Katharine Janes
2025 Temple Bar Scholar
I found myself seated alongside ten white-wigged barristers in Courtroom 16 of the Old Bailey, London’s most notorious criminal court. On any given day, the court’s docket is filled with the country’s most serious proceedings—largely terrorism or homicide cases. For three days as a Temple Bar scholar, I was lucky enough to shadow a seven-week, four-defendant murder trial. Having worked as a public defender prior to my clerkships, I was captivated.
During my month as a Temple Bar scholar, I hoped to gain a comparative perspective to assess the relative strengths and weaknesses of the American and British criminal systems. During my days at the Old Bailey, I scribbled countless questions in the margins of my Moleskine notebook to debrief with Francesca, the generous and patient barrister whom I was shadowing. I peppered her with questions before and after court in the barristers’ robing room, as well as over our lunch breaks.
As she confirmed, the physical space of the courtroom made immediately apparent certain differences between the British and American systems. The barristers, for instance, sat at counsel table facing the judge, while their clients sat in an elevated gallery at the rear of the room, surrounded by plexiglass. Even if a barrister wanted to talk to their client during the proceedings, the distance would make it impossible. At the front of the room, too, a large velvet curtain hung beside the witness stand; much unlike the United States, it is relatively common for a curtain to separate defendants from their accusers during the course of criminal proceedings. And, of course, one could not help but notice the white horsehair wigs that adorned the heads of each barrister, as well as the judge.
The substantive rules also differed notably from those I was accustomed to at home. There is no right to silence in the United Kingdom, for example, so if a defendant refused to provide a statement to investigating police or elected not to testify during trial, an adverse inference could be drawn against them. There is also no exclusionary rule, meaning that illegally obtained evidence is not kept out as a matter of course, but only if a judge elects to do so as an exercise of their discretion.
What struck me most, however, was the court’s practice of summarizing the evidence after closing arguments, before a jury leaves to deliberate. For an entire day, I listened to the judge provide what he deemed to be a neutral exposition of the evidence that had been presented during trial: “The video showed X,” “the witness testified Y,” and “the lawyer argued Z.” While the information he presented was not inaccurate, I couldn’t help but notice that his commentary, at times, evinced a certain perspective on a witness’s demeanor or the evidence’s character. (The weapon made a “hollow” noise; the defendants walked “in a drawn-out procession;” and certain of the defendants appeared “celebratory.”) This practice would be inconceivable in the United States—but the barristers listened unperturbed.
After days of deliberation, the jury convicted three of the defendants and failed to reach a verdict as to the fourth (Francesca’s client). Three days at the Old Baily—and a month in the United Kingdom—was not nearly enough time for me to develop conclusive intuitions about whether our system or this one might be the better, on the whole. But seeing a new regime up-close inspired me to question values I had unthinkingly adopted, and to appreciate rights I may have otherwise thought customary. To that end, I am immensely grateful for the Temple Bar experience and thank all who helped make it possible.