City of Spades

15

Wisdom of Mr Zuss-Amor


Mr Zuss-Amor didn’t receive me at the appointed hour: he kept me waiting in a corridor upon a kitchen chair, with nothing to regale me but yesterday’s daily newspaper. The typist with ornamental spectacles who’d let me in vacated her cubby-hole from time to time, stepped indifferently over my legs, and went through a door of corrugated frosted glass inscribed in black cursive letters with the name of this man on whom we now pinned our hopes.

I was reduced to reading the opinions in the leading articles when the glass door was opened from inside and a voice said, ‘I’m ready for you now. Quite ready.’ When I went in, the door closed and a man stood between me and it, looking me up and down. He was wispy-bald, clad in a rumpled suit of good material, cigarette ash smothered his lapels, and his hands dangled by his sides. His face, which looked battered, sharp and confident, wore a tired and hideous smile. ‘I’m your guide, philosopher and friend from now on, Mr Pew,’ this person said. ‘Come and tell me all about it.’

I did. He listened silently till I had nothing more to say.

‘Have a fag,’ he said, offering me one from a battered pack. ‘I chain-smoke myself – that’s why I don’t like appearing in court. I prefer the work here.’ He lit my cigarette. ‘Right. In the first place, you should understand I can’t be instructed by you. You’re not the accused, fortunately. It’s his instructions I have to take, you see.’

‘But he asked me to come here.’

‘I don’t disbelieve you. But if I accept this case, I’ll have to send someone down to the jail to see our friend. And whatever he wants me to do, I’ll have to.’

‘Am I wasting my time, then?’

‘No – nor mine either, altogether. The more I know about the background in a case like this, the better. So. A point. What is the relationship between the accused and you? I mean the exact relationship?’

‘I am his friend.’

‘For what reason?’

‘Because I like him.’

‘Like him?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘You like him. Oh. What I mean is – is there anything at all I ought to know you haven’t told me?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I see. Another point. Why did you come here to me?’

‘I told you. Mr Alfy Bongo gave your name to me.’

‘Alfy. He told you I was a snide lawyer, I suppose?’

‘He said you were a solicitor who wins cases.’

‘Flattering! Right. Now, most important of all. Have you got any money?’

‘Yes. Some.’

‘Pay twenty to my secretary when you leave, will you? That’ll do nicely to go on with. In notes, please – no cheques, or I can’t fiddle my taxes.’ He gave me a frosty grin, folded his fingers, and said, ‘Very well, then. From what you’ve said, I can practically guarantee you something: which is that your friend will lose this case.’

‘Why will he? He’s innocent.’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt it! I don’t doubt it one little bit! But these cases are always lost before they go to court. Believe the expert.’

‘Then we might as well have no defence?’

‘Not at all – why shouldn’t you? I’m here to advise you. For example. You don’t always have to fight a case, Mr Pew. You can also buy it.’

‘Sorry …’

‘Though it may be expensive. You say that two police officers were involved?’

‘Yes …’

‘And they’ll have their chief to remember …’

‘Do you mean …’

‘That’s just exactly what I mean.’

‘But they’ve already brought the charge.’

‘I know they have. You wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t. But for a consideration, they might not press it in the courts. There’s evidence and evidence, you know.’

‘What sort of consideration?’

‘I’d have to see. But you’d better be thinking in terms of hundreds: not more than two, though, I dare say.’

‘Can you arrange that?’

‘It can be arranged. I haven’t said by whom.’

‘But if they got the money … wouldn’t they double-cross us?’

‘Why should they? It’s not an important case to them. And they know if they do they’d lose good business of the same description in the future …’

‘I see.’

‘I know what’s in your mind: you think I’ll take a cut.’

‘Well, I suppose you would, wouldn’t you?’

‘How right you are, Mr Pew! Think of what’s involved! Professional conduct of a disgraceful nature, and so on and so forth. I’d be quite reasonable, though. I’d not kill the goose that lays the golden egg …’

Mr Zuss-Amor’s dentures gave me an amiable, impatient smile. He clearly had other interviews in his diary.

‘I’m not sure I can raise that much money all at once.’

‘Oh. We can forget it, then.’

‘And in any case, I think it’s better to fight them.’

The solicitor ran his hand up and down his waistcoat buttons. ‘It’s not exactly you who’s fighting them, but your friend,’ he said. ‘All the same, I think your decision’s perfectly right.’

‘Oh? Why do you?’

If you take it to court, you’ll almost certainly go down, as I’ve told you, though there’s always a chance, if slight. But if you give these gentlemen a little something, they’ll see to it you give them some more sooner or later. And probably sooner.’

‘I don’t get it, I’m sorry, Mr Zuss-Amor.’

‘I’ve no doubt your life is blameless, Mr Pew. All the same, if they decided to scrape around and look for some dirt, they’d possibly find you’d done something or other. We all have, at one time, I expect. Even the bench of bishops have a blot on their consciences somewhere, I shouldn’t be surprised.’

‘But how would they know it was me the money came from?’

‘Now, Mr Pew! Don’t underestimate the Law! They know you’re the friend of the accused, they’ve seen you in court this morning, they know – well, I dare say they know quite a lot of things.’ He took off his spectacles and wiped them with his fingers. ‘Or perhaps,’ he went on, ‘you think I’d tell them who paid up. Well, even if I did, I wouldn’t have to: they’d just know.’

‘So that’s ruled out, then.’

‘Very good. Right. So we go to court. The question arises: which court do we go to?’

‘Isn’t that automatic?’

‘To begin with, yes, it is. Everyone appears before a magistrate initially. Even if you murdered the prime minister, that’s where you’d first appear. But you needn’t be tried by the magistrate if you don’t want to be.’

‘What else can you do?’

‘You can elect to go before a judge and jury.’

‘And which is better?’

‘There are naturally pros and cons in either case.’

‘Well, tell me the pros and cons.’

Mr Zuss-Amor leant back with his hands behind his head. ‘My God!’ he said, ‘how often I’ve had to explain these simple facts! Don’t laymen know anything?’

‘Perhaps, Mr Zuss-Amor, it’s to your advantage that they don’t.’

‘Oh, quick! Below the belt, but excellent! Right. Here we go. You elect to go before the magistrate. Advantages. It’s over quicker, one way or the other. Less publicity, if that should happen to matter. The sentences aren’t so high as a judge can give, if you’re convicted.’

‘And the cons?’

‘No appeal – except to the bench of magistrates. From the judge, you can go up to the House of Lords, if all is well, but as you’ve not got the cash, the point’s academic. Trial by jury takes much longer: it may be weeks before your young friend’s face to face with my Lord and his merry men. Also, it’ll cost you more. There’ll be more for me, of course, and we’d have to get a barrister.’

‘If we went to the magistrate, we don’t need one?’

‘Ah – you’re catching on! Correct. Solicitors can appear before the beak. Though even in the magistrates’ court, a barrister can be a help if he waves his law books at the old boy without antagonising him unduly.’

