Desperate Acts

by Don Gutteridge

  ***

  Constable Horatio Cobb was extremely uncomfortable as he stood in the witness-box in his Sunday suit with his hair slicked down as much as it would allow and his fingers gripping the rail as if he might otherwise topple over it. Thornton was quick to sense not only Cobb’s anxiety, but the hostility that accompanied it.

  “You are a veteran police constable, are you not, Mr. Cobb?” Thornton began with a smile as wide as a butcher’s greeting a favoured customer.

  “Almost five years.”

  “And you have apprehended any number of miscreants over those years?”

  “Yup.”

  “Are you heading somewhere relevant with this?” the judge said, raising one black eyebrow beneath his periwig.

  “I am, Milord.” Thornton turned towards Cobb and said sweetly, “Have you ever had a criminal rush up to you on the street, confess to a serious crime he’s committed not ten minutes before, and beg to be taken to the police quarters so he can put it all down in an affidavit before he forgets it?”

  Marc was on his feet.

  “I agree, Mr. Edwards,” the judge said, then turned to Thornton to admonish him. “You know better, Mr. Thornton. You’ll have ample room to establish how the document was obtained and what Mr. Cobb’s role was in the business. So, please move quickly in that direction.”

  But as Justice Powell and Marc knew, the damage had been done. The jury would be invited to see Brodie’s statement as unprecedented and, therefore, a self-serving attempt to throw the blame for the crime elsewhere.

  Thornton thanked the judge for his suggestion, and proceeded to lead Cobb painfully through the sequence of events on the evening in question. Cobb was compelled to admit, under a relentless but always polite prodding, that he had met an excited Brodie Langford on Wellington Street, not a block and a half from the site of the crime, and heard him “confess” to a violent encounter with a blackmailer, going so far as to show the policeman his battered knuckles.

  “Can you honestly say, Constable Cobb, that Mr. Langford was seeking you out?”

  Cobb hesitated. “He said he was glad to see me.”

  “But that is not the same, is it, as seeking you out? Do you know for a fact that he was heading for the police quarters to admit striking the victim on the cheek with his fist?”

  Again Cobb hesitated, glanced over at Marc, then up at the prisoner in the dock. “Well, sir, he was headin’ east in the general direction of the City Hall.”

  “Was he not in fact wandering about in a dazed or confused state, as a guilty man might do after committing some heinous and irrevocable act?”

  “Mr. Thornton!”

  “I apologize, Milord. But I am merely attempting to get this somewhat reluctant witness to describe the defendant as he first encountered him that night. As the accused’s intentions at this point are critical to the jury’s determining the validity and probative value of his ‘confession,’ they will need to hear what an experienced policeman saw and inferred.”

  Once again Kingsley Thornton had planted seeds of doubt about Brodie’s purpose in dictating and signing an affidavit in which he had admitted only to throwing a punch.

  “Well, Mr. Cobb,” the judge said, “was the defendant dazed and confused?”

  Cobb grimaced and said stubbornly, “He was a bit excited and a mite upset. That’s all I know.”

  But it was enough – alas.

  The remainder of Cobb’s testimony was straightforward and uncontentious. The jury heard about Cobb’s discovery of the body and the bloody walking-stick, about his entry into the tavern to find someone who might know the victim’s identity, about his instructing others to fetch the coroner and more constables to the scene. Cobb went on to describe the surprise of Nestor Peck at seeing his cousin dead in the alley, and mentioned that Gillian Budge had recognized Duggan as an occasional customer, but did not know his name. Thornton was at pains to have Cobb describe the alley as he found it, in great detail – including references to the moonlight, the broad window in the tavern wall above, the sunken cellar-window, and the shadowy escape route north to the east-west service lane. He was carefully laying the groundwork for the eye-witness accounts to come.

  In fact, so detailed was this part of Cobb’s testimony that the jury was in danger of sagging under its weight. Sensing this, Thornton concluded his examination with a whippet-quick turn of the head from the jury to the witness, and this abrupt query:

  “When you returned to the police quarters bearing in your grip the brain-spattered, silver-tipped walking-stick, you entered the main room and encountered the accused there?”

