Tom Crone is gone

An unexpected event in the News International crisis.

Tom Crone has left News International. These are words one would never have expected to type. The sudden closure last week of News of the World was a shock; but to those in the small world of media law this is a development of a similar magnitude. One would have expected the ravens to depart the Tower of London before Tom Crone ceased to be the legal manager of News International.

The remarkable thing about Tom Crone is the high regard he is held by all those who deal with him, journalists and lawyers alike. The phrase "well-respected" invariably accompanies his name both in print and private conversations. Notwithstanding the odours of the Sun and the News of the World in particular, and of the legal and tabloid worlds more generally, his reputation indicated that a lawyer can have a good name in a bad job.

Hence the surprise at his departure. It would be wrong to speculate as to the exact circumstances. No one can tell whether it is part of a damage limitation plan, or that there has been an adverse event. His exact involvement in any high-level strategy in respect of phone hacking or in the dealings with the Met might never be fully known: much of his role may (rightly) be cloaked by legal professional privilege. After all, lawyers advise, but it is their clients that decide.

And from one perspective, the circumstances may not matter. There are certain events the significance of which lies in themselves. This is one such event, for this news means there is perhaps only one individual connected with News International whose departure would be even more unthinkable: Rupert Murdoch.

 

David Allen Green is legal correspondent of New Statesman. He was a contributor to a previous edition of Crone's Law and the Media.

David Allen Green is legal correspondent of the New Statesman and author of the Jack of Kent blog.

His legal journalism has included popularising the Simon Singh libel case and discrediting the Julian Assange myths about his extradition case.  His uncovering of the Nightjack email hack by the Times was described as "masterly analysis" by Lord Justice Leveson.

David is also a solicitor and was successful in the "Twitterjoketrial" appeal at the High Court.

(Nothing on this blog constitutes legal advice.)

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Would you jump off a cliff if someone told you to? One time, I did

I was walking across the bridge in Matlock park, which is about 12 feet high, with a large group of other kids from my year, in the pouring rain.

Ever heard the phrase, “Would you jump off a cliff if they told you to?” It was the perpetual motif of my young teenage years: my daily escapades, all of which sprang from a need to impress a peer, were distressing and disgusting my parents.

At 13, this tomboyish streak developed further. I wrote urgent, angry poems containing lines like: “Who has desire for something higher than jumping for joy and smashing a light?” I wanted to push everything to its limits, to burst up through the ceiling of the small town I lived in and land in America, or London, or at least Derby. This was coupled with a potent and thumping appetite for attention.

At the height of these feelings, I was walking across the bridge in Matlock park, which is about 12 feet high, with a large group of other kids from my year, in the pouring rain. One of the cool girls started saying that her cousin had jumped off the bridge into the river and had just swum away – and that one of us should do it.

Then someone said that I should do it, because I always did that stuff. More people started saying I should. The group drew to a halt. Someone offered me a pound, which was the clincher. “I’m going to jump!” I yelled, and clambered on to the railing.

There wasn’t a complete hush, which annoyed me. I looked down. It was raining very hard and I couldn’t see the bottom of the riverbed. “It looks really deep because of the rain,” someone said. I told myself it would just be like jumping into a swimming pool. It would be over in a few minutes, and then everyone would know I’d done it. No one could ever take it away from me. Also, somebody would probably buy me some Embassy Filter, and maybe a Chomp.

So, surprising even myself, I jumped.

I was about three seconds in the air. I kept my eyes wide open, and saw the blur of trees, the white sky and my dyed red hair. I landed with my left foot at a 90-degree angle to my left ankle, and all I could see was red. “I’ve gone blind!” I thought, then realised it was my hair, which was plastered on to my eyes with rain.

When I pushed it out of the way and looked around, there was no one to be seen. They must have started running as I jumped. Then I heard a voice from the riverbank – a girl called Erin Condron, who I didn’t know very well. She pushed me home on someone’s skateboard, because my ankle was broken.

When we got to my house, I waited for Mum to say, “Would you jump off another cliff if they told you to?” but she was ashen. I had to lie that Dave McDonald’s brother had pushed me in the duck pond. And that’s when my ankle started to throb. I never got the pound, but I will always be grateful to Erin Condron. 

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser