by Alec Waugh
“I’m sure she will.”
That’s where Sylvia was so clever; always this hunt in couples; Jocelyn or Mavis or Doris Kellaway. This posing as a chaperone for her sister. Wasn’t it likelier, far likelier that she was using Mavis as a cover? Jocelyn had been with her that first time.
“As far as I can see the half of Jamestown will be at this trial,” Maxwell said.
It certainly seemed so three hours later. The courthouse, an adjunct of the police station, was a square thick fort-like building that had withstood hurricanes and earthquakes and that standing at right angles to the prison, helped to screen the cul-de-sac that led to Carson’s house. It was here that the Legislative Council sat. Cool and whitewashed, it had a sense of dignity with its dais and dark benches and gilt-framed portraits of eighteenth century governors. As the seats by the door began to fill, there settled on the room the kind of hush that steals upon a theater as the musicians take their places in the orchestra. Various officials with an air of self-importance conferred together over sheafs of paper. There was an atmosphere not of bustle but of things being about to happen.
Carson pointed out to Bradshaw such of the local notables as he did not already know.
“Do you know that barrister in the front row to the left?”
Bradshaw shook his head. “A wig is a very good disguise, besides I’m ashamed to have to admit it, but I find it very hard to tell one colored gentleman from another. The Chinese have the same difficulty with regard to us.”
Carson chuckled. “All the same,” he said, “this chap is worth taking note of. He’s Grainger Morris.” He provided a succinct biography. “In England he went everywhere, knew everyone, but here because he’s colored, because he’s not in the stud book, they wouldn’t let him join the tennis club. Amusingly enough the Governor’s son knew him in England so now Mr. Morris gets asked to all the smartest parties. I couldn’t be more amused. You ought to make a point of knowing him. I’ll introduce you afterward.”
“I’d be most grateful if you would.” Another pipeline here. “Which is Mr. Preston by the way?”
“He’s not come yet. I’ll point him out to you when he does. Ah, here he is. Oh damn, he’s coming next to us.”
Preston was one of Carson’s pet aversions. Preston would talk to him about the war. As a fighting soldier, Carson considered officers in the R.A.O.C. as “uniformed civilians,” and as a regular officer he had resented the way in which during the war civilians had been put into uniform with flannel on their lapels. Lawyers had become brigadiers overnight.
As he had expected, Preston met him once again on the presumably shared ground of military experience. “First time I’ve been in court since I was president of that court-martial in Ismalia. I told you about that, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“Never thought then that I should find myself in this kind of set-up.”
Carson did not answer. The effect of his breakfast whisky was wearing off. If he had spoken, he would have snapped.
“My case isn’t the first,” Preston was continuing. “There’s one before mine that needs a jury, some typically ridiculous situation about a man biting off his sister’s finger.”
Carson turned to Bradshaw. “There’s copy for you, old boy.”
Mavis was sitting two rows in front beside her sister, behind Grainger Morris; she had been surprised to see him there.
“On whose side are you?” she asked.
“I’m afraid “I’m not figuring in the cause célèbre. I came down in case any of these poor devils need a counsel.”
“Isn’t that a waste of time?”
“Not if it’s in someone’s service.”
If anyone else had said a thing like that she would have felt it sanctimonious, but he said it naturally. There was no one like him, she thought: no one, no one. It was the first time she had seen him in a wig. The tight white curls made him look ten years older, they gave him an air of distinction, of authority: below his wig there showed only a brief fringe of dark hair. You could not see its crinkly texture. If her father had put on a wig and gown would anyone have seen the difference?
A fist was thumped upon a desk. A voice announced “His Honor!” There was a shuffle as the attendance rose, and the judge walked slowly to his seat upon the dais. He was a short, squat man three quarters colored; he had an air of considerable dignity.
Carson leant across to Bradshaw. “Say what you will, there are some remarkable characteristics about the British Empire; here’s the descendant of a slave, sitting in judgment on his captors; without any revolution, with a direct succession of authority at Westminster: the same royal family upon the throne. It’s something you can’t shrug away.”
“Silence in the court.”
The prisoner had been brought into the dock. He was a thin, weak-looking negro who might have been thirty, who might have been sixty years of age. He looked about him with a furtive hangdog air. The charge against him was read out. He had bitten off the top joint of the fourth finger of his half sister’s left hand and the lobe of her right ear.
The judge looked round the court. “Has this man any counsel?” Grainger rose.
“I shall be very glad to offer my services if the prisoner agrees.” The judge turned to the prisoner.
“Mr. Morris, a very distinguished member of the bar, is offering you his services, at no cost to yourself. This is an act of great generosity on his behalf. I consider you very fortunate. I presume that you will accept his services.”
The prisoner looked round vaguely. His eyes rested upon Grainger. Then he looked back at the judge. Carson leant across to Bradshaw. “Hasn’t a clue, poor fellow.”
