‘If we went to the magistrate, we don’t need one?’
‘Ah – you’re catching on! Correct. Solicitors can appear before the beak. Though even in the magistrates’ court, a barrister can be a help if he waves his law books at the old boy without antagonising him unduly.’
‘What does a barrister cost?’
‘As you’d expect, it depends on who he is. If he’s any good, it won’t cost you less than fifty at the least – with refreshers, of course, that you’ll have to pay if the trial lasted more than a day.’
‘Is it likely to?’
‘I don’t suppose so, but we might come on late in the afternoon and get adjourned.’ He paused. ‘Well, have you made up your mind?’
‘I don’t know yet, Mr Zuss-Amor. You’d better tell me what you advise.’
‘Advise! If I say, “Go to the judge,” you’ll think it’s because I want more money.’
‘Why should I?’
‘You’d be a bloody fool if you didn’t … But all the same, there are certainly big advantages. Though, before I tell you what they are, I should repeat what I said just now – I think in this case you’ll go down anyway.’
‘Why are you so sure?’
‘Because, my dear man, when the Law frames a case, they make a point of seeing it sticks. They have to.’
‘I see.’
‘I wish you did. You want to know why you should go to the judge and jury, then. In the first place, I don’t know who the magistrate will be, but nine out of ten accept police evidence: the more so, as I need hardly tell you, when the prisoner’s coloured.’
‘Don’t juries believe policemen, too?’
‘They do, yes, even more so in a way, but there’s a difference: twelve men have to be persuaded, and not one. Or twelve men and women, if we’re lucky enough to have any serving. But that’s not the chief consideration. What comes now is a point of legal strategy, so follow me closely, Mr Pew. You elect to go before the judge and jury. Right. That means the prosecution has to state its case, so as to get you committed. In other words, we hear all their evidence and they can’t alter it afterwards much, though they can add to it if they get some nice new bright ideas. But as for you, you sit tight in the dock …’
‘It’s not me, Mr Zuss-Amor.’
‘… All right, your friend sits in the dock and keeps his mouth shut. He says nothing.’
‘But he has to speak later before the judge and jury …’
‘Of course he has to, if he’s called. But by that time we know the prosecution’s case, and they don’t know ours at all. And if me and the barrister, whoever it is we choose, take a good look at the transcript of the prosecution’s evidence before the final trial comes on, our trained legal brains may find a hole or two that can be picked in it. Because it’s not all that easy to think up a consistent story of what never happened – you’d be surprised.’
‘It seems we should go to the jury, then.’
Mr Zuss-Amor gave me a sweet smile, as of one who congratulates a nitwit for seeing what was perfectly evident all the time.
‘If you want to know the fruits of my experience, Mr Pew,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you these three golden rules. Never accept trial by magistrate, unless it’s a five-shilling parking offence, or something of that nature. Never plead guilty – even if the Law walks in and finds you with a gun in your hand and a corpse lying on the floor. And when you’re arrested, never, never say a word, whatever they do, whatever they promise or threaten – that is, if you have the nerve to stick it out. Always remember, when they’ve got you alone in the cells, that they also have to prove the case in the open light of day. Say nothing, sign nothing. Most cases, believe me, are lost in the first half-hour after the arrest.’
‘You mean if you make a statement to them?’
‘Exactly. Tell them your name, your age, your occupation and address. Not a word more. Even then, they may swear you did say this or that, but it’s harder to prove you did if you’ve signed nothing and kept your trap shut.’ Mr Zuss-Amor arose, walked to the window, and gazed out glassily. ‘It’s a wicked world,’ he said, ‘thank goodness.’ He pondered a moment. ‘What about witnesses?’ he asked me, turning round. ‘Who can we muster?’
‘I’ve told you this girl Muriel won’t speak for him.’
‘It might make quite a bit of difference if she did. And it looks rather bad, doesn’t it, if she won’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Come, now! If we say, as we’re going to, that the defendant was living not with a whore, Dorothy, but with his lady-love, her sister Muriel, wouldn’t the jury expect to see Miss Muriel in the box and hear her say so?’
