|
|
|||||||
|
|
|||||||
|
News Search
|
|
16-8-2003 Scotsman Rules of etiquette and breakneck pace collide in court hothouse By Gethin Chamberlain THE first member of the public arrives at the Bell's Yard entrance to the Royal Courts of Justice in London just after 9am, his blue shirt soaked in sweat, his ample girth straining its buttons. Clutching a green plastic Harrods bag, he greets the security guard as an old friend. Then another man, in a white shirt this time - a better choice for the London heatwave - carrying a Selfridges plastic bag containing a bottle of water. There is clearly some sort of bag etiquette going on among the court watchers. Inside, the queue snakes around the overheated corridor outside Courtroom 73, two floors up, doubling back on itself and down the stairs. Those with the precious blue badges that confer entry to the courtroom itself appear less concerned about their place in the queue, but those who have to take their chances on finding a seat in the annexe to watch the proceedings on television monitors are more on edge. Queue-jumpers are shown no mercy. The man from the Mirror is remonstrating with an official: his badge is with another reporter. You'd better phone your office, she tells him, and get them to find it. Because you're not getting into the inner sanctum without it. It is a daily ritual. When the doors open just after 9:50am, they stream towards their respective rooms. Harrods bag man finds a seat in the main courtroom. It is bright and airy, net curtains across the windows, microphones hanging from the ceiling. A sea of flat computer screens fills every available desk space, and more monitors hang on the walls. Those struggling to keep up with the flood of information can find help there. As those inside the courtroom utter their words, the stenographers' fingers are tapping away frantically, desperately turning their words into type. Documents flash up on the screens, secret papers offering snippets of information that would normally not be seen for 30 years under government rules. Some of it gives powerful, crucial insight into the working of government. The frustrated press pack desperately scribbles away, those near the screens earning jealous glances from those further away. Members of the press send Lord Hutton a note begging for his help - how can they report the working of the inquiry if they can't see the documents? The next day they are rewarded with two new big screens, thousands of pounds worth of technology. Not every bit of information is crucial to the hearing. There are always little snapshots of the mundanity of the lives involved. Andrew Gilligan's drinks receipts, for example. From his crucial meeting with Dr David Kelly, the inquiry was offered his bar bill. One bottle of coke, GBP 2.20, one bottle of Appletise, GBP 1.95. Total GBP 4.15. He kept it for his expenses, he explained. The national press snorted derisively. The light wood desks and blue seats have an air of modernity, in stark contrast to the single item of older furniture in the room, the dark wood lectern set with red leather, standing on its little brass castors, set up in front of the bench. That is where James Dingemans, QC, counsel to the inquiry, holds sway. The only other splash of red - if the dirty salmon-pink carpet is discounted - is the chair in which Lord Hutton sits, tall-backed in contrast with the other chairs in the room. That room is full of lawyers, many, it appears, from the BBC. It is a hard call to decide whether the BBC has more journalists, witnesses or lawyers at the inquiry. They don't appear to like each other very much. "A nest of vipers," is the way one hack describes them. And that was before Susan Watts, the Newsnight reporter, tore into Andrew Gilligan, the Radio 4 reporter. As the BBC reporters debate the merits of their respective seats, one suggests a colleague is a swot for sitting in the front row. "If I was a swot I'd be up on the witness stand shafting my colleagues," comes the reply. David Davies, the shadow deputy prime minister, flits among the reporters, jovial in a short-sleeved shirt, apparently relishing the government's discomfort. The court usher, good-natured but firm like an old-fashioned matron, nips at those reporters unable to find the off-switch on their mobile phones. They discover that ducking down in their seats does not work. "If you do it again you'll all be out of here," she chides, for the umpteenth time. Waiting for Lord Hutton to arrive, people flick through newspapers. The Guardian appears most popular, but maybe that reflects the number of BBC reporters in the room. And then it is 10:30am and Lord Hutton's clerk bustles in. "Silence, all stand," she says, and then he is striding in and taking his seat, a grey-haired, sharply suited, dapper man. He never wastes much time, a quick greeting - "Good morning ladies and gentlemen", a nod to Mr Dingemans and they are away. Mr Dingemans seems to grow in stature as the week goes on. Almost apologetic to start with, modest and unassuming, he can sometimes be found attempting to edge his way through the crowd outside the court. "Excuse me, do you mind awfully if I just squeeze past," he whispers. But his confidence is building and by the end of the week he is playing to the gallery. Reaching the evidence on Alastair Campbell's war on the BBC he says, in a pained voice: "I don't want to go through ALL the letters." And waits for the inevitable laughter from the press benches, all too familiar with Mr Campbell's enthusiasm for corrective missives. By the end of day four, Mr Dingemans has established himself as the star of the show. Susan Watts is the Miss Goody Two Shoes, who kept a note of everything. You just know she never runs out of milk, or forgets a birthday. Martin Howard and Richard Hatfield, the MoD men, are the token baddies. Mr Gilligan is more buffoon than villain, like the striker given a clear shot on goal who tries to be a bit too clever and scuffs the ball into the side netting. And Lord Hutton, watching his computer monitors, listening, always attentive, interrupting only occasionally at the start, more often as the week goes on, more sharply when he seems to doubt the evidence he is hearing. A thoughtful nod and "hmmm" when he gets his answer, and a glance back to Mr Dingemans to go on. But to his staff, a model of courtesy, halting proceedings every now and again to give them a rest from the breakneck pace. "A good time to give the stenographers a break," he says.
|
|
||||
|
................................................................................................................. Copyright ©2004 Gethin Chamberlain. All rights reserved. |
|||||||
