Lord Justice Pomeroy caused his shaggy brows to twitch in the direction of this interruption. “Yes?”
“My Lord,” said Sir Osbert, his eyes gleaming. “I believe that it is quite possible that my honorable opponent is, in fact, correct. At least I am not aware of any restriction placed upon the order of precedence in a jury trial other than common custom. And if the counsel for the defense has made this proposal with any idea of throwing the prosecution off balance, the Crown is most ready to accept the challenge!”
“Do you mean to say,” asked his Lordship slowly, “that the Crown is prepared to sacrifice the advantages of hearing the defense witnesses before making its summation?”
“My Lord, we are!” Trumpets pealed their glorious fanfare in his mind; from one corner of his eye he could note the journalists scribbling furiously. “My Lord, so firm are we in our conviction that there can be no hope of justice miscarrying in this case, that we are willing to show our honorable opponent the full extent of our armory of weapons! Although,” he added with a faint smile, “there should really be small secret in this regard, since they are weapons which the defense itself has forged and offered us to hand. So, with the permission of the court, we state that the Crown is prepared to make its final summation.”
“If you insist,” said his Lordship. Then he put it another way, “As you desire,” and again rapped his gavel for no reason other than punctuation. Sir Osbert Willoughby gathered his papers together dramatically and then, considering them a moment, flung them once again upon the table as being unnecessary.
“My Lord, gentlemen of the jury,” he announced, turning to face that body. “’You have heard the counsel for the defense attempt to twit us, to twist our nose, so to speak, with a witless challenge to present our summation at this point. It can only be assumed that either the counsel for the defense has not paid too close attention to the witnesses or he has forgotten that he himself, but a few hours ago, stipulated that not only was his client, the accused, on the scene, but the accused did, in fact, shove Mrs. Bosler into the gaping hole of the lift well.
“Beyond handing us this statement—and a statement which, alone, and without further substantiation, is all that the Crown needs to prove its case—our honorable opponent has been most generous in the feeble manner in which he picked at the witnesses for the Crown. If his intent was simply to confuse, I am sure he has vastly underestimated the intelligence of the jury. For let us see exactly what we have:
“On the question of the lift, he has been able to produce two cases of short circuits in the entire history of the Arvo Company; yet there are over twelve thousand of these lifts in faithful service. And one of these cases resulted from lightning, which even my imaginative opponent cannot claim occurred in Clayton Street. And the other? A short circuit induced by paint on the control-box contacts. Then, says the defense, is it not possible that blood in this particular case may have had the same effect on the contacts? But if it did, then it must have had this effect after the murder! Because before the murder, there was no blood. And therefore this speciousness can in no way explain the odd workings of the lift before the murder!
“In the handling of the witness Mr. Corby, the counsel for the defense went to great lengths to show the possibility of a fourth person being on the premises that evening. Leaving aside the flimsiness of the method by which my learned opponent attempted to prove this point, with buzzings, et cetera, the Crown might well ask, Well? So? What if there were twenty people on the premises that evening? In fact, if it please the counsel for the defense, we will stipulate the possibility of twenty people having been there. Because the fact is that none of them flung Mrs. Bosler to her death, because the accused did! The same applies to the involved questioning which resulted in Mr. Corby’s statement that there were people who might have liked, in his words, to dance on her grave. Leaving aside the fact that almost everyone in this courtroom would probably enjoy dancing on someone’s grave, and that if this desire alone were sufficient motive for murder there would be precious few of us alive—leaving aside these facts, we again come to our old argument: if every person working in the Grafton Building not only wished Mrs. Bosler dead but even signed depositions to this effect, we are again forced to face the fact that they didn’t push Mrs. Bosler down the lift shaft; the accused did!
