Published on: August 5, 2025 | By: Kieron JH
We rocked up to court at half twelve. Suited, sweating, and already an hour early for the afternoon session. It was midsummer, and I was stood outside Newcastle Crown Court in my best gear, knowing full well with my luck I wouldn’t even be seen until the very end of the day.
Inevitably, I was the last case to be handled – standard. I watched my solicitor get passed around the building like an unwanted spreadsheet, laptop under arm, trailing files and formality. At least five or six times he was shuffled from courtroom to corridor and back again, trying to find someone who could actually deal with the case.
Justice Moves Slowly – Unless You’re in a Bentley
I won’t get too far into the sentencing itself, because that’s a story for another time. But I was given a suspended sentence. That meant going straight from court to probation triage to provide my details, start the process, tick the boxes.
We walked out of that courtroom and it was raining. The sky had turned grey, like it had clocked the vibe. I was holding hands with my girlfriend, drained but together, heading back to the car. And there – already in the traffic, already leaving – was my judge, sat in the driver’s seat of a Bentley. Windows up. Not waiting around. Fair play, I guess.
Meanwhile, I Was Sent to a Toilet
As part of my post-sentence support, I was referred to a third-party mental wellbeing service through Ingeus. And where did they take me for my first session?
A disused toilet. I’m not even exaggerating – it had a sink. That was the “confidential space” I was expected to open up in. No ventilation, just the quiet scent of austerity and a hand dryer that hadn’t worked since 2014.
A System with Leather Seats for Some, and Broken Plumbing for Others
It hit me hard, the contrast. The judge – who no doubt earned his Bentley long before donning the robes – speeding off from the courtroom and straight into traffic. Then there’s me – supposedly being “supported” in my rehabilitation – being shoved into a toilet to talk about trauma. Justice? Rehabilitation? Equity? Sometimes it feels like we’re not even pretending anymore.
Don’t get me wrong – I get it. Judges come from years in the private legal sector. They’ve built their wealth, their reputation, their distance from corruption. That’s not the issue. The issue is the sheer gulf between that world and the one handed to people like me – people who are being told they’re being given a second chance while being handed broken tools and nowhere safe to stand.
This Isn’t Just My Story
This isn’t about one court day, one sink, one Bentley. It’s a reflection of a system that lets dignity trickle upward while disrepair drips down. A system where formality still matters, but follow-through rarely does. A system that’s good at punishment, but allergic to empathy.
And most people never see this side of it. They see TV courtroom dramas, not toilet triage. They hear about sentencing outcomes, not about what happens the next morning in a windowless room with a single chair and zero humanity.
But I lived it. And I’ll keep documenting it – because someone has to.
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