  “I did,” Cobb said, fearing what was coming but helpless to stop it.

  “When he spotted the walking-stick in your hand, what did he say – exactly?”

  Cobb swallowed hard. “He said somethin’ like, ‘That’s mine, I must’ve – ’”

  “Thank you, constable,” Thornton snapped, and whipped his head around to grin with mock remorse at the jury – so fast his periwig jumped. “No more questions, Milord.”

  This time Marc did rise, to face his loyal friend and associate. Standing before his lectern in this august chamber and realizing fully that a young man’s life might well depend upon the skill with which his advocate cross-examined those arrayed against him, Marc felt his legs tremble and his mouth go dry. It was one thing to plot legal ploys and stratagems in one’s study, but quite another to execute them in the cut-and-thrust of a courtroom.

  “You do have a question for Mr. Cobb, I take it?” the judge said, glancing at Marc and thus missing the smirk on Thornton’s face.

  “Yes, Milord.”

  “Then, please put it.”

  “Constable Cobb,” Marc heard himself say, “when you showed the walking-stick to Mr. Langford at the police quarters, did he say anything else besides, ‘That’s mine’?”

  “He did. He said, ‘I must’ve left it back there in the alley.’”

  Marc risked a glance at Thornton, who nodded his appreciation. “Now, sir, let’s return to that all-important encounter between you and Mr. Langford on Wellington Street. In addition to what state he was in or who saw whom first, we need to know what words he spoke to you. Try to remember them as precisely as you can.”

  Cobb looked weary but relieved. Remembering events and conversations came easily to him, if he wasn’t being constantly interrupted and badgered. He smiled at Marc and said, “As soon as he seen it was me, he said, ‘Cobb, you gotta help me.’”

  “And then?”

  “I asked him why – I knew the young fella and I could see he was anxious about somethin’. He said he’d just punched a man in the alley behind The Sailor’s Arms.”

  “And what was your immediate reaction?”

  “I thought it couldn’t be, ‘cause Brodie’s a very peaceful fella an’ – ”

  Thornton was on his feet, teetering with umbrage.

  “The constable’s personal opinions are not relevant, Milord.”

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Thornton, that it was you who introduced the murky business of state of mind and intentions ‘at this critical point,’” the judge said. “Proceed, Mr. Edwards – cautiously.”

  “Did he give you any details of this assault?”

  “I told him I thought he must’ve been fendin’ off a robber or somethin’, but he just said he’d punched a fella on the cheek an’ knocked him down. Then he showed me the knuckles on his right hand. They were scraped an’ bruised.”

  “Bleeding?”

  “A little.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. He said, real quick, that the fella was tryin’ to wangle money outta him, but he had no reason to hit him ‘cause he was actually plannin’ to haul the fella down to the police quarters.”

  “Continue, please.”

  “He asked me to go back to the alley with him, but stupidly I said there wasn’t no need fer him to do that – I’d see to the fella an’ he could go off to the City Hall like
he’d planned an’ tell my chief his version of what happened.”

  “You assumed, then, that this was a case of justifiable assault?”

  “Milord!”

  “Don’t put words into the witness’s mouth, Mr. Edwards.”

  “My apologies, Milord.”

  “What usually happens,” Cobb said, “is that the two fellas involved in a punch-up accuse each other of startin’ it an’ so on, so I figured Mr. Langford should wait at the police quarters fer me to come back there with the one he hit – an’ we could sort it all out.”

  “And he did so?”

  “He headed off in that direction, and I seen him there almost an hour later.”

  “But when you got to the alley, you found a man who had been struck first on the cheek, as earlier testimony has indicated, and subsequently bludgeoned to death with a walking-stick?” Marc resisted the temptation to glance at the prosecutor as he italicized the key words of his question.

  “I was shocked to find what I did.”

