St. Urbain's Horseman

by Mordecai Richler

  “I should hope not,” Jake replied fiercely.

  “You’re too worried, Mr. Hersh. In my opinion, you haven’t much to fear.”

  “Oh,” Jake said cautiously.

  “It’s bad luck your being involved with Stein. He’s a villain. He’s got a nasty record. Did you know that?”

  “I don’t think we should discuss the case any more.”

  “Not to worry. This is all unofficial. We didn’t find any cannabis in Stein’s flat, you know.”

  “Harry doesn’t smoke pot.”

  “Maybe not. He could keep it for his girls. He’s a very fancy fellow, you know. Something of a photography buff.”

  “Mmmn,” Jake said.

  “I should think pot will be legalized soon enough, wouldn’t you?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “You ever tried it yourself?”

  “I shouldn’t discuss these things with you.”

  Mallory looked wounded.

  “I will say one thing and no more,” Jake said. “Harry did not rape that girl.”

  “Maybe not this one,” Mallory allowed, rising. “Well, we shan’t be bothering you again.”

  “Sorry we didn’t meet under more pleasant circumstances,” Jake said.

  “Good luck in court.”

  It was all so agreeable, so bracingly civilized, that Jake was lulled into a sense of well-being until he saw that instead of getting into his car and driving off, Mallory strolled next door to see Lady Dry Cunt. He emerged an hour later to ring the Clarkes’ bell.

  Jake and Harry met with Ormsby-Fletcher every afternoon and most evenings, mulling over the police depositions, as well as the brief Ormsby-Fletcher was preparing, in the days leading up to their hearing in Magistrates’ Court, Great Marlborough Street.

  The hearing got off to a rocky start. Once the barrister who was appearing for the Director of Public Prosecutions had opened the case, outlining the charges against Stein and Hersh, Ormsby-Fletcher rose for the defense.

  “Your Worship,” he began, “as you may know, my client is a well-known film director, particularly vulnerable to bad publicity. As I strongly feel the case against him will go no further than this court, I ask that this examination should be conducted in private as you are allowed to do by section 4 (2) of the Magistrates’ Courts Act, 1952.”

  His Worship didn’t ponder. He hardly blinked.

  “I am afraid I cannot accede to your request. It is the general practice of the courts to hold these preliminary examinations in public, and I see no reason at this moment for departing from that practice.”

  The barrister for the Crown concluded his opening speech without any further interruptions. Then the depositions of the witnesses were taken and read aloud to them by the Clerk of the court. Ingrid signed hers, then Detective Inspector Mallory signed, followed by Sergeant Hoare and the police doctor. They all entered into a recognizance to give evidence at the Old Bailey, if the case were committed for trial.

  Gilbray, a colleague of Ormsby-Fletcher’s appearing for Stein, pleaded not guilty and reserved his client’s defense. Then Ormsby-Fletcher, simulating impatience, bravely raised the flag for the defense once more.

  “Your Worship,” he said, “I submit there is no case here for my client to answer and none to justify a committal for trial. The evidence against my client is thin and inconclusive. Even supposing the girl was raped, there is nothing to show my client was anything more than a bewildered bystander to the act. Surely such evidence does not justify you putting my client to the expense and anxiety of a trial.”

  His Worship did not agree.

  “As you well know,” he said, “I have not to be satisfied beyond reasonable doubt that the defendant raped Ingrid Loebner. That is a much higher standard of proof which must be attained before a jury can convict. I must be satisfied only ‘that there is sufficient evidence to put the accused upon trial.’ As the case now stands, I am so satisfied unless the prisoner in giving evidence himself or by calling witnesses is able to convince me that the evidence is insufficient.”

  But the prisoner, Hersh, remained silent. He made no statement. He gave no evidence.

  “My client,” Ormsby-Fletcher said, “pleads not guilty and reserves his defense.”

  “Very well.” His Worship turned to Jake. “You will be committed for trial at the next sessions of the Central Criminal Court.”

