Observation notes from a London Magistrate court
November 2024
The courtroom is filled with an air of expectancy. Everyone, including the judges, are present in the courtroom. Except for the defendant.
The solicitor cleared his throat and straightened his tie. “Your Worships, my client went to buy cigarettes. He should be arriving shortly.”
Silence.
The magistrates exchanged looks, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and mild irritation.
“How is that possible?” one of the female magistrates asked, arching a brow.
“Is the defendant aware of the time of his trial?” another magistrate pressed.
“Whose fault is this?”
The solicitor barely hesitated. “A miscommunication, Your Worships. He was told to be here by 9:30, but my assistant may not have been clear. He’ll be here in ten minutes.”
The magistrates did not seem convinced. With a glance at each other, they rose and exited the courtroom coming back fifteen minutes later.
Without hesitation and while waiting for the defendant to arrive, the solicitor and the prosecutor talked about the defendant's suspended previous sentences. “I think he is going to jail and hope he learns from this”, the defendant’s solicitor said, to which the prosecutor nodded and added, “You know, the probability is high”. They exchanged amused glances, their laughter quiet but unmistakable. The defendant’s fate had become nothing more than a joke.
Moments later, the door creaked open.
The defendant, a 30-year-old man, stepped inside, his breath slightly labored—whether from rushing or nerves, it was unclear.
He was being accused of carrying a 40 cm knife in a public place. The arrest was not in dispute—the charge was.
The prosecution wasted no time. A PC body cam video was displayed, it clearly showed the defendant carrying the knife and its removal by the constable.
Then came the witness.
A uniformed police officer took the stand, raised his hand and swore his oath. Just as the prosecutor prepared to ask the first question, the defendant turned to his solicitor, whispering something urgently.
The solicitor frowned, then lifted a hand. “Your Worships, may we have a moment? My client has raised something relevant to the trial.”
The magistrates stared at him. Their expressions said it all.
With visible reluctance, they allowed the request. The witness was dismissed. The magistrates left the courtroom once more.
Now alone with his solicitor, the defendant’s words came fast, nervous. “Can you check if anything on my record could make this worse?”
The solicitor’s brows furrowed. “Why?”
The defendant hesitated. Then, in a low voice, he admitted, “I missed two hearings at the Crown Court.”
A long silence.
He checked the records. The defendant was right.
His missed court dates meant he was now looking at potential prison time—not just for this case, but for his past ones. The weight of old offenses, long buried, was about to resurface.
The prosecutor, now aware of this new development, leaned forward. His expression was unreadable, but his words were sharp.
“That changes everything.”
The solicitor turned to the defendant, his voice quieter now, but firm. “This means your case will be transferred to the Crown Court. The charges could be reopened.”
The defendant stiffened. His voice rose, edged with anger. “Why do those cases need to be opened again? I already got everything done!”
The solicitor ignored the outburst and turned to the clerk’s assistant. “Can we make a new claim application to the Crown Court?” He shot the defendant a glance. “Thank you for mentioning this now.”
The prosecutor and probation officer leaned toward each other, sharing muffled words. They’re laughter barely contained.
It wasn’t loud, but it was there. Unapologetic.
Then, another revelation.
The defendant was not aware of the type of court he was attending. “I thought this was the Crown Court, not Magistrates’.”
His solicitor stilled.
Not once—not once—had he informed his client of what type of court he was attending. The confusion, the panic, the defendant’s lack of preparation—it all traced back to one undeniable fact:
His own legal representative had failed him.
The courtroom doors opened once more. The magistrates returned.
They were briefed on everything—the missed hearings, the confusion, the request for transfer. Details about why he did not attend the two crown court dates were discussed, and in fact, the defendant was admitted to the hospital on those occasions. Evidence was provided.
One of the magistrates leaned forward, her voice even but firm. “A conversation this long is costing the public money. There’s a witness waiting. And we have yet to reach a decision.”
The magistrates exchanged looks, their discussion brief but decisive. Finally, the verdict was given:
“The defendant is granted permission to apply for a Crown Court trial. The hearing will take place on the 2nd of January 2025 at the Crown Court.”
A warning followed.
“You must attend the hearing. You are on unconditional bail. If you commit any further offenses, it will be taken more seriously, and other measures will be put in place.”
The courtroom settled.
The witness was called back inside, informed that the trial would not be proceeding today. He would be required at the Crown Court in January.