CASSWELL (with a resigned sigh). Yes. And did.
O’CONNOR. That’s right. And did. You’re not disputing your statement of confession to the police on the day of your arrest?
CASSWELL. How can I?
O’CONNOR. I don’t know. I only know I’m disputing every one of mine. After half an hour in there with the Bournemouth Constabulary those seven separate confessions will be floating down past Croom-Johnson’s nose like confetti. I suppose while you were knocking the old man’s block in, we were winding up the gramophone and cheering and egging you on – ?
CASSWELL. Of course. I’m sorry, O’Connor, but it’s my only chance.
O’CONNOR. Of what.
CASSWELL. Of getting a manslaughter.
O’CONNOR chuckles.
I’d better warn you I intend to push your evil moral influence and your shameless depravity as hard as I can.
O’CONNOR. Push away, my dear fellow, push away, if it’s all you’ve got, I’m going to push your psychopathological rages, your surliness and your fits of sudden violence. You won’t mind that, I hope?
CASSWELL. The reverse. It might help me to a guilty but insane.
O’CONNOR. Under Humphreys? Not a hope. He sleeps with the McNaghten rules under his pillow. Did the murderer know what he was doing at the time that he did it? If he did, did he know that what he was doing was wrong? (Helps himself into a pair of slippers.) I’d say that your boy had a teeny inkling of both.
CASSWELL. Do you always wear slippers in court?
O’CONNOR. Always. Because they make us as uncomfortable as they can up here – (Indicates his upper half.) is no reason why we shouldn’t be cosy down here. Anyway, aren’t you supposed to have committed the murder under the influence of a lorryload of cocaine?
CASSWELL. Yes, damn it. He would choose the one drug that heightens the perceptions rather than dulling them.
O’CONNOR. Change your drug.
CASSWELL. I can’t. Cocaine is what I’m instructed to take, and as a Poor Persons’ Defence Act Lawyer, I’ve got to obey my instructions.
O’CONNOR (sententiously). My dear fellow, we all have to obey our instructions. Some of us sometimes manage to get them just a little bit – confused –
CASSWELL. Not a chance here. He won’t budge an inch.
O’CONNOR. Where did you get the cocaine from?
CASSWELL. Someone somewhere in London. We can’t remember who or where.
O’CONNOR. Good God. And you’re stuck with his whole confession?
CASSWELL. No way round it. (Gloomily swallows two pills.)
O’CONNOR. Hangover?
CASSWELL. No. Nerves. Does one ever get over them?
O’CONNOR. Never. They get worse with age.
CASSWELL. I’ve never seen you look even remotely nervous.
O’CONNOR. Ah. That’s something we do learn – never to show it. But that carafe I always have in front of me. You don’t think that’s plain water, do you?
CASSWELL. Gin?
O’CONNOR. Vodka. Safe as houses. Not a whiff from a foot away. Is this your first capital charge?
CASSWELL. No. But with the others I had some chance –
O’CONNOR. My dear boy, while there’s life there’s hope.
CASSWELL. Our hope – their lives.
Pause. O’CONNOR turns slowly on him.
O’CONNOR. Do you think there’s a single moment I’m unconscious of that?
CASSWELL. No. Well, I’d better have one last shot at getting him to change his drug into something else.
O’CONNOR. Yes. Good luck. (Suddenly savage.) But look, Casswell!
CASSWELL turns.
If there’s the faintest suggestion that he got any drugs from her, I’ll be on you like a tiger. That poor bitch has got enough to carry into the court without dope-peddling. (Puts his hand on CASSWELL’s arm.) Get him to come off drugs altogether. Use our shameless depravity and pernicious influence. It’s much safer. And I can’t hit back. That’s my honest advice, old man.
CASSWELL (with a sigh). Well, it would be a very foolish advocate who neglected advice from such a source. Thank you.
O’CONNOR. You’re very welcome.
CASSWELL is on his way out when a thought strikes him.
CASSWELL. Unless such a source happened to be fighting the same trial with him.
O’CONNOR. As an ally, dear fellow –
CASSWELL. An ally who wouldn’t hesitate to slash my throat if he thought it could help his client.
O’CONNOR. Slash your throat, my dear Casswell, I’ve just given you an open invitation to attack me in my weakest spot, to wit, my deplorable moral character. Now, how could that possibly be slashing your throat?
