by Bob Biderman
Still, this would likely be their only chance to speak with the judge whose agreement they would need if the appeal were to commence. Therefore it was absolutely crucial to get their facts and strategy correct. But what points should they stress? What more could they add to what the judge had already read?
At their first planning session after Justice Stephen’s letter had been received, Z argued that more intelligence was required; information that would give them a feeling for the judge’s state of mind and what particular questions he might ask. They already had some notion of the man – he was, according to Hayward, someone who saw himself a master of the law – firm but (in his own eyes, at least) right-minded and fair. He also had a reputation to uphold and it would be hard for him to agree to an appeal based on his foolish summation at the end of the trial, as that would be admitting fallibility verging on incompetence. There would have to be something else, something new that hadn’t been brought out in court. If they were to agree that Judge Stephen was an honourable man (and there was no real evidence he wasn’t, argued Hayward) then they could also assume he must, by now, have doubts. Their task, therefore, should be to strengthen those misgivings to the point where a respite was the only reasonable outcome.
Krantz, as always, is concerned that they are being too innocent about the political realities of this appellate game. There are other forces at work and unless those were understood and the pressure points located then there would be only tears to follow.
But where would that information come from? Where would they derive it?
When Myers has the opportunity to speak with Z alone he tells him that they indeed have their sources and they have been able to acquire information about the judge’s state of mind. This informant must be kept secret, but Myers allows Z to see his notes written from the material he had surreptitiously acquired.
These notes bring Z to believe that the Judge does have reservations, however, he still clings to the idea that Lipski has been safely convicted. He seems to have looked at the relative probability of the two competing scenarios – Lipski’s version of events versus that of Rosenbloom and Schmuss – and concluded that Lipksi is still the most likely culprit.
After studying these observations for a while, Z concludes there is a basic problem that will be hard to overcome. For they are working on the assumption that an appeal will be successful if they can provide enough nagging doubts about the safety of Lipski’s conviction, whereas, the judge seemed to be saying that someone would have to hang for Angel’s murder, and if not Lipski then Rosenbloom and Schmuss. And, if that were indeed the case, then they would have to show evidence pointing to the culpability of these other two impoverished workers – also refugees, also Jews. Simply showing Lipski probably didn’t do it wasn’t enough; they had to show that it was definitely Rosenbloom and Schmuss.
And yet they hadn’t the people, the organisation nor the skills to launch their own investigation into alternative theories of the crime. Besides, the various worlds of the itinerant immigrant were dark and mysterious. The clannish divisions were strong and personal loyalties solid as granite. To get inside any of those worlds would take time and patience. Patience they had; time they had not. The real truth was probably beyond their grasp. All they could hope to gain would be a runny custard of rumour and intimation.
So, thinks Z, their only option is to continue chipping away at the shaky edifice that had been constructed around Lipski’s conviction. One question that had been troubling him was the nature of Lipski’s injuries. These had been sloughed off as insignificant by the prosecution and not actively pursued by the defence.
Z had taken it upon himself to revisit London Hospital and to interview the resident staff. Dr. Calvert, the house surgeon, had given evidence at the trial relating to an examination he had performed shortly after Lipski had been brought to him by the police, still dazed and partially insensible.
At their meeting, Calvert seemed dismayed that his testimony had been twisted by the prosecution to suit their purposes. He told Z that he had expected the counsel for the defence to follow up and query him about the manner of Lipski’s injuries, but for some curious reason they hadn’t bothered and the impression had been left in the minds of the jurors that there was no significant marks of violence on Lipski’s person. But the abrasions on his elbows were severe, Calvert told him, and these could well have been from rubbing over a rough, wooden surface. Even more, the struggles of a man on his back in shirtsleeves could likely have been the cause of such injuries.
Z asked Calvert to sign a statement to that effect, which Calvert did quite willingly. He also included a comment concerning the question of the acid, reiterating that, in his opinion, it would have taken more than the contents of the vial exhibited in court to have produced the damage and stains to Lipski’s jacket and his person when coupled with the amount forced down the throat of the murdered woman.
Back in the office, Z shows Calvert’s declaration to Myers. And Myers, in turn, shows Z a report that had been commissioned from a doctor located through the Lunacy commission (though who had done the commissioning wasn’t exactly clear to him), which stated that the cause of the unconscious condition in which Lipski was found was probably due to sudden fear or shock acting in conjunction with physical violence. The statement was signed by a mysterious Dr. Grover, who ended his report with the words, ‘No other explanation appears to me to be reasonable.’
Z’s initial elation at reading this communiqué from the realm of the madhouse keepers is modified by Myers who takes this missive with due caution, telling Z that for every authority they can gain, the Home Office can find three to counter. It is a question of resources, of which the Government has much and they have little. Besides which, opinions rather than facts count for almost nothing – unless, of course, the opinion comes from experts hired by the prosecution.
