Pop-Up

On to the new and modern library next to Hackney Town Hall. It is my turn to do the new legal surgery that has popped up like a mushroom, with all this unprecedented June rain, but now we have sunshine- and me sweltering in my three piece suit.

The library on the first floor is light and airy, a sort of hangar full of books as far as the eye can see. Miranda moves skilfully up a staircase occupied by at least two classes of six year olds, but I get bogged down on account of my big leather pilot bag, filled with pens and calculators.

Still, it's nice to know that in this day and age this many kids are getting access to so many books for free.

We put up our shingle, set up the chairs, and as if by magic thirteen people people turn up for a bit of advice.

There are one or two cases of small claims by prospective tenants jilted of holding deposits by estate agents on arbitrary grounds. I try to help with drafting and explain small claims procedure, but belatedly realise that you can't cram too much information into 10 minutes. I help fill forms in, but my handwriting is far from perfect.

There are several cases of benefit problems where we are able to advise people about who to phone and what to do. This feels a bit like cheating in some cases, because sometimes you know that when you give a piece of paper or a phone number to a confused human being you're just giving them the brush-off.

I speak to Betty who won her disability appeal two months ago, after a year's delay. The Judge says he believes her and the refusal letter is invalid. Still they will not pay her benefits. I write a sharp note.

That should do the trick then.

Benny was injured when he lost a leg in one of our wars, the side he was on when he lost it isn't too relevant, but the ghastly injury is. He may lose his small one bedroom flat because he is under 35 and and the new Housing Benefit caps are kicking in. Under the new rules he is expected to share a flat with other young young spring chickens his age, and Housing Benefit is capped at £92.13.

The Housing Benefit cap makes little allowance for his fever dreams, his biterness, the reason no-one wants to share with him because he is still in pain and haunted by ghosts.

Alice notes my pony-tail and suggests I might be interested in the Slimelight club in Angel , spiritual home of all Goths. I tell her that I used to be a member but haven't had much of a social life recently. Briefly we trade make-up and wardobe tips (the velvet frock-coat or the PVC?).

Agnes, a heavily pregnant teenager turned out by her mother tells me she went to Newham Homeless Person Unit and was told that she was not in priority need until the baby is born (lies), then to Hackney who told her she had to be living locally for six months before she can apply (not strictly correct). She's managing to stick to it in college even while she sofa-surfs.

Overall, mostly a nice bunch of people. I feel I can't avoid taking several cases and blank out the voice shouting at me in my head about the pile of unanswered correspondence on my desk back at the office.

So then...

We're putting up a free pop-up service on a trial basis on a Monday afternoon. After 6 sessions we've seen about 75 people. There is clearly a need. Some of the signposting we do is valuable in itself for your more switched on types, some people groan when they realise they're going to have to battle through to this or that faceless agency, and more people than we can cope with would benefit form some further advice or representation for complex matters.

The bad news? As Legal Aid is all but vanishing next year from social welfare law, it makes no sense to hatch up schemes to give yet more advice for free, does it? I mean, aren't we tilting at windmills?

The good news? Like Baldrick in Black Adder, we have a cunning plan.


　

Sugar

Paulie was born in Jamaica, but he has been living here since 1970. He came when he was a teenager to join his parents, aunts and uncles, who had arrived in the UK in the early 50's. They were of the generation that came here on the good ship Windrush from the West Indies , to work as porters, clean toilets, do the work that we native born Britons did not wish to.

Now he is in danger of losing his home.

His parents, aunts, cousins, siblings have long since managed to obtain British passports. Some have gone back to the islands, some have settled accross London and beyond. They have worked, paid their dues, somehow survived the prejudice that met them on their arrival, when it was common for boarding houses to post signs saying "No blacks, no dogs, no Irish", then the backlash of the Notting Hill riots.

Paulie lost his passport in the 1980's. He has worked as a hospital porter, a builder, a jack of all trades for almost forty years. He's at an age when he should be thinking about retirement. And yes, he's paid his tax and national insurance.

In the clampdown on foreigners without verifiable documentation Paulie lost his Job Seekers Allowance three years ago. Incredibly, he still signs on every two weeks, attends work focused interviews, tries to get a job. Sadly, his absence of immigration papers are likely to have the same effect on potential employers, frightened of fines, as on the Department of Work and Pensions.

Basically, nobody is prepared to stick their neck out and accept that Paulie has a right of abode in the UK. Unless all the paperwork's in order and apple pie it's more than their job's worth.

Sadly, the Border Agency has lost most of its documentation prior to 1986, when they computerised. In most other cases, it's too much trouble to look.

