It was time to adjourn the court.
“Members of the jury,” Mr. Justice Beal said, “I need hardly say you will take care not to speak to anybody about this case, and tell me if anybody approaches you about it.”
Ingrid resumed her testimony at 10:30 on Friday morning. She told the court about the saddle and the use Harry had put it to. She said he wanted to take photographs and threatened her with violence.
“What did Stein do then?”
“He forced me on to the rug, facing downwards.”
“And then what happened?”
“He forced his cock up my ass hole.”
“Did you resist?”
“But, naturally. It hurt me. But he held the riding crop in his hand.”
“How long did this go on?”
“I can’t remember. I think I passed out.”
“When did Hersh appear again?”
“It was four o’clock. I remember that.”
“Was he dressed?”
“He was wearing a dressing gown, but you could see it.”
“See what?”
“His gown was not belted. It hung open.”
“What did he do?”
“He was very angry with Stein.”
“Why?”
“Not because he had done it to me. He didn’t care, the fucking.” She stopped, flushing. “Excuse me, your lordship.”
Mr. Justice Beal waved her on.
“The witness’s grasp of English is imperfect,” Mr. Pound said. “She doesn’t realize which words are offensive.”
“Carry on, please, Mr. Pound.”
“Yes, your lordship. Why was he angry then?”
“Over the rifle. And the saddle. Especially the saddle. He took Stein into another room and shouted at him, and when Stein came out, yeah, he put the saddle aside.”
“Could you not have taken advantage of their absence to escape?”
“I had no clothes. They had a gun. They had the riding crop. And they were back presently, yeah?”
“And then what happened?”
“At first Hersh was very kind. He poured drinks. He sat down beside me and all he made me do was, well, he took my hand and put it on his thing.”
“His penis.”
“Yes. It was so. Then his mood changed. He asked me had I ever been in the Hitler Youth. I said I was born too late. This made him laugh. I said my older brother had been in the Hitler Jugend, it was all a nonsense. My father saved Jews in the war. This made him laugh even more. He thought it was funny.”
“Did you know Hersh was Jewish?”
“It’s a drag. Who cares?”
“Answer yes or no, please.”
“I did not know. Then he told me. I said you are so nice, I would not have guessed. He didn’t look, you know. Well, maybe my English was not right. But he turned very, very angry in the face.”
“And then what happened?”
“He pushed me. He shoved me. He grabbed me very, very hard here,” she said, indicating her arm, “and he told Stein get her dressed and out of here immediately.”
“Then what happened?”
“Stein thought this was a bad idea. He said to keep me prisoner until the morning. I have marks on me, he said. Hersh shoved him too. He shouted I want her out of here right now.”
So Stein, in spite of his misgivings, at last allowed Ingrid her clothes and she escaped.
“It was a nightmare,” she said, breaking down.
Cross-examining, Sir Lionel Watkins was swift but lethal. He established, in short order, that it was not unusual for Miss Loebner to sit in The Scene until midnight. He confronted her with the fact that the police had found a small quantity of cannabis in her room; and so, possibly, she would recognize a joint when and if she was offered one.
“It was not mine,” she cried. “A student friend left it there with his sleeping bag, yeah. I did not even know it was there.”
He also got her to admit that she had not gone to the police station herself, but had been stopped by a cruising patrol car. Then, without warning, he demanded, “Are you on the pill, Miss Loebner?”
She looked to the bench where Mr. Pound sat.
“Miss Loebner, do you understand my question?”
“Yes.”
“Yes you understand my question or yes you take the pill?”
“Yes. The pill. I take it.”
“Were you on the pill the night of June twelfth?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Odd. I should have thought that would be most important to you.”
Why, Sir Lionel demanded, had Ingrid not thrown a vase through a window and screamed for help? Or a chair? Why, once left alone in the living room, had she not fled into the streets nude rather than suffer gross indecencies?