CHAPTER 33
Z HAD LEFT the heated atmosphere of Hayward’s office to attend a meeting with his friends, the Young Turks of the new London literary scene who gathered each fortnight to exchange pleasantries, chat and discuss the issues of the day – all of which camouflaged their real purpose which was to see who was doing what and whether there was anything in it for them. This kind of self-selecting grouplet which served as a network for eager minds and willing flesh, were cropping up in small cafés throughout London. It was the sort of time when people sensed that change was in the air and if you were young, smart and not averse to struggle there was opportunity galore (though, of course, this freedom of opportunity could ultimately lead to the workhouse).
In fact this was another aspect of the new age erupting in the zenith of Jubilee Summer. And what made these Young Turks different from the Young Turks of the past had more to do with class and background than genius or disposition. For these Young Turks were penniless except for the income they might accrue from the sweat of their brow or the nib of their pen. And when Z had looked around at those who shared his table at that small Italian café near the beacon of the reading room at the British Museum, he saw not pampered gentry but uncommon men from diverse backgrounds – like Barrie, who came from the Scottish Highlands and whose father had tried to earn his living as an artisan weaver; or Shaw, the self-proclaimed ‘social downstart’ and itinerant Irishman; or Jerome who had grown up on the streets of Cockney London; or like himself, the offspring of immigrant Jews who thought matzo balls were the traditional food of England. These Young Turks with different views and from different linguistic circumstances were starting to reshape Britain and the class-ridden language that had tried to tether their thoughts and passions. These were the men who had liberated themselves from Sheridan and Shakespeare and formulated their own art in their own manner (as Shakespeare once had done himself).
They had listened with fascination to Z’s stories that night of the man all London was coming to know as the Jew who was bound for the gallows. And though they sym
pathised with the anger he expressed at the bluntness and cruelty of British justice, they cautioned him as a friend and as an artist, to keep his head and not lose it along with Lipski’s, no matter how passionate he felt. For art, as Jerome reminded him later, as they walked together past the glittering lights of Shaftsbury, had its own obligations. The world could be bleak if one allowed it; life, indeed, could be brutal. He, himself, had come to that realisation one terrible night, not so many years ago, when his childhood had suddenly ended, full stop, and he found himself alone, without parents, without money, without anyone or anything to count on. And how did he respond to that dreadful awareness? First, or course, by tears, but then, curiously, by laughter at the ridiculous state he found himself in. Ever since that moment he had come to see the only antidote to a world of terror and fear was humour and, if Z could excuse him for being a bit maudlin, friendship and good cheer.
So, he continued, why didn’t Z consider taking a break with him? He was organising an excursion down the Thames. There were two of them already, not to mention his dog, and wouldn’t it be dandy if Z could make it three? They’d meander down the river, stopping here and there, pack in some food, some wine. Perhaps they’d meet some ladies on the route, perhaps not. But certainly there’d be a story in it. Maybe even two. So why didn’t Z give himself some time off from his noble quest and come along?
Now back in his room, Z relives the evening in his head and finds himself both angry and distressed. He has never felt so distant from his erstwhile friends as now. For they have failed to understand the depth and urgency of his commitment. Part of him is shocked at his own reaction for possibly he hasn’t realised his feelings till now – he had neither the time nor the inclination to search his soul for reasons why he had suddenly become so consumed by the plight of someone he had never met and, for all he knew, might actually have committed the most brutal of murders.
But, perhaps that was the point. Perhaps he had come to the place where Myers and Hayward had been all along. For without having the evidence which would stand without question in a court of law, they truly believed Lipski to be innocent. And, even though Z wouldn’t have articulated this, he had come to that point himself, reaching that moment of belief, when faith and trust merge into one, and reason is overcome by knowledge that is received by other means which have little substance in a world structured by the precision of logic derived from the likes of Aristotle.
He knew he was being pulled somewhere by a very powerful force; but he was somewhat loath to analyse the whys and wherefores. It was too soon and he was still torn between the different parts of himself, the different elements of his being, to consider the nature of his compulsion and what it meant beyond the need to save a man-child whose face transformed in the dark of night, as he lay restless in bed, half asleep, half awake, into his own or sometimes that of his father’s.
These kind of meandering thoughts were also unsuited to the task at hand. He needed every ounce of strength and concentration to maintain his frantic race against the clock that stubbornly waited for no one. This clock, which had so recently become more powerful and demanding as factory life took over from the workshops, as towns and villages were forced to comply with the nature of conformity brought to them by the Masters of the Railroads, now ruled life as never before. It had come to rule Lipski’s existence and now it had come to rule his. The idea of a day which contacted and expanded according to the nature of the seasons, the planetary movements and the biological rhythms of life, was superseded by a mechanical notion of society more suited to an economy that saw people as products and time as wealth.