“Before leaving the testimony of Mr. Corby, let us study for a moment this business of the drugged whiskey. The counsel for the defense has insisted—his word—that Mr. Corby was drugged in his whiskey. I do not pretend to explain why the defense insists upon this point, for, since the accused has admitted pushing Mrs. Bosler to her death, it can only have been to his advantage to drug Mr. Corby’s whiskey. Certainly it is requesting much of our credulity to ask us to believe that A drugged the whiskey—for no reason whatsoever—while B, knowing nothing of either A or his act, was fortunate enough to take advantage of this act in executing his plan.
“But enough of the testimony of Mr. Corby. Let us turn to the handling of the witness Sergeant Willets. Here the defense showed the true colors of his case; for here he was unable to even think of arguments to present. For the testimony of Sergeant Willets not only showed that the pointer was tampered with, but definitely proved it was the accused who tampered with it. And why would the accused have done this? Only because Mrs. Bosler needed to be led to her death without suspecting a trap—for, gentlemen, remember, Mrs. Bosler outweighed the accused by at least four stone despite his height. In a struggle at the lift-shaft opening it is more than possible that it would have been the accused who would have fallen! No; the pointer had to give Mrs. Bosler the impression she was stepping into the actual lift, and not stepping to her death. And who but the man who aided her to take this step—by his own admission, mind you!—and whose fingerprints we find on the pointer, could stand to gain by moving the pointer?
“My Lord, gentlemen of the jury, the Crown will not waste your time further by repeating things which must be evident to us all. Mr. Clifford Simpson, with malice aforethought, went to the Grafton Building, drugged the porter, arranged the indicator pointer of the lift to point to the fifth floor when he knew, and had arranged for, the lift cab to be at a much lower position, and then brutally thrust Mrs. Bosler down the opening. In truth, I do not know why the defense keeps up the pretense of its case, for all of the statements made by the Crown have either been made first by the defense or been confirmed by it.”
He smiled in a friendly fashion, indicating to the jury that neither he nor they would be taken in by any weak attempt at obfuscation.
“Should the defense feel,” he continued, certain that he had the jury in the palm of his hand, “that by this method of broad admission they therefore have the right to ask clemency of the jury, I would remind you gentlemen that the argument is false. A jury may have emotions, but legally it is not entitled to them. The case must be judged on the facts alone—and the facts prove conclusively that on the night of September 22, at eight o’clock in the evening, Mr. Clifford Simpson did murder Mrs. Sarah Bosler in a manner particularly revolting. There can be but one possible decision: guilty, with recommendation to hang!”
He sat. In the utter silence that followed, Lord Justice Pomeroy rose to his full height. He raised his gavel, allowed it to sway impressively in midair for a second, and then rapped it once.
“The court is adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
10
Mr. Carruthers, entering the high, wide doorway of the courtroom the following morning, suddenly felt a hand upon his arm and, turning, found Inspector Painter looking at him with deep pity.
“Oh, hullo, Inspector,” he said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“Day off,” replied the inspector. “Always watch murder trials on my day off. That is, when they have murder trials. And when I get a day off. And, of course, when the two coincide.” He shook his head sadly. “This Simpson was a great friend of yours, wasn’t he?”
“Is,�
�� said Carruthers brusquely. “Not was; is!” He changed the subject abruptly. “And how’s your battle going with the IBM computer, Inspector?”
Inspector Painter’s face fell. “The thing seems to be getting more accurate these past few weeks,” he admitted. “Probably getting used to our climate.” It was his turn to change the subject. “And how’s the book going, Mr. Carruthers?”
“Poorly,” said Carruthers. “Very poorly. In fact, I’m dropping it.”
The inspector’s eyes gleamed. “And the letters?”
Carruthers was shocked. “Inspector! That urge to write still has you in its toils, eh? Anyway, they’ve been destroyed.”
“Well,” said the inspector, “the idea isn’t patentable. Maybe I’ll run an advert myself.”
“If you want my advice,” said Carruthers coldly, “don’t!”
They separated and Carruthers made his way inside and found his seat. Briggs was already there and the two exchanged doleful stares.
