The Luck Of Ginger Coffey

by Moore, Brian;

  He stepped back into the darkness of the cell again. He could not bear to look at that hateful, stupid man. He was not that man. He was Ginger Coffey who had given a false name to protect the innocent and now must take his punishment.

  He sat down, his trousers loose around his hips. It was dark. He was afraid.

  But oh! He knew something now, something he had not known before. A man's life was nobody's fault but his own. Not God's, not Vera's, not even Canada's. His own fault. Mea culpa.

  Thirteen Shortly after dawn someone in a nearby cell began to beat on the door and call out in French. This woke everyone up. The jailer came downstairs, unlocked the cell and led the prisoner out. One of Coff ey's cellmates wiped his nose on his sleeve and said: "They never learn/*

  "What d you mean?"

  "They'll take him up in the back room now and tire him a bit."

  "Oh?" Coffey went to the cell door and listened. He could hear no sound upstairs. He heard his third cellmate say: "You bother them, they tire you, that's right. Just keep quiet is the best."

  Several minutes later the jailer brought back the man who had been shouting. The man held both hands over his stomach and his face was pale. After he had been locked in again, he could be heard retching. Coffey's cellmates exchanged nods. One said: "In Bordeaux they beat the shit out of you whether you bother them or not. Minute you get in, they fix you."

  "Where's Bordeaux?" Coffey asked.

  "Provincial jail. What are you up for, Jack?"

  "Ah — I was taking a leak in the open last night and the police found me."

  "Avag,eh?"

  "A vag?" The word was familiar. "No, it wasn't that they called it. Indecent exposure, it was."

  His cellmates exchanged glances. One of them coughed. "Well/* he said. 'Td rather it was you, not me/'

  At eight o'clock a bell rang. A jailer came down to the cells, called a roll from a typewritten list and ordered the prisoners to line up at their cell doors. Several other policemen appeared. The prisoners were marched upstairs and CofFey, with three other men, was put in a waiting room. There was a policeman in the room. One of the prisoners begged a light.

  "NO TALKING!" shouted the policeman.

  At eight thirty-one, Coffey and three others were taken to the back door of the police station. A van was backed into the alley, its engine running. A policeman helped them up, a second policeman handed the driver a list and the doors of tfye Black Maria were locked. There were already two prisoners in the van and it stopped at three police stations in the next half hour. By the time it reached a courthouse somewhere in the harbor area, the van was crowded with men and smelled of alcohol and sweat. They were disembarked in a yard and, as they waited to be marched away, Coffey saw a newspaper kiosk in the street outside, its walls plastered with tabloid headlines. One of them read:

  CADI SENTENCES "FOUL EXPOSER" MERCY PLEA REJECTED

  Suffering J! Better they sentence him to jail than Paulie ever read the like of that. This was his fault. Everything was his fault. He must pay for it himself.

  "Right," said a warder. "MARCH!"

  One of the prisoners, an old man, said: "Is there a toilet inside? I need to go to the toilet/'

  The warder turned and bellowed as though struck: "NO TALKING IN THE CORRIDORS."

  They were marched downstairs and locked up.

  Above the judge there was a large crucifix. The Christ figure seemed to recline, head to one side, as though trying to catch the half-audible mumble of the clerk of the court.

  "Criminal Code . . . Statute . . . Section . . . Said Gerald MacGregor . . . night of ... premises . . . did indecently expose himself — as witness . . ."

  A lawyer, arriving late, entered the courtroom and hurried up the aisle, shaking hands with his colleagues. The reporters on the press bench were reading a newspaper called Le Devoir: they did not appear to have paid attention to the charge. The judge, a florid man who might have been mistaken for a bookmaker, was having trouble with his Parker pen. He signaled a court functionary, who went through the door leading to the judge's chambers. A detective-sergeant came in and stood beneath the judge, waiting. The clerk of the court finished his mumble and sat down. The judge unscrewed his Parker pen, and noticed the waiting detective-sergeant. The sergeant stepped forward and whispered. The judge looked at Cof-fey.

  "Swear the accused," he said.

  Coffey was sworn in. The judge said: "Now — is your name Gerald MacGregor?"