  19

  MORE THAN THREE MONTHS PASSED BEFORE JAKE actually stood with Harry in the dock of Number One Court of the Old Bailey, or more properly the Central Criminal Court, at 2:30 on a Thursday afternoon in October. The dock, an octagonal-shaped structure with glass panels in black wooden frames, measured sixteen feet by fourteen feet, sufficient to hold up to twenty prisoners. It faced the bench.

  The presiding judge, Mr. Justice Beal, sat on the bench. Not on the center chair, under the elegant Palladian arch, flanked by pillars, with the coat of arms of Edward VII at the top and the Sword of Justice, pointing upwards, in the center, for this seat was traditionally reserved for the Lord Mayor of London as senior Commissioner. Mr. Justice Beal filled the chair next to it, resting his enormous bottom on a green velvet pillow.

  The necessarily somber, oak-lined Number One Court was really astonishingly small, measuring forty-four by fifty-six feet, but this did ensure that the tone of the proceedings was subdued, conversational, as it were, rather than overblown. Below the bewigged judge there was a table for the Clerk of the Court and below that the well of the court. To the left of the well, there were benches for counsel, those for the prosecution being nearest the judge and those for the defense being closest to the prisoners. Counsel for Regina, instructed by the Director of Public Prosecutions, was Mr. Peregrine Pound, Q.C., assisted by Mr. Henry Fraser. Counsel for the defense, instructed by Messrs. Ormsby-Fletcher & Co., Solicitors, was Sir Lionel Watkins, Q.C., and Mr. Guy Harrington, on behalf of the prisoner Jacob Hersh; Mr. William Coxe and Mr. Julian Fowler on behalf of the prisoner Stein. On the right of the well of the court, there were benches for officials and the press, and to the right of the press benches, there was the jury box. The witness box, supplied with a microphone, was set between the bench and the jury box. There were also a number of benches, as well as a gallery, available to the public, who were free to drift in and out as they liked.

  The Clerk of the Court charged Harry Stein with sodomy, rape, indecent assault, and the possession of cannabis. “Harry Stein,” he said, “are you guilty or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty.”

  Jacob Hersh was charged with aiding and abetting sodomy, a reduced charge of indecent assault, and the possession of cannabis. He, too, pleaded not guilty.

  “May it please your lordship, members of the jury,” the avuncular Mr. Pound began, opening for the prosecution, “there is a letter and some pages of film script which I think I shall have to refer to in my opening address.”

  Mr. Justice Beal allowed him to pass out some pages of film script to the jury, pages from The Good Britons, and then he read the pages aloud.

  Peregrine Pound described how Ingrid Loebner, an au pair girl, had been picked up by Stein in a coffee bar, The Scene, on Finchley Road, and had been tricked into accompanying him to Hersh’s house. A detached nine-room dwelling, with a walled garden, in the most enviable part of Hampstead. “Stein promised her there would be no ‘funny stuff’ and even assured her that his wife was at home. He further alleviated the girl’s suspicions by purporting to be Hersh, a reputable film director, and showing her such bona fides and press clippings as would support this claim.”

  Here Mr. Pound graciously apologized for a digression. “But I should make it clear, members of the jury, that the au pair girl is no common domestic. She is normally the well-brought-up daughter of a respectable middle-class family, come to this country to learn the language, paying her way by being a mother’s help, living as one of the family. Dame Joan Vickers, Conservative M.P. for Devonport, and for years,” Mr. Pound ventur
ed, “a veritable Joan of Arc of the au pair girls, has only recently spoken of the hazards into which a green girl, inexperienced and far from home – under an alien sky, as it were – might fall.”

  Mr. Pound paused to peer at the jury over his bifocals.

  “Stein’s ‘wife’ was not at home when Miss Loebner arrived, but he assured her she would soon be with them. Meanwhile, he offered her a drink and what she took to be a cigarette, but what was actually cannabis. He showed her the pages of script I have read to you. She protested she could not read for a part which obliged her to appear in no more than a bra, a corset, and high-button shoes. He was reassuring. It would not be necessary, he said.”

