(1969) The Seven Minutes

by Irving Wallace

  ‘Your Honor, I would like my objection noted for the record,’ Barrett demanded.

  ‘It has been so noted,’ said Judge Upshaw calmly. His attention shifted to the District Attorney. ‘Now, Mr Duncan, are you ready with your next witness?’

  Removing the book jacket from the novel, Duncan said, “Thank you, Your Honor. As a matter of fact, in a manner of speaking, my next witness on the book will be the book itself. We are now prepared to have the book read aloud to the members of the jury, so that, for the first time, they may become acquainted with its contents in its entirety. I have a reader available, a neutral, impartial young man, a Mr Charles Wynter, who was recommended to us. I have no personal knowledge of him - he was recommended by a friend of my wife’s. He is a substitute secondary teacher locally, and in his spare time he has taped recordings for the blind, so he is used to reading aloud without overdramatizing or unduly emphasizing passages, which a professional actor might do. While I already have this young man available, I would willingly agree to let anyone of Mr Barrett’s choosing read the book to the jury. But this is our next witness, Your Honor, a reader who will read the book aloud.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Duncan,’ said the Judge, ‘Now let us hear from Mr Barrett. Do you have any comment on this procedure, Mr Barrett?’

  ‘I do, Your Honor,’ said Barrett. ‘As strenuously as I objected to the book’s being entered into evidence in part, just as strenuously do I object to its being submitted to a jury orally. The Penal Code is specific in defining printed matter as one thing and public performances as another. The Seven Minutes is printed matter. It was written by J J Jadway not as a play to be spoken or read aloud, but as a novel put down on paper to be read silently and privately by a single reader. Jadway wrote this work in order to communicate directly with a reader’s mind and to stir his emotions. Undoubtedly the author’s intention was that the reader be allowed to add or subtract mentally from the narrative, to skip or linger over whatever the reader wished, to let the reader emphasize in his own mind

  certain words or sentences and slide over things. In short, as someone once put it, reading is essentially like marriage, an act involving two persons, the reader and the writer, and not three persons, involving also an actor. Three people involved in areading, like in a marriage, is a crowd, one too many. Inevitably, the amateur who will play actor will direct the audience’s attention to certain passages through conscious or unconscious inflections of speech, through phrasing, timing, pauses, pronunciations and whatnot.

  ‘Your Honor, the moment that The Seven Minutes is read aloud, in mixed company, the very candor and language of the narrative, which is enjoyable and acceptable in the privacy of one’s own room, may become an embarrassment. What will be judged, in this tiresome, cumbersome, time-consuming process, will be not the book alone, the book itself, but also the person reading it and directing it to his audience. Your Honor, I have twelve copies of The Seven Minutes, made available to me by the publisher, and I would suggest that it would be more just to our case if I were permitted to have these copies passed out to the jurors and let each read his own copy to himself or herself. From the point of view of the defense, that would be the only fair procedure.’

  Judge Upshaw stared past the two attorneys, lost in thought. At last he looked at them and spoke.

  ‘Gentlemen, the book has been received in evidence and is an exhibit. It is within the court’s province to decide how this exhibit should be presented to the jury. In my past experience on the bench, I have sat in judgment on several trials where books were read aloud, always in a careful monotone, and I have sat in judgment on one trial where the jurors read individual copies silently and to themselves in a vacated courtroom. I have found that usually a jury listens better than it reads. The act of listening and comprehending is simpler and more common than the act of reading. The members of this jury have been listening all this day. They are conditioned to listen. Reading to themselves might be more difficult. Some are fast readers. Some are slow readers. Some are used to reading books. Others are not. Gentlemen, I am convinced that the simplest and fairest way to present People’s Exhibit Three, the most expeditious method of conveying the contents of the book to the jury, would be to do as Mr Duncan has suggested. I am, therefore, granting the District Attorney’s request. As to the person assigned to read the book aloud, does defense counsel have any objection to this Mr Wynter’s reading from the book?’