‘What does a barrister cost?’

‘As you’d expect, it depends on who he is. If he’s any good, it won’t cost you less than fifty at the least – with refreshers, of course, that you’ll have to pay if the trial lasted more than a day.’

‘Is it likely to?’

‘I don’t suppose so, but we might come on late in the afternoon and get adjourned.’ He paused. ‘Well, have you made up your mind?’

‘I don’t know yet, Mr Zuss-Amor. You’d better tell me what you advise.’

‘Advise! If I say, “Go to the judge,” you’ll think it’s because I want more money.’

‘Why should I?’

‘You’d be a bloody fool if you didn’t … But all the same, there are certainly big advantages. Though, before I tell you what they are, I should repeat what I said just now – I think in this case you’ll go down anyway.’

‘Why are you so sure?’

‘Because, my dear man, when the Law frames a case, they make a point of seeing it sticks. They have to.’

‘I see.’

‘I wish you did. You want to know why you should go to the judge and jury, then. In the first place, I don’t know who the magistrate will be, but nine out of ten accept police evidence: the more so, as I need hardly tell you, when the prisoner’s coloured.’

‘Don’t juries believe policemen, too?’

‘They do, yes, even more so in a way, but there’s a difference: twelve men have to be persuaded, and not one. Or twelve men and women, if we’re lucky enough to have any serving. But that’s not the chief consideration. What comes now is a point of legal strategy, so follow me closely, Mr Pew. You elect to go before the judge and jury. Right. That means the prosecution has to state its case, so as to get you committed. In other words, we hear all their evidence and they can’t alter it afterwards much, though they can add to it if they get some nice new bright ideas. But as for you, you sit tight in the dock …’

‘It’s not me, Mr Zuss-Amor.’

‘… All right, your friend sits in the dock and keeps his mouth shut. He says nothing.’

‘But he has to speak later before the judge and jury …’

‘Of course he has to, if he’s called. But by that time we know the prosecution’s case, and they don’t know ours at all. And if me and the barrister, whoever it is we choose, take a good look at the transcript of the prosecution’s evidence before the final trial comes on, our trained legal brains may find a hole or two that can be picked in it. Because it’s not all that easy to think up a consistent story of what never happened – you’d be surprised.’

‘It seems we should go to the jury, then.’

Mr Zuss-Amor gave me a sweet smile, as of one who congratulates a nitwit for seeing what was perfectly evident all the time.

‘If you want to know the fruits of my experience, Mr Pew,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you these three golden rules. Never accept trial by magistrate, unless it’s a five-shilling parking offence, or something of that nature. Never plead guilty – even if the Law walks in and finds you with a gun in your hand and a corpse lying on the floor. And when you’re arrested, never, never say a word, whatever they do, whatever they promise or threaten – that is, if you have the nerve to stick it out. Always remember, when they’ve got you alone in the cells, that they also have to prove the case in the open light of day. Say nothing, sign nothing. Most cases, believe me, are lost in the first half-hour after the arrest.’

‘You mean if you make a statement to them?’

‘Exactly. Tell them your name, your age, your occupation and address. Not a word more. Even then, they may swear you did say this or that, but it’s harder to prove you did if you’ve signed nothing and kept your trap shut.’ Mr Zuss-Amor arose, walked to the window, and gazed out glassily. ‘It’s a wicked world,’ he said, ‘thank goodness.’ He pondered a moment. ‘What about witnesses?’ he asked me, turning round. ‘Who can we muster?’

‘I’ve told you this girl Muriel won’t speak for him.’

‘It might make quite a bit of difference if she did. And it looks rather bad, doesn’t it, if she won’t.’

‘Why?’

‘Come, now! If we say, as we’re going to, that the defendant was living not with a whore, Dorothy, but with his lady-love, her sister Muriel, wouldn’t the jury expect to see Miss Muriel in the box and hear her say so?’

‘I’ll have another shot at her. Are witnesses to character any use?’

‘None whatever, unless you can produce the Pope, or someone. No, we’ll have to do our best with Mr Fortune himself if we can’t get Muriel. Can he talk well?’

‘His only trouble is that he talks too much.’

‘I’ll warn our counsel. Now who will we have against us? The Detective-Inspector, of course, and his Detective-Constable, I have no doubt – and even an old hand won’t be able to shake them.’

‘But what on earth can they say?’

‘Oh-ho! You wait and see! You’ll be surprised what that pair saw through brick walls two feet thick! And then, of course, they may call little Dorothy.’

‘They’re sure to, aren’t they?’

‘No … She’s a common prostitute, don’t forget, and juries don’t seem to believe a word they say. I hope they do call her, though – I’d like to see our counsel tear her guts out in cross-examination …’

Mr Zuss-Amor rubbed his chest with relish. I got up to go.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll believe,’ I said, ‘that Johnny Fortune hasn’t been a ponce. But isn’t it clear, from all you tell me, that these cases are sometimes framed?’

‘Oh, of course they are! Who said they weren’t?’ Mr Zuss-Amor stood face to face with me. ‘I handle a lot of cases for the defence,’ he said, ‘that they don’t like to see me get an acquittal for. So the police don’t love me all that much, as you can imagine. And believe me, whenever I get into my car at night, I look it over to see if they’ve planted anything there.’

‘You do?’

‘Well, if I don’t, I ought to. And that reminds me,’ he went on, leaning his lower belly against the desk. ‘If you can pay for it, we’ll have to get a barrister who’s not afraid of coppers.’

‘Some of them are, then?’

‘Most of them are. But one who certainly isn’t is Wesley Vial – even though he’s a junior.’

‘A Mr Vial who lives near Marble Arch? A fat, hairy man?’

‘You know him, I dare say. He’s a friend of little Alfy’s.’

‘I know him slightly. And so does Johnny Fortune. We went to a party at his house. I don’t think he likes either of us much.’

‘Oh, really? Wheels within wheels, I see.’ Mr Zuss-Amor sat down again. ‘I won’t enquire why,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think it’ll make the slightest difference. If Vial takes on the case, he’ll go all out to win it for you. Shall I ask him, anyway?’

‘What is a junior, exactly?’

‘He’s not taken silk. Doesn’t mean a thing, though. Some of the best men don’t bother, because when they take silk their fees have to go up, and they lose a lot of clients. Better six cases at fifty guineas than one at two hundred, don’t you agree?’

‘And Vial’s the best man we can get?’

‘At the price you can pay, undoubtedly. Your young friend will have to see him some time, too. And before he does, there’s something else you might as well explain to him.’ Mr Zuss-Amor looked at the ceiling, then with his mouth open at me, then continued: ‘It’s a delicate matter: one laymen don’t always grasp at once. In a nutshell: to beat perjured evidence, you have to meet it with perjury.’

‘No, I don’t understand.’

