It was a depressing moment. Lights flared in the late September dusk. The lawyers stared glumly at each other. The psychiatrist gathered up his papers, wished everyone a pleasant weekend, and left to catch his train. Edmund Lawson disappeared for a few moments and returned with a bottle of gin and some glasses. Drinks were dispensed. Rivlin sat at his desk and regarded the others through his glinting gold spectacles. He acknowledged their raised glasses and their good wishes for a successful outcome in court. "One thing I have to say to all of you," he murmured, his deadpan Yorkshire vowels hanging on the smoky air. "Let's not get depressed."
The spell was broken. Rivlin's words shattered the mood like hot coals thrown on to ice. "The way he said it just cracked us all up," one of those present recalled, "and we all just burst out laughing."