With less than two weeks to prepare for the Tribunal dealing with his Housing Benefit appeal, my heart sinks. He is two years in rent arrears. It is notoriously difficult to obtain documentation that will satisfy the UK Border Agency that a person has been present continuously for 14 years and should be granted Indefinite Leave to Remain (and anyway once granted that would confirm benefits entitlements going forwards, and would not resolve the issue of his present entitlemets).

The fateful day arives, and my best bet is that we will get an adjournment to gather evidence that has long since disappeared, that we will find ourselves in a paperchase for employee records that have long since been shredded, for employers that may no longer exist. A vista of rolling adjournments beckons.

Then a miracle.

The Judge believes Paulie, and shoots the Council's refusal decision out of the air on grounds that are so technical that it makes my head spin. She goes on to point out that, if the Council rephrases the refusal thus and so, Paulie will find himself in the same pickle once again.

Then another miracle. The Council is convinced that Paulie is exactly who he says he is. They will pay up for some two years in Housing Benefit. He will not lose his home.

Who deserves the credit for this signal victory? As a lawyer, I should be blowing my own trumpet.

In truth the credit lies with Des, the income collection officer for Paulie's landlord who fought City Hall every step of the way, when the culture is increasingly to evict, write off the arrears and start again. It lies with Judge, who spotted a technicality where I had not. It lies with the humane Council official, who looked Paulie in the eye, believed him, and chose not to do him dirty by changing a line or two in another letter and send him back on the appeal merry-go-round.

In truth, the credit lies in loving kindness.

Yet let me say this. In April 2013 the guillotine comes down on Legal Aid. There will be no funding for Paulie to straighten out his immigration papers, for the State has passed seamlessly from the proposition that the application system should be efficient and humane to the conclusion that there is therefore no need for lawyers. It is unlikely that funding will be in place for any of the work that we did today, or the work that Paulie needs tomorrow.

Paulie offers me a gobstopper. It's bad for my teeth, but I accept. Sometimes you need to taste the sugar.

　

　

Identity Theft

I think I've been the victim of identity theft. Or, rather, I think our flat has.

We live in a flat in south London, the one of six or seven in a converted house from somewhere around the turn of the century before last. Some of us own and the rest rent on short term lets directly from the freeholder. Consequently, over the years people come and go, and it is easy to lose track of faces and names.

Hoards of letters arrive addressed to people who don't live in our block. There is a shared hallway and no individual post boxes. Sometimes there is more post for people who are not here than people who are, which says something about modern life.

Much of it is junk mail from desperate pizza companies and even more desperate estate agents, the latter assuring us breathlessly that they are desperate for vendors in a vibrant market.

By chance I open a letter addressed to the Occupier, expecting yet more grovelling to put our flat into the rental sector, but what I find is notification by British Gas that the resident, Ms Francis (let us say), having incurred £1,800 in unpaid gas bills, a warrant has been obtained to disconnect us on the 17^th of June.

Of course the letter doesn't tell me anything useful like details of the Court, so I can't write to the magistrate to explain the mistake. 

I find a letter addressed to Miss Francis at our address and decide to open it. It is a bill from British Gas for £1,800. This is really weird, as I know for a certain fact that no Ms Francis has lived here for 24 years. Now getting used to rifling Ms Francis' mail, I discover a letter from Barclay's in Mumbai relating to a high value account. Well, to me a minimum deposit of £15k is seriously high value.

I call nice Colin from British Gas and spend an hour and a half on the phone. He believes that I am the true resident and the the reason for the confusion must be that Ms Francis moved in next door four years ago and they accidentally closed down our account and billed it to her. He says his priority is to stop us from getting disconnected. Just as I am about to give him my contact phone numbers we are disconnected.

Barclay's website advises me to report suspected fraud using my secure log-in details. Sadly I do not have Ms Francis pin number, so I decide to call the telephone number provided.

I call Barclay's. London, not Mumbai- Doh! I spend 26 minutes listening to voicebots and kak music. Finally a human voice. Nasty Kyle eventually tells tells me to write to Barclays head office in the UK, as he can't do anything about their bank in India- not even make a record of my call . OK, perhaps I shall. I wonder if Barclay's will pay for the phone call and the postage stamp?

I call British Gas, and vaguely helpful Carrine assures me she will e-mail Colin who will call back within 24 hours.

You guessed it. Nobody calls.

I think I'm going to go to Hackney Police Station and report a theft soon. Or will I get in trouble for opening someone else's mail? And anyway, a theft of what?

A theft of the identity of the place where I live, it seems. Or a theft from a bank in one country that isn't the same as the bank with the same name in another country. Or maybe theft of my peace of mind. 

I am starting to become uncertain whether I really am me and have a good look in the mirror just to check. It looks like me all right- now to persuade everyone else to believe it. As I don't drive and my passport has expired, I have a sinking feeling this is not going to be easy. 

