The Queen v. Karl Mullen

by Michael Gilbert

  He made another good point, about the Will (“Sprung on us at the last moment, like much of the defence evidence.”) “No one when making a Will assumes that he is going to die the next day. The deceased was at the start of what looked like being a very successful career. By the time he died a thousand pounds might not be a third – might not even be a thirtieth – of his estate.”

  Roger could find only one fault in the speech. It went on a little too long. As the time passed one matter was exercising the minds of the jury to the exclusion of all others. When were they going to get their lunch? It was a quarter past one when the Attorney General concluded his careful summary and it was twenty past two when de Morgan rose to address them. His opening was unexpected.

  He said, “I wonder how many of you remember the cases of Evans and Christie which were heard nearly forty years ago in this Court. In fact, members of the jury, it would help me if you would indicate.”

  Five hands went up at once, after a pause two more.

  “Well, it’s a majority.” Hearing a laugh, he swung round. The judge had his hand up.

  “Thank you, my Lord. Let me explain. Evans was charged with the murder of his wife and child. It seemed an open-and-shut case. But Counsel for the defence had come to the conclusion – it’s far from clear how he did so – that one of the Crown witnesses, a man called Christie, was the real murderer. The subsequent discovery of the bodies of five young ladies concealed in Christie’s flat certainly lent support to this theory. But that is not the point. What is clear is that once he had reached this conclusion Counsel was bound, by the rules of advocacy, to put it to Christie when he was giving evidence. And so he did. His exact words were, ‘Mr. Christie, I have got to suggest to you – I do not wish there to be any misapprehension about it – that you are responsible for the deaths of Mrs. Evans and the little girl.’ Now please note, and note carefully, members of the jury, that I made no such suggestion to Mrs. Katanga when she was giving evidence.”

  “Ah,” said Wyvil softly, “I thought that was where we were going.”

  The implication dawned more slowly on the rest of the Court. As it did so there was a collective sigh, like the wind moving in the tops of the trees, a gentle forerunner of storm.

  “Although the more hysterical of our daily papers will no doubt think otherwise, it should be clear that I am not accusing Mrs. Katanga of killing her husband. My object is very different. As the Crown has admitted, the evidence in this case is circumstantial. Such evidence can be impressive, but it needs to be examined, with great care, to see that it leads to the conclusion which the Crown desires – and to no other conclusion. So let us examine it, to see whether, in each of its three compartments, an alternative theory might present itself.

  “First, as to means. Or, in other words, the availability of weedkiller. I do not know if you were as little impressed as I was by Mr. Luck’s evidence. I think he told a number of lies. But in a sense this is not important, since I am going to suggest that Paradol, the tin which he told us he remembers selling, does not really come into the matter at all. It is on the alternative and, according to Dr. Gadney, the equally likely product, called Killblane, that your attention must be fixed. The girl Anna did not see any signs of Paradol – and it is a container which does not hide its light under a bushel – but she did think she had seen a container of the more modestly packaged Killblane in the garden shed. Now it is clear, from the evidence of Inspector Blanchard, who made an immediate search, that by the following day it was no longer there. So what had happened to it? You will find a very possible answer in the evidence of young Sophie Burnett, who found it concealed under leaves, on Putney Common, not far from Katanga’s house. And if you imagine that it might have been any old container thrown away there, think again. Dr. Thoroughgood has told us that it was three-quarters full of neat Killblane, which retails at eleven pounds a bottle. An expensive thing to jettison, don’t you think?

  “So, if Killblane was the fatal additive – and I can’t help thinking that the Crown’s case would have been much better founded if it had proceeded on that assumption – let us turn to opportunity. The Killblane is in the shed. The accused could not have reached it without passing in front of the kitchen window and glass door which gave on to the patio – look at the plans and photographs, please – thank you. Of course the accused might have brought Killblane with him, intending to use it whether he was successful in getting the deceased to withdraw his evidence or not. He had half an hour to use it. On the alternative theory, Mrs. Katanga had the period – five minutes or more according to Anna – when she was alone in the kitchen and Mullen was being shown out. Five minutes, to step out onto the patio, take the Killblane from the shed, enter the sitting-room, use it and conceal it for subsequent disposal. So which theory do we believe? I should not, I think, be guilty of exaggeration if I said that at this point the two theories were running level.

  “But when we come to motive, does not the balance tilt decisively in favour of the alternative theory? For what was the suggested motive of the accused? To save himself from the consequences of a charge of attempted shop-lifting. For which, even if found guilty – and the case was far from strong – the maximum penalty would have been a fine. The prosecution has attempted to bolster the point by suggesting that, coming from a country in which people, black people in particular, get imprisoned for trivial offences, he might have been so ignorant of the practice here that he feared like treatment. But how can he, of all people, have thought this? As you have heard, in a case of actual shop-lifting he had been bound over. Why should he suppose that the law would be more severe on the lesser offence of attempted shop-lifting? That is nonsense, is it not?