  CoflFey looked desperately at the crucifix over the judge's bench. The Christ figure lent an ear: waiting.

  "I warn you," the judge said. "No one by the name of MacGregor lives at the address you have given. Do you still say that is your name?"

  In terror, Coffey looked at the detective-sergeant. Vera and Paulie? —must protect . . . "Yes, Your Honor," he said.

  "All right/' The judge nodded to the sergeant. "Bring your witness in."

  The sergeant signaled to a court attendant and the court attendant went outside. In her best blue coat, her eyes downcast, Veronica was escorted to the bench. She was sworn in. Her eyes met Coffey's, then flittered towards the press bench. The reporters were taking notes now. She gave her name and address.

  "Is this man your husband?"

  "Yes."

  "What is his given name?"

  "James Francis Coffey."

  "You may stand down. Clerk, read the charge again in the name of James Francis Coffey."

  She went to a front seat and sat down. She looked up at him and her fingers fluttered in a tiny, surreptitious greeting. She was afraid.

  "Now, Coffey," the judge said. "Why did you give a false name?"

  "I — ah — I didn't want my wife and daughter mixed up in this, you see."

  "I do not see," the judge said. "You have heard the charge. Have you any idea of the gravity of this charge?"

  "Well, no, Your Honor. You see — I mean, I wanted to avoid — I mean, it wasn't their fault. I didn't want them to be worried."

  "This charge," the judge said, "carries a maximum penalty of seven years in prison/'

  Coffey looked at Veronica. She seemed about to keel over. Seven years.

  "Well, Coffey? What do you have to say for yourself?"

  "I — I'm an immigrant here, Your Honor, and I've not

  done very well getting settled. My wife . . ." He stopped and looked at Veronica, who lowered her head, not answering his look. "My wife and I had agreed to separate unless I did better. I'd promised her that unless I got a certain promotion, I'd let her go back to — I mean, leave me. And I promised she could take my daughter as well. So last night, I didn't get the promotion, and so . . ."

  He could not go on. He stood, looking down at her, looking at the white nape of her neck beneath the hairline of her new short haircut. The judge said: "What's all this got to do with perjuring yourself ?"

  "Well, I'd lost them anyway, Your Honor. I didn't want them to suffer any more for what I'd done. So I thought of a false name . . ."

  The judge looked at the sergeant. "Is the prisoner represented by counsel?"

  "A pas demande" the sergeant said.

  "This case is being tried in English/' the judge said, testily.

  "Sorry, sir. He didn't ask for a lawyer/'

  The judge sighed. He put both halves of his Parker pen together, screwed them tight, then laid the pen down. "How do you plead?" he said to Coffey. "Guilty or not guilty?"

  "Not guilty, Your Honor."

  "Very well. Call the first witness."

  Constable Armand Bissonette, Radio Mobile Unit, Station Number 10, took the stand. Following the witness's testimony, he was cross-examined by Judge Am6dee Mon-ceau.

  His HONOR: "Was there anyone else in the street at the

  time?" WITNESS: "Not so far as we could see, sir."

  His HONOR: "Then no one witnessed the act except the

  police?" WITNESS: "Maybe there were people inside the hotel lobby

  who saw it."

  His
HONOR: "Did you actually see any people?" WITNESS: "No, sir."

  His HONOR: "And the doorway was dark?" WITNESS: "Yes, but there were lights in the lobby, inside

  the door."

  His HONOR: "Were those lights visible from the doorway?" WITNESS: "Yes, if he had looked in, he would have seen

  that it was a hotel lobby. But he was on the wine, sir.

  He could hardly see straight." His HONOR : "He was intoxicated?" WITNESS: "He's a wino, sir. I smelled the wine off him." His HONOR: (To accused) "What did you have to drink?" ACCUSED: "Your Honor, I had some glasses of wine. It was

  a sort of a mixture of sherry and Coca-Cola. I didn't intend to get drunk." His HONOR: "You're Irish, by the sound of you. Is that an

  Irish recipe?"

