The contempt matter ahead should take ten minutes. It’s been forty-five.
Senior lawyers on either side are doing their thing. How they love the sound of their voices. The judge gives them a week to file submissions. They continue the banter beyond the brief.
One senior is now telling a story about a case from 1997. The other senior laughs. The judge laughs. The court is their living room. How she wishes it was hers too.
She’s standing at the back, laptop sleeve cutting into her elbow. Been up since 5 AM. Slept at 3. Missed her morning run. The brief is perfect – twenty-three case laws, each one directly on point.
Index of authorities ready. The three perfect judgments. She knows they don’t have the luxury of time or patience for all twenty-three. Propositions table typed out. Relevant extracts. For ease of reference.
A senior briefly reviewed it last night and said, “This is good work. Go conquer!”
Ready to conquer. Or at least get by.
One senior is now telling a story about a case from 1997. The other senior laughs. The judge laughs. The court is their living room. How she wishes it was hers too.
Third coffee today. Swollen face. Darkened eyes. Head wash didn’t help. Nothing makes up for beauty sleep. Friends from the bar rush between their own matters, give her a pat – ”the big one, huh? All the best!”
Her junior is buying time in another court where she’s also listed. Or maybe he’s already back, buried somewhere in this packed room, trying to reach her. He knows better than to get too close on these groggy mornings. Reasonable distance is safer.
The big matter finally ends. The battery of lawyers starts collecting files. So many of them. More seniors than juniors. Three lever-arch folders. Loose papers spilling everywhere. They move slowly, checking each page like currency notes. The seniors leaving create a domino effect large enough to make her wobble. Her centre of gravity isn’t working today.
She sees her junior coming from the other end, his face covered under the flowing robe of a demitting senior.
Her matter is called.
She moves to the bar. No space. Files everywhere. Her junior wedges himself into a corner, holding both their bags. A senior’s elbow is in his face. He mouths something – either good luck or get me out. She can’t tell.
She balances her laptop on the edge of the lectern. iPad on the other side. Needs both to argue. One alone doesn’t cut it. Opens the brief. The judge is reading something.
Not her file. Something else.
“Yes?”
Finally. Her moment.
She begins. Three sentences in, he interrupts.
“What is the main issue?”
She pivots. She’d planned to build up to it – lay the foundation, walk the timeline, create context. Fine. She cuts straight to the main issue. He’s still reading that other thing.
“Your main case law?”
She cites it. Paragraph 23. Three-judge bench. Directly on point.
“What does it say?”
She starts reading the relevant paragraph. He stops her.
“Just tell me what it says.”
She can either fight about whether the submissions are on the file – a fight she cannot win, because he has already decided they aren’t – or take a date and file “fresh” submissions identical to the existing ones.
She tells him. He’s looking at his computer now. Screen reflection in his glasses. Not her case file. Might be his email. Might be nothing.
“Any other case law?”
She has twenty-two more. Picks the strongest. Cites the name, year, court.
“I don’t think that applies here.”
It absolutely applies here, My Lords. Almost identical facts. She starts explaining why it applies. He cuts her off.
“What does the respondent say?”
Respondent’s counsel stands. Raises his voice. Creates a strawman. Changes the case entirely. Invents facts. The judge nods. Takes notes. He’s writing now. He never wrote during her submissions.
“No, no. He is misleading my Lords.”
But the respondent has invented a completely different controversy. And the judge is interested in it. More interested than anything she said.
“Is that on the file?”
What is on the file? Her petition – yes. Her application – yes. Her written submissions – filed in time. That’s why she’s here today.
“The written submissions?” she says.
“I don’t see any written submissions.”
The craft is patience. The craft is explaining this to clients without breaking.
She sees them. Right there, behind the application. She supervised the filing herself. Stood over her staff as they logged in and out. Watched them upload the PDF.
“It’s there, My Lords, behind the application.”
He flips through. Wrong file. Multiple files, similar tags. Happens sometimes. He’s looking at the wrong bundle entirely.
“Not there.”
She wants to reach over and point to it. Cannot reach over and point to it. Instead: “The application date – such-and-such date, My Lord.”
He finds the application. Doesn’t find the written submissions behind it.
“Alright. File proper submissions and come back.”
But it is proper. Twelve pages. Annexures. Authorities. Case law. It’s there. But now she’s in procedural quicksand. She can either fight about whether the submissions are on the file – a fight she cannot win, because he has already decided they aren’t – or take a date and file “fresh” submissions identical to the existing ones.
She takes the date.
“12th August,” announces the court master. “No dates before that.”
She prepared all night for a hearing which is now in August. Three months away.
The respondent won this round. She needs to be patient. It’s half the craft.
She steps back from the bar. The lawyer behind her is already spreading his files across the entire surface. She moves toward the back of the court. Someone’s phone is ringing. Someone else is whispering urgently to the court master about their specially fixed matter. The judge is back to reading that other thing.
Outside in the corridor, her phone has six missed calls from three different courts. She has another hearing in fifteen minutes on the other side of the complex. She starts walking fast. Robe flying. Dodging juniors carrying stacks of paper.
She bumps into her running coach in the corridor. What are the odds? If only she could dig a hole and bury herself. No time to die!
“You’ve been skipping,” he says.
“Tomorrow,” she promises. “Eight hours’ sleep. Morning run. Back on track.”
He nods. Little hope left in the lawyers he trains. Them and their one-dimensional lives.
In the corridor, a colleague asks how it went.
“Got a date,” she says.
He nods knowingly. In litigation, this is both a result and not a result. Schrödinger’s hearing.
Her phone buzzes. The client.
“What happened? Was the matter heard?”
She stares at the message. How to explain this. The matter was called. She argued. The judge spoke. The respondent spoke. The court master announced a date. Technically, the matter was heard. Technically, nothing happened.
She types: “Matter was called. Court has asked for written submissions to be filed. Next date is 12th August.”
Three dots appear immediately. The client is typing. The dots stop. Start again. Stop.
“But we already filed written submissions last month? I thought today was final arguments?”
The corridor is loud. Someone is shouting about a mentioning. Her junior appears, breathless, saying the other court will be calling her matter next.
She types back: “Will call you in ten…”
She won’t call in ten minutes. She has another hearing. Then another. She’ll call tonight, after 8 PM, when she’s back at the office. And she’ll explain what cannot be explained.
She’ll file the same written submissions again. Print them. Sign them. Watch her staff upload them. Check the filing status three times. In August, she’ll stand at the bar again, laptop balanced on the edge of the lectern, and a new judge will look up from whatever she’s reading and say,
“What’s your point, counsel?”
The craft is patience. The craft is explaining this to clients without breaking.
She keeps walking.