  Barrett was distressed by the judge’s rebuff, by this second decision against him, and he had to struggle to keep resentment out of his voice. ‘Your Honor, I don’t care who reads the book aloud. What I care about is that it is being read aloud when a novel is not meant to be presented to readers in such a fashion.’ He paused. ‘That is my only objection.’

  ‘Well, Mr Barrett, your objection has already been ruled upon,’

  said Judge Upshaw. ‘The Seven Minutes will be read in the manner that I have indicated … Mr Duncan, if you will produce Mr Wynter, we will proceed with this case. We will seat Mr Wynter in the witness box and order him to read this book aloud in its entirety, instructing him to read it clearly, distinctly, in a monotone that will preclude inflections or dramatics. Now let us resume.’

  The remainder of this first day in court, and all the morning of the second day and afternoon of the second day, Mr Charles Wynter, substitute teacher, a rather dour, phlegmatic slender man in his early thirties with an engaging bass voice, sat on the chair in the witness box and read aloud to the jurors the words written in The Seven Minutes by J J Jadway.

  For Mike Barrett, it was a small calvary, an excruciating and painful experience, hearing the beautiful story torn away from the privacy of the printed page and broadcast by an alien voice in a public place. It was as if Cathleen, the heroine, whose nakedness and love and emotions, so poignant in the bedroom of two hardcovers, had been brutally dragged out into the open, before leering eyes at a sex circus, to be humilated and cheapened and made to seem indecent.

  Throughout the recital, Barrett had found himself squirming. And he knew Abe Zelkin was squirming beside him. But even though he heard words skipped or mispronounced, he restrained himself from objecting. He wanted this done and over with as fast as possible.

  Only once, on Tuesday afternoon, the second day of the trial, just after the noon recess, did Mike Barrett voice any objection, and then he did it at the bench and out of the hearing of the jury.

  ‘Your Honor,’ he said, ‘I want to record my concern about one mannerism that the reader, Mr Wynter, possesses, which may be prejudicial to the defense.’

  ‘What is that, Mr Barrett?’

  ‘As he reads, he concentrates his attention fully on the pages before him. But whenever he reaches a passage that might be termed sexually realistic, or that employs words or language that are frank, he has the habit of raising his head, glancing at the jury, before continuing, as if to tell them, “Wait’ll you hear what’s coming next,” or “Hey, I’ve got something hot for you, but don’t blame me, I’m only reading it, I didn’t write it.” Then, after that little visual gesture, that warning to the jury, he goes back to the page again. Now, I’ve observed him do that a dozen times. I’m sure it is unconscious on his part. Still, it serves as a sort of snicker, an adverse commentary on certain portions of the narrative. It would make me happier if Your Honor would point this out to Mr Wynter and caution him to cease looking up, or at least cease looking up as his prelude to the more realistic sections.’

  Judge Upshaw turned his head. ‘Mr Duncan?’

  ‘Your Honor, I too have been observing the reader, and I have seen him look up at the jury from time to time, but that is normal for a person reading aloud, and he does not seem to look up merely when undertaking obscene - or let us say, risque -risque passages, but he looks up when he is reading other passages as well. I’m afraid I cannot agree with Mr Barrett. I think he is being unduly concerned.’

  Judge Upshaw nodded and addressed Barrett. ‘Mr Barrett, I
concur with the prosecution counsel. I am seated right next to the reader. I have watched him closely. I am satisfied that he is performing in a manner as mechanical and objective as possible for a human being. I am sympathetic with your desire to protect the interests of the defendant, and to see justice in this case, and I will listen to any further objections you see fit to make. In this instance, I can find nothing wrong with the performance of the reader. As a consequence, I must deny your request.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Honor.’

  After that, Barrett protested no more.

  It was late Tuesday afternoon when Mr Wynter finished reading aloud the final paragraph of the book, paused, intoned, “The end,’ and looked up, as if expecting applause.

