by Ellery Queen
Don’t go, Antoine, my friend. . .
Laura Grimaldi
Affirmation of Truth; or, Justice Done
(translated by Philip Rigby)
We found this story in an Italian anthology titled ANONIMA CAROGNE, published in 1973 by Arnoldo Mondadori Editore of Milan and edited by Laura Grimaldi. The book is a thick handsome volume, beautifully produced, containing eleven stories; ten are by American and English writers and of these ten stories five appeared originally in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine—stories by Cornell Woolrich, Jerrold Phaon, Dana Lyon, Mary Barrett, and Florence V. Mayberry.
The Italian story by Laura Grimaldi is titled “Giustizia è fatta.” It has an unusual conception for a crime story—indeed, it may be that rara avis of mysteries, a unique plot-idea. . .
With the firm resolution to perform my duty as a man of honor, being conscious of the supreme moral and civil importance of the task that the Law has entrusted to me, I swear to listen diligently, and examine earnestly, proofs and reasons presented in this proceeding by the Prosecution and by the Defense. I swear to make my own judgment with honesty and impartiality and to keep far from my mind all feeling of aversion or favor, in order to reach a sentence equivalent to what society expects: an affirmation of truth and justice.
Jurors’ oath (Art. 30).
It had been a mistake to accept presiding over that trial. The Judge closed the court record, shaking his head. Yes, a big mistake. To begin with, a trial without legal or judicial precedents, one without procedural antecedents, is a minefield. More than that, it is a stretch of moving sands. And if that wasn’t enough, there was the ridiculousness of a defendant made of printed paper instead of flesh and blood.
The Judge had the feeling it would all come to no good. In fact, at the beginning he had resisted all the objections, all the pressures, firmly entrenched behind the excuse that it had never been heard of before. But then that impertinent young man for the Defense, insistent and stubborn as a mule, had started to release press interviews, to insist that it was in someone’s interest to obstruct the trial, to declare that no judge could be found who could give a fair verdict.
And the Prosecutor? He hadn’t been idle either. He had managed to collect 10,000 signatures in the district alone, 10,000 respectable and right-thinking people who were demanding a ban on books with any kind of criminal setting. Thrillers, that’s what they were, according to popular definition.
Faced with all this, what could the Judge do except surrender and agree to preside over the trial? And he had surrendered. He had agreed, knowing only too well it was a mistake. But he had done it, too, because in the end he had felt involved, intrigued, stimulated. Slightly at first, then with ever-increasing force.
Oh, well, he had to admit it. He had played his part with the knowledge that such a trial would have national repercussions. World-wide, in fact.
The light sense of guilt that nagged him left him at once. When it came down to it, he had spent all his life in the service of justice, among dusty documents, bringing pint-sized criminals to task for squalid little crimes, with prosecution and defense counsels only interested in making a name for themselves. Oh, yes, even the personalities of the Prosecution and the Defense had had their importance: the former was well-prepared, learned, upright in the extreme; the latter, brilliant, young, aggressive.
The Judge sighed and opened the court record again. What was it that had escaped him? At what point had the works clogged up? Why had the situation—at first so clear, so intriguing, so alive—seemed to peter out, to become dim, to lose its clarity? The Judge told himself he had nothing to reproach himself for. He had guided the proceedings carefully, respecting, as always, the jurors’ oath—an oath which from his very first case he had held before him like a shining light, an inspiration, something to cling on to. A pledge of honor. Of justice. All the times, on his insistence, that the jury had sworn it, he had felt pervaded by a kind of fierce pride. And he had made it his own oath.
The Judge got up to put on his woolen jacket. It was cold that evening and he intended to read the court record once again, if need be until dawn, to find that something which was bothering him, the thing that had to be the starting point of his discomfort, his discontent.
. . .I swear to listen diligently, and examine earnestly, proofs and reasons presented in this proceeding by the Prosecution and by the Defense. . .