‘I didn’t expect you would. However. Let me give you an instance. Suppose you walk out of this building and the Law arrests you on the doorstep for being drunk and disorderly in Piccadilly Circus while you were really talking here to me. What would you do?’

‘Deny it.’

‘Deny what?’

‘The whole thing.’

‘That’s the point: if they took you to court, you’d be most unwise. When they go into the box – and remember, there’s always more than one of them – and swear you were where you weren’t, and did what you didn’t, no jury will believe you if you deny their tale entirely.’

‘So what do I do?’

‘You say … having sworn by Almighty God, of course, like they have, to tell the whole truth, etcetera … you say that you were in Piccadilly Circus, yes, and you had taken one light ale, yes, but that you weren’t drunk or disorderly. In other words, you tag along with their story in its inessentials, but deny the points that can get you a conviction. If you do that, your counsel can suggest the Law had made an honest error. But if you deny everything they say, the jury will accept their word against yours.’

Mr Zuss-Amor shrugged, flung out his hands, and corrugated his brows into deep furrows.

‘So Johnny mustn’t deny all their story, but simply say he never took money from Dorothy, or had sex with her.

‘Particularly the former, of course. Yes, being an African, I don’t suppose he’ll mind damning his soul to get an acquittal. A lot of Christians do it. Is he one?’

‘I believe so.’

‘You can help him wrestle with his conscience, then. But do it before he sees Mr Vial. Because that’s what Vial will want him to say, but he won’t be able to put it so plain himself. It wouldn’t be etiquette, not for a barrister. Dirty work of that nature’s left to us solicitors, who really win the case by preparing it properly outside the court – that is, if it’s the sort of case that can be won.’

Mr Zuss-Amor bared all his teeth at me. I got up and shook his hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Zuss-Amor, you’ve made things wonderfully clear.’

He also rose. ‘They need to be,’ he said. ‘Trials are all a matter of tactics. I don’t know what happened, or if anything did happen, between that boy and that girl, any more than I suppose you really do. But believe me, when you listen to all the evidence in the court, you’ll be amazed to see how little relation what’s said there bears to what really occurred, so far as one knows it. It’s one pack of lies fighting another, and the thing is to think up the best ones, and have the best man there to tell them for you so that justice is done.’

He opened the frosted door and let me out.





SECOND INTERLUDE

‘Let Justice be done (and be seen to be)!’





The trial of Johnny Macdonald Fortune took place in a building, damaged in the Hitler war, which had been redecorated in a ‘contemporary’ style – light salmon wood, cubistic lanterns, leather cushions of pastel shades – that pleased none of the lawyers, officials or police officers who worked there. The courts looked too much like the boardrooms of progressive companies, staterooms on liners, even ‘lounges’ of American-type hotels, for the severe traditional taste of these professionals; and all of them, when they appeared there, injected into their behaviour an additional awesome formality to counteract the lack of majesty of their surroundings.

On the morning of the trial, Mr Zuss-Amor had a short conference with Mr Wesley Vial. In his wig and gown, Mr Vial was transformed from the obese, balding playboy of the queer theatrical parties he loved to give at his flat near Marble Arch, into a really impressive figure; impressive, that is, by his authority, which proceeded from his formidable knowledge of the operation of the law, his nerves of wire, his adaptable, synthetic charm, his aggressive ruthlessness, and his total contempt for weakness and ‘fair play’. Mr Zuss-Amor, by comparison, seemed, in this décor, a shabby figure – like a nonconformist minister calling on a cardinal.

‘Who have we got against us?’ said Mr Zuss-Amor.

‘Archie Gillespie.’

‘As Crown counsel in these cases go, by no means a fool.’

‘By no means, Mr Zuss-Amor.’

The solicitor felt rebuked. ‘What was your impression of our client, Mr Vial?’

‘Nice boy. Do what I can for him, of course – but what? The trouble with coloured men in the dock, you know, is that juries just can’t tell a good one from a bad.’

‘Can they ever tell that, would you say?’

‘Oh, sometimes! Don’t be too hard on juries.’

‘We’ll be having some ladies, I believe.’

‘Excellent! He must flash all his teeth at them.’ Mr Vial turned over the pages of the brief. ‘There was nothing you could do with this Muriel Macpherson woman?’

‘Nothing. I even went out and saw her myself. She’s very sore with our young client, Mr Vial. Frankly, I think if we had called her, we’d have found ourselves asking permission to treat her as a hostile witness.’

‘“Hell hath no fury,” and so on. On the other hand, Gillespie tells me he’s not calling the sister Dorothy. Very wise of him. He’s relying on police evidence – which, I’m sorry to say, will probably be quite sufficient for his purpose.’

‘Pity you couldn’t have had a go at the woman Dorothy in the box, though, Mr Vial …’ The solicitor’s eyes gleamed.

‘Oh, best to keep the females out of it, on the whole. I’ll see what can be done with the two officers. I’ve met the Inspector in the courts before … always makes an excellent impression. Looks like a family man who’d like to help the prisoner if he could: deeply regrets having to do his painful duty. I don’t think I know the Detective-Constable …’

‘A new boy in the CID. Very promising in the Force, I’m told. Man of few words in the box, though. Difficult to shake him, I think you’ll find.’

Mr Vial put down the brief. ‘And yet, you know, it should be possible to shake them.’

‘If anyone can do it, you can.’

‘I didn’t mean that. I mean this charge: it’s bogus. Just look at it!’ (He held up the brief.) ‘It stinks to high heaven!’

‘You think this boy’s telling the truth – or part of it?’

‘I think he’s telling the whole of it. I pressed him hard at our little interview, as you saw. And what did he do? He lost his temper! I’ve never seen such righteous indignation! I’m always impressed by honest fury in a defendant.’

Mr Zuss-Amor nodded, frowned, and scratched his bottom. ‘Why do they do it, Mr Vial?’ he said.

‘Why do who do what?’

‘Why do the police bring these trumped-up charges?’

‘Oh, well …’ The advocate sighed with all his bulk, and hitched his robe. ‘You know the familiar argument as well as I do. The accused’s generally done what they say he’s done, but not how they say he’s done it. The charge is usually true, the evidence often false. But in this case, I think both are phoney … Well, we’ll have to see …’



The two CID officers were having a cup of tea in the police room. ‘It’s your first case with us in the vice game,’ said the Inspector, ‘but you don’t have to let that worry you. The way to win a case, in my experience, is not to mind from the beginning if you lose it.’

‘But we shouldn’t lose this one, should we, sir?’

‘I don’t see how we can, Constable. But just remember what I told you. They’ll keep you outside until I’ve given evidence, of course, but you know what I’m going to say in its essential outlines. If they ask any questions in examination that we haven’t thought of, just say as little as possible: take your time, look the lawyer in the eye, and just say you don’t remember.’

‘He’s rough, isn’t he, Inspector, this Wesley Vial?’

