Walden of Bermondsey

by Peter Murphy

  Hubert returns rather disconsolately to his penne arrabbiata, the dish of the day, which today is an especially aggressive shade of deep red. At which point, to my considerable relief, the conversation dies a natural death, and the subject does not come up again. So I do not have to reveal the guilty secret Stella and I have concealed, along with Monday’s list, namely: that on Monday, Jan van Planck will be visiting Bermondsey Crown Court again; and not for lunch or a glass of wine.

  Monday morning

  Armed with Elsie’s strongest coffee and Jeanie’s bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich for lunch, I make my way to court. I find myself creeping furtively along the corridor to my chambers, almost as if I am afraid someone may confront me – which I am. It’s not my fault, I argue to myself. It’s not my bloody fault that Jan van Planck got himself charged with fraud just as he was finishing Terry McVeigh’s portrait, and we were already on the hook for his fee. It’s not my bloody fault that his trial is listed to begin on the Monday following the Friday on which he was our honoured guest – if not in a sense the Court’s artist in residence – drinking our wine and eating our canapés to his heart’s content. But it might as well be, for all the comfort I draw from my own argument. It is equally arguable, I have to concede, that I should have withdrawn his invitation for Friday, a course urged on me repeatedly by the Reverend Mrs Walden, who always has a good common sense approach to these matters. But protocol is protocol; we have invited him to all the other unveilings, and given the presumption of innocence, it seemed to me that it would have been a bit uncharitable to cast him out for Friday. Now, I’m thinking that, uncharitable or not, it might have been the wiser course. But in any case, it’s too late now; the die is cast. It is going to be awkward in court, to put it mildly. And all my colleagues are going to know as soon as they glance at the list which Stella and I have so carefully concealed until now. ‘VAN PLANCK, Jan, for trial’, it proclaims, all too loudly. Let the games begin.

  ‘May it please your Honour, members of the jury,’ she begins, ‘my name is Susan Worthington, and I appear for the Crown in this case. My learned friend Mr Julian Blanquette appears for the defendant, Jan van Planck, who, as you know, is the gentleman sitting in the dock at the back of the court.’

  Jan is in his fifties now, and like many Dutch people, is remarkably tall and thin. He smiles engagingly in the direction of the jury until a brief glance from Susan hits him like a blast of icy air from Siberia, and causes him to shift his look hurriedly down to the floor. Mercifully, he hasn’t tried to make eye contact with me, and I have studiously avoided looking at him. You would almost think we had some kind of guilty secret between us.

  Susan Worthington is an imposing figure, tall and composed, and today she has about her an air of severity she seems to reserve for cases in which she is prosecuting. On the defence side, she can sometimes come across as a bit fussy, and sometimes even sounds like a librarian telling someone to keep their voice down in non-fiction because people are trying to work. But not when she is prosecuting. When she is prosecuting, she can put you in your place with a single glance, as she just has with Jan van Planck, in a way which might take most barristers a couple of minutes of speech. She exudes an atmosphere of strictness and discipline. Legless thinks she would make a wonderful dominatrix, though quite how he is qualified to make such a judgment he has never revealed. Julian Blanquette could not possibly be mistaken either for a librarian or a dominatrix, but he is lively and energetic, and never lost for the bon mot. He sometimes goes a bit too far with the humorous asides, though always in such a way that it is difficult to be annoyed with him. When it suits him, he is also very good at appearing to be thoroughly confused. With some barristers, this is a genuine condition, but with Julian it is a carefully rehearsed ruse to catch opponents and witnesses off guard. He does not resort to it often, but when he does, it is surprising how well it works.

  ‘With the assistance of the usher,’ Susan continues, ‘I will distribute copies of the indictment, one between two.’

  Dawn stands with a smile, and hands the copies to me and to the jury in turn.

  ‘As you will see, it consists of a single count of fraud. The prosecution alleges that Mr van Planck, “dishonestly made to Elmer G Pratfall a false representation, namely that a painting offered by the defendant for sale was ‘Woman drinking Wine with a Drunken Soldier’ by Gerrit ter Borch, circa 1658–1659, intending thereby to make a gain for himself or to cause loss to Elmer G Pratfall, or to expose Elmer G Pratfall to the risk of loss”.

  ‘Members of the jury, in due course, His Honour will explain the law to you and you must take the law from him, not from me. But I can safely tell you that a representation is false if it is untrue or misleading, and the person making it knows that it is, or might be, untrue or misleading. In this case, the prosecution will prove that the representation made by this defendant was indeed untrue, and that he knew perfectly well that it was untrue.’

  Susan reaches down to her right. Immediately, the short gentleman in the dark suit and tie sitting behind her, a CPS factotum of some kind, leaps out of his seat and assists her in holding up a framed canvas covered by a large piece of grey cloth. The factotum then picks up a thin, rickety-looking wooden easel, which he unfolds and stands up on its legs, and between them they proudly display to the jury the work allegedly claimed by Jan van Planck to be ‘Woman drinking Wine with a Drunken Soldier’, by Gerrit ter Borch, circa 1658–1659.

  I freely confess to a complete lack of knowledge of Dutch painting circa 1658–1659, and of the work of Gerrit ter Borch in particular, and I assume that the same applies to the jury; though you never know with juries. They come from all walks of life, and I recall more than one case in which counsel had barely finished apologising for the case being rather technical when a member of the jury raised his or her hand, and cheerfully said not to worry, he or she had been dealing with that kind of thing at work for years and could explain it all to the rest of them. In this case, someone will produce an expert to explain it to us, I feel sure. Genuine or not, it looks a nice enough piece. I would be happy to have it on the wall at home. Apparently, Susan has had the same thought.

  ‘It looks pretty enough, members of the jury, doesn’t it? I’m sure we would all be happy to hang it in our living room. As would Mr Elmer G Pratfall, an American gentleman, an attorney from Sacramento, California, the victim in this case; or at least, Mr Pratfall was happy to hang it in his living room until he realised that he had purchased not the genuine “Woman drinking Wine” painting, but a quite ordinary copy of it, of unknown provenance, and certainly not painted by Gerrit ter Borch. You may ask, members of the jury, why that should matter if Mr Pratfall liked the painting? The answer is quite simple. It matters because of the price the defendant Jan van Planck demanded for this ordinary copy – which was no less than fifty thousand pounds. The prosecution will call an expert on Dutch art of the period, a Dr Smalling, who will tell you that while that price would not have been unreasonable if the painting were what Mr van Planck claimed it to be, a price of closer to five hundred pounds would have been more appropriate for this ordinary copy.’

  Despite this apparently damning statement, Jan van Planck is looking quite content and Julian Blanquette is scribbling furiously, and I have an odd feeling, for which I cannot account at all, that something Susan is saying is going to come back to haunt her later in the trial.

  ‘How do we know that this painting is not the genuine “Woman drinking Wine”?’ she is asking rhetorically. ‘Quite simple, members of the jury. The genuine painting is in a private collection. We know exactly where it is, and it is certainly not here in the Bermondsey Crown Court. What you see before you is a grossly over-priced copy.’

  She turns to eye it with a suggestion of distaste.

  ‘And that, of course, members of the jury, is the basis of this charge of fraud. The defendant Jan van Planck is a professional art dealer, as well a
s being Dutch himself…’

  Julian raises his eyebrows at this apparent non-sequitur.

  ‘…and the Crown say he knew perfectly well that this was not the genuine painting he told Mr Pratfall it was, and he knew perfectly well that it was not worth the price of fifty thousand pounds he demanded for it. That is the Crown’s case in a nutshell. The only other thing I want to say is that the Crown brings the charge and the Crown must prove the charge so that you are sure of the defendant’s guilt, if you are to convict. Mr van Planck is not called on to prove his innocence. Indeed, he doesn’t have to prove anything to you at all. You must be sure of his guilt in the light of all the evidence. What I and my learned friend may say is not evidence. The evidence comes from the witnesses. And with his Honour’s leave, I will begin by calling Elmer G Pratfall.’