  “Turn, now, to Dorothy Katanga. In her previous house, maltreated and humiliated. In her new house, more humiliated still, by the substitution of the hired help to relieve her of her duties in bed. A smouldering resentment, which needed only the smallest provocation to fan it into flames. And what a provocation it was! She learned that her husband was callously ready to hand over three women to whom she was devoted, to imprisonment and torture. I ask you to judge for yourself which was the more powerful motive.

  “If you are thinking that the alternative possibility which I have outlined is every bit as theoretical as the case propounded by the Crown, I accept that. I accept it willingly. They are both theories. All I ask you to do is to balance one against the other. And when you have done so let me remind you of something said by Mr. Justice Humphreys, the greatest criminal lawyer of this century: ‘Circumstantial evidence must be strong enough to exclude all reasonable alternatives.”’

  De Morgan had been listened to in a silence unbroken by word or movement; by the gallery in unremitting hostility; by the body of the Court in appreciation of a remarkable forensic effort; and by the jury? Difficult to say. Certainly the summing-up of Mr. Justice Hollebrow did nothing to help them make up their minds. He spoke for half an hour, scrupulously repeating the points made by both sides, but giving no hint of his own opinion. After which, he dismissed them to their room and disappeared to his.

  Normally, the Court would have emptied, but no one seemed anxious to lose their place. De Morgan went down to have a word with Mullen, whom he found in a sour temper at not having been allowed to give evidence. He could only say to him. “I thought it best.” On his return, Bull said, “If the jury makes up its mind quickly, it’ll mean they’re against us.”

  “You might be right,” said de Morgan. He was too drained of emotion to argue.

  It was quicker than anyone had expected. Just before four o’clock the word went round that the jury were returning. Counsel squeezed back into their places and the judge reappeared. The jury filed in and reseated themselves. Only Dr. Rajami remained standing.

  The Clerk of the Court said, “Members of the jury. Have you agreed upon your verdict?”

  “We have, sir,” said the Doctor. “We are unanimous.”

  “Do you find the prisoner gu
ilty, or not guilty?”

  “We are unable to say that the evidence conclusively proves the prisoner to be guilty.”

  The judge said, “Then your verdict is ‘Not guilty’?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The explosion from the public gallery was, in part, a prearranged demonstration, but in part also a genuine outburst of rage, frustration and disbelief. As they rose, the policemen among them moved also, making for the place where they should have been stationed originally, the internal exit from the gallery. Here they formed an unbreakable barrier – ten seconds too late.

  At least fifteen men had escaped. Led by one who clearly knew the way they stormed along the passage and hurled themselves against the door at the far end. This demonstration of force was unnecessary. The police had left this door unlocked, as access for their own reinforcements; a second, and a bad mistake. The door led into a robing room where a barrister, who was changing into Court dress, standing with his trousers in one hand, gaped at them. They had no time for him. Their object was to reach the bottom of the stairs before the police started to come up. They were in time, but only just. The collision took place on the bottom steps where they emerged into the lobby.

  Impetus and numbers were on the side of the intruders. Their weight carried them down the last few steps and their fury carved a path through the opposition. The encounter left three of each side wounded on the ground. The remaining dozen stormed across the lobby, brushed aside a protesting official and erupted into the Court.

  It was a bitter confrontation with the law; the law which had frustrated them. And there it was, before their eyes. The smug lawyers, their pompous officers and the furnishings of their mystery. They would do as much damage as possible before they were stopped.

  The judge had retired through a door at the back. The leaders of the mob climbed onto the rostrum and succeeded in upending the great double desk, which fell with a splintering crash into the well of the Court. Benches were torn up and used as battering rams. Counsels’ lecterns and anything else that was loose became missiles.

  The encounter was not entirely one-sided. After a moment of shock and incredulity the more robust members of the Court started to fight back. A volume of Archbold’s Practice, the heaviest book known to the law, had been picked up and slung across the room. It hit John Benson on the leg. Two inches higher and it would have fractured his knee-cap. With a roar of rage and pain he grabbed one of the loose chairs from the well and launched himself into battle. Seeing him go, Roger and Martin hurled themselves after him and the three of them fought their corner with considerable effect as the police reinforcements poured in.

  These concentrated on seizing the intruders, one at a time and dragging them into the lobby, where they were handcuffed and herded into Court 2, which was empty, having finished business early.

  Whilst this was going on the remaining men in the gallery, after howling insults and hurling a few missiles into the Court, were shepherded through the public entrance and out into the street. Here they soon informed and infected the crowd who were round the Court in numbers that defied all attempts at control.

  At the end of ten minutes the last of the intruders had been captured, a casualty station had been set up and all the doors of the building had been barred. No one could get in, but no one could get out.

  Mullen had been taken straight down by the stairs inside the dock and his fate was being discussed by three men. Chief Superintendent Baron of Special Branch, the Assistant Commissioner of City Police, and Major Dann, the head of Court security. They were being kept abreast of the situation by messages from those who had the crowd under observation.

  “It’ll be dark in an hour,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “We could put him in one of the vans in the underground garage and try to rush him out.”

