‘I ain’t concealin’ nothing,’ Humphrey muttered.
‘That’s a lie!’ Charlie beamed. ‘Because when you recorded that long, cautioned statement from the defendant, you deliberately left out something that he said!’
Humphrey shook his head nervously. ‘No I didn’t.’
‘Yes, you did!’ Charlie turned to the jury and spread his hands. ‘His very first words when you started typing were “I hope this is the last damn time I have to say this”. But you didn’t type it, did you?’
Humphrey shifted. ‘I don’t remember him saying that.’
‘No? Well, the defendant does remember! So if you can’t remember, you can’t argue with him when he says he does remember! Thank you!’ He smiled. ‘The fact is you didn’t type it because you didn’t want the jury to know you were persecuting him!’
‘I wasn’t persecutin’ him,’ Commissioner Humphrey insisted uncomfortably.
‘No? Let’s see.’ Charlie turned and paced. ‘You’re a great admirer of the deceased and her books, aren’t you?’
‘So?’ Commissioner Humphrey glowered unhappily.
‘And you’re a great admirer of Nelson Mandela.’
‘Ain’t everybody?’
‘Oh yes. But you’re an Africanist, aren’t you? You believe Africa should be for the Africans, don’t you?’
‘France is for the French, ain’t it? Spain for the Spanish.’
‘You think the African got a raw deal during the colonial era.’
Humphrey mounted his hobby-horse. ‘They sure did. My great-grand-pappy was a slave, brought from Africa to break his back in the sugar plantations!’
‘Quite,’ Charlie said solemnly. ‘My great-grandfather was also a slave; we all understand your feelings. But the fact is you feel very strongly against South Africans?’
‘Not against South Africans, but against the apartheid government, sir.’
Charlie smiled. ‘Good. So am I correct in assuming that when the defendant told you that he was a publisher in New York, and that his wife had been lost overboard, you must have been very sympathetic.’
‘Sure.’ Humphrey looked suspicious. ‘I was sympathetic.’
Charlie frowned. ‘But why had you gone out to the defendant’s boat?’
‘Because,’ Humphrey said, ‘he did not have port clearance papers from the Bahamas. And his wife, Josephine, had not reported to Immigration as required by law. I had been told that by the Immigration Department.’
‘So it was a routine matter, to go to his boat?’
Humphrey looked suspicious. ‘Yes.’
Old Charlie gave his beatific smile. ‘Why are you lying to us, Commissioner?’
Humphrey scowled. Big eyes wide. ‘How am I lying?’
Charlie smiled. ‘You knew, before going out to the defendant’s boat, that his wife Josephine, who had failed to report to Immigration, was dead. Because your niece, Miss Huggins of American Express, had told you about his fax to Josephine’s father.’
Humphrey blinked. ‘Oh yes. I remember now.’
‘Oh, now you remember. How can you forget such a detail? And so it was not a routine visit to his boat, it was because you were suspicious. Not sympathetic. And when he told you that he had been a professional soldier who fought for the then-Rhodesian government against the so-called terrorists, you became persecutory!’
Joshua Humphrey glowered. ‘Not at all, my lord.’
Charlie looked astonished. ‘No? A man like you, a glowing Africanist, a man who hates colonialism. Amazing … But when he went on to tell you that after the Rhodesian war ended he joined the South African army in their bush war in Angola, you must have been antagonized?’ He frowned.
Humphrey looked at Charlie uncomfortably. On the horns of a policeman’s dilemma: admit his prejudice, or deny it and be disbelieved. Commissioner Humphrey chose the lesser of two evils: ‘Suppose I was a bit resentful when he tol’ me he was an officer in the South African army.’
Charlie cried, ‘Thank you, Mr Humphrey! At last we have some truth from you!’ He beamed at the jury, then abruptly turned back to Humphrey with a scowl. ‘So it’s obvious, Commissioner, that you’re a communist! At last we have the truth about you. Thank you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes!’ Charlie cried. ‘Because everybody knows that the communist Cubans were fighting for the communist government of Angola against the South African army, who were desperately trying to save the continent from being overrun by Russia and China! And that the United States of America was helping South Africa in that war! So don’t try to kid us, Commissioner Humphrey, that you’re not a closet communist!’
