» Life Begins at 70
Ruby Grimshaw on the lost art of the court logger
Last year I was told I was part of a threatened species. Now I am extinct. I was a logger. (No, not one of those hunky Canadians with massive thigh muscles. I hope they are not threatened.) Think more court scene in an old black and white movie. Below the judge sits a woman with horn-rimmed spectacles, hair in a bun, typing frantically. That is the logger.
The modern equivalent is, or was, someone who tapes the proceedings and writes short notes to correlate with the recording. When I first started I was overawed by the Crown Courts, terrified that I would forget to load the next tape or forget to say ‘your honour’ if the judge spoke to me. This was highly unlikely, as the logger was lowest in the hierarchy of the court. I was torn between the terror of a barrister asking me a question, and indignation at hearing the clerk say, “she won’t know. She’s only the logger”.
“Sometimes I became so interested in the dramas that I would forget to log”
I soon began to enjoy myself. Sometimes I became so interested in the dramas that I would forget to log. The language was often a little shocking, but nothing ever fazed the judge. “Speak up! Did you say he called you a f****** c***?”
Spectators were not exempt. “This is not a community centre! Stop whispering or leave the court!”
One warm afternoon the defence was concluding his long closing speech and I was trying not to nod off. Suddenly there was a loud buzz by my feet. The jury immediately sat up and every one in court stared at me. A second, louder squeak came from my hand bag. “Well?” The tone from behind was sarcastic. “Whose mobile is it?” I turned, humiliated. “Mine, your honour. I’m sorry.” I received a disparaging stare.
Another day the prosecution was struggling to describe the part of the thumb where her client had been injured. I could bear it no longer. (I was a physiotherapist). “It’s the distal phalanx of the pollex, your honour,” I said helpfully. This time the look was withering.
So now the logging is done by computer. It must be less entertaining for the transcribers without my little comments in brackets, eg. ‘One of the jury has fallen asleep,’ or ‘The two defendants are trying to punch each other.’
I miss the feeling of being part of a soap opera – even if it was sometimes more Dad’s Army than Law And Order. To stop my withdrawal symptoms I think I shall visit the spectator’s gallery at Hove Crown Court. I can see it now. “This is not a cafe! Remove that elderly woman and her vacuum flask!” Yes, your honour. Just going.
