The Secret Life of The Sheriff
by Olga Wojtas
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: Sheriff courts are a unique part of the Scottish legal system, but how much do we know about those who sit in judgment on us?
____________________________________________________________________
The smirk faded from Ged McKinven's face.
“Five years? Five years? Ye’re fuckin kiddin me, man!” he screamed. “Ah hope ye shit a hedgehog sideways, ye fuckin bampot!”
“And another three months for contempt,” said Sheriff Douglas Sinclair. “Take him down.”
The clerk waited until quiet was restored. “William Morgan,” he called. Nothing happened. A police officer went into the public corridor and bellowed: “William Morgan!” then returned, shrugging.
“Warrant,” said Sheriff Sinclair.
“Kylie Arnott,” called the clerk.
“Kylie Arnott!” bellowed the police officer.
“Warrant,” said Sheriff Sinclair.
“Fraser Finlay,” called the clerk.
“Fraser Finlay!” bellowed the police officer.
The defence solicitor stood up. “I don’t know why Mr Finlay isn’t here, my lord,” she said. “He seems to have checked in this morning. Would your lordship continue the case for a week to give him another chance to attend?”
Sheriff Sinclair fixed her with a basilisk stare. “You can see how much of the court’s time has been wasted by the number of accused failing to turn up for trial. No, Miss DiMarco, I will not continue the case for a week. Instead, I will grant a warrant for Mr Finlay’s arrest.”
And with that, the morning’s proceedings in Court No 6 ended. As they packed up, the fiscal raised an eyebrow at the defence solicitor. “Ask Max for a continuation? Ye’re fuckin kiddin me, man.”
The hedgehog story was everywhere by mid-morning. “Oh aye, Max was on top form the day,” said the police officer.
Back in chambers, Sheriff Douglas Sinclair took off his wig and gown and turned to his paperwork. His in-tray was full. He switched on the laptop and started typing his report for another appeal against sentence. But he couldn’t concentrate. He hadn’t expected to feel this nervous about telling them. He hadn’t expected to care what his colleagues thought. But he realised that he did, very much.
He didn’t realise that his colleagues were already thinking quite a lot.
“What’s up with Doug?” Sheriff Kate Gordon had said. “He hasn’t come for a drink for ages.”
“Keeps saying he’s busy,” said Sheriff Keith Napier. “Even allowing for the number of appeals he has, there’s something going on.”
“You know what I think?” said Sheriff Alan MacMahon. “I think he's got a wee bit of stuff tucked away in a love nest."
They all laughed heartily.
None of them ever followed Douglas at the end of the day, never saw him drive off in the opposite direction to his home and ring Marie-José’s doorbell. They never heard Marie-José scold him: “You bad boy, late again! You know, I nearly started without you. I said to myself, 'Without Douglas, it will be more efficient and less messy.' And then I said to myself, 'But without Douglas it will not be so much fun.' That is why you are here, is it not so, to have fun?"
Douglas, blushing, admitted that it was indeed so.
But not having heard this exchange, when the sheriffs gathered for lunch, all that concerned them was the hedgehog story, which they had heard from their respective bar officers.
“Good weekend, Kate?”
“Brilliant, Alan, had a ball.”
“Hedgehogs curl into a ball, don’t they? Got any in your garden, Doug?”
“What?”
“Have you a pet hedgehog?”
“No. Why on earth do you think I might have a pet hedgehog?”
“Being a bit spiky, aren't you, Doug? I'm only asking.”
But Douglas was staring down at his soup bowl and didn't respond. Marie-José had been pressurising him for weeks. "Of course they have to know!"
"Not yet," Douglas had said. "I'm not ready."
"We cannot wait until you are ready! You will never be ready. You want them to think you are perfect. Nobody is perfect."
As Douglas sat silent, trying to find a suitable form of words, his colleagues chatted about the tepid soup and played a guessing game over the ingredients of the curry.
The coffee came round.
