The Governor's Lady

by Norman Collins

‘And there’s some trouble with his speech, isn’t there?’

  ‘It is affected,’ Mr. Das told him.

  ‘Not permanently, I trust.’

  Mr. Das gave the same little bow.

  ‘I cannot say. I am not a doctor.’

  The Attorney-General took out his case and offered Mr. Das a cigarette. Mr. Das declined.

  ‘I do not smoke,’ he said.

  It was not true: Mr. Das was a heavy smoker. He would have liked one very much. But the Attorney-General had caught him at a bad moment. His best shirt was being saved up for tomorrow. The last thing that he wanted was to thrust out a badly frayed shirt-cuff. If he had known that he would be seeing the Attorney-General, he would have worn his other white jacket.

  The Attorney-General kept tapping away at his cigarette instead of lighting it.

  ‘I’ve just been looking over the affidavits,’ he said, as though he had found himself with time on his hands and had simply been filling in the odd moments. ‘I see that you’re pleading “Not Guilty”.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘May be quite a long case then.’

  Again, there was that little bow.

  ‘I have made myself entirely free,’ he replied.

  ‘Great strain on your client, of course.’

  ‘It is inevitable.’

  ‘And at his age.’

  Mr. Das caught the Attorney-General’s eye again.

  ‘I cannot make him any younger,’ he said.

  ‘But you think he will be well enough to appear?’

  Mr. Das paused.

  ‘I must decide that tomorrow,’ he replied.

  The Attorney-General had lit his cigarette by now. He blew the smoke out slowly before speaking.

  ‘Great strain on the jury, too,’ he said. ‘Juries don’t like finding against old people. They can’t bear hearing the sentence, you know. Particularly in murder cases.’

  Mr. Das remained silent.

  ‘It’s keeping the defendant there in court for days on end that they find so painful,’ the Attorney-General went on. ‘But they still have to do their duty: that’s something no jury can avoid. It always comes as a great relief to them if the plea is one of insanity. But only when the defendant is elderly, of course. Otherwise, they tend to be suspicious.’

  Mr. Das appeared to be pondering the point.

  ‘Quite so,’ he replied.

  The Attorney-General glanced down at his watch.

  ‘Well, I mustn’t detain you,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you want to get back to your papers. Until tomorrow morning then. I just wanted to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘The pleasure has been all mine,’ Mr. Das replied.

  Chapter 39

  The queue for the public gallery began forming overnight. Mr. Das had, in fact, seen the beginnings of it—the cushions, baskets of food, beer bottles and things all spread out on the sidewalk—as he had walked back home from the courthouse.

  By eight a.m. there was already a brisk market in reservations. Places near the front were changing hands around the fifteen-shilling mark; and even for seats right at the back, under the ventilator cowling, there were still buyers at half-a-crown and two shillings. The queue by now numbered over eighty: the capacity of the public gallery was twenty-four.

  At nine-forty-five, when the door was unlocked, the rush began. The two policemen stationed inside had to keep hitting out with their fly-whisks so that they could count properly.

  One spare place was to be left, the Chief Usher had said. But the crowd could count, too. And when the doors were closed again after only twenty-three had gone through, the barracking began. There were shouts, catcalls, hammerings on the door, kickings.

  It was not until close upon the hour that the mystery of the missing seat was finally cleared up. Then—beautifully dressed and smiling, but somewhat tense and self-conscious looking—Mr. Ngono arrived, and walking very fast, went straight through the door marked ‘Court officials’.

  It had all been arranged beforehand. The Head Usher, for a consideration, had agreed to keep vacant the last seat beside the gangway in the front row.

  Because he had been called away by the Chief, his father, Mr. Ngono had not seen Mr. Das before. It was only by reputation that he knew him.

  And, once inside, Mr. Ngono began looking round the Court. There, right in front of him, was an Indian with a wig on. He knew at once that it must be Mr. Das. The sight thrilled him. He began tliinking how impressed Mr. Das would be when—tonight, possibly—the two of them met, and Mr. Das came to learn at first hand of Mr. Ngono’s star-witness revelations.