‘I deny –’
‘I put it to you, Commissioner Humphrey, that if you weren’t a closet communist at least, maybe even working for the overthrow of the United States government, if you weren’t a prejudiced, Africanist communist, you would not have been so persecutory against my client – who had risked his life fighting communism – and you would not have been in such a hurry to arrest him. He would have been able to fly back to Nassau as Doris Johnston ordered, get his port clearance papers, return to Tortola and continue to cooperate fully in your investigation into the tragic death of his wife. But, no – you blundered in like a bull in a china shop and arrested him, with the result that here he is today. All because of your persecutory silliness.’
Humphrey looked thoroughly disconcerted. He groped for words, then: ‘I deny it, sir.’
‘Of course you deny it …’ Charlie grinned widely. Then he changed the subject abruptly – and startled Harker with the question: ‘So tell me, as a senior policeman you have heard of many cases over the years of piracy in the Caribbean area, haven’t you?’
Everybody in the courtroom looked interested.
Humphrey was relieved to change topics. He said, ‘I’ve heard, but that don’t necessarily mean it’s true.’
Charlie smiled maliciously. ‘You are very determined not to admit anything that may possibly be favourable to the defendant, aren’t you?’ He paused. ‘But as a policeman are you interested in what you’ve heard about piracy?’
‘Interested, yes.’
‘Ah! So tell me: Is it true that most cases of piracy are drug-related in that the pirates want the boat to run drugs?’
‘So they say,’ Humphrey admitted.
‘So they board the victim’s boat, kill the crew, steal the boat and after they’ve used it a few times they sink it to get rid of the evidence and then they steal another boat.’
‘So they say.’
Charlie sighed. ‘Mr Humphrey – yes or no?’
‘What’s the question?’
Charlie grinned. ‘Oh, never mind …’ He sighed theatrically and ended: ‘Finally, Mr Humphrey, let’s go back to the circumstances of the defendant’s arrest.’ He paused. ‘When you parted company with the defendant the night before, he was not under arrest, was he? Because you didn’t have enough evidence to charge him, right? So as you had not arrested him you had no legal power whatsoever to deprive him of his passport – had you?’
Humphrey looked disconcerted again. ‘Didn’ I?’
‘No!’ Charlie cried. ‘Don’t you know the law? Read the preamble on the inside cover. Her Majesty commands everybody – even Commissioner Joshua Humphrey of the British Virgin Islands – to allow the bearer to pass without let or hindrance. So you had no right to seize his passport.’ Charlie glared, then pointed accusingly. ‘You exposed yourself to a civil damages suit, sir.’ Before the man could argue Charlie pressed on: ‘And your cousin, Doris Johnston, had ordered him to return to Nassau to get his port clearance papers!’
‘He was trying to escape, sir,’ Humphrey insisted. ‘He wasn’t going to get no port clearance papers …’
Charlie cried, ‘Oh? So he was going to sacrifice his boat, was he? Sacrifice everything and be a fugitive from the law for the rest of his life?’ Charlie snorted and turned to the jury with amused disbelief, then he sat down with contempt all
over his face.
There was silence. Then Judge Ludman growled, ‘Think we’ll adjourn for lunch.’
44
Court resumed at two p.m. Vance called his next witness, Dr Peter Smythe. He was a neat man with a precise manner. He was also a professional witness: he spent much of his working life testifying in courtrooms for the prosecution.
