by Neal Roberts
As it has been established that there were no witnesses located near the assailant and victim at the time of the murder, Noah has instructed Jonathan to bring to court a few items that might come in handy in impeaching anyone falsely claiming to have witnessed the crime from afar.
The entry door swings open, and in strides Coke, a handsome figure, followed by his mousy-looking clerk and a well-dressed man of swinish features who appears to be furtively counting something off on his fingers. Coke, assuming the lectern beside Crown table, theatrically bangs a fat book down on it, and the blow resounds through the courtroom like a cannon shot.
Jonathan appears startled. “You know who that is?” he whispers. “It’s Gelly Meyrick.”
“Who’s that?” whispers Noah.
“Lord Essex’s principal attendant,” Jonathan observes. “By his appearance here, it’s a good bet Essex wants our client convicted.”
Noah’s mind races. Why would Essex care about a murder on a farm? Unless … unless he has a grudge against Granger. Or could his grudge be against me? Either way, this trial is about to proceed. His pulse pounds in his ears.
The heavy door leading from the judge’s chambers booms three times, struck from the opposite side by the heel of a powerful bailiff’s staff. “Oyez, oyez, oyez!” cries the bailiff through the closed door. Everyone jumps to his feet. The door swings open on the silent courtroom.
There, in no apparent haste, slouches old Lord Bleffingham, squinting as though he’s been left in the dark a long time, his wig slightly askew, his head bowed at the neck. He gazes first at Crown table, and then defense table, a momentary frown of irritation passing over his face. Looking down at his judicial robe, he brushes away a tiny piece of white lint, and steps hesitantly over the doorsill into the courtroom toward the bench.
The bailiff enters behind him and shouts: “All persons having business before Elizabeth, by the grace of God Queen of England, come forward, and you shall be heard! God save the Queen!”
“God save the Queen!” the assembled echo as one.
The judge climbs up to his perch, and glances at the spectators’ gallery. Spying the group of fresh-faced young barristers, he assumes a threatening countenance. “I need not admonish the spectators that this is a matter of the utmost gravity. A man is on trial for his life!”
Satisfied with the ensuing solemnity, the judge looks to the prisoner waiting in the dock, where Granger, although obviously exhausted by these proceedings and his weeks in prison, stands with admirable dignity, cap in hand. The judge nods to the bailiff, leafs through a leather-bound liber before him, and inks an entry. The bailiff opens a door to admit twelve men who silently assume their place in the jury box. Everyone sits, except three people: the prisoner, Coke, and Noah.
“Very well,” says the judge. “Master Coke! Is the Crown prepared to resume its case?”
“Ready, m’lord,” booms Coke.
The judge looks to defense table. “Is the prisoner ready?”
“Ready, m’lord,” intones Noah. The judge raises an eyebrow, as it is the voice of the prisoner himself that the Court is entitled to hear, not that of a barrister.
“Proceed,” says the judge.
“M’lord,” says Coke, bowing to the judge. He draws himself up to full height, and turns on the prisoner like an attack dog. “You murdered the victim in cold blood with malice in your heart — ”
”That’s false!” shouts Granger.
Coke twirls toward the judge. “M’lord, is the Crown to be interrupted after every sentence? This is outrageous!”
“M’lord,” says Granger humbly. “If I’m not to be beaten down by the best talker in all England, I need to respond to each accusation as it’s made!”
A moment of silence ensues. The judge calmly addresses Coke. “When you fling the fat upon the fire, Master Coke, you must expect a singeing by the flames that follow.” Coke winces at the pun on his name. “The prisoner is a grain merchant, not a debating opponent. It seems to the Court that you are needlessly repeating accusations you have already urged several times.” The judge raises his hand from the desk and makes a gentle dismissive motion. “Let’s move along. This matter should have concluded yesterday.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Coke turns once more upon the prisoner. “I have in my hand a letter from your good friend Master Meyrick in which he informs the Crown that he saw you club the victim in the head in the middle of that field!”
“Who?” asks Granger. “I have no friend by the name of ‘Meyrick.’”