  It was the first time that Mr. Ngono had seen a court assemble, and he was fascinated. He had not, in fact, been so much moved by anything since Sir Gardnor’s memorial service. And, when the Judge, deep-wigged and in full scarlet, appeared before them, Mr. Ngono could have applauded. It was unbelievable because, in everyday life, the Chief Justice was really rather short and quite ordinary: Mr. Ngono had seen him frequently on Saturdays in open-necked shirt and khaki shorts; even going round Amimbo on a bicycle.

  The swearing in of the jury was another thing that Mr. Ngono found most impressive. Indeed, he had never before watched so many important Europeans being treated so casually. There was the District Superintendent of the Railway, a retired Inspector of Native Schools, the chief cashier of one of the overseas banks, and a big cocoa man, all crammed into the jury box like steerage. And all behaving with such meekness and humility, too. When his friend, who had reserved him his seat, handed them the Bible, one by one, they seemed nervous and afraid of him.

  The sense of absolute authority, enshrined somewhere inside the pageant, came as a revelation to Mr. Ngono: he found himself wishing that instead of a life of commerce he had taken up the law as his profession.

  There were evidently going to be some pretty dramatic surprises, too. In answer to the simple question as to whether there was an objection to any of the jurors, Mr. Das was on his feet immediately, jack-in-the-box fashion: it was evident that it was exactly the lead for which he had been waiting.

  ‘I object to all the jurors, m’lud,’ he replied.

  He spoke in a soft, polite-sounding voice as though this part were the merest formality, and he was saying simply what the Chief Justice had been expecting him to say.

  The Chief Justice, however, was quite unprepared. He had been warned that Mr. Das was erratic in cross-examination and quite likely to overstep the limits. He had not, however, expected any difficulties so early. Indeed, he could not help feeling that it was rather unsubtle of Mr. Das to have antagonised the Court before the trial had even properly begun.

  ‘Mr. Das,’ he said severely, ‘you are not answering the question. The question was quite specific: it asked whether there was objection to any of the jurors.’

  Mr. Das bowed back.

  ‘There is an objection, m’lud. It is to each one of them. The objection is collective not individual. But if your Lordship chooses, I will object individually.’

  ‘On what grounds, pray?’

  ‘On the grounds that they are all European and that my client is an African, m’lud.’

  The Chief Justice became even more severe.

  ‘Let it be clearly understood,’ he said, ‘that this is a court of law. It is not a parliament, and therefore it is not a forum for political speeches. The case that I shall be judging is one of murder. Evidence has nothing to do with racial origins. And it is purely upon the evidence which they hear—evidence, Mr. Das, to the total of which you will yourself contribute—that the jurors will reach their verdict. The objection is over-ruled.’

  Mr. Das rose again.

  ‘I am relieved, m’lud, to hear your Lordship refer to the case specifically as one of murder. If it is murder there can, in my submission, be no reason for discrimination against Africans as jurors. If, on the other hand, the jury is exclusively European then my client may suffer because the crime could be misconstrued as one of politic
al assassination, m’lud. Like your Lordship, I am most anxious to avoid even the slightest introduction of politics.’

  This time, the Chief Justice was more than severe: he was stem.

  ‘The imputation of motive is purely one for the prosecution to decide.’

  This time Mr. Das bowed a little lower.

  ‘I am most grateful to your Lordship for having accepted my submission,’ he said.

  This time, the Chief Justice recognised the danger signal: Mr. Das had succeeded in getting him annoyed. He was therefore deliberately very calm and restrained when he delivered his rebuke.

  ‘It is my duty to warn you, Mr. Das …’ he began.

  But he was interrupted. There was a sudden disturbance in the jury-box; and, leaning forward, the Chief Justice could see that the retired Inspector of Native Schools had collapsed onto the rail in front of him. Then, before anyone could catch him, he had slid down out of sight among the feet of his fellow jurors.

  It was not easy in the already ridiculously overcrowded court room to make way for the passage of a sagging and unconscious body, and the Chief Justice adjourned the court until the commotion was over. He went back into his chambers and, removing his robes, stretched himself out on the settee, using a folded-up copy of the day’s Order Paper for a fan.