Led by Vance, he told the court that he was a forensic scientist employed by the US government, stationed in St Thomas, US Virgin Islands. On the ninth of October he had examined the yacht named Rosemary at the request of Commissioner Joshua Humphrey and prepared a report, which he produced as Exhibit Thirteen. Referring to it, he testified that a thorough examination of the yacht had revealed one bullet hole in the upholstery of the bench in the saloon. He produced the cushion as Exhibit Fourteen. Inside the cushion he had found a bullet, which he produced as Exhibit Fifteen. He subsequently examined it microscopically, and fired test shots with the .25 Browning pistol, Exhibit Ten. This ballistic test proved that the bullet was not fired by the gun. He found no other bullet marks anywhere on the boat. However, in the wheelhouse the glass of the speed-counter had been shattered. He produced a photograph of it, which became Exhibit Sixteen. He collected the shattered glass and subjected it to microscopic examination and found traces of paper, which he produced as Exhibit Seventeen. He then examined all the books in the wheelhouse and found that the Nautical Almanac had damage to the lower corner of its spine – he produced it as Exhibit Eighteen. He found tiny fragments of glass which matched exactly the glass in the speedometer. Similarly the paper of the Almanac matched the traces of paper found on the glass. From this he concluded that the Nautical Almanac had broken the glass. He then saw that the two-way radio had a broken handset, the transmitter and receiver being cracked. The radio could not work because of this. He produced it as Exhibit Nineteen.
He then examined the whole boat thoroughly for bloodstains. He found quite a large stain, about the size of a man’s hand, on the teak deck on the transom. It was barely visible. He scraped up a sample. The bloodstain had obviously been washed off because traces of soap were also found. He tested the blood particles collected and determined they were Group B. He also found two specks of blood in the actual cockpit, on the floorboards, behind the wheelhouse, also almost invisible. He found them to be Group A.
‘Thank you, Doctor.’ Vance sat down.
Charlie rose to cross-examine.
‘Doctor Smythe,’ he beamed, ‘good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon,’ the scientist said pleasantly.
‘I want to thank you for the careful, clear way you explained it all to us simple laymen.’
‘Thank you.’ The scientist smiled.
‘Mr Benson,’ Judge Ludman said testily, ‘I’ve asked you to cut out these pleasantries. Get on with the case!’
Charlie looked at the judge as if he had been whipped. ‘As your honour pleases, but I was only being polite to a very helpful witness who has come a long way to assist us. Unlike Joshua Humphrey, he hasn’t exaggerated and persecuted the defendant.’
‘Get on with it, Charlie!’
‘As your honour pleases,’ old Charlie murmured. He turned back to the forensic scientist. ‘Doctor, you found the faint bloodstain on the transom – that is the stern, immediately behind the aft steering wheel, not so? More or less where somebody would be standing, or sitting, if he was using the aft steering wheel.’
‘Correct.’
‘Now, immediately in front of that steering wheel is the mizzen mast?’
‘Correct.’
‘And the boom of that mast is about seven feet above the deck?’
‘About that.’
‘Are you a sailor by any chance, Doctor?’
‘As a matter of fact I am,’ the scientist said.
‘I bet,’ Charlie said conversationally. ‘Living in those lovely Virgin Islands.’ He sighed wistfully. ‘Anyway, tell the jury: the mizzen mast’s boom has a rope that runs along its underside whereby the sailor tightens the sail – is that so?’
‘Correct.’
‘And it sometimes happens, doesn’t it, that that rope hangs sloppily, in a loop.’
‘Correct.’
‘Now if someone were standing at that aft wheel, and the boom swung a little, the rope could catch the helmsman’s neck and knock him down, could it not?’
The scientist nodded. ‘Quite possible.’
‘And the human scalp bleeds profusely when cut, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you found that bloodstain in approximately the position you would expect if Josephine were knocked off-balance by the rope?’
‘Yes. More or less.’
‘Yes,’ Charlie agreed pensively. Then he raised his finger as if an idea had just struck him. ‘And, of course, if a pirate were to have come up the swimming ladder at the stern of the boat, and Josephine was standing at the wheel, with her back to him, it would have been a simple matter for him to have hit her over the head, from behind, and knock her down, bleeding. Not so?’
The scientist nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Charlie nodded to himself, then ended brightly: ‘Thank you, Doctor Smythe! Have a nice evening. And give my love to St Thomas, lovely island.’ He sat.
Dr Cedric Holmes took the oath. He was a young Englishman with a lock of hair falling across his brow and a deep-red suntan.
‘Are you a medical doctor employed by Road Town General Hospital in Tortola?’ Vance asked.
‘I am.’