The Judge sat down and turned once more to the first page.
Judge: I declare the hearing open, the Crown versus the Literary Criminal. Since it is a question of proceedings sui generis, without judicial precedents, I will state precisely that in this court an attempt will be made to establish—regardless of the fact that the procedure is less than orthodox—whether or not the Literary Criminal has some responsibility, and what that responsibility is to real life.
Some maintain that there are books of a certain type which influence, inspire, and mold the criminal, furnishing him with sophisticated plans, cunning alibis, devious means. Others, conversely, ask: was perhaps the thriller born when Cain betrayed and killed his brother? And did Lucrezia Borgia need to draw on a writer’s imagination in order to put her murderous schemes into practice?
It will be this court’s task, after hearing both Prosecution and Defense, to decide if the Literary Criminal is guilty or innocent. Notice that it is not by accident that I have spoken of the “Literary Criminal.” I wish to make it clear, in fact, that this court will not tolerate the use of a different term.
Let us now turn our attention to the purpose of this trial. As I have said, we are trying to clarify once and for all, in a public hearing, if a certain type of fiction can be considered guilty of influencing, or having influenced, the mind of man. In other words, it will be the duty of this court to decide whether to acquit or condemn those fictional plots which, by nature of their savagery, their malice, their wickedness, can be held as the source of inspiration for the criminal, and, as a consequence, dangerous to public morality. . .
The Judge nodded his head. Apart from some repetition which was not indispensable, his introduction seemed to him essential, and above all, to the point. Undoubtedly the Defense had considered it to be a little too “dusty,” but the Defending Counsel was one of those modern-speech types, from time to time downright irreverent. That young man had often stepped beyond the limits. He had become irritating. The Prosecutor, on the other hand, was a different kettle offish, altogether a different breed.
. . .I swear to make my own judgment with honesty and impartiality and to keep far from my mind all feeling of aversion or favor. . .
Yes, thought the Judge. It wasn’t always easy to remain so detached, so objective. He wondered if the small sneaking dislike he had felt for the Defending Counsel as the debate went on could have influenced his final decision. No, he told himself. He had acted according to the letter of the law.
PROSECUTOR: As I have already explained to the Court, I am totally convinced, and this conviction is supported by the solidarity of thousands of citizens who, with unswerving purpose, have made this debate possible, that a certain type of fiction must be considered harmful, dangerous, a form of infection—
DEFENSE COUNSEL: You’ve left out considerations of ecology.
The public gallery had laughed at that point and the Judge had been compelled to admonish the Defense Counsel and suggest a greater respect for the Court. The Defense Counsel had apologized, but his irony had stained the atmosphere, and for a time the members of the public present in court had been distracted, had taken to whispering comments, turning in their seats, shuffling their feet.
PROSECUTOR: I can state as a fact, having consulted the proceedings of various trials, that many criminals have openly confessed to being inspired by actions described in books which, if the matter rested in my hands, would never have been printed. I recall in particular the case of a certain Robert Butler who, on March 23, 1905, climbed the gallows, having been found guilty of mass murder. We
ll now, Butler stated at his trial that he was an inveterate reader of the works of the Marquis de Sade—a man who can never be deplored enough. Not only that: Butler publicly admitted to being influenced by the wickedness of Fantomas and Fu Manchu in order to carry out his crimes. I repeat, if the matter had rested in my hands, certain books would never have been printed.
DEFENSE COUNSEL: It is a source of relief to me that my illustrious colleague has chosen a forensic rather than an editorial career. If it had not been so, today we would be deprived of his eloquence while conversely the book business would have been shut down years ago. . .
The Judge scratched the lobe of his ear, once again sensing the same irritation. He couldn’t have intervened, he recalled clearly, because officially the Defense Counsel had not done anything wrong, even if for a good five minutes he had imitated in his speech the tone and style of the Prosecutor. And again the gallery had laughed, had been distracted.