  The problem of a twelfth juryman now presented itself. Nor was the solution going to be easy. There were plenty of other white men in Amimbo—fair-minded, responsible people—sub-managers, and company representatives and so forth—who would have suited the case admirably, had it not been for the house-holding qualification.

  The Chief Justice closed his eyes and mentally ran through the names of every respectable resident he could think of.

  It was already after eleven when the court resumed. And, by then, the Chief Justice and the Clerk of the Court had revised their entire stratagem for the handling of the case.

  ‘Mr. Das, would you rise please,’ he said.

  Mr. Das’s bow was most respectful.

  ‘Before the court resumed,’ the Chief Justice went on, ‘it became incumbent on me to administer a most severe rebuke for certain improper observations which you had seen fit to make upon the composition of the duly appointed jury. Unfortunately, through illness, one member of that jury has suddenly been withdrawn from us. Emergency papers have accordingly been served on another gentleman who is present in this court at this moment. Moreover, without the due notice to which he is entitled, he has agreed to serve. Would you stand please, Mr. Ngono?’

  Ever since he was a boy, Mr. Ngono had wanted to be right at the very centre of things with everyone looking at him. Possibly it was because he was only his father’s favourite son and not the lawful heir that the desire was so strong in him. But, now that it had actually happened, he found that he simply hated it. The whites of his eyes were showing conspicuously; and he did not know what to do with his hands. He behaved as if he were wringing something.

  ‘Thank you, m’lud. Your Lordship has been most accommodating,’ Mr. Das replied, and sat down again.

  The Chief Justice ignored Mr. Das altogether. He addressed himself to Mr. Ngono.

  ‘Would you please follow the Usher and be sworn-in, Mr. Ngono?’ he asked.

  As he passed the press table Mr. Ngono avoided Mr. Talefwa’s eye. Earlier, he had been trying to catch it. But, when the Clerk of the Court had sent for him, and Mr. Ngono had desperately needed someone, a friend, to help him and give him good advice, Mr. Talefwa had ignored him completely. Head down, and apparently oblivious to what was going on around him, he had simply continued with his writing. Mr. Ngono had a most uneasy feeling that somehow he had been betrayed.

  Only that morning Mr. Talefwa had come out with a fine leading article entitled, ‘White Juries and Black Justice’, and Mr. Ngono felt that the least he was entitled to was a smile, or a cheer, or even a wave of the hand.

  And now, there he was, with the Bible in his right hand, and wondering what to do with his left. Because he was nervous, he had repeated the words of the oath very loud and rather brusquely as though ordering something.

  Mr. Das rose again.

  ‘As this is now a new jury, m’lud,’ he said in his softest, most bubbling of voices, ‘may I submit to your Lordship that all the jurors should now be asked to take the oath again. It is most irregular that…’

  Chapter 40

  ‘Summon the prisoner.’

  There was a murmur that became a gasp, when Old Moses was brought in.

  He was so small, so withered-up and husklike, that the two policemen on either side of him seemed to be there solely for his own support. They were like nurses: they walked very slowly and watchfully, making sure that he did not stumble. And, when they came to the step leading up into the dock, they put a hand each into his armpits and lifted him up, like a child being helped over a high kerb.

  The Chief Justice was a humane man.

  ‘Let the prisoner be seated,’ he said gently.

  And, as the policemen deposited him, Old Moses, wrapped round mummy-fashion in his white Amimbo blanket, disappeared from the onlookers behind the high varnished woodwork of the dock.

  The charge of indictment was read out, and Mr. Ngono found himself thinking how bleak and terrible the words sounded: they were like something out of the Old Testament. They scared him.

  But already the Chief Justice was speaking, and Mr. Ngono resumed his concentration.

  ‘How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?’

  Mr. Das bobbed up rather than rose.

  ‘Not guilty, m’lud.’

  The Chief Justice inclined his head towards him.

  ‘And you are satisfied that your client is able to understand these proceedings?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite satisfied, m’lud.’