For Z, time had always been more complex. Perhaps it had something to do with the special history of his people who, for survival, needed several notions of time – one physical and the other spiritual. The physical one was necessary to establish social relations and to maintain their contiguity with the world outside. The spiritual one was needed to preserve their faith and hope and trust. It was only in this multiplicity of worlds that their inner self could flourish even when their flesh was being maligned.
Time, therefore, was not one thing. Indeed, there were many clocks, some of them interconnected and some of them running in a universe of their own design. They told time in cycles of short duration and cycles that were long. To take one clock into account while ignoring the others, gave only part of a picture that was painted in many perspectives. Truth, therefore, if there be such a creature, lay in a realm that subtly changed its nature depending on which clock you were connected to at any given moment.
Simple, it was not.
CHAPTER 34
HIS MEETING WITH Fitzjames Stephen was quite positive, Hayward told those who gathered round the small conference table that evening when he returned, tired but hopeful. The judge had listened to him with interest and seemed to think that the points he raised were deserving of the most careful attention.
Did that mean he would be supporting the call for appeal? Or, at the very least, asking for a respite?
These questions Hayward couldn’t answer. He was careful, he said, to maintain a proper decorum, conscious he was walking on perilous grounds and that any false movement could have sunk them into an unforgiving quagmire. The judge, he felt, needed to be nudged along, inch by inch, without being put in a position where he reacted out of defensiveness rather than reason and compassion. True, he had come away with nothing but a feeling that progress had been made. But Justice Stephen had indicated that he would like to meet with him again, quite soon, to go over the issues they had discussed – after he had some time to consider them.
Krantz, in annoyance, had asked whether this new meeting would take place before or after Lipski was hung. And Hayward, quite calmly, responded that nothing would be gained by exploding the situation when without the judge’s cooperation Lipski surely would die. For, if Fitzjames Stephen had questions in his mind, Matthews, the Home Secretary, had none and, in fact, was anxious to get the poor lad hung and buried and out of the front pages as this case was causing him no end of embarrassment. At least this is what he was told by friends in the Solicitor General’s office who seemed to know what was going on within that inner sanctum.
Greenberg, on his part, congratulated Hayward on a job well done. Things, he felt, were falling into place. The petition drive had been more successful than he had hoped. Instead of hundreds of names, they had collected thousands. And, through the efforts of Cunningham Graham, they now had a long list of MPs willing to support a statement from the House calling on the Home Secretary to grant a respite. What’s more, the Lipski case was being used as an example of why judicial reform was so desperately needed. Two changes, in fact, were being proposed by the opposition – the right of the accused to be a witness on his own behalf, and, more importantly, the setting up of a court of criminal appeal which would act independent of the trial judge and the Home Secretary.
That was all well and good, Krantz pointed out, if Lipski was to be a martyr to liberalising an arcane, and, in his eyes, a rotten system of justice. But if it was Lipski, himself, they were trying to save then he wasn’t sure these side issues of judicial reform were helping his case or giving the government just one more reason to get him quickly out of their hair.
Z also felt the importance of not getting side-tracked. The focus needed to be on Lipski and him alone. The days were quickly passing and something would have to happen fast or else they would still be begging, hat in hand, while the noose was being fix around Lipski’s collar. Hayward may be right in finessing the judge, he felt. What else could he do? Justice Stephen might even be sympathetic, but in the end the decision wasn’t up to him, not really. If they wanted to stop the execution, they would have to reach the powers above.
Perhaps he would like to write a letter to the Queen, Krantz suggested in a tone that matched the gently derisive shape of his features.
Perhaps that wasn’t a bad idea, Z rep
lied. But it wouldn’t be them who could write it. And looking around for De Souza, he noticed he was missing.
Later Myers told him that he hadn’t seen De Souza for a while. He was a busy man; not easy to contact. But he was someone important to have on their side. After all, he worked for the Rothschilds, didn’t he?
So De Souza was a merchant banker, Z thought to himself. Of course people in De Souza’s position had enormous leverage and power. If it came to that, Z supposed, it was a route they would have to make use of.
Even though he didn’t like contemplating the idea of bowing down to the aristocracy, Z was a pragmatist. There were roads he would rather not travel, but sometimes the choice wasn’t his. So if he needed to go down that road after all, he just took a deep breath, held his nose, and did it. Not always, of course. Pragmatism, after all, did have its limits. But the idea of certain problems being of exceptional nature and therefore allowing for exceptional solutions was something that was well ingrained in him. Even the most orthodox of his people lived by that concept.
If a devout man, for example, was faced with a situation where he need either eat a certain food prohibited by his dietary laws or die, there was no question that the food would be consumed. For eating the forbidden food might be a sin, but a greater sin would be to cause such a stupid ending to his life because he was too proud to eat something theoretically taboo to save himself. Even his God would have thought him an idiot.
This, in essence, was the nature of pragmatism as passed down through the generations to Z. One did what was needed to be done when the situation called for it. It was the safety valve built into a culture which allowed its people to survive in an alien world with their moral values intact.