‘That fat old poof? Don’t be afraid of him, son. He’s sharp, mind you, but if you don’t let him rattle you, there’s nothing he can do.’ The Inspector lit his Dunhill pipe. ‘It’s obvious what he’ll try,’ he continued. ‘He’ll make out that he accepts our story, but he’ll try to shake us on the details, so as to put a doubt into the jury’s mind.’

The Constable sipped his beverage. ‘They’re not likely to raise the question of that bit of rough stuff at the station, are they?’

‘Vial certainly won’t – he knows no jury would believe it. But the boy might allege something, even though Vial’s probably told him not to. Let’s hope he does do. It’d make a very bad impression on the court. Drink up now, Constable, we’re on in a minute or two.’

The Constable swallowed. ‘I’m sure you know best about not calling that girl Dorothy, sir. But don’t you think if we’d had her to pin it on him good and proper …’

‘Mr Gillespie said no, and I think he’s right. I’ve told her to keep out of the way and keep her trap shut till the trial’s over – and she will. You never know how it will be with women in the box: she may love this boy, for all we know, and might have spoken out of turn; and if we’d called her for the prosecution, we might have found ourselves with a hostile witness on our hands.’



In the public gallery, a little minority group of Africans was collecting: among them Laddy Boy, who’d brought an air cushion and a bag of cashew nuts; the Bushman, who’d got a front seat, leant on the railing and immediately gone to sleep; and Mr Karl Marx Bo, who planned to send by air mail a tendentious report on the trial to the Mendi newspaper of which he was part-time correspondent, if, as he hoped it would be, the result was unfavourable to the defendant.



Theodora and Montgomery arrived much too early, and sat in great discomfort on the benches that sloped steeply like a dress circle overlooking the well of the court. They wondered if they could take their overcoats off and, if so, where they could put them.

‘It doesn’t look very impressive,’ said Theodora. ‘It’s much too small.’

‘It looks exactly like Act III of a murder play. Which is the dock?’

‘Just underneath us, I expect.’

‘So we won’t see him.’

‘We will when he’s giving evidence,’ said Theodora. ‘That’s the witness-box there on the right.’

‘Box is the word for it. It looks like an upended coffin.’



Mr Wesley Vial met Mr Archie Gillespie in the lawyers’ lavatory. ‘I do hope, Wesley,’ the Crown counsel said, ‘your man’s English will be comprehensible. I take it you’ll be putting him in the box?’

‘Time alone will show, Archie. But if you want any evidence taken in the vernacular, we can always put in for an interpreter and prolong matters to your heart’s content.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Gillespie. ‘Crown counsel don’t draw your huge refreshers.’ He dried his hands. ‘Who’s the judge?’

‘Old Haemorrhoids.’

‘My God. It would be.’

The lawyers looked at each other resignedly. There was a distant shout, and they adjusted their wigs like actors who’ve heard the call-boy summon them to the stage.



Johnny Fortune had been brought up from Brixton to the court in one of those police vans where the prisoners half sit in metal boxes, hardly larger than themselves. They’d arrived more than an hour before the case began, and the court jailer, after searching him yet again, said, ‘Well, we won’t put you in the cells unless you really want to go there. If I leave you in the room here, will you behave yourself?’

‘Of course.’

‘You want some cigarettes?’

‘They not let me take any of my money.’

‘Oh, pay me when you’re acquitted!’ said the jailer with a hearty laugh, and gave Johnny Fortune a half-filled pack of Woodbines and a cup of purple tea. ‘I see you’ve got Vial,’ he went on. ‘That’ll cost you a bit, won’t it? Or should I say’ – the jailer laughed roguishly – ‘cost your little lady and her customers?’

Johnny stood up. ‘Mister, put me in your cells. I do not wish your tea or want your Woodbine.’

‘No offence, lad, don’t be so touchy. I know you all have to say you’re innocent – I get used to it here. Come on, keep them – you’ve got an hour to wait.’ The jailer patted his prisoner on the shoulder, and went over to gossip with a lean, powdered female constable in civilian dress, who, as they talked, looked over the jailer’s shoulder at the folds in Johnny Fortune’s trousers.



Everyone stood, and the judge came in wearing a wig not of the Gilbert and Sullivan variety, but a short one, slightly askew, that made him look like Dr Johnson’s younger brother. The jury was new, and the case their first, so they had to be sworn in by the usher. Two of them were women: a WVS housewifely person, and the other with a beret and a tailored suit whose nature it was impossible to guess at. A male juror turned out, when he swore, to be called ‘Ramsay Macdonald’, on hearing which Mr Vial made a slight histrionic gesture of impressed surprise to Mr Gillespie, who ignored him.

One of the two policemen in the dock nudged Johnny, and he stood. The clerk, a quite young man with a pink, pale face, read out the charge in a voice like an Old Vic juvenile’s; and when he asked Johnny how he pleaded, looked up at him, across the court, with a pleading expression on his own wan face.

‘I plead not guilty.’

Mr Zuss-Amor, flanking his advocate, twitched his shoulders slightly. You never could tell with defendants: he’d even known them get the plea wrong at the outset.



Mr Archie Gillespie’s opening statement of the case for the Queen against the prisoner was as methodical as one would expect from a Scottish lawyer of vast experience and entire integrity. He had the great psychological advantages of believing the facts in the brief that he’d been given, or most of them, and of being quite dispassionate in his advocacy. He had no feeling of animosity towards the prisoner whatever, and this made him all the more deadly.

He began by explaining to the jury what living on the immoral earnings of a common prostitute consisted of. It was a distasteful subject, and a painful duty for the members of the jury to have to hear about it. But they were, he did not doubt, men and women of ripe experience, to whom he could speak quite frankly. Very well, then. As everyone knew, there were, unfortunately, such women as common prostitutes – selling their bodies for gain (Mr Gillespie paused, and gazed at a female juror, who licked her lips) – in our society; women whose odious commerce was – subject to certain important restrictions – not actually illegal, however reprehensible on moral grounds. But what was illegal – and highly so, and he would say more, revolting and abhorrent – was the practice of certain men – if one could call them men – of battening on these wretched creatures, and living on the wages of their sin; and even, in a great many cases – though he would not necessarily say it was so in the present instance – even of forcing them out on to the streets against their wills. It was not for nothing, said Mr Gillespie, removing his spectacles a moment, that such men, in the speech of a more robust age, had been known as ‘bullies’.

The judge manifested a slight impatience, and Mr Gillespie took the hint. He explained to the jury that two police officers would tell them how observation had been kept on one Dorothea Violet Macpherson, a known and convicted common prostitute, who had been seen, on several nights in succession, to accost men in Hyde Park, receive sums of money from them, entice them into the undergrowth, and there have carnal knowledge of them. These officers would further tell the members of the jury how the said Dorothea Violet Macpherson was subsequently followed to an address in Immigration Road, Whitechapel, where she lived in two rooms with the accused. (Here Mr Gillespie paused, and spoke more slowly.) These officers would then tell how, on a number of occasions when observation was kept on the accused and on the said Dorothea Violet Macpherson, she was seen to hand over to him large sums of money that had come into her possession through her immoral commerce in the purlieus of Hyde Park.