“Oh, not your friend now, eh? I suppose he’s had good and sufficient reason to dispense with your friendship!”
“Never had I a friend by that name! If he’s to make accusations against me, I demand he be sworn, and that I be given a chance to confront him.”
“Oh, be careful, Goodman Granger, or he shall repeat his accusation under oath.”
“Then he’ll be damned for his perjury!” Granger turns to the judge. “Meanin’ no disrespect, m’lord, but this man Meyrick is lyin’ about me, and I respectfully demand to see him lie to me face.”
Coke regards Granger with open skepticism, his voice oozing sarcasm. “But Master Meyrick is right here beside me, m’lord, and the prisoner pretends not to recognize him.” He turns again to Granger. “Do you deny that Master Meyrick was in the field that day?”
“I do not.”
“Aha!”
“I have no idea who was in the field that day, as I was not there myself!”
“So you say!”
“I do say. And who have you to contradict me?”
“M’lord, the Crown calls Gelly Meyrick to the stand.”
“Very well,” intones the judge, sounding more than a bit bored. “The bailiff will administer the oath.”
As Meyrick nervously steps into the witness box and raises his right hand, Noah looks to Granger, arching his eyebrows inquiringly. In reply, Granger merely shrugs, as if to say he’s never set eyes on the witness in his life.
“M’lord,” says Noah, interrupting the oath, “this witness is unknown to the prisoner, who respectfully requests a moment to consult with counsel.”
From the spectators’ gallery comes the barely audible click of a door being discreetly shut. Had it not drawn the judge’s attention, Noah wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but the judge smiles up toward the gallery, and nods cordially. Noah glances up at the gallery. A muscular Yeoman Warder with shoulders that seem to stretch across the whole doorway now stands on guard, resplendent in the dignified uniform of the Tower of London. Noah looks over at Jonathan, who shrugs, wide-eyed.
“Yes, Master Ames,” says the judge. “The prisoner may have a moment to consult with you, but let’s move this along.”
“Certainly, m’lord,” replies Noah, bowing. As he and Jonathan approach Granger, he glances at the gallery once more and sees a small, dark figure sitting quietly in the corner seat nearest the guard. Several seats remain vacant between the small dignitary and the nearest spectators, who are trying not to gawp. Unless Noah is sorely mistaken, the seated figure is Sir Robert Cecil, Secretary of State, who, together with his father William Cecil, Lord Burghley, are Essex’s chief rivals on the Privy Council.
Jonathan’s eyes follow Noah’s. “Well,” he whispers, “I prayed for a god to descend, and now one has done so. Best of all, he’s one having no use for you-know-who.” Jonathan refrains from mentioning Essex by name, as Granger is now listening, baffled by the significance of this dignitary’s visit.
“But recall my admonition,” whispers Noah. “They appear entirely for reasons of their own.” He smiles to his client apologetically and speaks in hushed tones. “I’m sorry for our mysterious chat, Goodman Granger. The gentleman who just entered the gallery is the Secretary of State.”
Granger looks stricken, near tears. “Of what interest is my case to him?”
Noah pats his hand. “None, I should imagine. Perhaps he’s come to observe Coke at work. Rumor has it
that Master Coke is about to be appointed to high office.” He returns his attention to the witness shifting nervously in the box. “You’re quite sure you’ve never seen this witness before?”
Granger nods confidently.
Noah steps back and turns to the judge. “Thank you, m’lord. The defense is ready to proceed.”
It occurs to Noah that Sir Robert has no doubt had dozens of earlier opportunities to observe Coke at trial. The notion flashes through his mind that Cecil might actually have come to observe Noah himself. Henry would no doubt refer to this as a delusion of grandeur. Still, if Sir Robert has come to observe Noah, it likely has something to do with the Rodriguez case … and with Essex. His stomach turns to think that he’s somehow got himself caught between the most powerful warring factions in the land.