The selection of the jury started. Twenty men had been told to present themselves. As each man’s name was read out, the judge turned to the prisoner and said, “Have you any objection to this man?” The prisoner stared stupidly and made no comment. He did not nod or shake his head. The judge tried to explain to him his rights under the jury system.
“If there is a man here who will not, in your opinion, judge your case fairly, some man who dislikes you, who has quarreled with you, you may object to his presence on the jury.”
The prisoner’s face wore the same blank stare.
“Typical British justice,” Carson whispered. “We keep to the drill of it, even if the business is completely pointless, because one is dealing with a half-wit.”
Eventually the twelve jurors were chosen, and the prosecution opened its case. The first witness was Leisching, the Austrian doctor. He was tall, heavily jowled, clean shaven, bald, with a scar across his forehead. On such a day and at such an hour the plaintiff, so the doctor informed the court, had come into hospital for treatment, with the top joint of the fourth finger of her left hand severed, and with the lobe of her right ear torn and bleeding. He gave his evidence in a precise Teutonic manner. He had a strong German accent. “Square-headed bastard,” Carson whispered. Counsel for the prosecution asked the doctor what in his opinion had caused the accident.
“The woman told me that her brother had bitten her. The condition of the wounds was consistent with her story.”
Grainger rose. Did the doctor think the wounds could have been produced in any other way? Could an instrument have made them? No, the doctor did not think so: it was not a clean cut. There was no appearance of crushing.
“Suppose that the woman had not told you that she had been bitten. Would it have occurred to you at once that that was how the wounds were made?”
The doctor hesitated. “I might have been puzzled for a moment. It is not after all a usual occurrence. I have never had to deal with such a case before; but I think that in a very few minutes I would have realized that the injury could not have been inflicted in any other way.”
“Could an animal have done it?”
“I cannot think it could have done. A dog’s teeth are widely spaced. There would have been separate teeth marks.”
“Wouldn’t it need
considerable strength to bite off the top joint of a finger? Think how tough one finds a piece of meat occasionally.”
The doctor agreed that it would have needed considerable strength. He informed the court that the victim had been kept in hospital five days.
The plaintiff was now called. She was a tall, slim, not unhandsome creature. She wore a bright red blouse, and a yellow skirt; a bright orange and black handkerchief was knotted round her head. She was, she explained, the half sister of the accused. They had the same mother but different fathers. The accused did not live in her house, she said, but came and stayed there sometimes. No, she was not married. She lived with her mother who had once kept house with the accused’s father, who now was dead, as her own father was. Her twelve-year-old half brother by another man lived with them. Where was the father of this half brother? She did not know. Had her mother been married to any of these men? No, she had not.
“Sixty per cent of the births here are illegitimate,” Carson explained to Bradshaw. “Half the time the parents can’t afford to marry. Half the time the woman wants to keep her independence. The children are brought up by the mother. It’s a form of matriarchy.”
They lived, the plaintiff was continuing, in a two-roomed shack in Jamestown. On the day in question the accused had arrived in the morning. At what time in the morning? She did not know; it was before she had got back from market. She returned from the market to be told that the accused had arrived and was lying down. He had brought some food with him. What kind of food? Some meal and some peppers. She had looked to see what he had brought. Then she had started her own cooking. While she was at the stove, the accused had woken up: he had accused her of troubling his food.
“Troubling his food?” Bradshaw whispered.
“That means stealing; a polite synonym. Just as we’d say drawing a long bow, instead of lying.”
From that point the plaintiff’s story became confused: an argument had gone on right through the afternoon until at five o’clock the plaintiff had arrived at the hospital with a bleeding ear and severed finger. The argument had had its peaks and its intermissions. Once at least the accused had retired and gone to sleep. When he awoke, the argument had been renewed. At one time he had had a fit.
“What kind of a fit?”
“Like so.”
The plaintiff gave an imitation in the witness box, shaking her body and waving her arms. The spectators roared with laughter. The sergeant at arms banged his hammer. The judge threatened to clear the court. The plaintiff grinned with delighted pride as she resumed her story. There had been, she said, a succession of outbursts and recriminations: finally there had been the fight. But for her small brother’s intervention she would have been surely killed.
“But your brother is only eleven years old,”’ the judge reminded her.
“Yessir, he let fall a stone.”
“Another polite synonym,” Carson explained. “You don’t throw a stone at a man. You let it fall on him.”
The brother had “let fall” the stone, the accused had relaxed his hold and the woman had broken free and rushed screaming to the hospital.
Counsel had finished his examination. He looked interrogatively at Grainger. Grainger rose.
“I presume, my lord, that my learned friend is going to call the younger brother as a witness.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“In that case, my lord, I should prefer, with your permission, to delay my cross-examination of this witness till we have heard her brother.”
The permission was granted, and the brother took the stand. He was tall, wiry, sturdy. He looked round him with pride. This was a big day for him. He had got off school. He was standing up before all these people, before white folks too, to tell them how he had saved his sister. Yes, he said, he had heard screams; he had run in from the street; his sister was on the floor, her brother was on top of her. He had looked for a weapon, could not see one, had run out into the yard, had found a stone, had let it fall upon his brother’s head: “like that,” he said and showed how he had crashed down the stone.