  Marc paused and, as he had seen Dick Dougherty do, pretended to consult the notes in front of him. “Do you think, Constable Cobb, as a veteran policeman, that someone who had just committed a bloody and lethal assault would ask you to accompany him back to the scene of the – ”

  “Milord!”

  Justice Powell gave Marc a stern look. “That, sir, is not an appropriate question for the constable and you know it. We are here to determine the facts of the case, and that is all. I ask the jury to ignore that question, and it shall be struck from the record.”

  But the jury was agog, and the gallery abuzz.

  Marc apologized and sat down, showing no emotion whatsoever.

  Very slowly Kingsley Thornton got to his feet to begin his rebuttal. “Mr. Cobb, I have just one or two points to clarify with you,” he said, as if nothing dramatic had just taken place. “The defendant told you that he struck Mr. Duggan and knocked him down, did he not?”

  Looking wary, Cobb said, “That’s what he said.”

  “And he admitted he had lost his temper and struck the fellow because the latter was blackmailing him?”

  “Yup.”

  “And he specifically asked you to accompany him back to the alley?”

  “Yup.”

  “Is it not possible, sir, that whether he went back with you or continued on to the police quarters, he had confessed only to an assault with his fist, was at great pains to show his knuckles, and would thus be in a position to feign astonishment, in that alley or in the chief’s office, that since his hasty and guilt-ridden departure, some blackguard had picked up his inadvertently dropped walking-stick and done Duggan in?”

  “Mr. Thornton!”

  Thornton smiled benignly. “Milord, my next witness will present me with the opportunity to introduce into evidence the sworn statement of Broderick Langford, the probative value of which needs to be thoroughly explored, including the possibility that all or part of it was meant as an ingenious deception.”

  The judge looked uncertain. Marc was on his feet, silently pleading.

  “There’s no need for Mr. Cobb to answer the question,” Justice Powell said. “But it shall remain part of the record.”

  Marc slumped back onto his bench. While Thornton had not succeeded in rooting out the notion that a guilty man was not likely to lead a policeman by the hand to his victim, he had blunted its effect and prepared the jury for his interpretation of the “confession.” At least the butterflies had disappeared from Marc’s stomach, as they had when he had finally entered the field of battle in Quebec two years before.

  ***

  Kingsley Thornton now called Wilfrid Sturges to the stand in order to focus the jury’s attention upon Brodie’s statement. He compelled the chief constable to say that Brodie insisted – against all advice – on making a statement before the other party to the dispute arrived with Cobb, that such a confession was unusual in the circumstances – Brodie having been the one threatened, as it were – and that the chief had listened to the dictated account, watched Brodie read and sign it, and had added his own name as witness.

  At this point everyone expected Thornton would bring in the document itself, but instead the prosecutor said, “How long would it have taken the accused to walk from the corner of Wellington and Peter Streets all the way to the City Hall east of Yonge?”

  “Depends how fast he was walkin’.”

  “Short of running, then, how quickly could those seven long city blocks be navigated?”

  “Ten, possibly fifteen minutes,” Sturges said grudgingly.

  “Lots of time for the accused to work out exactly the kind of story he hoped to spin when he got to your quarters?”

  “Milord!”

  “Mr. Thornton, it’s the jury’s responsibility to draw conclusions from factual evidence, not yours. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to expatiate on this matter during your summation.”

  Again, much damage had already been done. Having prejudiced the jurors against Brodie’s statement, he now had it read into evidence. And, for the first time, they were hearing the lad’s own words and his detailed explanation of his actions. They heard that he had received a blackmail note, in the presence of his sister, threatening to expose a secret about his friend, Miss Diana Ramsay, and ruin her life unless five pounds were delivered to an ashcan behind The Sailor’s Arms on the following Wednesday at nine-thirty; that Brodie had planned to entrap the blackmailer by hiding in the shadows after placing a packet of blank paper in the ashcan, confronting the blackmailer when he came to collect his booty, and taking him off to the police. He admitted freely that when he did come face to face with the fellow, he was enraged by a comment that insulted Miss Ramsay, lost his temper and felled the villain with one punch to the left cheek. When the man dropped onto his back unconscious, Brodie stooped over to make sure he was breathing, found he was, and then, feeling the aftershock at what he had done, had run in a panicked state farther up the alley and then eastward out onto Peter Street. Up at Wellington he had met Cobb, and then come straight to the police quarters.