The Crown counsel now glanced at Mr Vial, who sat looking into the infinite like a Buddha. ‘No doubt my learned friend here will suggest to you,’ he declared, ‘that the accused was not present on these occasions or, alternatively, that the sums of money in question were not passed over to him or, alternatively again, that if they were, they were not those proceeding from the act of common prostitution.’ Mr Gillespie waited a second, as if inviting Mr Vial to say just that: then continued, ‘It will be for you, members of the jury, to decide on whose evidence you should rely: on that of the witness, or witnesses, that may be brought forward by the defence, or on that of the two experienced police officers whom I am now going to call before you.’

The Detective-Inspector walked in with a modest, capable and self-sufficient mien. He took the oath, removed a notebook from his pocket, and turned to face his counsel.

‘Members of the jury,’ said Mr Gillespie. ‘You will observe that the Detective-Inspector is holding a small book. Inspector, will you please tell the court what this book is?’

‘It’s my police notebook, sir.’

‘Exactly. Officers of the Crown, when giving evidence, are permitted to refer, for matters of fact – and matters of fact only – to the notes they made of a case immediately after they have performed their duties. Very well. Now, Detective-Inspector, will you please tell my Lord and members of the jury what happened, in your own words?’

In his own words, and prompted only slightly by Mr Gillespie, the officer related the detailed minutiae of the events the counsel had already outlined. By the time of the third, fourth and fifth seeing of Dorothy taking money in the park, and seeing her giving it to Johnny in the Immigration Road, the tale began to lose some of its human fascination, even though its cumulative substance added greatly to the ‘weight of evidence’.

Mr Gillespie sat down, and Mr Wesley Vial arose.

‘Detective-Inspector,’ he said. ‘Do you know who the defendant is?’

‘Who he is, sir? He’s an African.’

‘Yes. Quite so. An African. But can you tell us anything about him?’

‘I have, sir.’

‘Yes, Inspector, we know you have. But I mean who he is? His family? His background? What sort of man the court has got before it?’

‘No, sir. He said he was a student.’

‘He said he was a student. Did you enquire of what?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You didn’t. Did you know this young man’s father, Mr David Macdonald Fortune, wears the King’s Medal for valour which was awarded to him when he was formerly a sergeant in the Nigerian police force?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You didn’t bother to find out what sort of man you had to deal with? It didn’t interest you. Is that it?’

The judge stirred himself slightly, as if from a distant dream. ‘I can’t quite see the relevance of that, Mr Vial,’ he said, in a melancholy, croaking voice. ‘It’s not the accused’s father who’s before me.’

Mr Vial bowed. ‘True, my Lord. But your Lordship will appreciate, I’m sure, how vital it is for me, in a case of this description – that is, a case where the defendant is a citizen of one of the colonies of our Commonwealth – to establish clearly his social standing and reputation. The members of the jury’ (Mr Vial inclined himself courteously towards them) ‘may not be as familiar as we have grown to be, my Lord, with what very different sorts of African citizen are now to be found here in England among us: some, no doubt, with a background of a kind that might render an accusation of this nature unfortunately all too credible, but others – as I hope to show you is the case at present – in whom such conduct would be as totally improbable as it would were I, my Lord, or Mr Gillespie here, to be said to indulge in it.’

There was a hush, while everyone digested this. ‘Yes. Well, do proceed, please, Mr Vial,’ said the judge.

The defending counsel turned once more to the Crown witness.

‘You have, in fact, Inspector – apart, of course, from the present case – nothing to say against the defendant?’

‘No, sir. He’s got no police record.’

‘Exactly. He’s got no police record. And has he, at any time, made any statement in writing, or any verbal statement concerning the charge, by which he admits his guilt in any particular whatever?’

‘No, sir.’

‘So we’re left with what you and your officers have seen, Inspector.’

The Inspector didn’t answer. Mr Vial looked up, and barked at him, ‘I say, we’re left with what you tell us that you’ve seen. Will you please answer me, Inspector?’

‘I didn’t know you were asking me a question, sir.’

‘You didn’t know I was asking you a question. Very well. Now, I want you to tell us about these happenings in Hyde Park. You saw this woman accost various men at various times on various evenings, take money from them, and disappear with them into the …’ (Mr Vial looked at his notes) ‘… yes, into the undergrowth, I think it was. Now let us take the first evening: the evening you tell us that the defendant later received twenty-eight pounds from this woman. How many men accosted her?’

‘Five or six, sir.’

‘Five – or six? Which was it? You may consult your notebook if you wish.’

‘Six, sir.’

‘So each man would have paid an average of four pounds thirteen shillings and four pence for this woman’s services?’

‘Not necessarily, sir. She could have had some money in her bag before she went inside the park.’

‘In her what, Inspector?’

‘She could have had some money in her bag before she went there.’

‘What bag?’

‘The bag she put the money in, sir.’

‘Oh.’ Mr Vial picked up a document. ‘But in the magistrates’ court, I see you told his Worship that this woman put the money in her raincoat pocket.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Sometimes she put it in her raincoat pocket, and sometimes she put it in her bag, is that it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I see. And then she went with these people into the undergrowth. How dark was this undergrowth?’

‘Quite light enough to keep her under observation, sir.’

‘Come now, Inspector. Are you telling the court a woman of this description would take a man, in a public locality like Hyde Park, into a place that was dark enough for her purposes, but light enough to be observed by two police officers – standing at a certain distance from her, I suppose?’

‘We were quite near enough, sir, to see whatever happened.’

‘You were quite near enough. And she never saw you?’

‘No, sir.’

‘On no occasion? Not once on all these evenings when you and your colleague stood peering at her while she went into the undergrowth with all these dozens of men?’

‘She gave no sign of being seen, sir.’

‘Not even when you followed her home?’

‘No, sir.’

‘What did she travel home on? A bus? A tube?’

‘She usually took a bus to Victoria station, and then a tube, sir.’

‘She usually did. Aren’t prostitutes in the habit of taking taxis? Isn’t that notorious?’

‘Not all of them, sir. Not always.’ The officer consulted his notebook. ‘She took a taxi one night, but it’s not been referred to in my evidence.’

‘So you followed her by bus, or tube, or taxi to the Immigration Road – and then what?’

‘We saw her go into the house, sir.’

‘Saw her how? Did you follow her inside?’

‘No, sir. We kept observation from the street.’

‘So you must have seen her through the window. Is that it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘This window had no curtains, I suppose. Is that what you have to tell us?’

‘Yes, sir, it had. But they weren’t always drawn over it.’

‘Not always drawn across the window in the depths of winter?’

‘Not always, sir.’