The Justice Project (Twitter ye not)

Twitter in the courts? The concept is antithetical to lawyers. We servants of the court eschew exposure, espouse confidentiality, we do our dirty tricks in private. Our paper darts and legal daggers work far better away from public scrutiny.

And to be blunt, 140 characters a case is not sufficient to justify our juicy wages. “But My Lord, our fees!”- Devotees of Private Eye will recognise Mr Justice Cockle-Carrot, who always extends the case beyond lunchtime so that posh boys in wigs can justify their cash. Yet here I was, participating in a project where messages would be sent to the world in real time from the courtroom.

With me is The Justice Gap's own Jon Robbins, here for the Guardian in a project to send tweets throughout the day.

Our first hurdle is that journalists being able to twitter in Court (with permission from the Judge) is brand spanking new, and moreover confined to cases heard in open court. Thus, in criminal or employment trials, to name but two, where members of the public are entitled to attend anyway, Jon can send his little chunks of data onto that yellow-brick road that is the internet for all to see.

However in home repossession cases the hearings are in private, for a very good reason. The legal issues involve the prospect of loss of a home, which like the right to a family life and correspondence that has not been intercepted, is a qualified right enshrined in Article 8 of the Human Rights Act. This is the right to family, home and privacy.

I sweat about what we are doing the night before. Will I make a tit of myself to readers in Singapore or Siberia? What the heck am I doing?

Fortunately Stephen, a stalwart Duty Solicitor for over 30 years catches that ball in the morning shift, before I'm due to start. He has a word with the Ushers, then a word with the District Judges, who don't mind the challenge.

At the same time, over at Romford County Court another journalist on the same project is barred from all the hearings.We must be doing something right.

Working as a duty solicitor in a housing court in Hackney is remarkably different to the world of Cockle-Carrott. District Judges have 5 to 10 minutes or so to decide whether someone will lose their home.

Rita has lived in her council flat for 17 years. Her mother is very ill . Rita knows how to cook, that's her job. When she goes to take care of her mum instead of working she can't pay the mortgage. She is £4k behind but has over £100k in equity. Result? "Out on your ear or sell your home in eight weeks."

“This will affect the rest of my life”says Rita, and Judge is harsh but fair. “Sell up or pony up” the Judge says (I paraphrase). Rita doesn't understand, and I hope we have enough time for her to make the right decision together.

Bob has kids and a marital break-up. He sends wads of cash here and there, now child support for his kids, now his rent. He assures me he is ashamed at the thought of accessing benefits, and so he did not get the help he was entitled to when he needed it. He's a second generation immigrant, with the sparkle of an entrepeneur in his eye.

I want to swat him on the back of the head, 'cos he's been paying tax and NI into the system for years. When he loses his job he's legally entitled to certain benefits and tax credits.


Yet, I respect him. No-one has handed the world to him on a plate, and here is a person that will pull himself up by his boot-straps, and the rest of us with him incrementally.

Jon's thumbs blur on the tiny device he is holding.

In the last case of the day a young refugee, let us call him Ishmael, makes a Lazarus application. Evicted this morning, he seeks to revive his tenancy from the dead. I play Captain Ahab, ranting about the great white whale, yet I know in my heart that I am sunk and floating on a coffin.

It seems to me that the intrusion on matters that affect the home and family should rarely be sampled by the media. It seems to me that private agony at the loss of your home, or the intrusion of the state into your correspondence should not be paraded by all and sundry.

Yet, antithetically, if the world knew how casually you might lose your home, 140 characters to your neighbours or the Judge would not be enough to explain. 

Score draw? Duty Solicitor 10 saves, two replays, one loss on penalties. Curiously, equal to the win rates of both Roberto di Matteo and Gus Hiddink in their spells at Chelsea football club at time of writing.

Nutso or What?

On every other Wednesday in the afternoon up to 18 clients pitch into our office to get free immigration advice. Unfortunately our reception is quite small, and at times it feels that the members of the public we serve are trapped upright like sardines.

Every Wednesday morning up to 12 clients pitch up to get free employment advice. Like Vienna sausages in a tin, we wriggle around each other to get to the door and politely try not to step on anybody's corns.

Some Thursdays there is room for the client's children to do the colouring books with crayons. For about a month there was a toy road in the toy box, and the children were delirious with joy slotting the pieces together and driving matchbox-like cars (I'm dating myself here) round and round cardboard trees.

One time the Kurdish mother points out that there are staples in the toy-box, which is an obvious health and safety hazard. She didn't put it quite like that.

Eventually all the children's books and good toys get nicked. Although as a lawyer I must frown on theft, particularly at an impressionable age (learn right from wrong kid!) I can't help thinking that is what the toys were given to us for.

We're lucky enough to work in a beautiful building in Lower Clapton Road, smack dab next to Hackney Police Station. The dividing wall with the police station says “Property of the Metropolitan Police”. In case you should find a wall with those words on it lying around on Streatham Common, that wall has been stolen.