“Milk, Doug? You know, you should never leave out milk for a hedgehog."
Douglas, who had been distractedly drawing patterns on the tablecloth with his teaspoon, looked up. "What was that?"
"Hedgehogs can't cope with milk - gives them the shits.”
Douglas put down the teaspoon and stood up. "Excuse me.” He walked out of the room.
The other sheriffs stirred their coffee, refusing to meet one another’s eyes.
And then Douglas returned. He cleared his throat.
"I meant to tell you before but it never seemed - I was afraid you would think me foolish at my age -”
"Blimey," thought Sheriff Alan MacMahon, "I was right about the love nest." He decided he would give the impression that he really had known all along and gave the others a knowing nod.
"Anyway -” Douglas cleared his throat again. "Perhaps you might like these to go with your coffee. I – I made them myself.”
He laid down a plate of oddly shaped chocolates. “I’ve been on a course. A Belgian lady who worked for Neuhaus. I’m afraid these aren't very pretty, but they’re made from the best ingredients.”
Tentatively, the sheriffs each took one.
“Oh my God!” burst out Sheriff Kate Gordon.
“What? What’s the matter?” asked Douglas.
“This is orgasmic! I’ve never tasted anything like it!”
“That’s the pine-nut and Chartreuse truffle,” said Douglas.
“Douglas, this is sublime,” said Sheriff Keith Napier, gazing wonderingly at his half-eaten chocolate.
“Lapsang Souchong and black pepper cream.”
Sheriff Alan MacMahon, chewing, gave Douglas the thumbs-up.
“Ah, kiwi fruit caramel.”
Douglas went on to explain about minimum cocoa content, the art of hand tempering, and the skills of chilling ganache. The sheriffs nodded, ignored him, and kept eating.
Eventually, Sheriff Kate Gordon pushed her chair back. “No, really, I have to stop. It’s enough that we have Maximum Doug, we don’t want Maximum Kate as well.”
“Sorry?” said Douglas.
“I mean, if I keep eating these, I’ll put on so much weight they’ll call me Maximum Kate,” she explained.
“I’m not fat,” said Douglas. “Why did you say Maximum Doug?”
There was a silence. Then Alan said: “That’s your nickname.”
“I have a nickname? Why is that my nickname?”
Nobody replied.
"Well?" asked Douglas.
"It's -” began Keith.
"- affectionate," continued Kate. "A sort of joke."
"I still don't understand," said Douglas.
"It's because...because you give quite harsh sentences. Compared to other people.”
Douglas stood up. "I do not give harsh sentences," he said. "I give appropriate sentences."
When the clerk appeared in his chambers with more papers, Douglas had an unexpected question. “Did you know I had a nickname?”
“Of course, Sheriff.”
“Because I’m supposed to give harsh sentences?”
“Oh yes, Sheriff. You’re bottom of the league table.”
“What league table?”
“The one the solicitors compile on all the sheriffs. You score zero for compassion.”
“So this is a general view?”
“You’re famous for it, Sheriff. That’s why there are so many no-shows in your court, and you have to issue warrants for their arrest. When people find out they’re going to be in front of you, they leg it – they’d rather be done for non-appearance.”
Douglas took the papers and stacked them neatly in his in-tray. “So McKinven this morning – the remark about the hedgehog – he wasn’t being gratuitously offensive, he was genuinely aggrieved?”
“I’m sure he was genuinely aggrieved, Sheriff.”
The security officer at the cells below the courts was startled to be approached by Sheriff Sinclair.
“I wonder, could you take me to Ged McKinven's cell?”
The officer unlocked the door.
“Mr McKinven,” said Douglas, “your solicitor will of course assist you should you wish to appeal against sentence. In the meantime, I thought you might like this ballotin of chocolates. The lemon marmalade and Drambuie mousse appears to be particularly well regarded.”
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: Sheriff courts are a unique part of the Scottish legal system, but how much do we know about those who sit in judgment on us?