“The word ‘let fall,’ “Carson whispered, “has a wide range of meaning.”
The examination by counsel was a brief one; too brief in the boy’s view. He turned expectantly to Grainger. Everyone had told him that his cross-examination by the defense would be much longer.
“Your sister has told us that the accused has fits. Have you seen one of these fits?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was it like?”
“Like so.”
His imitation was less dramatic than his sister’s and the spectators received it decorously.
“Does he often have these fits?”
“Yes, sir, often.”
“Does he fall down when he has these fits?”
“He falls about.”
“Have you ever seen him faint?”
“No, sir.”
“When he has these fits, do you notice anything unusual about his face?”
“How you mean, sir?”
“Does the color change; does he froth at the mouth?”
The boy looked puzzled. “When I let fall the stone …” Grainger interrupted him.
“I don’t want to hear about that for the moment. I want to know about these fits; how often does he have them, how does he behave when he has them? Tell me in your own way what you can remember.”
The boy looked disappointed. He had expected to be asked questions about the stone, how hard he had let it fall, and on which side of the head. He had seen many gangster films. He had expected to have the judge say, “Now show the court exactly what you did.” He had not expected to be questioned about these fits. Why should anyone be interested in that? He did his best to remember, to tell the lawyer what he could, but his heart was not in it.
“And now, one last question,” Grainger said. “When you came into the room and saw your sister on the floor, tell the court exactly what you saw. Tell us exactly what her brother was doing.”
The boy brightened. This was the kind of thing he wanted.
“I hear her scream. I see her on the floor. I run into the yard….”
“No, no, please, I don’t want to know what you did, I know that already. You’ve told us very clearly. You showed great courage and presence of mind. But what I want to know now is what her brother was actually doing; was he struggling with your sister?”
Reluctantly the boy let himself be led back to the point in which the defense was interested. Yes, they had been struggling. Good. What form did the struggle take? Was he beating your sister? Was he trying to throttle her? Did you actually see him biting her? The questions followed one on top of the other. The boy looked puzzled. How could he remember? It had been such a long time ago. He had run out into the yard to find a stone.
“Yes,” Grainger said. “You ran out into the yard to find a stone. When you came back was there still a struggle; was her brother beating her: did you actually see him biting her? Are you absolutely sure that he was not motionless: that he had not fainted, that he was not in some kind of a collapse?”
“Me lud, I object.” Counsel for the prosecution was on his feet.
“My learned friend is leading my witness in a most improper manner.”
“Bumping and boring. I thought as much,” said Carson.
The objection was sustained, and the jury was instructed to ignore that final question.
“But he made his point,” Carson whispered. “I see what he’s driving at, don’t you?”
Bradshaw nodded. Mavis too saw what he was driving at. She had followed the case with mounting interest: ever since the Nurses’ Dance she had been looking forward to seeing Grainger in court in his wig and gown. She would then be seeing the real man; it would be like seeing for the first time in uniform a soldier whom she had only met in mufti. She had never imagined that he would look so impressive. Next to the judge he was the most impressive person in the room. It had been fascinating to listen
to his cross-examination, wondering whither it was leading, then gradually getting a glimpse of his intentions. But it was not so much his cleverness that had moved her—she had known that he would be clever—as his gentleness, his patience, his fairness. He could so easily have tied this boy in knots, confused him, made him contradict himself. But he had not done that. He had tried to get at the truth, feeling that the truth was the best defense. The small boy left the box, a little disappointed that he had not been able to explain quite as fully as he had liked how he had let fall the stone, but even so he had been placed high in his own esteem. He had been called brave.
The plaintiff was now recalled. Mavis’ interest quickened. Her evidence had been diffuse, the sequence of events was hard to follow. Moreover there was that first cause of complaint; had she been stealing her brother’s food? She was a witness whom it would be easy to discredit. But Grainger made no effort to discredit her. He concentrated with her, as he had with her brother, on the fits—how often had she seen them, how long did they last.
“When you say he falls about, could you explain what you mean? Does he roll on the floor?”
“Yes, sir, he roll on the floor.”
“Would you describe that rolling as a kind of convulsion?”
“Convulsion, what is that?”
“Does he behave like a drunk man?”
“Yes, sir, like a very drunk man.”
“You have seen men when drunk suddenly collapse, fall down, go to sleep, so that you cannot wake them.”
Yes, she had seen that.
“Have you ever seen a man when drunk froth like a horse at the mouth?”
Yes, she had seen that too.
“Have you seen a man when drunk catch hold of something so that you could not get it away from him?”
“Yes, sir, for certain sure.”
“Have you heard it said that a man when drunk is twice as strong as a man when he is sober?”
Yes, she had heard that.
Had she seen any case of that?
“My mother say when my father drunk, he sure beats her up good.”
There was a roar of laughter in the court. Once again the sergeant at arms beat his hammer on the desk.