“Yes.”
“Would you not then have found fellatio even more … soothing?”
“I did not allow her to take me in her mouth.”
“That was not the question.”
“If,” Jake replied, seething, “we are now discussing sexual pleasures, in the abstract, as it were, well, yes, I do not hold fellatio to be a disagreeable act.”
“But not with Miss Loebner?”
“No.”
“Because she’s German?”
“Because she did not appeal to me.”
“Have you ever smoked cannabis?”
“I’m a gin man. It’s a question of generations, I suppose … different tastes …”
“But have you ever smoked it?”
“Yes, I have,” he replied sharply. “Once or twice.”
In his closing speech for the Crown, Mr. Pound, his style florid, excoriated the permissive society, warning the jury that the very foundations of society as they knew it were threatened, unless somebody had the common sense to call a halt. He raked over Harry’s testimony and demeanor with scorn. “Stein’s case,” he said, “is pathetically clear-cut. He is a disappointed little fellow, clearly not attractive to women, who forced his gross attentions on an innocent girl. Lying to her, drugging her, and finally beating her. Stein has not had the benefit of a first-class education or upbringing. I daresay my learned friend will play on this stale tune soon enough, telling you about this man’s deprived background, as if it were a license for rape and sodomy. The defense will try to bring tears to your eyes, members of the jury, telling you that though this poor little chap could get glasses on National Health, the welfare state failed to provide him with girls.” Mr. Pound clucked his tongue. He shook his head. “And, after all, these are permissive days, and everything the prisoner has seen in the so-called adult cinema, or in Soho strip clubs, tells him that he has a right to everything. Even to satisfying his very special tastes. For Stein, you know, is something of a photographer. As you have heard, he regularly photographs nude girls in chains. The sort of girls available for such work in squalid Soho basements. Oh, yes, Stein’s case is all too familiar. He is flotsam. The driftwood that floats in the brackish waters of the I’m-all-right-Jack society. Stroll through the streets of Soho, the back alleys of this once proud city, and within the shadow of Nelson’s column you will uncover a plethora of Steins, lingering outside pornography shops and strip-club displays …”
Mr. Pound reminded the jury of Jake’s affluence and called their attention once more to the saddle and riding crop kept by a man who was no equestrian himself. “You must ask yourselves why, members of the jury, and to what purpose.” Hersh, he suggested, was possibly the true villain of this sordid affair. “At once more privileged, I put it to you, and more blameworthy. He is not an embittered little man, like Stein, denied his share of materialism’s cornucopia. He is well educated, successful, talented, married, with three children. He lives in style, mingling with cinema stars in Mayfair’s most fashionable restaurants. Look at it this way. He is so successful in his chosen field that he earns rather more annually than the prime minister of this country. Why, oh why, you must be asking yourselves, would such a man, seemingly blessed with all that this world can provide, stoop to such perversions? Let me suggest this to you, members of the jury, he is so arrogant a man, accustomed to directing fantasies under set conditions, that this time he attempted to carry over into actuality the prerequisites of his trade, he wished to direct real people in x-certificate scenes, as it were.”
Overflowing with self-content, Mr. Pound smiled at Sir Lionel Watkins. Sir Lionel nodded, acknowledging a goodie.
In conclusion, Mr. Pound suggested that Hersh, like those overpaid pop stars who sprang up overnight, felt there was one law for him and another for squares, their contemptuous word for Godfearing people. He reminded them of the medical evidence. An act of sodomy had been committed. Miss Loebner, however charming she had found Stein, however soothing she had proven to Hersh, had been drugged. She had been raped. It was the jury’s duty to find Stein and Hersh guilty as charged.