“Doesn’t look very good,” Briggs muttered. “I heard two of the vultures they always have about these places offering four to one on conviction.” His voice became aggrieved. “Certainly doesn’t look like any ten thousand pounds’ worth of defense he’s giving poor old Cliff!”
“He’s never lost a case,” Carruthers reminded him, searching for hope.
“I never lost a tooth until I was fifty,” Briggs said shortly. “Then I lost them all.”
Carruthers looked at him steadily. “All we can do is hope, Tim. And cooperate. You know what to say on the stand?”
“I know what he wants me to say,” Briggs answered. “But I can’t for the life of me see how it could help Cliff.”
“Just see that you say it, anyway,” Carruthers said in a voice so grim that Briggs almost flinched. “We put Cliff there with our insane ideas; Pugh is our only hope of getting him free. This is no time to attempt any improvisations. So say what you were told to say!”
“Oh, I’ll say it,” said Briggs. “Don’t worry. It’s just that I’ll never know why. And,” he added honestly, “I wouldn’t know what else to say in any event.”
Sir Percival Pugh, rising to open for the defense, shuffled his few papers thoughtfully as his keen glance flickered over the faces of the jury. These were watching him carefully, with the almost hypnotized eyes of a bird fixed by a snake. The advantages of a reputation, he thought; well, let us hope we can maintain it.
“My Lord, gentlemen of the jury,” he began slowly, turning to face first the bench and then the frozen twelve men in the box, “bear with me a moment while I go off on what may appear to be a tangent, but which I assure you is not. When first studying for the bar, I was faced, as are most students of the law, with the difficult choice of which particular branch in the vast field of legal endeavor to pursue. In the end I chose criminal law; and many felt, and still feel, that I made this choice out of consideration for the money it pays.” He paused and smiled a small smile that took the jury into his confidence.
“I do not deny that it has paid well. I am not an inexpensive barrister; my fees are known to be large, and even, in some cases, exorbitant. But my friends, were it for money alone, there are other professions, and even other branches of my own profession, which offer equal or better opportunities of enrichment.” He cleared his throat impressively.
“No, my friends; it was not for money alone that I chose my profession. It was in the hope that, because of my training, because of the experience I knew would come as I advanced in my field, I might someday, somewhere, somehow, be instrumental in preventing a major miscarriage of justice.
“My Lord and gentlemen—that day has come!”
A small buzz began to roll through the courtroom as Sir Percival sipped at his glass of water, but Lord Justice Pomeroy needed no gavel rap to discourage it, for when the glass had been put aside and a handkerchief was applied delicately to the lips, silence returned at once.
“It may appear strange to you that in the course of the defense, reference may be made to certain statements of the Crown in their summation. We are prepared to admit that such a situation, to our knowledge, has never before obtained in a court of law. But, my friends, we are not here to slavishly bow to precedent, any more than we are here to slavishly refuse to recognize it. We are here for but one thing—to see that justice prevails. And justice shall prevail only when my client walks from this courtroom a free man, vindicated, no longer the misunderstood victim of a series of misinterpreted facts.
“I say ‘a series of misinterpreted facts.’ Some of you may feel that the phrase represents an anachronism; that a fact is, or if it isn’t, it isn’t a fact. But let me give you an example of what I mean: What would be the reaction of this audience were I to state, and to guarantee my reputation upon it, that my Lord Justice Pomeroy, just this very morning, was seen by a reliable witness walking about without his trousers in plain, broad daylight? You see? I can note the expression of disbelief on every face, and particularly on the face of his Lordship. But if I were to expand that statement—not change or qualify it, but merely expand it—by adding that it was Lady Pomeroy who was the reliable witness, and that the scene was their conjugal bedchamber, your disbelief would completely disappear.