The Judge rose and walked up and down for a while, more in an attempt to restore a feeling of calm than to stretch his legs. That irritating young man had even reeled off an unending stream of quotations—it had to be admitted he was thoroughly prepared—to oppose the cultural references made by the Prosecution.
DEFENSE COUNSEL: I maintain that men like Napoleon and Frederick the Great should have been brought to trial, not to mention writers like Shakespeare and Aeschylus.
PROSECUTOR: Perhaps that’s why Mein Kampf, the most criminal of all books, has already been condemned by history.
DEFENSE COUNSEL: I have presented irrefutable evidence of crimes committed in real life which, by their savagery, have no counterpart on the printed page. Let us not forget, moreover, that whereas in stories the guilty person is almost always brought to justice, unfortunately we cannot say the same of everyday life. . .
. . .I swear to examine earnestly proofs and reasons presented in this proceeding by the Prosecution and by the Defense. . .
And he had done so. He had examined in all earnestness the proofs and reasons of the Prosecution and Defense Counsels. The former had presented to the Court many cases in which the defendants had freely confessed to being influenced by the plots of this or that book. The latter, on the other hand, had attached to the exhibits a summary of famous trials in which the criminal’s savagery had greatly surpassed the fictional imagination of any author.
PROSECUTOR: I ask for an exemplary conviction. I am sure that the Court will have made its—
DEFENSE COUNSEL: It would be an outrage to the freedom of expression, an unforgivable restriction on human imagination, an offense against culture itself. It is not by accident that in this court the names of great writers have echoed. If I am not mistaken, it was my learned colleague who mentioned the works of Poe and Dostoevsky. . .
The Judge, with complete impartiality, had pronounced a verdict of acquittal on grounds of insufficient evidence. He had not heard arguments sufficient either to sentence or absolve the literary prisoner at the bar. The Prosecutor had seemed pleased enough. Had an unconditional discharge really been expected, in light of the turn the trial had taken in the closing moments?
The gallery had become noisy when the Prosecutor, losing for a moment his sense of proportion, had maintained that the man in the street was incapable of free will, that all that was needed was a particularly savage crime to turn him into a bloodthirsty animal.
The Defending Counsel had been much cleverer, more subtle. How many of those present in court, he asked, could swear they had never read a book portraying violence? And maybe the reading of that book had been engraved on their minds, on their moral choices, on the self-control of the reader?
By his own reckoning the Judge was sure he had given a fair verdict even if for his own comfort a more conclusive sentence could have been passed. “All or nothing,” the Defense Counsel would have said, with that rather too free and easy style of speaking—although the Judge had to admit it was somewhat effective. The verdict had, in fact, caused pandemonium. Well, there you are, thought the Judge. Everything had hinged on the verdict.
DEFENSE COUNSEL: I protest! Since these proceedings have been, as the Court itself made clear, a trial sui generis, with consequences more flexible, less restrictive from the point of view of procedure, I must take the liberty of rejecting the Court’s verdict. I consider it iniquitous, oppressive, and totally unjustified. I have cited irrefutable proofs of the innocence of the accused, and if the Court had been objective, the verdict could only have been one of unconditional discharge. A verdict based on insufficient evidence is, in fact, the equivalent of a conviction. I am compelled to think that the Court has not had the courage to accept its full responsibility. In other words it has sinned in the name of timidity. . .
The Defense Counsel had continued in the same vein for a long time, raising his voice, making the atmosphere tense, profiting from the open admiration of the gallery.
Judge: I must ask the Defending Counsel to moderate his tone and language, which I consider to be offensive and unworthy of a Court of Justice. Otherwise I shall be compelled to—
DEFENSE COUNSEL: If there is anything unworthy of a Court of Justice, it is this decision—
Judge: I demand that the Defending Counsel be removed from the courtroom!
DEFENSE COUNSEL: Ah, now we see the heavy hand of authority, the insensitivity, the closed mind—
Judge: Bailiff, approach the Bench!