  [LAUGHTER] His HONOR: "If that didn't make you drunk, it should have

  made you ill. Were you ill?" ACCUSED: "Yes, Your Honor. I felt a bit dizzy. And I had

  been waiting a long time for the bus." His HONOR: "How long?" ACCUSED: "More than twenty minutes, sir. Maybe half an

  hour." His HONOR: "Half an hour? Well, I can see you're not a

  native of this city. Half an hour is not a long time here." [LAUGHTER]

  Coffey looked at them: the judge grinning at his witticism, the lawyers looking up to laugh with the bench, the

  spectators lolling back in their seats like people enjoying a joke in church. Seven years in prison and yet they laughed. But why not? What was he to all these people except a funny man with a brogue? Not a person; an occasion of laughter. His whole life, back to those days when he ran past the iron railings of Stephen's Green, late for school, back through the university years, the Army years, the years at Kylemore and Coomb-Na-Baun, through courtship, marriage, fatherhood, his parents' death, his hopes, his humiliations — it was just a joke. All he was this morning, facing prison and ruin, was an excuse for courtroom sallies. So what did it matter, his life in this world, when this was what the world was like? Unsurely but surely he came to that. His hopes, his ambitions, his dreams: what were they but shams? Only one face in that courtroom suffered with him, knew him as more than a joke, was one with him on this awful morning. One face, which fifteen years ago in Saint Pat's in Dalkey had turned from the priest to look at him and say "I do."

  The judge rapped on his desk. The laughter stopped.

  His Honor, Judge Amedee Monceau, addressed the prosecution. His Honor stated that under the circumstances, the lateness of the hour, the absence of proven intoxication, the lack of witnesses to the action, the fact that there was no known previous criminal record, there was some question in His Honor's mind as to why the police had preferred the more serious charge. A charge of vagrancy might, His Honor suggested, have been more appropriate in this instance.

  DETECTIVE-SERGEANT TAILLEFER: "Your Honor, this act was committed in the doorway of one of the biggest hotels in the city."

  His HONOR: "Yes, but you have not proved that there were any witnesses."

  DETECTIVE-SERGEANT TAILLEFER: "Well, the police took such speedy action, sir, that nobody was disturbed."

  His HONOR: "Sergeant, if the police department is ever in need of a public relations officer, I'll be very happy to recommend you. But if there are to be any further compliments to the police department this morning, will you please allow them to come from me?" [LAUGHTER]

  Down there in the courtroom the spectators looked up, enjoying the discomfiture of the police sergeant. No one looked at him, the central figure in this drama. No one, not even she. For she sat, her head bent; humiliated. Was she humiliated because this laughter was a criticism of her, a mockery of her taste in marrying a man who had indecently exposed himself to the world's ridicule, whose sufferings merited the world's attention only as a subject for farce? Likely that was it, he thought. For didn't she want shut of him too, wasn't she here only because the police had found his true address and ordered her presence in this court? Oh, Vera, Vera, look at me, would you . . . ?

  But she did not look at him. She did not care for him any more than the rest of them. Nobody cared for him.

  His HONOR: "Accused, stand up. Have you anything to say in your defense?"

  ACCUSED: "I didn't know it was a hotel, Your Honor. I thought it was an office building. It was an accident."

  His HONOR: "I see. And in your country is it common practice to relieve oneself in office doorways? Are you asking me to believe the Irish are uncivilized?"

  ACCUSED: "No, Your Honor."

  His HONOR: "I see. Well, let me inform you, Coffey, your actions last night constitute a serious crime in this Province. Now, as I understand it, there were certain extenuating circumstances. It was late at night and you were at the mercy of the Montreal Transportation Commis-

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  sion —

  [LAUGHTER]

  His HONOR: "And certainly, having imbibed the concoction which you described to this court there is every reason that your system should seek to expel it as soon as possible, in one way or another/' [LAUGHTER]

  His HONOR: "However, the fact remains that your action in a public — a very public — place might have caused considerable shock and outrage to innocent bystanders. In the event of your action being committed deliberately to shock and outrage such bystanders, the charge laid against you by the police would seem justified. And, as I have already told you, the maximum sentence for that offense is seven years in prison/'

  Veronica raised her head. There were tears in her eyes and her face was terribly pale. She stared at him as though only she and he were in the room. He looked at her; his legs no longer trembled. He saw it in her eyes: it was not shame of him, it was fear for him. He looked up at the judge, no longer afraid.