  ‘And that in a trial of this nature—a trial upon a capital charge, that is—he is fully aware of the possible consequences of such a plea?’

  ‘I have explained everything most carefully, m’lud.’

  ‘Do you speak Mimbo, Mr. Das?’

  ‘No, m’lud.’

  ‘Then how do you communicate with your client?’

  ‘Partly in English, and partly through an interpreter, m’lud.’

  ‘Is the interpreter here today?’

  ‘Yes, m’lud.’

  ‘Where pray? I do not see him.’

  Mr. Das hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he was quick to give his little bow. He gave it so politely as to convey the impression that he had been just about to provide the information when the Chief Justice had interrupted him.

  ‘He is seated at the press table, m’lud.’

  ‘At the press table!’

  The Chief Justice repeated the words as though he suspected that he must have misheard them. Lowering his glasses, he peered incredulously over the edge of his rostrum onto the floor of the court beneath him.

  ‘And what is the name of your interpreter, pray?’ he asked.

  Again there was that same momentary hesitation, that same quick recovery.

  ‘It is Mr. Talefwa, m’lud,’ Mr. Das replied. ‘Mr. Oni Talefwa.’

  If he had been in his chambers, the Chief Justice would have raised his eyebrows when he heard the name. But here, in court and in his robes, it was different: he might never have heard the name before. He allowed no emotions whatsoever. Only a probing and professional curiosity.

  ‘Would you please rise and face me, Mr. Talefwa?’ he asked.

  In putting the question he had emphasised the ‘Mr.’ ever so slightly.

  ‘In what capacity are you present in tins Court?’ he went on.

  ‘I am representing my paper, War Drum, m’lud,’ Mr. Talefwa replied.

  ‘Then you are here in a double capacity, are you not?’

  ‘In what way, m’lud ?’

  This time the Chief Justice allowed his surprise to be seen by everyone.

  ‘Did you not hear Mr. Das tell me that you are also acting as the interpreter between
counsel and client?’

  Mr. Das rose hurriedly.

  ‘Mr. Talefwa’s services as interpreter are not any longer required,’ he replied. ‘The fullest possible use has already been made of them. My client is in no further need of explanation.’

  ‘But he may be, Mr. Das. He may be. The prisoner is Mimbo-speaking, remember,’ the Chief Justice reminded him. ‘The fact that he has a working knowledge of everyday household English is neither here nor there. It may not be sufficient. Things may be said that the prisoner does not fully comprehend. You do not speak his tongue: you have just said so. It is therefore essential that the full-time, not part-time, services of an interpreter should be retained. I will not allow this case to continue without one.’

  ‘As you so rule, m’lud.’

  The Chief Justice turned back to Mr. Talefwa who had remained standing.

  ‘I am sorry if this should interfere with your reporting activities for War Drum,’ he said. ‘But you cannot have it both ways, you know. The choice is entirely yours and Mr. Das’s. The Court will adjourn again for five minutes while you come to a decision.’

  When the Chief Justice returned, he tried, by sheer pressure, to settle himself more comfortably onto the hard leather cushion decorated with the deep sunken buttons. It was, his instinct told him, going to be a long trial.

  ‘And what conclusions have you arrived at, Mr. Das?’ he asked.

  Mr. Das bowed extra low this time.

  ‘In the interest of justice, Mr. Talefwa is prepared to give his service exclusively to my client.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The Chief Justice looked down at his empty pad, and then up at the Office of Works clock opposite. Dealing with Mr. Das had wasted half-an-hour of the Court’s time already.

  Then, just when he was ready to begin, he noticed that Mr. Das was still standing.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked.

  ‘M’lud,’ Mr. Das began, ‘there is a matter which I wish to draw to your Lordship’s attention. Already there has been an approach—I regret to have to say a most improper approach—from an exceedingly high quarter to try to influence me in the nature of my plea. Naturally, I resisted the approach. The promises, if they can be called promises, meant nothing to me. They did not deceive me. My client is not guilty, and I am so pleading, m’lud.’