Across the road from us is a charming park where five years ago someone was murdered. For a while they put wreaths and cards on the Victorian ironwork, but these blew away, like memories.

There is a plan afoot by the Coalition Government to stop people with money problems from accessing local free legal advice from charities and other providers. It is called the Gateway Scheme.

Under the Gateway Scheme people with money problems who still qualify for free Legal Aid could come in to our reception and wait at the end of a line. Well, a line's a polite phrase. Anyway, when they get to the front and we are able to understand that they have debt problems, they would have to call an official government debt line and ask for permission to speak to us.

I'm not joking.

Fortunately the House of Lords has given the Gateway Scheme a good kicking. Unfortunately, rumour has it that the Commons will rush it through on a Money Bill. As far as I can tell, this means the Government has spent all the money it will already and if there is a vote of dissent in the Lords against it it will override it.

This means all the time spent in the Lords debating the issues will be a complete waste of time. In effect, the passing of an Act of Parliament will have been a charade.

Nutso or what?

PS Can we have some more toys and books please?

British Kid

Irina is from Bulgaria. She has a child who is British, and in school. Her son understands that Mummy and Daddy fight.

For many years Irina has lived with a British partner who does not let her work or draw Child Benefit. He doles out money, he locks her out of the property with her “half caste” child when he wants to, he pushes and squeezes her, he generally abuses and controls her.

When he is happy she is a lovely bird in a gilded cage. For many years she has been frightened. Her son shares in her fear.

I sit and sift through the paperwork and realise that if Irina were to flee her home with her child, we should have a cast iron benefit system in place to help this victim of domestic violence and her British child. Sadly we do not.

Instead, she has literally no rights at all to welfare benefits or public housing. Or else she has, but proving it is strewn with mind bending mine-fields, impossible to read European directives, a smattering of immigration law, a bit of family law, a lot of inter-disciplinary work, confused public agencies with bad guidance.

I call the women's refuges and learn that if Irina has residency problems, they can not help her. Even refuges for battered women are under the cosh for cash. If they can't be sure they can get Housing Benefit they can't run as a going concern. The staff are ashamed and apologetic.

So I have a case where Irina and her British child must potentially fight their case tooth and claw in the immigration court, in the benefits tribunal, in the housing courts, in the family courts. All this to ensure that a British kid and his mother can get away to a place of safety.

Under the new Legal Aid Bill this is an issue we won't care about much longer, because from April 2013 the practice of social welfare law is dead in all but name. There won't be any funding in place to protect the interests of a British child with a foreign mother like Irina,

When did we become so cruel? When did vested power become so cynical?

When did they decide to make Law Centres Extinct?

Benny & the Cop

A few years ago Benny called us up to tell us that his landlord had turned up with the police to put him onto the street. As you may imagine, he was quite upset. As it was six o'clock on a Friday, I was quite upset. I rescheduled the appointment with my pint by a few hours.

Benny lived in a house in multiple occupation. That is to say, a number of residents rent bedrooms but share facilities like kitchen and bathroom. Sometimes these are four bedroom flats, sometimes vertical Victorian buildings that once were respectable homes for a middle class family with three or more servants. Sometimes the residents are families squeezed cheek by jowl, sometimes youngsters trying to hack it.

Each case is a snap-shot of people living on the margins in expensive London.

In Benny's case the landlord had turfed out one of the tenants by means unknown, and moved a relative 's possessions into the property. He's trying to get around the protection from eviction legislation by pretending that his family was living there all along, and just taking lodgers.

Thus, he would avoid going to Court . He would give reasonable oral notice and then put his lodgers onto the street.

I ask Benny to give his mobile phone to the Constable, and I ask him whether he is confident that an illegal eviction isn't occurring, which is an offence by the way, and I have some papers which make me worried.

The Constable tells me he's just here to keep the peace, and that he's not trained to assess civil disputes. The landlord goes away and eventually gets a proper order, and Benny has to leave.

So far so dull. What worries me is this.

Although the Police have ample powers today to bust the fake tenants who sport forged tenancy agreements and trash the landlord's possessions in the back garden, they choose not to. They wisely accept that they are not trained in civil law. Or they lazily prioritise drug smugglers and and gang killings. You take your pick.

The LASPO Bill will criminalise squatting. At this point the Police will have to arrest Benny, unless he has a lawyer conveniently at the end of a phone. And the Police will then in many cases assist illegal evictions. Which is an offence.

With evictions climbing as Housing Benefit caps start to bite in posh boroughs like Westminster, and in less posh boroughs like Hackney, I ask myself this question. Is it cheaper to criminalise alleged squatters, and force the CPS to learn housing law, or is it better to allow charities and other legal aid firms fight it out in the civil courts?