____________________________________________________________________
The smirk faded from Ged McKinven's face.
“Five years? Five years? Ye’re fuckin kiddin me, man!” he screamed. “Ah hope ye shit a hedgehog sideways, ye fuckin bampot!”
“And another three months for contempt,” said Sheriff Douglas Sinclair. “Take him down.”
The clerk waited until quiet was restored. “William Morgan,” he called. Nothing happened. A police officer went into the public corridor and bellowed: “William Morgan!” then returned, shrugging.
“Warrant,” said Sheriff Sinclair.
“Kylie Arnott,” called the clerk.
“Kylie Arnott!” bellowed the police officer.
“Warrant,” said Sheriff Sinclair.
“Fraser Finlay,” called the clerk.
“Fraser Finlay!” bellowed the police officer.
The defence solicitor stood up. “I don’t know why Mr Finlay isn’t here, my lord,” she said. “He seems to have checked in this morning. Would your lordship continue the case for a week to give him another chance to attend?”
Sheriff Sinclair fixed her with a basilisk stare. “You can see how much of the court’s time has been wasted by the number of accused failing to turn up for trial. No, Miss DiMarco, I will not continue the case for a week. Instead, I will grant a warrant for Mr Finlay’s arrest.”
And with that, the morning’s proceedings in Court No 6 ended. As they packed up, the fiscal raised an eyebrow at the defence solicitor. “Ask Max for a continuation? Ye’re fuckin kiddin me, man.”
The hedgehog story was everywhere by mid-morning. “Oh aye, Max was on top form the day,” said the police officer.
Back in chambers, Sheriff Douglas Sinclair took off his wig and gown and turned to his paperwork. His in-tray was full. He switched on the laptop and started typing his report for another appeal against sentence. But he couldn’t concentrate. He hadn’t expected to feel this nervous about telling them. He hadn’t expected to care what his colleagues thought. But he realised that he did, very much.
He didn’t realise that his colleagues were already thinking quite a lot.
“What’s up with Doug?” Sheriff Kate Gordon had said. “He hasn’t come for a drink for ages.”
“Keeps saying he’s busy,” said Sheriff Keith Napier. “Even allowing for the number of appeals he has, there’s something going on.”
“You know what I think?” said Sheriff Alan MacMahon. “I think he's got a wee bit of stuff tucked away in a love nest."
They all laughed heartily.
None of them ever followed Douglas at the end of the day, never saw him drive off in the opposite direction to his home and ring Marie-José’s doorbell. They never heard Marie-José scold him: “You bad boy, late again! You know, I nearly started without you. I said to myself, 'Without Douglas, it will be more efficient and less messy.' And then I said to myself, 'But without Douglas it will not be so much fun.' That is why you are here, is it not so, to have fun?"
Douglas, blushing, admitted that it was indeed so.
But not having heard this exchange, when the sheriffs gathered for lunch, all that concerned them was the hedgehog story, which they had heard from their respective bar officers.
“Good weekend, Kate?”
“Brilliant, Alan, had a ball.”
“Hedgehogs curl into a ball, don’t they? Got any in your garden, Doug?”
“What?”
“Have you a pet hedgehog?”
“No. Why on earth do you think I might have a pet hedgehog?”
“Being a bit spiky, aren't you, Doug? I'm only asking.”
But Douglas was staring down at his soup bowl and didn't respond. Marie-José had been pressurising him for weeks. "Of course they have to know!"
"Not yet," Douglas had said. "I'm not ready."
"We cannot wait until you are ready! You will never be ready. You want them to think you are perfect. Nobody is perfect."
As Douglas sat silent, trying to find a suitable form of words, his colleagues chatted about the tepid soup and played a guessing game over the ingredients of the curry.
The coffee came round.
“Milk, Doug? You know, you should never leave out milk for a hedgehog."
Douglas, who had been distractedly drawing patterns on the tablecloth with his teaspoon, looked up. "What was that?"