  Immediately the reader was dismissed, the court recessed until nine-thirty Wednesday morning, and Mike Barrett, like someone who has finally escaped the Iron Maiden, felt restored after the grim ordeal.

  As he and Zelkin began to stuff their briefcases he said, ‘Well, now we’ve got to pick up the pieces. At least we’ve got a chance to fight back tomorrow. Whom do you think Duncan’ll open with?’

  ‘A big one, one of his two biggest guns,’ said Zelkin. ‘Today was the lull before the storm. Tomorrow he’ll shoot the works, try to demolish Jadway and wipe out the book and the defense in one thunderous shot.’

  ‘You mean Leroux?’

  ‘None other.’

  ‘Do you know for sure or is that a guess ?’

  ‘Mike, when it’s going to rain, I get cramps in my legs. When there’s going to be an earthquake, I get an ache in my bones. And when the roof’s about to fall in, I get a pain in my ass.’ He snapped his briefcase shut. ‘Right now, friend, I got a pain in my ass.’

  How people find out when something important is going to happen you never know, Barrett thought. It must be in the air. Psychic waves in the air. A kind of mass ESP. Or some damn thing. Because if the courtroom of the Superior Court of the County of Los Angeles had been filled to capacity the first two days of the trial, this Wednesday morning it appeared to be bursting at the seams. And now, two minutes after Judge Nathanel Upshaw had settled behind the bench, the room was silent except for the court clerk’s

  rat-a-tat recital of the oath to the prosecution’s first witness of the morning.

  ‘… the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God ?’

  ‘I do,’ said the witness.

  ‘State your name, please.’

  ‘Christian Leroux.’

  ‘Spell the last name.’

  ‘L-e-r-o-u-x.’

  From the bench, Judge Upshaw called down, ‘You may be seated now, Mr Leroux.’

  During the swearing in, Mike Barrett had been studying Elmo Duncan’s co-star in the prosecution’s elaborate production. Still influenced by Quandt’s description of the French publisher, Barrett had expected a person seedy and rundown, yet clinging to some shred of dignity from better days, like an exiled Czarist nobleman who had become a waiter or a doorman. However, there was no air of defeat, no visible signs of poverty, in the publisher’s bearing and dress. He was as much a dandy as any aristocratic peacock who had stepped out of the pages of Proust. His recent return to affluence showed.

  Except for something furtive and cunning in his manner, battle scars common to many men who have known hard times and survived to their mid-sixties, Christian Leroux was impressive. He must have been taller once, Barrett thought, but his bearing was still grand, which gave an illusion of height. His hair had been dyed and was wavy, with not a strand out of place. The eyes were small, faded blue, darting. The aquiline nose had with age become a veiny bill. The weak chin showed a razor cut. He wore an ultramarine chalk-striped suit with flat pockets, and the jacket was short and tight in the French fashion. There was a neat bow tie and there were jade cuff links and tasseled shoes. In replying to the court clerk, his English had a Mayfair slur punctuated by a sibilant French accent, slight but enough to remind one this was a visitor from Paris.

  Observing him take his seat in the witness box, Barrett detected a quality at once unctuous and pretentious, something canting, perhaps a Parisian Pecksniff. If this quality existed, it might not be revealed in the People’s examination. Perhaps, Barrett thought, he could find it and expose it in his crossexamination. If it was there. As matters stood, he distrusted Leroux’s honesty, oath or no oath. The Frenchman had been ready to say one thing for the defense, and now he had agreed to say another thing for the prosecution. He had been for sale to the highest bidder. That might make him twice as difficult to dissect, Barrett suspected. There is no morality as high-purposed, nor any integrity as staunch, as that possessed by a reformed whore. Well, Barrett decided, he would watch for the sign of cracks, and if possible he would pry them open to reveal the real Christian Leroux.

  ‘Okay,’ he heard Zelkin whisper, ‘the assassination of J J Jadway beginneth.’

  Elmo Duncan, arriving at the witness stand, had greeted his distinguished Gallic visitor with a respectful bow.