  Elmer G Pratfall is a large, rotund man dressed in a light brown three-piece suit. He walks slowly and not quite in a straight line, as though his weight is beginning to become a bit of a problem. His dark brown hair is thinning, and it is difficult to guess his age, though I imagine he is somewhere between forty and fifty. On entering the witness box, he gives me a nod and examines the book Dawn hands him, apparently to make sure that it is a genuine bible before committing to tell the truth while holding it.

  ‘Mr Pratfall, I think your name is Elmer G Pratfall, is that right?’ Susan begins.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘And I believe you are an American citizen; you are an attorney by profession, that is to say, a lawyer; and you reside in Sacramento, California?’

  ‘That is correct, Ma’am.’

  ‘Do you practise alone, or in a law firm?’

  ‘In a law firm. I am the senior partner of the firm of Pratfall, Wallace, O’Malley, Bailey, Sanderson and McHugh. We have just over a hundred lawyers in the firm, partners and associates.’

  ‘I see,’ Susan says. ‘Can I clear one matter up, just so that the jury will understand. Is your interest in art connected with your law practice in any way, or is it a purely private interest?’

  ‘Purely private,’ Pratfall replies. ‘My law practice is in the field of corporate defence, representing banks and other corporations in civil lawsuits brought against them in the state and federal courts in California. So I am concerned with commercial litigation in cases involving large amounts of money. We don’t do any of this kind of stuff.’

  Pratfall waves an arm in front of him magisterially.

  ‘What kind of stuff would that be?’ Susan asks, before she can stop herself. It’s not really relevant to anything, but since he has started off along that road, she can’t just let it go. I have every sympathy with her; if she doesn’t ask, Julian will have a field day with it when his turn comes.

  Rather belatedly, Pratfall realises that he may have been a tad undiplomatic.

  ‘Criminal work,’ he replies. ‘Not that I have anything against criminal work, you understand.’ He turns to me. ‘I’m sure you understand, your Honour. This stuff has to be done. And those who do it are doing a fine job, especially here in England with all the barristers and such. All I was saying is…’ His voice trails away, but he continues to look at me, almost imploringly.

  ‘It is a good rule of thumb, Mr Pratfall,’ I say, ‘that when you find yourself in a hole, you should stop digging.’

  He nods.

  ‘Yes, your Honour.’

  Susan has recovered her composure. Julian is chuckling away to himself, and several of the jurors are joining in.

  ‘Let’s turn, then, to your interest in art,’ Susan suggests. ‘How long have you been collecting works of art?’

  ‘Going on twenty years.’

  ‘And what got you started as a collector?’

  Pratfall looks up at the ceiling as if the question calls for considerable thought.

  ‘I guess it was my wife, Julie Mae,’ he replies eventually. ‘She always likes to have nice things on the wall. When we were just starting out, we had all kinds of nonsense, even movie posters and the like, and stuff from concerts we went to in Sacramento, you know, when big acts come to town, Elvis impersonators and such, because we really loved the King…’

  He offers a smile to the court, but no one is returning it, and he resumes his attorney demeanour.

  ‘But then, when my practice took off and I made partner, I started to earn more, and Julie Mae had minored in art history at Sacramento State, and she started to look at some work by local artists, and we bought a few, and I guess we just got hooked on owning genuine original paintings, and it all went from there.’

  ‘I see,’ Susan says.

  ‘And then, in addition to that,’ Pratfall continues unbidden, ‘it was a good deal from a tax point of view to buy some works of art, as long as they were genuine. My tax attorney said it would be a good thing to do, and I guess that was another reason.’

  Susan closes her eyes briefly. Julian is staring at Pratfall like a hawk eyeing a rabbit, and I find myself looking forward to his cross-examination.

  ‘How did you first come to contact Jan van Planck?’ Susan asks.

  ‘Well, I was spending time over here in London each year, because we have some clients here, including syndicates at Lloyds of London, and some others, and this is a great city to buy art if you have the money. I would bring Julie Mae with me, and while I was working earning the money, she would be going round the dealers trying to spend it.’