She quit the stand, visibly shaken, holding a handkerchief to her face. Then Mr. William Coxe opened for the defense, on behalf of Stein. Mr. Coxe expressed sympathy for the jury, decent people, who had already been subjected to some plainspoken testimony, especially from the aggrieved Miss Loebner, whose uncertain grasp of the Queen’s English encompassed an exact knowledge of those words that were usually associated with the gutter. “The charge brought against Stein,” he said, “has always been easy to bring, but terrifyingly difficult to prove and, contrary to what you have heard from my learned friend, the medical evidence does not support the charge of violence. You are asked to believe, members of the jury, that Miss Loebner was raped, violated, and held a prisoner, but it is the case for the defense that she went happily with Stein to Hersh’s house and …”
Jake began to drift, his mind elsewhere, until Sir Lionel Watkins, a spare man with a severe manner, stood at the bar, and opened the defense on his behalf. Sir Lionel’s main point was that Miss Loebner had lied for two reasons. “When the police discovered her, she was high on cannabis, an offense for which she could be deported forthwith. She was also fearful of her employer’s ire, for this, as we have heard, was not the first, or indeed the second, time she had been out all night, but her employer had warned her it would be her last. Unless she had a cracking good story to explain her absence.”
On and on Sir Lionel rolled, inevitable as the tide, his wrath rising to crash against the jury in a splendiferous crescendo. “Her last words, on being flung out of Hersh’s house, were, I’ll fix you for this, you mother-fucker bastard. I will fix you for this, you mother-fucker bastard.”
As Sir Lionel sat down, Jake surged with hope, he basked in the jury’s rueful glances. Jacob Hersh, the ill-used bourgeois, a good white colonial type, albeit a Jew, victimized by a scheming foreign tart. All Jake’s antennae screamed reprieve, reprieve, and then Harry was called to the stand, and even as he padded across the well of the court, his complexion sallow, his fixed smile scornful, Jake felt the wind change. He shuddered with apprehension himself.
Mr. Coxe smiled reassuringly, trying to put Harry at ease.
“Could you tell us exactly what happened when you entered The Scene coffee bar on Finchley Road?”
“I sat at a table, ordered a coffee, and then this bird sat down beside me, high on pot. We got to talking.”
“Did you tell the girl,” he said, flashing Harry a warning look, “who you were?”
“I did not say I was Jacob Hersh. I’m attractive to women, you see. I don’t need to chat them up. Or write to them on House of Commons notepaper, like John Profumo.”
Mr. Justice Beal’s hands fluttered. Mr. Pound sat back, beaming; he whispered something to his junior, who smiled, holding a hand to his mouth.
“My question was –”
“I told her my name was Stein.”
“And then what happened?”
“I did not offer her a part in a film. I invited her back to the house for a drink and some fun.”
“And then what happened?”
“She couldn’t wait, that’s what happened.”
“But she did read from the script we had all seen?”
&nbs
p; “We played a game or two.”
Harry denied using force. Miss Loebner was more than eager for it, he said. He did not strike her with a riding crop. “But she asked me to. A lot of them like it, you know. Especially your Kensington Gore types. It excites them.”
“I would appreciate it immensely if you would confine your remarks to the events that took place in the house.”
He had not committed sodomy with Miss Loebner. “She begged me to, but it’s not my line. I’m not an establishment type. I was nobody’s fag at Eton.”
Mr. Pound rose to cross-examine Harry, his appetite mingled with pity, and he quickly pointed out that the medical evidence had shown traces of sperm in Miss Loebner’s anus.
“On her impassioned urging, I attempted entry. I teased her backside, but I couldn’t bring myself to actually do it.”
“Then you did not commit sodomy with Miss Loebner, in spite of her invitation?”
“No. The proof is when Jake – Hersh – came downstairs again she said to him, Hey, man, your friend won’t bugger me, he’s not the back-door type, what about you?”
Jake, who was to testify next, cringed in the dock.