‘I’ll have another shot at her. Are witnesses to character any use?’
‘None whatever, unless you can produce the Pope, or someone. No, we’ll have to do our best with Mr Fortune himself if we can’t get Muriel. Can he talk well?’
‘His only trouble is that he talks too much.’
‘I’ll warn our counsel. Now who will we have against us? The Detective-Inspector, of course, and his Detective-Constable, I have no doubt – and even an old hand won’t be able to shake them.’
‘But what on earth can they say?’
‘Oh-ho! You wait and see! You’ll be surprised what that pair saw through brick walls two feet thick! And then, of course, they may call little Dorothy.’
‘They’re sure to, aren’t they?’
‘No … She’s a common prostitute, don’t forget, and juries don’t seem to believe a word they say. I hope they do call her, though – I’d like to see our counsel tear her guts out in cross-examination …’
Mr Zuss-Amor rubbed his chest with relish. I got up to go.
‘I don’t suppose you’ll believe,’ I said, ‘that Johnny Fortune hasn’t been a ponce. But isn’t it clear, from all you tell me, that these cases are sometimes framed?’
‘Oh, of course they are! Who said they weren’t?’ Mr Zuss-Amor stood face to face with me. ‘I handle a lot of cases for the defence,’ he said, ‘that they don’t like to see me get an acquittal for. So the police don’t love me all that much, as you can imagine. And believe me, whenever I get into my car at night, I look it over to see if they’ve planted anything there.’
‘You do?’
‘Well, if I don’t, I ought to. And that reminds me,’ he went on, leaning his lower belly against the desk. ‘If you can pay for it, we’ll have to get a barrister who’s not afraid of coppers.’
‘Some of them are, then?’
‘Most of them are. But one who certainly isn’t is Wesley Vial – even though he’s a junior.’
‘A Mr Vial who lives near Marble Arch? A fat, hairy man?’
‘You know him, I dare say. He’s a friend of little Alfy’s.’
‘I know him slightly. And so does Johnny Fortune. We went to a party at his house. I don’t think he likes either of us much.’
‘Oh, really? Wheels within wheels, I see.’ Mr Zuss-Amor sat down again. ‘I won’t enquire why,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think it’ll make the slightest difference. If Vial takes on the case, he’ll go all out to win it for you. Shall I ask him, anyway?’
‘What is a junior, exactly?’
‘He’s not taken silk. Doesn’t mean a thing, though. Some of the best men don’t bother, because when they take silk their fees have to go up, and they lose a lot of clients. Better six cases at fifty guineas than one at two hundred, don’t you agree?’
‘And Vial’s the best man we can get?’
‘At the price you can pay, undoubtedly. Your young friend will have to see him some time, too. And before he does, there’s something else you might as well explain to him.’ Mr Zuss-Amor looked at the ceiling, then with his mouth open at me, then continued: ‘It’s a delicate matter: one laymen don’t always grasp at once. In a nutshell: to beat perjured evidence, you have to meet it with perjury.’
‘No, I don’t understand.’
‘I didn’t expect you would.
However. Let me give you an instance. Suppose you walk out of this building and the Law arrests you on the doorstep for being drunk and disorderly in Piccadilly Circus while you were really talking here to me. What would you do?’
‘Deny it.’
‘Deny what?’
‘The whole thing.’
‘That’s the point: if they took you to court, you’d be most unwise. When they go into the box – and remember, there’s always more than one of them – and swear you were where you weren’t, and did what you didn’t, no jury will believe you if you deny their tale entirely.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘You say … having sworn by Almighty God, of course, like they have, to tell the whole truth, etcetera … you say that you were in Piccadilly Circus, yes, and you had taken one light ale, yes, but that you weren’t drunk or disorderly. In other words, you tag along with their story in its inessentials, but deny the points that can get you a conviction. If you do that, your counsel can suggest the Law had made an honest error. But if you deny everything they say, the jury will accept their word against yours.’