  ‘And Jan van Planck?’ Susan asks patiently.

  ‘Jan, yes. OK. A client mentioned his name, someone at Lloyds if I recall correctly, and said they had commissioned Jan to do some work or other, and had been pleased with the results, and that he had some interesting stuff in his studio. So one afternoon, I thought, “What the hell? Might as well check it out,” and I went along to look him up.’

  ‘Did you go to his studio on London Bridge Road?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘And when you went to the studio, did anything in particular catch your eye?’

  ‘Yes, it surely did. I saw this really neat painting he had for sale.’

  The CPS factotum and Dawn gently pick up the work in question, one at each side rather like a couple of assistant auctioneers at Sotheby’s, and carry it to the witness box for Pratfall to inspect.

  ‘Is that the painting you were referring to?’

  Pratfall purses his lips, trying to suggest that it is all a painful memory.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ he replies in a quieter, suitably forlorn voice.

  ‘Exhibit one, please, your Honour,’ Susan says. I nod my agreement.

  ‘I may regret asking this, Mr Pratfall,’ she continues, ‘but would you please tell the jury what it was that drew you to this particular painting?’

  Pratfall gazes at it fondly.

  ‘It sure is pretty,’ he replies, ‘and you just know it has to be old.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Susan agrees. ‘Did you have any conversation about this painting with the defendant, Mr van Planck?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Please tell the jury what the conversation was. Please speak slowly because people are taking a note, and please be sure to tell the jury word for word what was said, as far as you remember it.’

  It is an important moment. Pratfall makes a show of remembering, half closing his eyes to create an impression of intense concentration. After almost a minute of this, he begins as we all sit with our pens poised.

  ‘I told Mr van Planck that I liked the painting. I asked him if it was for sale. He said it was. I asked him what it was, exactly. He said that it was the “Woman drinking Wine with a Drunken Soldier”, by Gerrit ter Borch, circa 1658–1659.’

  We all pause to make a note and take this in.

  ‘Were those Mr van Planck’s exact words, Mr Pratfall, or…?’

  ‘Those were his exact words,’ Pratfall insists,
interrupting her.

  ‘Very well. And how did the conversation continue?’

  ‘I asked him how much he wanted for it. He said fifty thousand pounds. I said OK, and that was it.’

  I see several members of the jury raise their eyebrows. Julian is smiling to himself. Susan takes a deep breath.

  ‘When you say that was it, Mr Pratfall, I assume you mean that you agreed to buy this painting, Exhibit one?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And when you agreed to buy it, what did you understand Mr van Planck to be selling?’

  Pratfall stares at her blankly. She tries her best to come to his rescue.

  ‘Well, when you were asked to pay fifty thousand pounds, why did you think this painting was worth such a large sum?’

  Finally, he sees the light.

  ‘Oh, right. Yes. Well, obviously, because it was the real McCoy, the genuine article. Not a copy and such like.’

  ‘Did you make any inquiries about it, yourself, before agreeing to buy it?’

  ‘No, Ma’am. Mr van Planck is an art dealer. He’s the expert. I’m not. He had been recommended to me. I trusted him, and I relied to my detriment on the false representation he made to me.’

  Susan nods. ‘Did you pay Mr van Planck fifty thousand pounds?’

  ‘I did. I returned to his studio on the following day with a banker’s draft, and took possession of the painting.’

  ‘Still believing it to be genuine?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And is it in fact genuine?’

  Before Pratfall can reply to this question, Julian leaps to his feet.

  ‘Your Honour,’ he interjects quickly, ‘a point of law arises. May the jury retire?’

  The jury know by now that this is part of the routine. I warn every jury at the beginning of a case that counsel will probably have legal issues to raise, which are my job to deal with, not theirs. If you don’t warn them they are bound to get a bit suspicious at being thrown out of the courtroom from time to time for no apparent reason, and they may suspect that counsel are trying to keep evidence from them – which, of course, they often are. So I invite the jury to grab a quick cup of coffee for a few minutes, and they file dutifully out of court.