“Could you tell us,” Mr. Pound asked, “how Miss Loebner left the house?”
“Like I said, we wanted her to stay to breakfast, but, suddenly, she panicked. She said she had to get back to her place before her employer wakened, but would we like to see her tomorrow night.”
“She offered to return?”
“She said she hadn’t had such a ball since she’d had it off with a couple of West Indians.”
Then Mr. Pound shifted to the question of Sergeant Hoare. “Did you say to Sergeant Hoare, when he came to arrest you, that No Cossack is going to plant a bloody brick on me?”
“It has happened, hasn’t it? It’s a matter of record.”
“You did say it to him, then?”
“Yes. I’m experienced in these matters, don’t you see?”
Mr. Pound faltered. He turned to Mr. Justice Beal for instruction. Leaping up, Mr. Coxe asked, “Would your lordship permit me to have a word with my client? I did already caution him, but …”
“Will it be necessary for the jury to leave the court?”
“No, your lordship.”
“Do you wish to have a word with him here or below?”
“Here, your lordship.”
Mr. Coxe warned Harry that nobody knew of his previous record; it could not be introduced until after the jury had reached their verdict. Even then, only if he were found guilty.
Resuming for the prosecution, Mr. Pound asked, “You say you played a game or two with Miss Loebner. Did that include concealing her clothes?”
“No. It did not. She was free to leave at any time.”
As Harry quit the witness box, bristling with defiance, Jake sensed the jury’s revulsion.
Jake was overcome with despair, he felt undone, as he himself was sworn in.
Sir Lionel asked, “Were you expected at your home on the night of June twelfth?”
“No. I was to arrive the following day.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“Montreal.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was on family business.”
Questioned more closely, Jake allowed he had gone to attend his father’s funeral and, as is the religious custom, was observing a week of mourning.
“What happened when you arrived at your house?”
“I’m afraid I took Stein and Miss Loebner by surprise.”
“Did Miss Loebner seem distressed?”
“She most certainly did not.”
“What was she wearing?”
“She was nude.”
“Didn’t this embarrass her?”
“Far from it.”
“Did Stein then offer you the girl? Did he say, Do you want her now? She’s crazy for it all ways.”
“No. He did not.”
“And then what happened?”
“She came to my bedroom, with brandy on a tray.”
“At your request?”
“No. Of her own volition.”
“Did you discuss your rifle with her?”
“No. I did not.”
“What happened in your bedroom?”
“She attempted to fondle my penis, but I told her I was tired. I wished to have a bath. I sent her downstairs.”
Jake said it was four o’clock when he wakened and went downstairs himself.
“Did you waken because you heard disturbing sounds from downstairs?”
“I wakened with a headache. I heard laughter from downstairs. Moans of pleasure. That’s all.”
They skipped Jake’s quarrel with Harry over the saddle and the rifle. Jake admitted he couldn’t remember whether his dressing gown was belted or not.
“You were still in a distressed state.”
“That is correct.”
“How did Miss Loebner greet you?”
Jake hesitated. He bit his lip. “She called out, Hey, man, your friend won’t bugger me, he’s not the back-door type, what about you?”
“What was your reply?”
“Some lame joke. I don’t remember.”
“What happened then?”
“I sat down on the sofa. She sat down beside me.”
“And then what happened?”
“She began to stroke my penis.”
“And what did you do?”
“Nothing.”
There was a pause.
“I was tired,” Jake said. “It was soothing.”
“Then what happened?”
“She got overexcited. I made her stop.”
“And what happened next?”
“She was insulted. We quarreled. Suddenly, I had had quite enough. I insisted she leave the house.”
“Did you handle her roughly?”
“No. Not roughly. Well, I did shove her, perhaps.”
“And then what happened?”
“She said, I will fix you for this, you mother-fucker bastard.”
It was time to adjourn, and Mr. Pound deferred his cross-examination of Hersh until Monday morning.