Mr Vial paused for quite ten seconds. ‘Officer,’ he said, ‘if you, or I, or anyone else in his right mind were going to hand a large sum of money over to somebody else, even for a perfectly legitimate reason, would we really do it in front of an open, uncurtained window on the ground floor of a house in a busy street of a not particularly salubrious neighbourhood?’

‘That’s what they did, sir.’

‘And if the transaction was a highly illegal one, as it would be in the present instance, wouldn’t there be all the more reason to hand the money over behind closed doors and out of sight?’

‘These people are very careless, sir. They’re often under the influence of alcohol, and other things.’

‘They’d need to be! They’d certainly need to be, to behave so rashly!’ Mr Vial gazed in amazement at the judge, at the jury, at Mr Gillespie, and back again at the Detective-Inspector. ‘Now, Inspector,’ he said gently. ‘Please understand I’m not questioning your good faith in any respect. You’re an experienced officer, as my learned friend has said, and there can therefore be no question of that at all … But don’t you think, from what you tell us, it’s possible you were mistaken?’

‘No, sir. She gave him the money like I said.’

‘On half a dozen occasions, a prostitute takes money out of her handbag, or raincoat, or whatever it was, and hands it over to a man in a lighted room without the curtain drawn across in full view of the general public, and does it all so slowly that anyone standing outside could count the exact number of pound notes? Is that what you’re telling us?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Thank you, Inspector.’ Mr Vial sat down.

The Detective-Constable was called. Examined by Mr Gillespie, he confirmed his colleague’s account in all essential particulars. Mr Wesley Vial rose again.

‘How long have you been with the CID, Detective-Constable?’

‘Two months, sir.’

‘This is your first case as a CID officer?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Before you joined the CID, did your duties bring you in contact with this sort of case at all?’

‘No, sir. I was in Records.’

‘You were in Records. Now, Constable. Since this case was first brought in the magistrates’ court, you have discussed it, naturally, with the Inspector?’

‘I’ve talked about the case in general, sir. I haven’t discussed the details of the evidence.’

‘Of course not. The evidence you gave is entirely your own, isn’t it? But you’ve relied on the guidance of your superior officers to a certain extent as to how you should put it to the court?’

The judge made a slight noise. ‘I don’t think you should ask the witness that, Mr Vial,’ he said. ‘You needn’t answer, Constable.’

‘As you say, my Lord. I have no further questions.’

The Detective-Constable left the box and went and sat by the Inspector, who gave him a slight, official smile. ‘Call the defendant,’ said the usher.

Johnny Fortune left the dock, walked firmly through the court and took the oath. The assembly regarded him with a slightly increased respect; for whatever the outcome of the case, a person in the witness-box seems a very different person from one sitting between two policemen in the dock.

Mr Vial faced his client with a look stern as Gabriel’s, and said: ‘John Macdonald Fortune: do you know what living off the immoral earnings of a woman means?’

‘Yes. I do know.’

‘Have you lived off the immoral earnings of this woman?’

‘No. Never.’

‘Have you ever lived off the immoral earnings of any woman?’

‘Never! Never would I give my blood to such a person. Never!’

Mr Vial sat down. Mr Gillespie arose.

‘You say you’re a student,’ he began. ‘A student of what?’

‘Of meteorology.’

The judge leant forward. ‘What was that word?’

‘Meteorology, my Lord. I’m not quite sure what it is, but no doubt we’ll discover. And how long is it since you attended your last lecture?’

‘Is some months now.’

‘Why? Is your college on holiday?’

‘No. I give up these studies.’

‘So now you’re not studying anything?’

‘No.’

‘You’ve not been a student for some months, in fact?’

‘No.’

‘And what have you lived on?’

‘I work in a labouring job.’

‘How long did you work in this labouring job?’

‘Some few week before I get arrested.’

‘Some few weeks. And at the time you were living with this woman, were you working?’

‘Listen to me, sir. I live some few week when I have no money with this woman.’

‘So you did live with her? You admit that?’

The judge croaked again. ‘There’s just a point here, Mr Gillespie, I think. It’s possibly the language difficulty, you know.’ He looked at Johnny. ‘You say you lived with this woman. Do you mean simply that you lived in the same house, or flat, or room, or do you mean that you lived there as man and wife?’

‘She not my wife.’

‘We know that,’ said Mr Gillespie. ‘What his Lordship means is, did you have any carnal knowledge of this woman?’

‘Have what?’

‘Did you have intercourse with her?’

‘One time I have sex with that woman, yes. One time. But I take no money from her. Never.’

‘I see. You took no money from her. Who paid the rent?’

‘She pay it.’

‘Who bought the food?’

‘She buy some small food some time.’

‘So you’re telling us you lived in the same room as a common prostitute, alone with her, that you had intercourse with her, that you accepted board and lodging from her, and that you took no money from her? Is that it? Answer me, will you?’

‘Listen, man. I answer you. Never I take no money from that woman. Not even pennies for my bus fare.’

‘You really expect the court to believe that?’

‘I swear on this book here what I say will be true. And what I say is true.’

There was suddenly a yell from the public gallery. It was the Bushman. He shouted, ‘God is black!’ and was hustled out by a constable. The judge closed his eyes during this episode; then opened them, and said, ‘Please continue, Mr Gillespie.’

‘I have no more questions, my Lord.’

‘Mr Vial?’

The defending counsel bowed and shook his head. Johnny went back to the dock.

The judge blinked around the court. ‘Mr Gillespie, Mr Vial. Is there anything further before you address the jury?’

The counsel shook their heads.

‘Then I shall adjourn for luncheon before your final address.’

Everyone rose, the judge did so rather more slowly, and disappeared beneath the rampant lion and unicorn.



Mr Zuss-Amor stood with Montgomery outside the court, waiting for Theodora. ‘Well, there it is,’ said the solicitor. ‘I need hardly tell you that I think he’s had it.’

‘What does Mr Vial say?’

‘He won’t commit himself. But our boy made some horrible admissions. And that interruption from the gallery didn’t help at all.’

‘That wasn’t Johnny’s fault.’

‘I know it wasn’t, Mr Pew: but it made a very bad impression. Was that boy drunk, or what?’

‘No. Just voicing his feelings, I expect.’

‘I wish he’d voiced them elsewhere.’

‘I didn’t think the police officers were all that brilliant, anyway.’

‘Oh, they’re not so clever in court as they are outside it, I admit. But they do know when to keep their mouths shut.’

‘The Inspector was the more convincing …’

‘He should be, he’s been lying longer.’

‘I don’t like that place. Everyone acts as if the wretched prisoner’s the only person there who doesn’t matter.’

The solicitor didn’t answer that, but said, ‘I wish your friend Miss Pace would hurry powdering her nose. I could do with a gin and orange.’



Crossing the corridor, Theodora was detained by a pale youth in a drape suit whose face was vaguely familiar. ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘I let you in at Mr Vial’s party, don’t you remember? They call me Alfy Bongo.’