MONTAGU – who is already gowned – comes in.
Ah, Montagu. Good. (With an innocent smile.) Have you got our friend in all right?
The lights fade on O’CONNOR and MONTAGU and stay on CASSWELL as he walks unhappily towards a small cell, where the lights come on to show WOOD sitting patiently. O’CONNOR and MONTAGU disappear from view.
CASSWELL (calls). Warder!
WOOD (chirpily). Morning, Mr Casswell. Did you hear that crowd cheering me when I arrived? Some of them shouted ‘Good luck, lad’ – and ‘We won’t let you swing’ – things like that…
CASSWELL. Mr Wood, we have only a few minutes before you go on trial for your life. Are you still determined to instruct me that you murdered Rattenbury when under the influence of cocaine?
Pause.
WOOD. Perce Wood, the odd-job boy, has come a long way, hasn’t he, instructing someone dressed up like you… Well, I instruct you, Mr Casswell, I done the old man in when I was crazed from cocaine and not responsible for my actions. And that’s what I’m going to tell them.
CASSWELL. You won’t have the opportunity. I am not putting you in the witness box.
WOOD. How can you stop me?
CASSWELL. By not calling you.
WOOD. Why not? You’ve got to!
CASSWELL. I am not putting you into the witness box because I would not like to hear you explaining to Mr Croom-Johnson, one of the most devastating cross-examiners at the Bar, exactly how you became ‘a dope fiend’.
WOOD. But that’s my defence!
CASSWELL. What does cocaine look like? Mr Wood? I mean, what colour is it?
WOOD. Colour? (After a pause.) Brown.
CASSWELL. Brown.
WOOD. With black specks.
CASSWELL. With black specks… And if you went into the witness box you would tell Mr Croom-Johnson that?
WOOD. Of course.
CASSWELL. And if he asked you why, in popular parlance, it was called ‘snow’, how would you answer him?
WOOD. I don’t know – I didn’t know it was.
CASSWELL. It is called snow because it is white, Mr Wood – the purest possible white.
Pause.
WOOD. Jesus.
CASSWELL. Exactly.
WOOD. But without cocaine, where’s my defence?
CASSWELL. I’ve told you – many times.
Pause.
WOOD (violently). No!
CASSWELL. You are of age to be hanged, Mr Wood.
WOOD. I know.
CASSWELL. You are disposed then to die?
WOOD. No, I’m not. I want to live – Christ, don’t I want to live. But I’m not going to say she made me do it. They can tear me apart before they’ll get me to say that.
CASSWELL. I don’t think you quite understand –
WOOD (violently). It’s you who don’t bloody understand. Alma Rattenbury, sex-mad drunken bloody cow that she is, lying deceitful bitch to come to that – she’s the only woman I’ve ever had, and the only one I’ve ever loved, and I’m not going to shop her now… No, it’s you who don’t bloody understand, Mr Casswell, nor the others either.
Pause.
CASSWELL. Very likely. I’ll see you in court.
CASSWELL picks up his brief. The lights fade, coming up immediately on the oth
er cell. ALMA is now dressed.
JOAN. Not long now, dear. I said you’d look a treat.
O’CONNOR and MONTAGU come in, gowned, and carrying their wigs.
O’CONNOR. Wardress – bring Mrs Rattenbury, please.
JOAN. Sir.
MONTAGU (to ALMA). I hope they didn’t upset you too much outside.
ALMA. Well, it came as rather a shock –
O’CONNOR. Mrs Rattenbury, it is my duty to tell you that there will be deep prejudice against you up there.
ALMA. Oh, I know.
O’CONNOR. Very deep indeed, I’m afraid. You must be prepared to answer some very venomous questions.
ALMA (simply). Oh, but I’m not going to answer any questions. I’m not going into the witness box. I told you that, Mr Montagu.
Pause. O’CONNOR makes a sign to MONTAGU who slips out of the room.
O’CONNOR. I beg you most earnestly to reconsider, madam.
ALMA. I’m sorry. I can’t. I will not go into the witness box. Not under oath. Not giving George away…
O’CONNOR. Because you want him to see you as a tragic heroine? You love him as much as that?
ALMA. Me a heroine to George?… That’s funny. To him I’m just a drunken sexy lying bitch. He’s told me so a million times.
O’CONNOR. Then why in heaven’s name sacrifice yourself for him?