  But Miss Loebner, he went on to explain, her resistance weakened by drink and drug, soon found herself reading for Stein clad only in her bra and panties.

  “Even so,” Mr. Pound said, “she would not acquiesce to anything more, and when he made physical advances to her, she resisted. She threatened to scream for help. Which is when he put a record on the player, Lumpy Gravy by Frank Zappa, playing it very loud indeed. Stein became menacing. He brandished a riding crop. He warned Miss Loebner that if he beat her with wet towels they would leave no marks on her body. She discovered that her clothes were hidden. Even then, frightened as she was, under the influence of drugs, she resisted Stein when he attempted to have intercourse with her. She resisted as well as she could under the circumstances, which the medical evidence will abundantly support. Once he had taken his pleasure, Stein seemed to calm down. She hoped that he would pass out, she could retrieve her clothes, and flee. So imagine her consternation when Hersh arrived and instead of the games breaking off, they were to take an even more unpleasant turn.”

  Mr. Pound described the games, such as they were, calling the jury’s attention once more to the saddle and riding crop kept by a man who was no equestrian himself. He told them how Hersh, seizing Miss Loebner by the hair, had forced his erect penis into her mouth and ejaculated therein. And how Stein, inflamed by Hersh’s presence to even greater acts of perversion, penetrated Miss Loebner per anum.

  “It is the case of the Crown,” he concluded, revealing a sudden flash of temper, “that Miss Loebner accompanied Stein to the house, expecting to read for a part in a cinema production. Naïve, perhaps, but not an uncommon dream for a comely young girl. She most certainly did not go to the house with Stein anticipating that she would be beaten – raped – buggered – and be held prisoner until five in the morning by two men, each of them almost twice her age.”

  The amiable Detective Inspector Mallory was the first witness to be sworn in by the prosecution.

  “What,” Mr. Henry Fraser asked him, “did Hersh say to you when you told him he was charged with aiding and abetting sodomy?”

  “He said, ‘What can I get for that?’ I told him seven years to life.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “He said as British law seemed to value property above everything else, and he quoted the thirty-year sentences of the Great Train Robbery as an example, then it would seem to follow that there was no property on this island quite so precious as Miss Loebner’s bottom.”

  Eventually, they got to Mallory’s second visit to the house.

  “Did you then discuss cannabis with him?” Mr. Fraser asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I asked him if he thought it should be legalized. He said the sooner the better.”

  Cross-examining, Mr. Guy Harrington asked, “Did you find any cannabis in Hersh’s house?”

  “We found the butts of three cigarettes.”

  “In your search, did you find cannabis or even traces of it in drawers or on shelves or anywhere else?”

  “No.”

  “Could the butts you found have been the remains of cigarettes brought into the house by Miss Loebner?”

  “Yes. That’s possible.”

  Then Sir Lionel Watkins, manifestly bored, skewered Inspector Mallory.

  “You say Hersh said cannabis should be legalized. The sooner the better. Is it possible you led Hersh on, suggesting to him that pot would be legalized soon enough, and then inviting his opinion?”

  “No. I did not.”

  “Did you, on your visit to Hersh’s house with a photographer, properly caution him or did you say,” and here he mocked the inspector’s bluff manner, “this is all unofficial, old chap?”

  “I cautioned him.”

  Sir Lionel smiled. He nodded. “That will be all, Inspector.”

  Sergeant Hoare, called to the stand, substantiated Mallory’s testimony and told of his initial difficulties with Stein at the door. The police doctor testified that Miss Loebner, when brought to him, had been in a state of shock, and that on examination he had discovered evidence of both vaginal and anal penetration. Entry of the penis into the anal passage had been eased with vaseline.

  “Would you say entry was forced?”

  “It could have been forced. But it is not necessarily so.”

  “Would you care to explain?”

  “The passage is narrow. If the member were large, and erect, this could account for the bruises.”

  Cross-examining, Mr. Harrington asked, “Were there any scratches on Miss Loebner, indicating a struggle?”