Rising on Stein’s behalf, the mellifluous Mr. William Coxe complimented the jury for their attentiveness and self-evident intelligence. He advised them, “You are not here to judge Stein for his erotic tastes. It is no crime, members of the jury, to take artistic photographs of nude ladies. Indeed, I have seen them in the color supplement of the Sunday Times. Whether we like it or not, the blushes that one once saw at the very whisper of the word ‘sex’ have disappeared from the cheeks of young people.” He told them that it was not necessary to be enamored of Stein to find him innocent. He was not an entrant in a popularity contest. He was not on trial for his character. Promiscuity, however distasteful it was to the jury, as it was to him, was no crime. Stein was charged with sodomy, rape, indecent assault, and the possession of cannabis, and it might go very hard for him if he were found guilty. He should not be so found if there was any reasonable doubt. “You are asked to believe, members of the jury, that Miss Loebner was raped, violated, and held a prisoner. Oh dear, oh dear. How did this dreadful thing come about? She was picked up at midnight in a coffee bar and went to Hersh’s house, expecting … not to be seduced, heavens no … but a screen test …”
Sir Lionel Watkins stood at the bar next.
“Members of the jury,” he pointed out at once, “this much abused man does not stand in the dock because he owns a house in Hampstead with a walled garden. He did not acquire this house illegally, but by dint of hard work and talent. Neither does he stand before you because he dines in fashionable restaurants or moves in glittering company. It is only ill luck, a combination of fortuitous circumstances, that have brought this man where he stands now. Had he not returned a day early from Canada, he would not have intruded on his friend, enjoying a liaison with a compliant girl. Had he not found this girl disgusting, and tossed her out of his home in anger, she would not have complained to the police, bringing him here before you, the innocent victim of an amoral girl’s vindictive fantasies …”
Sir Lionel concentrated on Miss Loebner’s story, denigrating it with zeal.
“How was this shrinking prisoner of love taken?” he demanded. “Was she abducted in a motorcar? Frog-marched to the house in Hampstead? Was she seized and overcome by force in a dark alley? No. She sailed out of a coffee bar, arm in arm with Stein.” He reminded the jury of Ungerman’s testimony and the cannabis that had been found in her room. He insisted that nothing was proven against Hersh, except foolishness, perhaps, and the jury should discharge him forthwith.
Mr. Justice Beal, fiddling with his notes, sympathized with the jury, who had, he said, to search for the needle of truth within a haystack of contradictory testimony. Somebody, obviously, was dissembling. But who? “In deciding that question, I daresay you will not be swayed by emotion or prejudice one way or another. You will cogitate and come to a conclusion based on reason.” He sifted through the evidence for them again. “If your state of mind after you have reflected on these matters is this: ‘We are suspicious. We are inclined to think they did it, but we are not quite sure,’ then the prisoners are entitled to what is called in English law the benefit of the doubt, and you are bound to return a verdict of not guilty. It is for the prosecution to prove a man guilty. They must satisfy you. It is probably unnecessary for me to say to you that you must not approach the matter in the attitude of the juryman who said when he saw the prisoner in the dock, ‘If he had not been doing something dodgy he would not have been there.’ The prisoners in the dock are presumed innocent until the prosecution has proved them guilty.”
The court adjourned for lunch and when it assembled again, at 2:30, the jury was ready with its verdict.
The Clerk of the Court rose and asked, “Members of the jury, are you agreed on your verdict?”
“We are,” the foreman replied.
“How say you then – do you find the prisoner, Jacob Hersh, guilty or not guilty of
aiding and abetting sodomy?”
“Not guilty, my lord.”
“Do you find the prisoner at the Bar guilty or not guilty of indecent assault?”
“Guilty.”
“You say that the prisoner at the Bar, Jacob Hersh, is guilty and that is the verdict of you all?”
“Yes.”
“Do you find him guilty or not guilty of possession of cannabis?”
“Not guilty.”
“And so say you all?”
“Yes.”
“Prisoner at the Bar, you stand convicted of indecent assault of Miss Ingrid Loebner.”
Then the charges against Harry were dealt with.
“How say you then – do you find the prisoner, Harry Stein, guilty or not guilty of sodomy?”
“Guilty.”