DEFENSE COUNSEL: Yes, Bailiff, approach the Bench and take him out of the courtroom!
. . .in order to reach a sentence equivalent to what society expects: an affirmation of truth and justice.
The Judge closed his eyes. He recalled the face of the Bailiff: good-natured, surprised, embarrassed. And he recalled his own indignation, and that of the Prosecutor, at how the proceedings had been turned into a farce, a public brawl. He recalled too the Bailiffs holster within reach of his hand, unfastened, the butt seemingly offering itself to his finger.
He recalled also the shot, not so loud as he would have expected—a kind of phut, a little more than a smack. And how the Defending Counsel had fallen, breaking off halfway through a word: corr—What was he on the point of saying? Corruption?
The Judge closed the court record. Someone was opening the door. A rattling noise, the jangle of the guard’s keys, a cracking sound, then a hoarse common voice: “Half hour fresh air, then clean out your cell.”
Africa
Milán
Victor Milán
The Big Ivory
“Six males, an indeterminate number of females, about a half-dozen calves, Muzakere said. In this day and age that was a lot of elephants”. . .
The hunters follow the big ivory. That’s where the money is. It was a big herd—even an outlander like me could tell. The grass was still flattened from their passage, the yellow mud around the waterhole churned as though by an artillery barrage. Six males, an indeterminate number of females, about a half-dozen calves, Muzakere had said. In this day and age that was a lot of elephants.
I scanned the horizon with my binoculars. The herd had moved on some time since, off toward the river. I had quite a distance to go to catch up with them.
It didn’t matter. I had plenty of time.
Or so I thought. Then I caught sight of something that told me otherwise.
Tracks again. They were broad swaths like those left by the lumbering elephants, but within them ran twin serrated lines as though two giant snakes were traveling up them side by side. Tire marks.
I climbed into the Landcruiser and drove to where I’d seen the tracks. There was no mistake. Land Rovers, two of them. Following the herd, perhaps a few hours ahead of me.
I didn’t have so much time after all.
A bird cried from a lonely, flat-topped acacia that stood shading the mudhole. I got back into the Toyota and let in the clutch. I set out following the two disparate sets of tracks, slowly, so that my engine noise wouldn’t spook my quarry.
I remembered the vill
age, two days before. The East African heat had barely been relieved by the small table fan that blew from one corner of the room, riffling the papers on Muzakere’s desk. He’d rested a hard black hand on them casually, holding them down.
“There aren’t many herds like this one left,” he said. “I saw them myself a fortnight ago. The leader is the largest bull I’ve ever seen. He must be four meters tall at the shoulder.”
I nodded, trying to envision such a monster. He’d carry a phenomenal weight of ivory, that always-valuable substance that was becoming daily more precious as the only sources for it died off in the face of progress. Just one such creature would draw the ivory poachers like lions to a fresh zebra carcass.
Muzakere was looking at me. There was no friendliness in his gaze. I waited.
“When we achieved our independence,” he said at last, speaking in the perfect clipped tones of an English-educated young African, “we believed we were through with you people. But now you come to slaughter our wild animals and speed them on their way to extinction.” He looked as if he wanted to spit.
“Most of your emerging nations don’t give a damn for the wildlife,” I said. “They look at it as an inconvenience to be gotten rid of. The animals are killed off because they carry diseases that threaten cattle, the preserves become factories, cities, agricultural land. Conservation’s considered a vestige of colonialism.”
His expression told me what he thought of that. He was a young, intense man, not much older than me, handsome as a statue. In his own turn he was studying me, trying to read me.
I let him look. I was dressed in my own style—southwestern American—which suited this climate quite well. The vee between his brows deepened as he glanced at the heavy Ruger Blackhawk revolver hung butt-forward on my right hip. I could almost hear him think: damned American cowboy. Most of the poachers were British or white Africans. The thought of a new nationality coming in to massacre the animals he was charged with protecting didn’t make him happy.