it was me, because I'd had Rafiuddin's garbage collected and sifted through it in search of evidence. He didn't say I'd found the evidence I needed. For two hours I sat and listened as he tore me apart. Rafiuddin sat smugly behind his barrister as the attack on me continued. I slipped out into the massive corridor outside the court, not because I was upset, more that I was bored with the fabricated story of my misdeeds.
The Woman In the Red Coat
Martin Webster followed me out and we talked for a minute. Suddenly he started off down the corridor. I watched him go towards a woman in a red coat. It was the lady delivering the Arbitration award. Rafiuddin's lawyer came out to see what the fuss was about. The lady gave both he and Webster a large brown envelope. Webster returned to me and tore open the envelope and scanned through it. "You've won big" he said. It was true. The Arbitrator had dismissed Rafiuddin's evidence as "phantasy". Without realising what we were doing, we danced and high fived each other. Only when we turned around did we realise the jury had us in full view. What they thought, who knows. Jubilant is the only word to describe how I felt. This was absolute vindication of me and all I'd done. Now we'd see how Rafiuddin was.
Back in the court room, I was treated to a heavily tanned man who'd gone a ghostly white. I could see Rafiuddin shaking as the implication of his defeat stared him in the face. The cost was going to be in the millions of dollars. Now all we had to do was win the slander case.
Winning the slander case rested on whether it could be proved that I had said the words complained of. I was supposed to have told the police, "Rafiuddin is a fraud." Their case went on with an attempt to ignore the Arbitrator's decision. Finally the judge told them if they persisted in saying my work was awful, he would release the award to the jury. They backed off and struggled on, examining each witness in turn. Not one witness could say that I had uttered the words. Once they had done their best, my barrister stood and made a motion for a dismissal of the case, on the grounds that they had failed to prove I had spoken the words. The case was dismissed, but, they were given leave to appeal. The appeal was to be heard after the weekend.
The Appeal Court is the highest court in the land, with only the House of Lords remaining if the appellant loses. Three top appeal judges sit in judgment. The Master of the Rolls, Lord Justice Donaldson, was flanked by Lord Justice Wolfe and Lord Justice Bingham, all dressed in red gowns and long wigs. To be honest, all I had to do was sit and be entertained by them as they ripped the appeal to shreds, finally dismissing it as "frivolous". Thus was justice served. I could look forward to getting the money we'd paid and the expenses incurred, once "taxation of costs" were settled.
I learned a lot about the British legal system as we dealt with the cases. Not least, how the barristers and their Chambers are operated. Webster was friendly with a group of Clerks who run the Chambers. They are administrative in function, but have a powerful position within the legal system. It is they who dish out the cases to barristers. They get a cut of the proceeds and can earn as much as half a million dollars a year! Considering they have no qualifications, that isn't bad. Entry into this exalted position depends on who you know of course. The ones I knew would repair to the local pub at lunchtime and drink until seven in the evening. I was to learn just how cynical the system and the people who administer it really are.