‘Oh, yes. Excuse me, please.’

‘I follow all Mr Vial’s cases whenever I can.’

‘Please excuse me.’

‘Just a minute, miss. You know your boy’s going down this afternoon?’

‘What do you mean – my boy?’

‘He is, isn’t he? I remember you two that evening. I know how you feel about him.’

‘Excuse me!’ She hurried on. He sidled after her. ‘There’s only one thing could help him, isn’t there.’

She stopped. ‘What?’

‘If there was some other woman to speak for him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Someone like you who might have been his girl at the time they say he was poncing on that chick.’

Theodora looked at him intently.



The Inspector and the Constable were drinking Worthingtons in the saloon bar round the corner. ‘I was all right, then, sir? You’re not dissatisfied?’

‘All right for a beginner, Constable. Cheers!’

‘We’d never have had all this fuss if we could have kept it in the magistrates’ court.’

‘That’s out of our hands, lad, when the prisoner’s got the money. I wouldn’t worry about the result, though, and the sentence will be stiffer here.’

‘Why didn’t you just take him in for hemp, Inspector? That would have been more certain, wouldn’t it?’

‘Of course, but he might have got away with only a fine. Even with magistrates, you can’t be sure.’

‘I didn’t like the defending counsel. He’s murder.’

‘I’ll get that degenerate one day, if it’s the last thing I do.’



The court jailer, who’d heard how the case was going, was not quite so nice to Johnny. ‘Here’s your dinner,’ he said, handing him a paper bag.

‘I want no dinner.’

‘You’d better get into the habit of doing what you’re told, you know. It might come in handy after this evening.’

‘He’s being awkward,’ said the Brixton warder.



Theodora dragged Mr Zuss-Amor away from Montgomery into the private bar. ‘At this stage,’ she said, ‘can we call any further witnesses?’

‘We could if we had one who’s of any use … Why?’

‘I’ve been Johnny Fortune’s mistress.’

‘Go on!’

‘I saw him during the time they say he was with that woman, and gave him money, and looked after him.’

‘Yes …? Now look, Miss Pace, it’s nice of you to think of trying to help him. But can you expect me to believe that – let alone a jury?’

‘I’m pregnant by him.’

‘Oh. You are? No kidding?’

‘Oh, don’t be so stupid and familiar! I tell you I’ve seen the doctor!’

‘Have you!’

‘I love Johnny – can’t you understand? I want to marry him.’

‘You do?’ The solicitor shook his head dubiously. ‘And you’re prepared to swear all this in court – is that it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well … I’ll have to see Mr Vial and hear what he thinks.’

‘Hurry up, then.’

‘You’d better come with me. He’ll want to question you a bit.’



When the trial resumed, Mr Vial asked the judge’s permission to call another witness. ‘I apologise, my Lord, to you, and to my learned friend, for any apparent discourtesy to the court. The fact is that my witness, who is, as you will see, a person of irreproachable character and reputation, has felt hitherto a quite understandable reluctance to appear in a case of this description; but since the evidence she will give—’

‘Is this a woman, then?’ said the judge.

‘Indeed, my Lord.’

‘I see. Go on.’

‘Thank you, my Lord. Since, as I say, the evidence she will give, with your permission, will be of capital importance in establishing the innocence of the defendant beyond all possible doubt, she has felt it her duty – greatly, I may say, to her credit – to overcome any natural scruples and appear before the court.’

‘Have you anything to say, Mr Gillespie?’ asked the judge.

‘Not at this juncture, my Lord. I think any observations I may wish to make would best be kept until I have an opportunity of hearing this witness, and of cross-examination.’

‘Very well, Mr Vial.’

Theodora entered the box and took the oath. She looked firm, tranquil, dignified and womanly, though with a slight hint of the repentant sinner.

Mr Vial quickly established that her name was Theodora Huntington Pace, her age twenty-eight, her state a spinster, and her occupation that of Assistant Supervisor of Draft Planning at the BBC. She had known the defendant since the previous summer, when she first met him at an interview in connection with his participation in a series of radio programmes. ‘Please continue, Miss Pace,’ said Mr Vial.

‘I got to know Mr Fortune very well,’ she said, in steady, almost semi-official tones. ‘I grew to admire his qualities of character and intelligence, and soon became very fond of him.’

‘And this feeling of yours, Miss Pace. It was reciprocated?’

‘Yes,’ said Theodora. ‘I think it was.’

‘Please tell the court what happened then.’

Theodora slightly lowered her voice, and looked up steadily. ‘I became his mistress.’

‘I see. And then?’

‘I asked Mr Fortune to come and live with me, but he is very independent by nature, and preferred we should have separate establishments.’

‘And during the period that we have heard about in court this morning. You saw the defendant?’

‘Frequently.’

‘And is it not a fact that you were able to help him financially when this was necessary?’

‘I know Mr Fortune comes from a substantial business family in Nigeria, and that he would have no difficulty in calling on them for money if he needed it. He is, however, I’m sorry to say, something of a spendthrift …’ (she paused slightly) ‘… and on occasions when he was hard up I had no reluctance whatever in lending him whatever money he might want to tide him over.’

‘So that during the period in question, he was in no need of money?’

‘Why should he be? No. He had only to come to me.’

‘Thank you, Miss Pace.’

Mr Gillespie got up.

‘Miss Pace,’ he said. ‘In view of what you have told the court this afternoon, why did you not come forward this morning to speak for the accused on this very serious charge?’

Theodora glanced towards the dock, then said quietly:

‘Mr Fortune forbade me to.’

‘He forbade you? Why?’

‘He wished to face this charge alone. Knowing his innocence, and being sure of an acquittal, he did not wish my name to be mentioned in any way.’

‘I see, I see. And now he’s not so sure of an acquittal – is that it?’

‘I heard Mr Fortune giving evidence this morning. English is not his mother tongue, and an African has greater difficulty in expressing himself clearly than many of us realise. With this language handicap I didn’t feel he was doing his case justice, and I therefore felt I ought to appear myself, even if against his wishes, to tell the court what I knew.’

‘Did you, Miss Pace! Then please tell my Lord how you account for the fact that if the accused, as you say, had only to come to you for money, he chose to live with a prostitute in an East End slum?’

‘Mr Fortune, as I have said, is a very independent man, and preferred to live his Bohemian student life in a quarter inhabited largely by his fellow countrymen. He told me, of course, of his staying for a while in the same house as this woman – which he regarded as an interesting way of catching a glimpse of the seamier side of London life.’

‘So this man, who has admitted he was a penniless labourer, prefers living in squalor with a prostitute when he has a rich mistress willing, and no doubt anxious, to accommodate him at any time?’

‘I need hardly say that I would have preferred him to live in more conventional surroundings.’

‘With you, in other words.’

‘Yes.’