Mr Zuss-Amor shrugged, flung out his hands, and corrugated his brows into deep furrows.
‘So Johnny mustn’t deny all their story, but simply say he never took money from Dorothy, or had sex with her.
‘Particularly the former, of course. Yes, being an African, I don’t suppose he’ll mind damning his soul to get an acquittal. A lot of Christians do it. Is he one?’
‘I believe so.’
‘You can help him wrestle with his conscience, then. But do it before he sees Mr Vial. Because that’s what Vial will want him to say, but he won’t be able to put it so plain himself. It wouldn’t be etiquette, not for a barrister. Dirty work of that nature’s left to us solicitors, who really win the case by preparing it properly outside the court – that is, if it’s the sort of case that can be won.’
Mr Zuss-Amor bared all his teeth at me. I got up and shook his hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Zuss-Amor, you’ve made things wonderfully clear.’
He also rose. ‘They need to be,’ he said. ‘Trials are all a matter of tactics. I don’t know what happened, or if anything did happen, between that boy and that girl, any more than I suppose you really do. But believe me, when you listen to all the evidence in the court, you’ll be amazed to see how little relation what’s said there bears to what really occurred, so far as one knows it. It’s one pack of lies fighting another, and the thing is to think up the best ones, and have the best man there to tell them for you so that justice is done.’
He opened the frosted door and let me out.
SECOND INTERLUDE
‘Let Justice be done (and be seen to be)!’
The trial of Johnny Macdonald Fortune took place in a building, damaged in the Hitler war, which had been redecorated in a ‘contemporary’ style – light salmon wood, cubistic lanterns, leather cushions of pastel shades – that pleased none of the lawyers, officials or police officers who worked there. The courts looked too much like the boardrooms of progressive companies, staterooms on liners, even ‘lounges’ of American-type hotels, for the severe traditional taste of these professionals; and all of them, when they appeared there, injected into their behaviour an additional awesome formality to counteract the lack of majesty of their surroundings.
On the morning of the trial, Mr Zuss-Amor had a short conference with Mr Wesley Vial. In his wig and gown, Mr Vial was transformed from the obese, balding playboy of the queer theatrical parties he loved to give at his flat near Marble Arch, into a really impressive figure; impressive, that is, by his authority, which proceeded from his formidable knowledge of the operation of the law, his nerves of wire, his adaptable, synthetic charm, his aggressive ruthlessness, and his total contempt for weakness and ‘fair play’. Mr Zuss-Amor, by comparison, seemed, in this décor, a shabby figure – like a nonconformist minister calling on a cardinal.
‘Who have we got against us?’ said Mr Zuss-Amor.
‘Archie Gillespie.’
‘As Crown counsel in these cases go, by no means a fool.’
‘By no means, Mr Zuss-Amor.’
The solicitor felt rebuked. ‘What was your impression of our client, Mr Vial?’
‘Nice boy. Do what I can for him, of course – but what? The trouble with coloured men in the dock, you know, is that juries just can’t tell a good one from a bad.’
‘Can they ever tell that, would you say?’
‘Oh, sometimes! Don’t be too hard on juries.’
‘We’ll be having some ladies, I believe.’
‘Excellent! He must flash all his teeth at them.’ Mr Vial turned over the pages of the brief. ‘There was nothing you could do with this Muriel Macpherson woman?’
‘Nothing. I even went out and saw her myself. She’s very sore with our young client, Mr Vial. Frankly, I think if we had called her, we’d have found ourselves asking permission to treat her as a hostile witness.’
‘“Hell hath no fury,” and so on. On the other hand, Gillespie tells me he’s not calling the sister Dorothy. Very wise of him. He’s relying on police evidence – which, I’m sorry to say, will probably be quite sufficient for his purpose.’
‘Pity you couldn’t have had a go at the woman Dorothy in the box, though, Mr Vial …’ The solicitor’s eyes gleamed.