ALMA. Because it’s right. I’m responsible, and neither you nor anyone…
MONTAGU brings CHRISTOPHER in.
CHRISTOPHER. Hello, Mummy.
ALMA stands still for a moment, then turns furiously on O’CONNOR.
ALMA. What kind of a man are you?
O’CONNOR. A humane man, Mrs Rattenbury. I thought you might like a couple of minutes with your boy before you go into court…
With a curt beckoning nod he ushers MONTAGU out, following him.
CHRISTOPHER. What’s Mr O’Connor done, Mummy? What’s made you angry with him?
ALMA. Never mind. (Embraces him.) How are you, Chris?
CHRISTOPHER. Oh, all right.
ALMA. They brought you up from school?
CHRISTOPHER. I wanted to come. (Looking at her.) You’re in an ordinary dress…
ALMA. Yes. Do you like it?
CHRISTOPHER. Yes. It’s nice. I thought –
ALMA. That I’d be in stripes and arrows? Not yet.
CHRISTOPHER. What’s it like in prison?
ALMA. Oh, it’s not really prison. And the wardresses – the people I’m with – they’re very nice. (Suddenly clutching him.) They didn’t bring you through those crowds?
CHRISTOPHER. Oh yes – but nobody knew who I was. They were nasty people, though.
ALMA. Did you hear them shouting?
CHRISTOPHER (quickly). Oh, I didn’t listen, Mummy.
She clutches him fiercely again, then lets him go.
ALMA. And how’s little John?
CHRISTOPHER. Oh, all right. He gets a bit tearful, sometimes.
ALMA. They haven’t told him –
CHRISTOPHER. Oh no.
ALMA. He misses me?
CHRISTOPHER. Misses you?
Pause.
ALMA (trying to steady her voice). Well, Chris, what have you been told to say to me?
CHRISTOPHER (bewildered). Told to say to you?
ALMA. By Mr O’Connor?
CHRISTOPHER. Nothing.
ALMA. Really? Nothing?
CHRISTOPHER. Well, the obvious thing, of course.
ALMA. What’s that?
CHRISTOPHER. About your not giving George away in court. It was a bit of a shock, because he says the jury may find you guilty; but he put it so nicely, though…
ALMA (faintly). How did he put it?
CHRISTOPHER. Well, he said that as a schoolboy I’d understand about not sneaking on a friend… Well, of course I understand, except in this kind of thing… I mean, in a case of murder – real murder – what they might do – except, of course, they’d never do that to you… Oh, Mummy!…
He runs to her. She clasps him firmly and allows him to cry on her breast.
Oh, damn! I promised I wouldn’t.
ALMA (at length). What else did Mr O’Connor put ‘so nicely’?
CHRISTOPHER. He said that as I was nearly grown up I should understand that when a woman has a choice between her lover and her children, she’s almost bound to put her lover first.
ALMA, apparently unmoved and unmoving, looks down at his head.
O’CONNOR and MONTAGU come back. ALMA has not moved.
O’CONNOR. The Judge has sent us his signal. (Puts his arm on CHRISTOPHER’s shoulder.) You should be getting to your seat, young man. A Mr Watson, outside, will be sitting with you –
ALMA (appalled). Christopher’s not going to be in court?
O’CONNOR. Of course.
ALMA. Will he be there every day?
O’CONNOR. That depends. Say au revoir to your mother, old chap.
CHRISTOPHER. Goodbye, Mummy. Good luck.
O’CONNOR. Montagu, you take him to Watson – Wardress!
ALMA lets CHRISTOPHER kiss her, patting him absently on the head as he goes out with MONTAGU.
ALMA (at length). Don’t think you’ve won, Mr O’Connor.
O’CONNOR. Oh, I never think that about any case, until the end.
End of Act One.
ACT TWO
As at the beginning of Act One, the lights come up on ALMA and MRS DAVENPORT.
A light then comes up on the JUDGE.
JUDGE. Mrs – er – Davenport, I understand from the Jury Bailiff that you wish to be excused from jury service on the grounds of conscience?
MRS DAVENPORT. Yes. From this particular jury, on this particular case. I will serve on any other.
JUDGE. You have a conscientious objection to capital punishment?
MRS DAVENPORT. No, my lord.
JUDGE. Where then does your conscience enter the matter?