‘But he didn’t. Miss Pace: you have heard the accused admit that he had intercourse with this woman. Did you know of this?’

‘No. I expect he was ashamed to tell me of this momentary lapse.’

‘I expect so, indeed. How old did you say you were, Miss Pace.’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘And the accused is eighteen?’

‘Nineteen, now.’

‘Is there not a considerable discrepancy between your ages?’

‘Yes, unfortunately.’

‘And you ask us seriously to believe—’

The judge leant forward. ‘I don’t wish to hinder you, Mr Gillespie. But as the witness has admitted her relationship with the defendant, I really don’t think you need press this point any further.’

Theodora turned towards the judge, and said softly, ‘I am pregnant by him, my Lord. I hope to marry the defendant.’

The judge nodded slightly and said nothing. He turned to Mr Gillespie. ‘I have no more questions, my Lord,’ said the Crown counsel.

Theodora left the box, and the two lawyers addressed the jury.

‘You must not attribute,’ said Mr Gillespie, ‘any undue weight to the testimony of Miss Theodora Pace. Remember that this woman who admits – indeed, I should say, glories in – an illicit relationship with the accused, is no doubt under the domination of her obsession. Keep firmly in your minds, rather, the contrast between the evidence you have heard from the two police officers, and that of the accused himself. If there may be, in the evidence of these officers, some slight discrepancies – of which my learned friend has naturally tried to make the most – you must surely conclude that the evidence of the accused is totally, utterly incredible. It simply cannot be believed! No, members of the jury: your duty in this matter is quite clear. Banish from your minds any thought that a verdict against the defendant might be imputed to anything in the nature of racial prejudice. In a British court, all men are equal before the law: and if you believe the defendant to be guilty, as you are bound to do, you should return a verdict in that sense with the same impartiality as you would show were he a fellow citizen of your own.’

To which Mr Vial, raising himself like Moses bringing down the tablets from the Mount, rejoined:

‘My learned friend has asked you to discount the evidence of Miss Theodora Pace. But is her testimony not supremely to be believed? Here is a woman – a courageous woman, I would say, whatever you may think of her moral conduct (which is not what is on trial today) – who is prepared to risk – possibly even to sacrifice irrevocably – an honoured and established position in society, to bear witness to the truth, whatever the cost! Is this mere infatuation? Is this what my learned friend has called the consequences of an obsession?

‘But even more to be believed – yes, even more – is the evidence of the defendant. My learned friend has told you that this evidence is “incredible”. But is it? Is it incredible? I have no small experience of hearing witnesses in court, and from this I have learnt one important lesson.’ Mr Vial, who contrived to speak not like an advocate, but like the impartial spirit of justice itself, now looked very grave. ‘Only a too fluent witness, members of the jury, is to be mistrusted! Only a story that has no flaw – one which the witness, or witnesses, have carefully manufactured, polished and rehearsed – is likely to be untrue. Did you not notice – and were you not impressed by it? – that the defendant at no time sought to deny facts that might have seemed prejudicial to his case? Did you not hear how he freely admitted to some few, small, discreditable facts because he knew, in his heart of hearts, that on the major issue – the essential issue you are called upon to decide – he was without guilt of any kind?’ Mr Vial stood a second, hand raised aloft. ‘The defendant was an angry witness, members of the jury! He was angry because he is honest: he is honest because he is innocent!

‘Have a care how you deal with John Macdonald Fortune! This young man is a guest among us, who possibly has behaved foolishly, as young men will, but who has not behaved dishonourably. In this country he is a stranger: but a stranger who, coming from a country that is British, believes he is entitled to receive, and knows that he certainly will receive, that fair treatment and equal justice from his fellow men and women which has always been the glory of the British jury.’

Mr Vial sat down. The judge, his moment come at last, began his summing-up.

When he recapitulated the case of the prosecution, which he did in meticulous and admirably balanced detail, the case for the prosecution sounded quite unanswerable; but when he came to recapitulate the case for the defence, this case sounded quite unanswerable too. It was, in fact, impossible to tell what the judge thought, or even what he recommended; though he did, at one point in his dry, interminable, penetrating survey of the evidence, look up a minute at the jury and say this:

‘I need hardly remind you, I suppose, that you should attach great importance, not only to the substance of the evidence that has been put before you, but equally to the demeanour of the witnesses, and to the force, the weight, I might say, of the actual words they used. Now the defending counsel, you will remember, asked the accused at one point’ (the judge consulted his notes) ‘if he had ever lived off the immoral earnings of any woman. To which the defendant answered in these words: “Never. Never would I give my blood to such a person. Never.”’ The judge blinked at the jury. ‘You will have to decide whether these words which the defendant used convey to you the impression of veracity … of authenticity …’

When the judge finished – rather abruptly and unexpectedly – the clerk put the fatal question to the jury. After some slight muttering, they asked if they might retire.

‘Will you be very long, do you think?’ the judge asked the foreman.

‘There seems to be some considerable disagreement, my Lord,’ the foreman answered, glancing round at the eleven.

‘I see. Very well, you may retire.’



In the emptying court, Mr Vial strolled across to the dock, leant on its edge and, ignoring the two policemen, said casually to Johnny, ‘I thought the judge’s summing-up was very fair, didn’t you?’

‘I thought you was wonderful,’ said Johnny Fortune.



In the corridor outside, Theodora stood with Mr Zuss-Amor. ‘Splendid, my dear,’ said the solicitor. ‘I’m sorry to say the Press were scribbling busily, though. I hope you don’t lose your job.’



Smoking an agitated cigarette, Montgomery was accosted by the Detective-Inspector. ‘Well,’ said the policeman, ‘whichever way it goes, there’s no hard feelings on my part for your young friend. It’s only another case to us.’ As the court reassembled, the usher in charge of the jury (who had sworn publicly, before they retired, upon the sacred book, that he would not divulge a word of their deliberations), whispered, as he passed by, to the two officers guarding Johnny in the dock, what their still secret verdict was. Johnny heard it too, and one of the officers patted him gently on the back of the knee.

The judge returned, and so did the jury. They did not, despite the nature of their impending verdict, gaze benevolently at the accused as juries are traditionally supposed to do, but sat like ancient monuments on their hard seats.

The clerk asked the foreman how they found. He said, ‘Not guilty.’

Mr Vial then rose and said, with infinite deference, to the judge: ‘May the prisoner please be discharged, my Lord?’

‘He may.’



A week later, Johnny was re-arrested on the charge of being in possession of Indian hemp. Montgomery could borrow no more money quickly anywhere, and Theodora was in hospital with a breakdown and a miscarriage. ‘I’ll come over to the court for free, if you really want me to,’ Mr Zuss-Amor told Montgomery, ‘but why don’t you tell him to plead guilty and settle before the magistrate? Believe me, if they don’t get him for something, they’ll never let him alone. And it’ll only be a fine.’

It was, but no one had any money, and Johnny went to prison for a month.