“And so it is with many so-called facts, my friends. And so it is with the fact that my client, Mr. Clifford Simpson, was present on the fifth floor of the Grafton Building on that fateful evening of September 22, and did indeed move the pointer of that lift, and did indeed push Mrs. Sarah Bosler into that shaft and to her death. These are facts, and nobody can change them. It is only for us to properly interpret them to see how false a judgment of guilt would be; to see to what tragic travesty of justice it would lead us. For, my Lord and gentlemen of the jury, it is my contention that not only is my client innocent of this monstrous charge, but, in the honest and heartfelt opinion of the counsel for the defense, he deserves the commendation of all for his brave and fearless actions!
“And now, if it please the court, we should like to call our first witness.”
Witness: Mr. Timothy Briggs.
Examined by: Sir Percival Pugh for the Defense.
Q. Mr. Briggs, you have stated that you have known Mr. Simpson for many years. For exactly how many years?
A. Over fifty.
Q. That’s a very long time. Do you think you are familiar with Mr. Simpson’s character as a result of this long friendship?
A. Of course.
Q. And in all those years have you ever known Mr. Simpson to do a cruel or thoughtless thing to anyone?
A. Never. On the contrary.
Q. I note you added, “On the contrary.” Can you amplify that statement?
A. Well, Mr. Simpson has never been a rich man. Actually he is quite poor. Yet you may take my sworn oath that the blind beggars in Hyde Park used to listen anxiously for his footsteps.
Q. Oh, ah?
A. In order not to keep them on tenterhooks, he always timed his daily visits to the park at exactly three-thirteen.
Q. Did you say three-thirteen? Surely that’s a rather odd hour. I mean, normally a person would consider an appointment kept if he arrived within five minutes either way.
A. Not Clifford Simpson. He is the most punctual man I know. Time is almost a mania with him. He treats seconds as others treat minutes, and minutes as others treat hours.
Q. I see. Well, I suppose there are worse manias than one for time. In any event, we can take it that Mr. Simpson is both honorable and generous, as well, of course, as being punctual. Let us continue. You say you have known Mr. Simpson for over fifty years. Did you see him at regular intervals?
A. Daily. We spent most of each day together, and have for many years.
Q. And did Mr. Simpson ever mention to you Mrs. Sarah Bosler? Or the foundation for which she worked?
A. Never.
Q. On that fatal day, did he mention that he intended to visit the Grafton Building?
A. He did. He said he had been readi
ng about a group called Peace Lovers, Incorporated, and would like to know more of them. He said he was wholeheartedly in favor of their program, as far as he knew it. He added that at about seven twenty-six he intended to go over there and get some literature on their activities.
Q. But Mrs. Bosler was not an employee of Peace Lovers, Incorporated?”
A. I can merely tell you what he said.
Q. I see. Tell me, Mr. Briggs, did Mr. Simpson ever mention the name Corby to you? Mr. Arthur Corby?
A. Never.
Q. Do you think he would have, had he known the man?
A. I am sure of it. We had no secrets from each other. I should say he had never laid eyes on the man.
Q. Thank you, Mr. Briggs. Your witness, Sir Osbert.
Cross-Examination by Sir Osbert Willoughby for the Crown:
Q. You state that you are sure Mr. Simpson never laid eyes on Mr. Corby. How can you be so sure?
A. Well, before starting out that day, he asked me if I knew the location of the Grafton Building. I didn’t, and he had to ask someone else. If he had known Mr. Corby, you’d think he ought to know where the Grafton Building was, because if Mr. Corby worked there, and if Cliff knew Mr. Corby, then—
Q. Please answer just yes or no.
A. Yes or no? How can I answer your question yes or no? Or even maybe? You asked, “How can you be sure—”
Q. Mr. Briggs! Just answer without comments! And now, how can you be sure he was not acquainted with Mrs. Bosler?
A. We spent the majority of each day together, and while our interest in women at our age necessarily limited itself to discussion, we did not drop the subject entirely. We were young once, you know. In any event, it would have been impossible for a new feminine name to come up in the conversation without my remembering. Besides, as far as that goes, you said yourself that your office had investigated and couldn’t find the slightest connection between the two—
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