Harry, who had begun to flake and peel ever since they had first appeared together in Magistrates’ Court, had no skin left now. Only flesh. Over the long and agonizing weekend, a largely sleepless weekend, Jake was in and out of Ruthy’s flat, where Harry was staying.
“You looked at me like I was a lump of shit,” Harry charged. “When I finished my testimony, I looked at you in the dock, my friend, and I saw it in your eyes, no different from the others. Harry Stein is a lump of shit.”
Ruthy, whatever resources she had being exhausted, was perpetually in tears.
“If they put this man behind bars, I’m going to wear black until the day he comes out. I will stand in front of your door every morning dressed in black.”
“I mightn’t be home, Ruthy. We may be tossed into prison together.”
“I’ve been a widow once. I don’t deserve this. God shouldn’t let me be a widow a second time.”
Harry broke out in shingles. He had a cold sore on his lip. He vacillated between castigating Jake, threatening him, and then suddenly revealing the gentle side of his nature, the crushed soul within. He was exhausting, his mood changing from moment to moment.
“If they find me guilty, and not you, I’m going to alter my testimony. I’m going to say you challenged me to bugger her.”
“That would be a lie,” Jake replied wearily.
“Oh, listen to that! I say! Aren’t you lying in there?”
“Yes. Like a trooper.”
“Didn’t you have any fun with her?”
“Yes, Harry. I did.”
Harry assumed a falsetto voice. “Did she place her hand on your cock? Yes, Sir Fuck Face, it was ever so soothing. Soothing, was it? Is that what it was?”
“Shettup, Harry.”
Then, as Jake seemed despondent, Harry said without rancor, “
Not to worry, mate. It will all be over for you tomorrow.”
“Will it?”
“In the end, it’s class that counts in this country. There are only two rotters in there. Me, and Ingrid.” He ruffled Jake’s hair. “Hey, remember that day we had champagne together at the White Elephant?”
“Yeah. That was fun.”
“Out of all the people you knew, you chose me to celebrate your son’s birth with.”
“Yes,” Jake lied.
“You said not everybody’s rotten. Well, I don’t think you’re rotten. You’ve been a friend to me, just like you said.”
And, all at once, he was seized with indignation again.
“It’s the marks on her arm that’s going to do us in. You made them, throwing her out. Not me. If you hadn’t lost your temper, neither of us would be in court.”
Sunday night Jake did not even attempt to sleep. He lay in bed with Nancy, chain-smoking and drinking cognac.
“My life seems to function in compartments,” he said. “When I’m in Montreal, I don’t believe in my life here with you and the children. In court, it seems I was born in the dock, there was no life before and there will be nothing after. But lying here with you, I can’t even believe that I’m expected to turn up in court again in the morning.”
Maybe to be sentenced, she thought.
“They’re skinning me alive in there, Nancy. I am insulted. I have never been so profoundly insulted.”
“It will all be over tomorrow evening.”
“The lies. My God, we’re all lying. The barristers. Harry, me, Ingrid. Everybody’s lying. It’s incredible.”
In the morning, he walked Sammy to school, holding his hand all the way. He returned to the house and took Molly to school, telling her a story about Rabbi Akiba. Once more, he refused to allow Nancy to come to the Old Bailey. He absolutely forbade it. Ormsby-Fletcher arrived in his black Humber.
“I am expecting you for dinner,” Nancy said.
“Yes. Certainly. See you later, darling.”
Mrs. Hersh’s head darted out of the door.
“Good luck, ketzelle.”
“Thanks, Maw.”
At 10:30, Jake was sworn in again, and Mr. Pound began his cross-examination.
It went well to begin with, but then Jake had had enough. He was undone by nerves and indignation.
“You have told us,” Mr. Pound said, “how you found it …” here he paused, determined to find the exact word … “how you found it … soothing … to have Miss Loebner stroke your penis.”
St. Urbain's Horseman Page 41