‘On the ninth of September did you examine the defendant at the request of the Commissioner of Police, Joshua Humphrey, and prepare this report?’ Vance handed him a document.
‘I did.’
‘I put that in as Exhibit Twenty. Tell us what you found.’
‘On the defendant’s right hip I found a cut six and a half inches long. It was about a week old, and healing, so I was unable to probe it to find out its depth but I would describe it as a superficial wound.’
‘What was the angle of the cut?’
‘It began at the bottom end of the hip, towards the back, and ran upwards at about forty-five degrees towards his waist. It was consistent with a slash made by a sharp knife.’
‘What degree of force was required to inflict this injury?’
‘A moderate degree, your honour, assuming the defendant was naked or clad only in shorts at the time.’
‘Did you find any other wounds?’
‘I did. On the underside of his left forearm there was a shallow slash wound about two inches long. It was also healing so I could not probe its depth. Depending on the shape of the blade of the knife, and its sharpness, I would say a moderate degree of force was required to inflict it.’
‘What was its angle?’
‘Almost exactly at right-angles to the arm.’
‘Thank you.’ Vance sat down.
Old Charlie rose to cross-examine.
‘Dr Holmes, good afternoon and welcome to sunny Miami.’
‘Mr Benson,’ Judge Ludman snapped, ‘I’ve asked you –’
‘So you have, your honour, I’m sorry. Ignore that, Dr Holmes, and let’s get to work. So tell me, Doctor, how old are you?’
‘Twenty-seven, your honour,’ Holmes said.
‘My word. So you have only recently qualified?’
‘Last year, your honour.’
‘And all your postgraduate experience has been in Tortola?’
‘Yes, your honour.’
‘And tell me: are the people of Tortola a very dangerous bunch?’
Dr Holmes frowned earnestly. ‘Dangerous in what way?’
‘I mean,’ Charlie said, equally earnestly, ‘do they go around stabbing each other very often?’
Dr Holmes smiled. ‘Not so far as I’m aware.’
‘Indeed if they did you would be aware because your hospital would have to patch them up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes. So tell me, how man
y stabbings have you dealt with in your long service as a doctor?’
Dr Holmes smiled. ‘Two,’ he said.
‘Ah. So your evidence is not based on much experience. I see. So I presume you concede that the wounds could have been inflicted in a number of ways. For example, if the defendant had a sheath hanging on his hip, he could have cut himself when he hurriedly thrust the knife back into its sheath – missing the sheath and cutting himself?’
‘Possibly.’
‘And he could have cut his left forearm when he was cutting the rope that secured the life-raft – if he held the rope up in his left hand and from underneath cut the rope too vigorously, he could have carelessly given himself the wound you saw?’
‘Possibly,’ Dr Holmes said.
‘Thank you,’ old Charlie said. ‘Have a nice day, and give my salaams to Tortola.’ He sat.
Donald Ferguson was a large man with a balding head. ‘Are you,’ Vance said, ‘the general manager of the First National City Bank in New York?’
‘I am.’
‘In that capacity do you have access to all your bank’s records?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you know the defendant?’
‘Yes, he is a client of my bank.’
‘Have you extracted a printout of the defendant’s personal account over the last four years?’
‘I have.’ Vance passed him a document. ‘Yes, this is it.’
‘I put that in as Exhibit Twenty-one, your honour. Now, looking at that printout, what is the defendant’s balance?’
‘Today he is in credit in the sum of nine thousand four hundred dollars.’
‘Now look back to the end of June.’
‘At the end of June, 1996, he owed the bank one million, nine hundred and seventy thousand dollars.’
‘How did that debt come about?’
‘Several years ago the defendant asked the bank to lend him over two million dollars to purchase a majority shareholding in his company, Harvest House – fifty-one per cent of the shares. The bank agreed. Over the next few years the defendant more or less kept pace only with the interest payments. However, in June, he told us he was selling his shares to his wife, Josephine, and he paid in her cheque for over two million, which put him back in credit. He told us that he was keeping two per cent and selling forty-nine per cent to Josephine.’
Unofficial and Deniable Page 36
