Counsel's advice on spinach puffs

Enduring a miserable scholarship ceremony ... How the victim of a Westpac bank robbery restored Barely Legal's faith in the pinstripe prison ... The informative Uber driver ... Two canapés too many

IN her book book Pinstriped Prison Lisa Pryor wrote on how corporate law firms seduce high achieving university students into selling out their passions for a life of quirky socks, revolving doors and printer rooms.

Not even a pandemic would unseat the aspirations of these students and force them into looking at their future with autonomy and a new perspective.

Despite her warnings, the destabilisation of the global legal market, the climate crisis and recurring ambitions to pursue floristry, I've found a gaping hole in her analysis. 

How can someone get out of a pinstriped prison, if they're already in it?

And so, pandemic aside, I have continued on the path that Pryor warned about. There has been no shortage of encounters with the strange and bizarre in these unusual times.  

Scholarship ceremonies reduced to scrolling feeds on laptop screens present one of those bizarre occasions.

"Barely Legal, congratu ---" Crackle. Bang. 

User 3419455678 left the chat.

All that greeted me at that afternoon's scholarship ceremony was a mosaic of pixels and a hoarse static - some bot was speaking through a thick, oily soup. 

To be fair, the GG had contributed a few impersonal grunts and mumbles. Some dignitaries added creative synonyms of "congratulations" to the mix. 

Most of all, it was a sordid affair and a million declarations of "prestige and achievement" could not make it less so. 

"Yeah it was an incredible ceremony, I'm so grateful for the opportunity," I told a friend later.

The ceremony ended. I knew this, not because of applause or permission to raid free food and drink, but because of bolded white text on the screen which read, "END OF BROADCAST". I closed the browser window.  

*   *   *

Earlier in the year, I found myself in an Uber after a COVID-safe wedding.   

A high school friend had started his new role as a groundskeeper in the graveyard of love and I had been there to support it. 

"So Barely Legal, what do you study?" the driver asked, just before I plugged in my headphones. 

"Law" - I had hoped the inaccessibility and banality of the topic to the everyman would deter further conversation. But it had the opposite effect.

The driver proudly claimed he was Gary Roberts, the plaintiff who unsuccessfully sued Westpac after a heist at a Canberra branch.

Being a dutiful student, I looked for the court's judgment in his case. I remembered the line of authority from Modbury Triangle and Lesandu Blacktown. 

As Professor Ron McCallum, former dean of Sydney Law School, said. 

"Teaching first years Torts is like feeding heroin to pre-schoolers" ... and you never forget a heroin high.  

Gary's story was unfortunate. He alleged that Westpac, as occupier of the premises, owed a duty to protect lawful entrants like him from the actions of third parties like the armed robber.

The duty had been breached because in their moment of mental clarity, branch employees decided to activate the security screens after the robber said "don't press the button ... don't press the button" with a gun aimed at a customer's head.

The screens physically separate tellers from the rest of the bank floor during a hold up.

After they were shut, the robber fired his gun near Gary's head and fled the scene. In the months that followed, my Uber driver had a major depressive episode and developed PTSD. 

Here is a raw description of the scene from evidence presented at trial: 

"Initially, [Gary] thought this was a joke. He then realised it was a robbery. The teller stood back slightly. The plaintiff placed his hands on the counter. He turned his head to the right. He saw a tall man with a gun wearing a black balaclava. The gun was pointing towards him. He said the man was yelling, 'I'll fucking kill him. Put the money in the bag. Money in the other drawer. Money out of the other drawer. I'll fucking kill him'.  

The plaintiff said to the teller, 'Please give him the fucking money, please give him the fucking money'. He said, 'Look, mate, I'm just getting down on the floor'. The man said, 'Put the money in the bag. I'll fucking kill him'. The plaintiff said, 'Please don't kill me. I've got two kids'. 

The security screen was then activated." 

Gary's ambulance chasers, Slater and Gordon, called Tony Zalewski to the stand, a risk management consultant, who testified that it was common and recommended practice that the screens be activated immediately prior to or at the time of the offender entering the bank.

If, as in Gary's case, the robber had already made their way to the teller and threatened the customer, the bank staff ought to have complied with the demands. 

Westpac made the pleasant argument that Gary's PTSD was not the product of the robbery but rather pre-existing stressors like the breakdown of his marriage and the financial decline of the Mercedes dealership following the GFC. 

At first instance, Acting Justice Linda Ashford of the ACT Supremes, sympathised with the the bank tellers, agreed with Westpac's case and slapped Gary with costs.

Chief Justice Helen Murrell, Justices John Gilmour and John Burns dismissed the appeal. 

Faced with the prospect of tort liability following every bank heist, Westpac poured its money into litigation, stacking-up costs to a level that ultimately caused Gary to lose his home and the Mercedes-Benz business he ran in Canberra.

Safe to say, the 30-minute ride passed pretty quickly. When we arrived, Gary asked if I would represent him challenging a traffic fine. "No", I said, proud of my recollection of legal ethics and obstinacy in the face of a request for help. 

But this ethical win might be for nought anyway - after all, the admissions board might discover that I had taken two canapes too many at that clerkship cocktail night.

Note to self: seek counsel's advice on whether excessive accumulation of the feta and spinach puffs is a dishonesty offence. 

Following Gary's story, how could I complain about quirky socks and printer rooms?

The pinstriped prison might erode my self-worth, sense of identity and confidence. It may even challenge the value of my work and all my efforts. But, perhaps, perhaps it could still be home.