“Do you find him guilty or not guilty of rape?”
“Guilty.”
“Do you find him guilty or not guilty of the possession of cannabis?”
“Not guilty.”
“And that is the verdict of you all?”
“Yes. It is the verdict of us all.”
“Prisoner at the Bar, you stand convicted of the acts of sodomy and rape against Miss Ingrid Loebner.”
Before Jake was sentenced, Lucas Robin Scott was summoned to the witness box to testify to his character.
It was quickly established that he was the son of Senator James Colin Scott, O.B.E., and that from Upper Canada College he had gone on to Victoria College, University of Toronto, graduating with an Honors Degree in English Literature. He was a playwright and script writer. He had won the Governor-General’s Award for Literature, he was a former Guggenheim Fellow, and the author of two prize-winning scripts. His voice breaking, Luke testified that he had known the prisoner for twelve years. They had shared an apartment in Toronto and had come to England together. He was a man of singular good character, a model husband and father, and the most generous of friends. “I cannot imagine him,” Luke said, his voice filled with anger, “being guilty of any of the things he has been charged with in this court.”
Jake watched, stunned, with a tendency to giggle, for it was all happening to somebody else. It wasn’t him they were going to sentence.
“Prisoner at the Bar, have you anything to say before sentence is passed.”
“No, my lord.”
Mr. Justice Beal sighed heavily. He consulted his notes. He motioned for the Clerk of the Court to step up to him and they whispered together. Mr. Justice Beal nodded, he cleared his throat.
“You have been a confounded fool, Hersh. You are a man with every advantage, obviously intelligent and talented, yet today you stand here disgraced.” He shook his head, appalled. “Through folly, and sheer egoism, perhaps, you have formed an association with a man of obvious disreputable character, placing your family and your property in jeopardy. How in God’s name could you form an association with Stein in the first place?”
Jake made no reply.
“If I’m not sending you to prison today, which could be a mistake, it’s out of pity for your family. Not you. I do believe your wife and children have suffered enough for your folly. I do not see how your imprisonment would serve any useful social purpose. On the contrary. It would only exacerbate your family’s suffering. You have been a party to some disgusting acts, Hersh, but I’m going to give you a chance. I hope you have learned a lesson. I am fining you £500 and costs of the prosecution.” With a pained expression, Mr. Justice Beal added, “It remains to be seen if I have made a silly mistake. Do you understand me, Hersh?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“The prisoner is discharged.”
Harry had brought nobody to the Old Bailey to testify to his good character. He said he had no friends. So, without preamble, the Clerk of the Court called on Detective Inspector Mallory to testify as to his previous convictions. Three years for attempted blackmail in 1952. Another two years for attempting malicious and grievous bodily harm to a young lady in 1957.
“You are a humbug, Stein, and a troublemaker of the most reprehensible sort. In my opinion, what we need is an island, somewhere where people like you could be sent. Not so much out of sight, out of mind, but to protect the public. For you are a menace, a persistent public menace. I know very well that I will be criticized for this in the liberal press tomorrow morning, but it seems to me that men like you are let out of prison only to prey on other members of society. Your record is a prime example of the unfortunate fallacy of passing light sentences by the Court of Criminal Appeal. I think the wrong policy has been adopted in the past with respect to men who obviously intend to lead a life of sexual perversion and crime. Unduly light sentences in the past, in my opinion, are responsible in no small part for the present serious increase in sexual perversion and crime.”
Handed some papers by the Clerk of Court, Mr. Justice Beal combed through Harry’s record in excruciating detail; and then he sentenced him to seven years’ imprisonment.
Harry opened his mouth, he closed his mouth. He opened his mouth again, the obscenity dying on his lips, inadequate. Jake grasped him. On his other side, a warder grabbed his arm.
20
FOLLOWING THE TRIAL, JAKE DIDN’T READ HIS MAIL. There was nobody he wanted to hear from. So Jenny’s letter lay unopened like the rest.
