by Lara Feigel
It’s a warm August day, and I’m back in the Central London Family Court. I’ve given notice to the court that I’m planning to attend a final hearing presided over by District Judge Cronshaw, but as usual, no one seems to be expecting me. Eventually, I locate Judge Cronshaw’s clerk and am told that the case has been pushed back by an hour because another short hearing has been squeezed in first; often, a day in court only amounts to five hours, though barristers have to be paid for the full day. While I wait, I go upstairs to try my luck in another hearing, but the Recorder on duty informs me through his clerk that journalists aren’t allowed to observe private law cases. I could argue my corner and provide proof that journalists have, in fact, been allowed to observe private law cases since 2009, but the blue sky is too compelling—I go out to sit in the sun for half an hour instead.
Eventually, not long after 11, the case is called. I’m not invited in initially, which is unusual; the judge wants to tell the parties about me first. When I do go in, they’ve already been shown a draft Transparency Order and asked to read it, but neither parent has a lawyer, and neither of them knew anything about the transparency pilot, so they both seem daunted and after a few minutes of reading through the document, the mother becomes panicky. This is too much, she says, just when she’s about to embark on a hearing that’s this important. She’s dyslexic and finds it difficult to process written information on the spot; usually, she’d want time to read through any court documents in advance. The judge tries to explain that the inclusion of journalists is standard practice in court now and that they’d need serious reasons to exclude me. I wish that I’d had time to talk to both parents outside the courtroom, as I often have before. I want to explain that the transparency pilot is meant precisely to benefit people like her: litigants in person who might find the court process inscrutable. But I don’t have the chance; she’s overcome with anxiety, and she asks to go out for fresh air. The judge allows this, visibly irritated, and I wonder if I should just leave; court time is rationed, and I’m the one responsible for this delay. I wait, though, and suggest I could have a word with her outside the courtroom on her way back, which the judge agrees to.
We talk. She’s flustered; she tells me that this case has dragged on for years and finally juddered to its climactic hearing today; there’s domestic abuse in the background, and she doesn’t want her privacy invaded or the intimate details of her life revealed. ‘I don’t want my business being discussed.’ I explain that any reporting permitted is anonymous and that if she’s a victim of domestic abuse, it’s very likely to be in her interests that the court process is scrutinised. But it’s clear that nothing I can say will reassure her. She says that she doesn’t want or need my help and that if I sit, taking notes, she won’t be able to concentrate on giving evidence; she’ll be wondering what I’m writing down. She says that if I insist on staying, she’ll ask for the case to be adjourned so that she has time to adjust.
We go back in together. The judge is prepared to override her objections, but I say that I think I should go. Under Practice Direction FPR27.11, a journalist may be excluded where it is ‘necessary’ in the interests of the child, the safety or protection of parties or others, or the orderly conduct of proceedings. I don’t think these proceedings can be orderly if I remain. The judge thanks me and I go back out into the sun, giving up on court for the day. It saddens me that this mother feels so embattled and sees me as part of what she’s fighting against. Her panic was a sign of how much she’s already endured in the court system and how far she fears that the process will fall short of justice.
Blog post published 27th January 2025
This is part one of a four-part series. For the other posts visit our main family court blog page
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