  “There were no anal bruises that would establish beyond doubt that entry was forced. On the other hand, she has a nasty bruise on her forearm. One inner thigh was slightly discolored immediately below the vagina. Her left buttock was also discolored.”

  “Could the last discoloration have been the aftermath of a love tap?”

  “Yes, but rather a strong one.”

  “You say she was in a state of shock?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that not natural, considering she had been picked up by the police at five-thirty in the morning, high on cannabis, and was then asked to submit to a rigorous examination of her private parts?”

  “Yes.”

  Old Lady Dry Cunt was the next to be sworn in.

  “Did you hear or see anything unusual emanating from the Hershes’ house on the night of June twelfth?”

  “I heard music playing loudly.”

  “Lumpy Gravy by Frank Zappa?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said sniffily.

  Ingrid Loebner’s employer, a Mr. Ungerman, was sworn in, and testified to her good character. But, cross-examining, Sir Lionel instantly established that though Miss Loebner had only been with the Ungermans for three months, she had stayed out all night at least four other times.

  “Does she, to your knowledge, smoke cannabis?”

  “No. Not to my knowledge.”

  “What is it you said she burns in her room some evenings?”

  “Incense, I think.”

  “Are you not aware this is burned to conceal the smell of cannabis?”

  Mr. Pound objected strenuously. Sir Lionel withdrew the question.

  Then Ingrid was sworn in.

  “Did your father serve in the war, Miss Loebner?”

  “He was with the medical corps. On the Russian front. It was terrible for them. They had no winter clothes.”

  “Was he a member of the Nazi party?”

  “Never,” she protested vehemently. “I told Hersh. My father disapproved.”

  “Did you also tell Hersh your father was a dentist?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he reply?”

  “If that’s the case, he said, he must have been very busy during the war, extracting gold fillings from Jews.”

  Ingrid described how she had been enticed to Hersh’s house, where she had been plied with liquor and cannabis. Hersh’s actual arrival had been a surprise, she allowed, and she had immediately looked to him for help.

  “What did Stein say when he arrived?”

  “He said, Do you want her now? She’s crazy for it. All ways.”

  “And what did you say to that?”

  “Nothing. I was very frighten
ed.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Stein sent me to Hersh’s bedroom, carrying a tray with brandy.”

  “What were you wearing?”

  “I was naked.”

  “Isn’t that unusual, rather?”

  “He had hidden my clothes,” she protested.

  “Who had?”

  “Stein. He forced me. He warned me, yeah, Hersh was very important. He said he could make me a star, yeah, but he would have to see what I looked like naked. He said I was to please Hersh or they would both be very angry with me.”

  “And you were willing?”

  “But he had hidden my clothes,” she cried. “He had a wet towel in his hand. He had already hit me with it. He warned me the marks didn’t show. I thought I would play for time. I didn’t want him to hurt me again.”

  “What happened when you entered Hersh’s bedroom?”

  “He was in his underwear, yeah? They were blue ones. I asked him why he kept a rifle.”

  “How did you know he had one?”

  “Stein had taken me to see it. He said it didn’t pay to be a disobedient girl in this house.”

  “I see. And what did Hersh say when you asked him why he kept a rifle?”

  “He said he might be planning to shoot some Germans. Maybe you. Who knows.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He grabbed me by the hair and forced me on the bed and made me take it in my mouth.”

  “He obliged you to commit fellatio?”

  “That’s to suck the cock, yeah?”

  Mr. Pound nodded reprovingly. “Yes,” he said.

  “Yes. It was so.”

  “Did you struggle?”

  “I was too frightened.”

  “Did you scream for help?”

  “But my mouth was full, yeah? How could I?”

  “What happened next?”

  “I said to him, yeah, why do you treat me like an animal? He said, because I am kind. It’s more than your father would have done for mine, he said, if he had the chance.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “He was drunken. He wished to sleep. Go away, he said. Go downstairs. You do everything Harry asks or there will be trouble.”