THE Queen's Counsel wore black, with white tassels at his neck. He had a nicotine-coloured wig on his head.
The judge had mauve and pink on his formal gown, and a wig so white and curly that it looked as if it had been shaved off a sheep's back that morning.
The plaintiff had a tie hanging hopefully from his baggy collar, and on his head his distinctive hairstyle - shaven at the sides and coiled and wispy on the top.
Even before a word was spoken, you could see the clash of cultures as George Reynolds versus Cleveland Police moved into its final stages yesterday.
Then came the words.
Aidan Marron QC, representing the police, began his summing up in a deep, plummy voice, full of refined consonants and long vowels.
With barely a glance at his notes, he spoke in winding sentences, covering every conceivable angle, answering every plausible question, throwing in a colouring of French and Latin to show his bona fide mastery of the intricate details, his knowledge of the intimate goings-on, his grasp of the minutiae, before finishing via sub-clause and rounded phrase with an unarguable conclusion: "And that's the way it was."
After each sentence ended, it took the courtroom echo a minute to relay it all off the walls.
Mr Reynolds fiddled with his silver and gold pen. He twisted his neck from side to side as if limbering up his facial muscles. Beside him his wife, Susan, bright and alert, in her vivid green jumper, a splash of riotous colour amid the sober court surrounds.
As Mr Marron's monotone neared its end, he lobbed in a few grenades. At first they exploded with a gentle thump on the plush courtroom carpet.
"Mr Reynolds was simply not being candid about his involvement in that affair," he said. "The bald assertions are empty and idle."
The closer the conclusion, the more frequent and louder came the explosions.
"Mr Reynolds is a prominent, wealthy businessman in the area, he's no shrinking violet, he's well-known, a powerful man - some might say that he has an intimidating presence about him...
"There's not a scintilla of evidence, not a shred of evidence... These baseless allegations, these wicked and groundless assertions..."
Mrs Reynolds stood up in reply, and steamrollered through Mr Marron's careful constructions. She'd stayed up into the early hours of the morning with her husband, writing down what they had to say. A rage of injustice burned in her soul, and at a blinding pace, all harsh South Durham vowels, she harangued the police: "He (the policeman) couldn't seriously believe that a man so wealthy and with so much day to day responsibility would burgle an elderly couple's home and steal their bits and bobs."
She even harangued her husband in a wifely way. Speaking for him, she said: "He (the policeman) couldn't seriously believe that at the age I was, and as unfit and overweight as I am, I was capable of being so athletic."
Mr Reynolds paced the floor. "Excuse me walking up and down," he said with a sly jibe at the QC. "It's me nerves. I like to keep meself right. I don't want to intimidate anybody.
"I'm not a violent man. I can handle meself, or I could when I was younger. In fact, I did a bit of bare knuckle fighting 'cos I was fetched up in a bad area of Sunderland where you do anything for a few bob."
Mr Marron blinked owlishly behind his round glasses, perhaps wondering how one fetched up to be a bare knuckle scrapper ended up a multi-millionaire.
As he finished, Mr Reynolds kindly "hoffered" Judge Michael Taylor a little homily to weigh in his scales of justice.
"If you stick to the truth - I don't know whether you've found this, your honour - no matter how good you are or bad you are, it always comes out right in the end. I don't know why."
The judge commended him. "It is a very good effort," he said.
Then he retired for the weekend to consider the merit of Mr Reynolds' passionately-held grievances and curious asides against the value of Mr Marron's minutely-considered defence and meticulous arguments - a referee in a clash of cultures
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