Lord Bleffingham nods to the bailiff. As the oath is being administered, Meyrick is solemn. “I so swear,” he says grimly, and drops his right hand to his side. His gaze shifts restlessly about the courtroom, finally meeting Noah’s stare. A barely subdued fear creeps into his expression.
Coke smiles, suddenly the picture of fellow feeling. “Now, then, Master Meyrick. Please tell the Court what you saw the prisoner do to the victim last summer.”
“Objection, m’lord,” says Noah loudly, and the judge nods for him to continue. “The question assumes facts not in evidence. Whether the accused did anything to the victim last summer remains to be proven by the Crown.”
Coke feigns humility. “M’lord, there is nothing wr— ”
“Sustained,” says the judge impatiently. “Rephrase the question.” The judge makes a notation in his liber.
Coke regards Noah angrily, becalms himself, and resumes. “Now Master Merrick … ”
“Meyrick,” says the witness, obviously weary of a lifelong need for such correction.
“Yes, Master Meyrick, I beg your pardon. Please tell the Court what you saw take place between the accused and the victim.” Coke looks sharply at Noah, as though daring him to object. Although the question is slightly objectionable, Noah says nothing, instead betraying the barest hint of a smile.
The witness answers. “Well, it was a warm, sunny day, and the farmhands were about to harvest the field. It was durin’ the wheat harvest last year. An awful summer fer plague. So many men had gone away to country that there was plenty of work, and too few to do it. So, the wage was pretty good, and — ”
Coke interrupts. “Never mind the wage, sir.”
Noah addresses the court. “M’lord, the accused objects to the Crown’s interruption of its own witness’s testimony.”
The judge, looking down as though studying his liber, says, “Of course, it is solely the Court’s prerogative to interrupt testimony. However,” he looks to Noah impassively, “I must agree with the Crown that the past summer’s farm wage has little to do with the matter at hand. I assume learned counsel for the prisoner also sees no connection between the two?”
Hearing nothing from Noah, the judge nods knowingly and turns to Coke. “Allow me, Master Coke,” he says, and turns to the witness, who looks more than a little nervous to find himself under the Court’s direct scrutiny.
“Master … Meyrick, is it?” The witness nods meekly. “Very well. Please tell the jury anything that you saw take place between the prisoner and the victim that day.”
The witness inhales noisily and stands tall, like an actor given the cue to relieve himself at last of long-rehearsed lines. He holds up his right thumb. “First, I seen the victim bendin’ over a sheaf o’ wheat on the ground. The second thing that ’appened … ”
Noah notices the witness assigning a number to each event in his story, as though he’s been carefully instructed to mention each.
“ … was the assailant dropped his scythe. The third thing … ”
There it is again, Meyrick furtively counting on the fingers of his right hand, just as he was doing upon entering the courtroom … but now Noah knows what he was counting.
“ … was he picked up a cudgel that was lyin’ on the ground next to a ball of twine. Then … ”
Although Meyrick hasn’t assigned a number aloud to the next event, he’s touching his right thumb to the tip of his third finger.
“… he turned ’round toward the victim. Next, he brought the cudgel up over ’is ’ed and struck the victim in the left shoulder — a glancing blow.”
The witness clearly pronounced the word as “glonssing,” which pronunciation, although commonplace at Oxford, is unknown to men of his class. His thumb moves to his little finger.
“Next thing, the victim turns ’round, sees the killer, and flails his arms.” Meyrick raises his left thumb discreetly, and continues. “At that point, the victim tries to run away, but he’s been scragglin’ a tree branch, and so trips and falls flat on the ground.” His left thumb lightly touches its adjacent index finger, and his vocal register drops dramatically. “Then, when the victim is on the ground bleedin’, the killer bends over and gives him a killin’ blow.” He relaxes visibly, having accomplished his task, and nods proudly to the judge. “And ’at’s what ’eppened, m’lord.”
Coke looks grimly at the jury to be sure the witness’s words have sunk in. Evidently satisfied that they have, he asks: “Can you identify the killer in the courtroom today?”
Meyrick nods staunchly. “I can. It’s ’im. The prisoner.” He points straight at Granger, whose jaw drops in disbelief.