MRS DAVENPORT. My lord, I have a deep prejudice against that woman. (Acknowledges the dock.)
JUDGE. The female prisoner?
MRS DAVENPORT. Yes.
JUDGE. Would the female prisoner please rise?
ALMA rises. She stares at MRS DAVENPORT without surprise – even with faint understanding.
Do you know this woman personally?
MRS DAVENPORT. No, but it’s as if I did.
JUDGE. I don’t follow, I’m afraid.
MRS DAVENPORT. I’ve read about her in the newspapers.
Pause.
JUDGE. Is that all?
The lights come up dimly on the lawyers.
MRS DAVENPORT. My lord, you are here to see that this woman gets a fair trial. Isn’t that so?
JUDGE. It is, madam. It is also my duty, as it will be yours, to put out of my head all of the deplorably wide publicity this case has attracted, and to allow the facts of the case –
MRS DAVENPORT. I am sorry, my lord. I know these arguments. You see, I know about the law. My father was a judge in India –
JUDGE. Mrs – er – but I don’t –
MRS DAVENPORT (passionately). I warn you now, and I warn these gentlemen who are defending her, that no matter what oath I am forced to take, I will not be able to try this woman’s case without deep prejudice. My mind is set against her.
Pause. Her sincerity has evidently impressed the JUDGE. He frowns thoughtfully and then addresses the lawyers’ bench. As he does so, the lights fade except on ALMA and MRS DAVENPORT.
The discussion between the JUDGE and the lawyers is only dimly heard.
JUDGE. Mr O’Connor, you have heard my view. It remains unaltered. However, you might have cause for a challenge ‘propter affectum’. If you have I am very willing to hear it.
O’CONNOR. If your lordship permits?
The JUDGE nods. O’CONNOR talks to MONTAGU in a low voice, their backs to the JUDGE.
MONTAGU. She’s an asset.
O’CONNOR. On the question of bias?
MONTAGU. Exactly. You can refer t
o her in your final address.
He rises again.
O’CONNOR. My lord, we will not challenge.
CASSWELL. No challenge, my lord. The prejudice does not appear to be directed against my client.
JUDGE. Obviously, Mr Croom-Johnson, you won’t wish to challenge. But do you think I am right?
CROOM-JOHNSON, prosecuting counsel, gets up.
CROOM-JOHNSON. I feel your lordship’s view of the matter is both wise and just.
The light comes up on the JUDGE.
JUDGE. Mrs Davenport, we all find that there are no grounds for your self-disqualification. Will you then take the oath?
CLERK OF THE COURT. Take the book in your right hand and repeat the words on the cards.
The lights fade on the JUDGE and the lawyers.
Now only the two women can be seen facing each other across the courtroom.
MRS DAVENPORT (solemnly, after a pause, the Bible in her right hand, a card in the other). I do solemnly swear by Almighty God that I will well and truly try the issues between our Sovereign Lord the King and the prisoners at the bar and will give a true verdict according to the evidence.
The lights fade quickly to blackout.
In the sitting room, STELLA is dimly seen reading a newspaper. The lights come up on Court Number One at the Old Bailey. The court is not in session. The lawyers are chatting.
CASSWELL (to CROOM-JOHNSON). Congratulations on your open ing.
CROOM-JOHNSON. Oh, thank you, Casswell, thank you.
CASSWELL. Admirably fair, I thought.
CROOM-JOHNSON. I’m glad.
O’CONNOR (muttering some distance away, to MONTAGU). ‘Fair’! If that bloody Croom-Johnson uses the phrase ‘woman and boy’ once more, I’m going to have him disbarred and demand a retrial –
MONTAGU. Why don’t you tell him?
O’CONNOR. And let him know he’s scored? We’ll have ‘woman and child’ then…
CROOM-JOHNSON moves near.
(Calling.) Good opening, Croom-Johnson.
CROOM-JOHNSON. Thank you. It was fair, I think.
O’CONNOR. Every bit as fair as we’ve come to expect of you.
CROOM-JOHNSON. How kind. Extraordinary incident that was – that woman juror saying she was prejudiced against your client. Very distressing to hear that kind of thing, you know. I wonder you didn’t challenge.
O’CONNOR. Yes. I suppose I should have done –
CROOM-JOHNSON (suspiciously). You won’t, of course, be able to make any reference to her in your final address –
Cause Célèbre Page 9