‘Oh, best to keep the females out of it, on the whole. I’ll see what can be done with the two officers. I’ve met the Inspector in the courts before … always makes an excellent impression. Looks like a family man who’d like to help the prisoner if he could: deeply regrets having to do his painful duty. I don’t think I know the Detective-Constable …’
‘A new boy in the CID. Very promising in the Force, I’m told. Man of few words in the box, though. Difficult to shake him, I think you’ll find.’
Mr Vial put down the brief. ‘And yet, you know, it should be possible to shake them.’
‘If anyone can do it, you can.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I mean this charge: it’s bogus. Just look at it!’ (He held up the brief.) ‘It stinks to high heaven!’
‘You think this boy’s telling the truth – or part of it?’
‘I think he’s telling the whole of it. I pressed him hard at our little interview, as you saw. And what did he do? He lost his temper! I’ve never seen such righteous indignation! I’m always impressed by honest fury in a defendant.’
Mr Zuss-Amor nodded, frowned, and scratched his bottom. ‘Why do they do it, Mr Vial?’ he said.
‘Why do who do what?’
‘Why do the police bring these trumped-up charges?’
‘Oh, well …’ The advocate sighed with all his bulk, and hitched his robe. ‘You know the familiar argument as well as I do. The accused’s generally done what they say he’s done, but not how they say he’s done it. The charge is usually true, the evidence often false. But in this case, I think both are phoney … Well, we’ll have to see …’
The two CID officers were having a cup of tea in the police room. ‘It’s your first case with us in the vice game,’ said the Inspector, ‘but you don’t have to let that worry you. The way to win a case, in my experience, is not to mind from the beginning if you lose it.’
‘But we shouldn’t lose this one, should we, sir?’
‘I don’t see how we can, Constable. But just remember what I told you. They’ll keep you outside until I’ve given evidence, of course, but you know what I’m going to say in its essential outlines. If they ask any questions in examination that we haven’t thought of, just say as little as possible: take your time, look the lawyer in the eye, and just say you don’t remember.’
‘He’s rough, isn’t he, Inspector, this Wesley Vial?’
‘That fat old poof? Don’t be afraid of him, son. He’s sharp, mind you, but if you don’t let him rattle you, there’s nothing he can do.’ The Inspector lit his Dunhill pipe. ‘It’s obvious what he’ll try,’ he continued. ‘He’ll make out that he accepts our story
, but he’ll try to shake us on the details, so as to put a doubt into the jury’s mind.’
The Constable sipped his beverage. ‘They’re not likely to raise the question of that bit of rough stuff at the station, are they?’
‘Vial certainly won’t – he knows no jury would believe it. But the boy might allege something, even though Vial’s probably told him not to. Let’s hope he does do. It’d make a very bad impression on the court. Drink up now, Constable, we’re on in a minute or two.’
The Constable swallowed. ‘I’m sure you know best about not calling that girl Dorothy, sir. But don’t you think if we’d had her to pin it on him good and proper …’
‘Mr Gillespie said no, and I think he’s right. I’ve told her to keep out of the way and keep her trap shut till the trial’s over – and she will. You never know how it will be with women in the box: she may love this boy, for all we know, and might have spoken out of turn; and if we’d called her for the prosecution, we might have found ourselves with a hostile witness on our hands.’
In the public gallery, a little minority group of Africans was collecting: among them Laddy Boy, who’d brought an air cushion and a bag of cashew nuts; the Bushman, who’d got a front seat, leant on the railing and immediately gone to sleep; and Mr Karl Marx Bo, who planned to send by air mail a tendentious report on the trial to the Mendi newspaper of which he was part-time correspondent, if, as he hoped it would be, the result was unfavourable to the defendant.
Theodora and Montgomery arrived much too early, and sat in great discomfort on the benches that sloped steeply like a dress circle overlooking the well of the court. They wondered if they could take their overcoats off and, if so, where they could put them.
‘It doesn’t look very impressive,’ said Theodora. ‘It’s much too small.’
‘It looks exactly like Act III of a murder play. Which is the dock?’
City of Spades Page 21