  Thornton paused to let those candid details sink in. Then he turned back to Sturges.

  “And you say, sir, that you advised the accused against making such a statement? Isn’t that odd – for a policeman?” Thornton grinned at the jury, vastly amused.

  “Not really. I told Mr. Langford that the dust-up sounded to me like a reasonable response to a nasty fellow in the midst of a criminal act, an’ that we should at least wait fer Cobb.”

  “And yet the accused was desperate to confess to a minor crime, was he not?”

  Marc sighed, but knew it was useless to keep popping up like a petulant child. He glanced up at Brodie in the dock, but the lad’s eyes were fixed on the witness-box.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but he was anxious,” Sturges said.

  “Curious, is it not, sir, that he wanted to confess to a punch and to do so with dispatch. Was it perhaps because he knew what Cobb would find in the alley and would be reporting to you within minutes?”

  “He didn’t looked scared to me,” Sturges said defiantly. “Just upset with himself fer losin’ his temper.”

  “And lose it he did!”

  “But he told me – ”

  “No more questions, Milord.”

  Marc gathered his thoughts, and as much wit as he could muster, and said to Wilf Sturges, who was still steaming silently from his treatment at the hands of the prosecutor, “After Constable Cobb’s return, did Mr. Langford deny doing anything other than striking Albert Duggan on the cheek?”

  “Yes, he did. He insisted over and over that he’d done nothin’ but punch him once.”

  “Did he provide any plausible reason for wanting to make a formal statement of his guilt concerning that punch?”

  “He did. He told me he’d been raised to revere the law by his father an’ his guardian, who were lawyers in New York, an’ that he felt he’d broken the law by strikin’ Duggan with
out due cause, when all along he’d been plannin’ to bring the culprit to justice.”

  “And you found this explanation consistent with the Broderick Langford you have known for almost a year?”

  “I don’t see how the chief constable can be expected to answer such a question, Milord,” Thornton said, rising a few inches off his bench.

  “Milord, Mr. Sturges is well acquainted with the defendant.”

  “Answer the question, then,” the judge said to Sturges, “but only if you feel you can.”

  The Chief did not hesitate. “Broderick Langford has shown himself to be an honest, brave an’ principled young man.”

  Thornton let out a huge, theatrical sigh and rolled his eyes at the jurors.

  Marc carried on. “Chief Sturges, did you and Constable Cobb, while discussing the crime with Mr. Langford in your office that Wednesday evening, mention the possibility that someone other than the defendant may have or could have committed it?”

  “This is not at all relevant!” Thornton protested.

  “The witness may answer yes or no,” the judge said.

  “Yes, we did.”

  “Would you indicate what those possibilities were, please?”

  “Mr. Edwards,” the judge interjected, “unless you have evidence to support anything Mr. Sturges may speculate upon, I must halt this line of questioning.”

  Well, it was worth a try, Marc thought. Besides, he didn’t really want to alert the Crown or its witnesses about the particular defense he might have to use later on.

  “One final but very important question,” Marc said, much buoyed by Wilfrid Sturges and his considerable savvy as a witness. “We have heard that Mr. Langford immediately identified the blood-smeared walking-stick as his own when he spotted it in Constable Cobb’s possession. Did it cross your mind, at the time of this incident, that a man guilty of a vicious murder – who had confessed only to an assault – would not leap up and identify the murder-weapon as his own?”

  “Milord, this is outrageous!” Thornton was up and a-quiver.

  “I will decide what is outrageous in my court,” said the judge. “Mr. Edwards has asked the witness if such a thought – not irrelevant to the case – occurred to him at that moment in the police quarters. Surely he may answer yes or no.”