  ‘Mr Leroux, sir, where is your present residence or home?’

  ‘I am a citizen of France, and I have always made Paris my home. I have an apartment in an old and quiet section of the Left Bank in Paris.’

  ‘What is your present occupation?’

  ‘I am a publisher of books.’

  ‘In Paris?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have a place of business?’

  ‘I do. I have my offices in the Rue Sebastien Bottin. This is nearby the distinguished house of the Editions Gallimard.’

  At his table, Barrett was amused. The old pornographer was shoring up his own respectability by association. Barrett wondered whether he was this clever or whether this had been Duncan’s doing

  ‘Mr Leroux, briefly, what is your educational background ? Are you a college graduate?’

  T graduated from the Sorbonne in Paris. My specialty was in seventeenth-century French literature, the period of Racine, La Fontaine, La Rochefoucauld, Jean Poquelin - known to most as Moliere.’

  Not only pretentious, Barrett thought, but a small snob as well. Good, very good.

  Apparently Duncan had been worried about this condescension, too, for he quickly asked, ‘But you also studied more popular writers -I mean, like -‘

  Barrett was on his feet instantly. ‘Objection, Your Honor. Counsel is leading the witness.’

  ‘Objection sustained,’ said Judge Upshaw.

  Duncan cast Barrett an irritated glance. He turned to the witness once more. ‘Mr Leroux, have you kept abreast of the writings of more popular writers?’

  ‘Definitely. I have always read everything. As Valery has said, one reads well only when one reads with some quite personal goal in mind. As a publisher, I have read well, because it has been my goal to learn about writing, so that I might be able to recognize new authors who deserved to be heard and thus enlighten the reading public’

  ‘Mr Leroux, you have told us your present occupation is that of publisher. Have you had any other occupations?’

  ‘No. I have always been in this field, either employed by others or self-employed, that is to say a proprietor.’

  ‘When did you first become a publisher on your own ?’

  ‘In 1933.1 was very young. I was still in my early thirties. My father had died, and I had a modest inheritance. So I established

  my own publishing house.’

  ‘What was the name of this firm?’

  The Etoile Press. It was so called because my location was at 18 Rue de Berri, which is off the Champs Elysees, only a short distance from the Etoile and the Arc de Triomphe.’

  ‘The Etoile Press,’ repeated Duncan. ‘Is this the same press, the same imprint, that brought out a work of fiction in 1935 entitled The Seven Minutes, by J J Jadway?’

  ‘The same,’ said Christian Leroux.

  At last, Barrett told himself. He leaned forward on the table and listened intently.

  ‘Mr Leroux, I have seen your
original edition of this book. I noted that it was printed in English. Since it was published in Paris, why was it not in the French language?’

  ‘The French government would not permit its publication in French.’

  ‘Why not?’

  “The French censorship bureau determined it was obscene.’

  ‘Obscene? I see, yes. Well, now, was The Seven Minutes ever published in any other country, in any other language?’

  ‘No. Absolutely no nation on earth would pass on it or accept it. Everywhere it was considered too obscene. Many critics, of many countries, have regarded it as the most obscene and depraved book ever published in the history of literature.’

  ‘Then how were you able to bring out an edition in English, in Paris?’

  ‘Ah, precisely because it was in English, and the average French reader could not read English and be disturbed by it. At the same time, the French government has, until recent years, always been liberal in its regard of books, especially books in a language foreign to France. I need only point out that it was in Paris that James Joyce’s Ulysses was first published in English, though it could not be printed in Great Britain or America. It was in Paris that Radclyffe Hall found her publisher for The Well of Loneliness and Wallace Smith found his publisher for Bessie Cotter. The French authorities did not mind. They looked the other way, since those books were in English and could not corrupt the French. They could only corrupt the tourists, and that did not matter, that was amusing.’

  ‘So under those circumstances,’ said Duncan, ‘you were able to circumvent the censors and undertake publishing the book that has been called the filthiest book in the history of publishing?’