The day after Mr. Justice Beal pronounced, Nancy suggested they go to the country for a week, taking the baby, but leaving Sammy and Molly with Mrs. Hersh. Jake wouldn’t have it. “This will just about clean us out. I should look for work.”
But whenever his agent called, he asked Nancy to say he was out. He didn’t look at any of the scripts that were delivered by hand. Instead, he sat on the garden bench, under the horse chestnut tree, watching Sammy and Molly at play, doing the Times crossword in the morning and burning leaves in the afternoon. Prey for Mrs. Hersh.
“… then I feel this pain in the right armpit, so I rush to make an appointment with Dr. Bercovitch, you know, the one who did the biopsy on my breasts. He said not to rely on my feeling for lumps. There was a swelling in the glands of my right arm, but Dr. Bercovitch said it was there three years ago. You’re not listening, Jake.”
When Luke came, as he did almost every afternoon, Nancy sent Pilar out with a tray of drinks and drove Mrs. Hersh and the children out of the garden, so that the two old friends could be alone. But each afternoon, it seemed to Nancy, Luke did all the talking and Jake sat comatose. One afternoon, as soon as Luke had gone, Jake came into the kitchen and said: “Luke’s given me his new script. He wants me to do it.”
That night in bed Nancy was encouraged when he switched on his bedside lamp and actually read the script right through. “It’s not bad,” he allowed grudgingly.
“Your enthusiasm overwhelms me.”
“But I’ve been waiting for this moment for years, you know. I dream about it. Ever since he got another director to do his play, I said to myself one day he’s going to come to me, the bastard, he’s going to come script in hand, because he needs me, and I’m going to tell him to stuff it.”
“That settles it, then, does it?”
“No. It doesn’t. Because Luke can have his pick of directors. He doesn’t need me at all. He’s being kind.”
“You’re as talented as any of them,” she said by rote.
“Am I?”
“All right, then. Are you, Jake? Are you really? You’re arrogant, I’ll grant you that. But I don’t know if you’re a really fine director, because you’ve never had a proper chance.”
Startled, he protested, “I thought you liked my first film.”
“Yes. As a first film. A young man’s film. But you haven’t done anything better since.”
“I see.”
“You have a choice, Jake. I can be your wife or your nurse. You tell me which you want.”
“Wow.”
“I’ve put up with a lot, you know. It hasn’t been fun. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in mourning for Harry. Or reading alon
e in bed while you commune with the Horseman in your aerie. Even the children are upset now. ‘Don’t bother Daddy, he’s depressed.’ ‘Don’t ask Daddy for anything now, he’s troubled.’ I’m not bringing them up like that.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“If the script’s good, do it. You owe it to all of us.”
“I haven’t noticed that any of you have gone without because of my self-indulgence. I haven’t been such a bad provider over the years.”
“I didn’t marry you because of what you could provide. There were infinitely better providers who wanted me. I married you because I loved you.”
Jake started to read the script again. He had only reached page ten when she began to sob brokenly. He tried to take her in his arms, but she drew away from him.
“Was it in this bed?”
“I did not make love to her.”
“You were naked together on a bed. I read the papers, you know. And if I didn’t there were enough friends to phone me. Did you know that Natalie was at the Old Bailey every day? And Ethel?”
“I didn’t notice. I had other things to worry about.”
“Were you with her on this bed?”
“I am not answering any more questions. I’m sick of answering questions.”
“Did she take you in her mouth?”
“Yes, your lordship. No, your lordship.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Yes, she took me in her mouth, but I shoved her off.”
“She’s pretty.”
He laughed dryly.
“Did you feel her breasts?”
“Yes.”
“She hasn’t had any babies.”
“Oh, Nancy, my darling, please.”
“Did you touch her between the legs?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Ben’s crying. You’d better get him.”
“We never go to a restaurant that you don’t devour the other women with your eyes.”
St. Urbain's Horseman Page 42