"Hedgehogs can't cope with milk - gives them the shits.”
Douglas put down the teaspoon and stood up. "Excuse me.” He walked out of the room.
The other sheriffs stirred their coffee, refusing to meet one another’s eyes.
And then Douglas returned. He cleared his throat.
"I meant to tell you before but it never seemed - I was afraid you would think me foolish at my age -”
"Blimey," thought Sheriff Alan MacMahon, "I was right about the love nest." He decided he would give the impression that he really had known all along and gave the others a knowing nod.
"Anyway -” Douglas cleared his throat again. "Perhaps you might like these to go with your coffee. I – I made them myself.”
He laid down a plate of oddly shaped chocolates. “I’ve been on a course. A Belgian lady who worked for Neuhaus. I’m afraid these aren't very pretty, but they’re made from the best ingredients.”
Tentatively, the sheriffs each took one.
“Oh my God!” burst out Sheriff Kate Gordon.
“What? What’s the matter?” asked Douglas.
“This is orgasmic! I’ve never tasted anything like it!”
“That’s the pine-nut and Chartreuse truffle,” said Douglas.
“Douglas, this is sublime,” said Sheriff Keith Napier, gazing wonderingly at his half-eaten chocolate.
“Lapsang Souchong and black pepper cream.”
Sheriff Alan MacMahon, chewing, gave Douglas the thumbs-up.
“Ah, kiwi fruit caramel.”
Douglas went on to explain about minimum cocoa content, the art of hand tempering, and the skills of chilling ganache. The sheriffs nodded, ignored him, and kept eating.
Eventually, Sheriff Kate Gordon pushed her chair back. “No, really, I have to stop. It’s enough that we have Maximum Doug, we don’t want Maximum Kate as well.”
“Sorry?” said Douglas.
“I mean, if I keep eating these, I’ll put on so much weight they’ll call me Maximum Kate,” she explained.
“I’m not fat,” said Douglas. “Why did you say Maximum Doug?”
There was a silence. Then Alan said: “That’s your nickname.”
“I have a nickname? Why is that my nickname?”
Nobody replied.
"Well?" asked Douglas.
"It's -” began Keith.
"- affectionate," continued Kate. "A sort of joke."
"I still don't understand," said Douglas.
"It's because...because you give quite harsh sentences. Compared to other people.”
Douglas stood up. "I do not give harsh sentences," he said. "I give appropriate sentences."
When the clerk appeared in his chambers with more papers, Douglas had an unexpected question. “Did you know I had a nickname?”
“Of course, Sheriff.”
“Because I’m supposed to give harsh sentences?”
“Oh yes, Sheriff. You’re bottom of the league table.”
“What league table?”
“The one the solicitors compile on all the sheriffs. You score zero for compassion.”
“So this is a general view?”
“You’re famous for it, Sheriff. That’s why there are so many no-shows in your court, and you have to issue warrants for their arrest. When people find out they’re going to be in front of you, they leg it – they’d rather be done for non-appearance.”
Douglas took the papers and stacked them neatly in his in-tray. “So McKinven this morning – the remark about the hedgehog – he wasn’t being gratuitously offensive, he was genuinely aggrieved?”
“I’m sure he was genuinely aggrieved, Sheriff.”
The security officer at the cells below the courts was startled to be approached by Sheriff Sinclair.
“I wonder, could you take me to Ged McKinven's cell?”
The officer unlocked the door.
“Mr McKinven,” said Douglas, “your solicitor will of course assist you should you wish to appeal against sentence. In the meantime, I thought you might like this ballotin of chocolates. The lemon marmalade and Drambuie mousse appears to be particularly well regarded.”
About the Author
Edinburgh-born Olga Wojtas is
a journalist and writer. She has had a
number of short stories published in literary magazines and anthologies in the
UK and USA. A university psychology
lecturer recently investigated her and concluded that, in one respect, she does
not behave abnormally relative to the population.