  His HONOR: "Now, Coffey, in the absence of defending counsel, this Court considers you to have thrown yourself upon its mercy. And despite the charge laid against you by these officers, I am inclined to believe that in view of the mitigating circumstances there was no criminal intent on your part. So I am giving you the benefit

  of the doubt. I hereby sentence you to six months in prison . . ."

  His eyes left the judge's face; went to her below him. Something had happened. A court usher and a spectator were bending over her. Fainted? The court usher was helping her from her seat. Watching, Coffey barely heard the judge's next phrase.

  ". . . However, in this case, sentence will be suspended, in view of the fact that you have no previous conviction and are an immigrant with a wife and child to support. I am dealing with you leniently, Coffey., because I am sorry for your family. To be alone in a new country, with their breadwinner in jail, seems to me a fate which your wife and child do not deserve. But let me warn you that if for any reason you again find yourself before this court, you will, I assure you, have every cause to regret it."

  They had taken her outside. He was all alone now. He stared at the judge.

  His HONOR: "In conclusion, let me remind the police officers concerned that in cases of this kind all available evidence should be weighed before a charge is preferred. It is because of carelessness in determining the charges against defendants that this court has been obliged, time after time, to render verdicts against the prosecution. That is all, gentlemen/'

  A warder tapped him on the shoulder. He was led back to the detention room. "My wife . . . ?"

  One of the warders stepped on Coffe/s toes. It hurt. "Sorry," the warder said. "What's that you said?"

  "My wife, is she . . . ?"

  The detective-sergeant, smiling, stepped on Coffey's toes. "Twenty years on the Force," he said. "And I never saw a judge give a guy a break like you got. Luck of the Irish, it must be, eh, Irishman?"

  The sergeant poked him in the ribs. It was not a friendly poke. The warder made him sign for his belongings. Then, they let him go.

  The corridor outside was crowded with people. Witnesses, waiting their turn in court, lawyers in corner conference with clients and colleagues, policemen walking up and down with the proprietary ai
r of museum guides. He ran past them all, ranging this way and that, finally emerging into a large hall where two court ushers sat on a stone bench near the main door. He went to them.

  "Excuse me," he said, newly afraid, for they were policemen. He expected them to shout "NO TALKING." But instead, they were the police he had always known.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Did you see a woman? I mean a woman fainted in the court there, did she go out this way?"

  "In a blue coat, right?" the usher said. "Yes, we put her in a taxi a minute ago."

  "I'm her husband," he said. "Do you know the address she went to?"

  They thought this over. One said: "A number on Notre Dame Street, I think."

  He thanked them and turned towards the doorway. He felt weak, as though he had risen from a month in bed. Notre Dame Street was Grosvenor's office. Ah, God, it was plain as the nose on your face. She had fainted: she had

  not even waited to hear the whole thing. She had not waited for him but had gone off to her lover. Ginger's in jail. Gerry, we're free.

  Yes, he had been wrong to hope. He was right the first time. She did not care about him. Nobody cared.

  Through the main doorway, under the Latinate scrolls to justice and truth, he moved, his step that of an old, old man. He was a wanderer who had sought the bluebird, who had seen all, who knew now that this was what the world was like. He stood at the top of the wide fall of steps which went down to the streets of the city, that city of which he had hoped so much, which had laughed at his hopes, which had turned him out. He looked up at the sky. Gray clouds ballooned down like the dirty underside of a great circus tent. Yet, oh! Never since he had lain in a field as a small boy had the heavens seemed so soaring, so illimitable. And in that moment his heart filled with an unpredictable joy. He was free. The night that had passed, the cells below stairs, the shouting warders, the terrifying laughter of the spectators in court; it had happened and yet it had not. It was a nightmare washed into nothingness by the simple and glorious fact of freedom. The city, its roofs and cornices crusted with snow, its rushing inhabitants muffled in furs, seemed a busy, magical place, a joy to be abroad in. For one liberating moment he became a child again; lost himself as a child can, letting himself go into the morning, a drop of water joining an ocean, mystically becoming one.