  Baron said, “It wouldn’t work. They’ve got the roads carpeted with sharpened jacks. You’d burst all the tyres and the crowd would upset the van.”

  The three men contemplated this possibility unhappily. “Then we may have to ask the army to get him away,” said Dann. “An armoured half-track wouldn’t be stopped by the jacks and it wouldn’t be an easy vehicle to stop or turn over.

  “Not that we want to call in the army unless we have to.”

  It was at this point that Mr. Crankling, who had attached himself to the discussion, coughed. It was a cough that announced that he had a contribution to make. He said, “In the old days it was my job to bring up coal for the judges’ fires, from the cellar at the back of the building. In fact, there’s a bit of coal still there. The coalmen didn’t tip it in loose. It was delivered in sacks, through a trap in the pavement. In Warwick Square, that is.”

  Comprehension was starting to dawn.

  “Where a hundred-weight sack can come in, a man can get out. So I thought—”

  “Brilliant,” said Dann. “See if you can get the trap open. It’ll be rusted up and you may need tools to do it.”

  “I’ll get her open,” said Mr. Crankling. “Don’t you worry.”

  “I’ll telephone those publishers – the ones who have offices in the Square. Their senior partner’s a friend of mine. I’ll ask him to send for a taxi. As soon as it’s standing outside his door I’ll give the signal.”

  Baron said, “It can take him straight to Battersea Heliport. I’ll have a police helicopter waiting for him.”

  The only person who did not seem to appreciate what was being done for him was Mullen. He was not frightened of the crowd. With a moderate use of live ammunition his police had dispersed many more formidable gatherings. He couldn’t understand the difficulty.

  He was led, protesting, to the cellar where Mr. Crankling, perched on two sacks of coal, had levered open the trap. He took a look outside and reported that it was all clear and the taxi was in position.

  “Just a woman on the pavement,” he said. “She doesn’t look hostile.”

  Mullen was hoisted up, his face smeared with the coal dust that had come down from the ceiling, and was propelled through the trap, landing on hands and knees on the pavement. As he appeared Bonnie Parker, tipped off by Mr. Crankling, secured two photographs.

  At nine o’clock that night a news flash announcing the arrival of Mullen in Brussels dispersed the crowd more efficiently than any number of policemen could have done.

  26

  Two weeks later three men were talking in de Morgan’s room in Dr. Johnson’s Buildings. The damage to Court No. 1 had been repaired; the upset feelings of some of its staider occupants were going to take longer to heal.

  Martin Bull said, “With all respect to your admirable closing, sir, weren’t you surprised at the speed of the jury’s verdict?”

  Roger had come to collect back the mountains of papers, countless copies of every document, important and unimportant, that Counsel seemed to delight in. For him the sun was shining. He had been offered and had gratefully accepted a partnership in Bantings. He said, “As a matter of fact, I can tell you something about that.”

  “Gossip from the jury room?”

  “Not gossip, Martin. First-hand evidence. That lady who was co-opted onto the jury, Mrs. Gordon-Watson—”

  “Don’t tell me. She was your aunt.”

  “No. No relation. But a family friend. Godmother of one of my sister’s children.”

  “Excellent,” said de Morgan. “Proceed.”

  “Well, what she said was that she’d never conceived that a jury could be as intelligent as this one. She’d always imagined that they contained an element of riff-raff. Not so in this case. Sensible, solid, intelligent folk. When Dr. Rajami put it to them, they saw his point at once. They didn’t have to choose between the two theories. All they had to decide was whether both of them were equally possible. If that was their conclusion they couldn’t convict. It didn’t take them long to make up their minds.”

  “It’s a pity the general public weren’t as quick on the uptake,” said Martin.

  “The public mind
,” said de Morgan, “moves in a mysterious way. In some inexplicable way Dorothy Katanga’s suicide has led them to believe in Mullen’s innocence.”

  “Actually—” said Roger.

  “That belief seems to have taken the heat out of any personal hostility to myself – and others on our side, of course.”

  “In fact—” said Roger.

  “The only loser has been my wife. She much regrets the removal of two agreeable young policemen who were a great help with the washing-up.”

  “Actually,” said Roger, “the verdict at the inquest wasn’t suicide. It was death resulting from an accidental overdose of sleeping pills.”

  “And a very proper verdict too. Nobody believed it.”

  “They’d have believed it even less,” said Martin, “if the jury had been told that Dorothy was a trained nurse and well capable of judging the correct dose.”

  “Never tell a coroner’s jury more than you have to,” said de Morgan. “But you still look unhappy, Mr. Sherman. Is something worrying you?”

  “I must confess that I was disappointed. I was under the impression that one of the objects of a trial was to arrive at the truth.”

  Both barristers laughed tolerantly at this naive idea. “A criminal trial,” said de Morgan – his pipe was performing so happily that he spoke, like the oracle of old, out of a cloud—”has only one objective. To demonstrate whether convincing proof can be adduced of the guilt of the man charged. Mind you, I’m not saying that a case which is properly argued in Court may not have results. Quite apart from the death of Mrs. Katanga, this one, when you think of it, has been singularly productive of results.”