“Thank you, Master Meyrick,” says Coke. “That will be all.”
Meyrick looks about the courtroom, as though anticipating that he’ll be prevented from leaving the witness box. Noah looks to the judge, who returns his stare and forlornly rests his head on his hand. Noah smiles respectfully. “Just a few questions, m’lord.”
Although Common Law rules of criminal procedure fail to provide the accused with anything that might be called a “right” to cross-examine adverse witnesses, the trial judge may exercise his discretion to permit cross-examination by the prisoner personally. Less often, but with increasing frequency, a judge will extend the privilege of cross-examination to defense counsel on the ostensible grounds that a particular accused is too dull-witted to question witnesses effectively.
Bleffingham wags a crooked finger at Noah. “A few questions. See to it, Master Ames.”
Coke looks positively horrified. “M’lord, I must object … ”
The judge shoots back: “Must you? Cross-examination by counsel, Master Coke. ’Tis all the rage, have you not heard? Besides, can you tell the Court what cognizable prejudice will befall the Crown if the witness is cross-examined by Master Ames here?”
Coke looks at Noah who, in a split second, has adopted the most infuriatingly submissive posture. Angelic, really.
Coke throws his quill pen down on his book. It bounces off and wafts to the floor. “No objection,” he sulks. “But the Crown reserves the right to object to any undignified line of questioning.”
The judge makes another notation in his liber, and intones: “The Crown need reserve no such right, as the right to object remains available at all times to either party. Proceed … with caution, Master Ames.”
“Yes, m’lord.” The witness looks frightened half to death.
Jonathan steps up beside Noah, and whispers in his ear. “You might make more headway if you stop looking at him as a shark does his dinner.”
Noah nods, purses his lips, and very deliberately relaxes.
“Good morning, Master Meyrick. I am Noah Ames, counsel for Goodman Granger.” Whenever possible, he studiously avoids referring to his client as “the prisoner” or “the accused.” “Master Meyrick, have you often worked the wheat harvest?”
“I have.”
Noah has no doubt that Meyrick’s response is a bald-faced lie. Meyrick may have had some farming experience long ago, but Essex’s principal attendant would never engage in farm work. More likely, he’d own the farm. Well, a liar is easily led. “With so few men about because of the plagu
e, this harvest must have remained in the earth … longer than usual. Would you agree?”
“Yes, suh. A good month longer.”
“And the wheatfield in which the murder took place had not yet been harvested at all. Is that right?”
“Right.”
“Was it a level field, or were there rocks or hillocks on it?”
“No, suh. Now you mention it, it was perfectly leveled. Musta took a bit of work to get it that way, too, as the farms about there are stony and rough.”
“Master Meyrick, did you run over to the victim after he’d been cudgeled?”
“No, suh. I wouldn’t go anywhere near the killer.” Meyrick looks at the jury members. “Had a weird look in his eye, he did, like he might do it again to somebody else.”
“I see. So … you left the scene immediately after witnessing, as you called it, the ‘killing blow’?”
“Ran like a rabbit in the opposite direction, I did.” Some snickering from the jury box. “Oh, I’m not proud o’ what I done, but ‘safety comes first’ is what I say.”
“Did you run for the constable?”
Meyrick shakes his head emphatically. “Didn’t see one, nor didn’t know where to find one. Wasn’t from them parts, y’see.”
“Yes, I see. Did you speak with the constable who testified before the court yesterday? Constable … ” Noah searches his memory, “Murphy?”
“No, suh. Never did.”
“Perhaps that would explain why he never mentioned you. And when did you next return to the scene of the crime?”
“Truth be told, I ain’t never been back. Place gives me the willies now.”
“Of course!” says Noah, sympathetically. “How far were you standing from the victim when he was first struck, Master Meyrick?”
“About as far as I am from you.”
“As we speak, you are standing in the witness box beside m’lord, and I at defense table. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“M’lord, let the record show that such span has been precisely measured in this courtroom many times, and that the distance is twenty-five feet.”