Minor Corruption

by Don Gutteridge

  “I understand, madam, perfectly. Thank you for answering my questions under such difficult circumstances.”

  It was Marc’s turn. Again he was facing a witness who had won over the jury and had got them believing that Uncle Seamus had financed an abortion for a minor he may or may not have raped but certainly and subsequently had seduced into loving him.

  “Mrs. Thurgood, in your experience, do youngsters ever use the word ‘love’ in ways we don’t think of as ‘romantic’?”

  Auleen was puzzled by the question and a little fearful of what was to come, but managed to reply, “I guess they do.”

  “Like saying they just love a certain neighbour or a favourite aunt or uncle?”

  “Yes. I see what you mean. Like lovin’ strawberries or ice cream?”

  The jurors laughed politely, to Marc’s satisfaction.

  “Exactly. Young people use the word in a variety of ways, don’t they?”

  “Milord, counsel is leading the witness.”

  “You are, Mr. Edwards. Please move on.”

  “In this note, Betsy refers to the addressee as an ‘angel.’ ‘You’re an angel,’ she says. What does that suggest to you about her feelings towards this ‘uncle’?”

  “Milord, the witness is in no position to – ”

  “I’ll allow it. Proceed, madam.”

  “Well, it sounds like Betsy looked up to and admired this person, and this person may have helped her and been kind to her.”

  “Like a guardian angel?”

  “Yes. Betsy was always imaginin’ things and writin’ stories about them.”

  Marc was touched and pleased by Auleen Thurgood’s naiveté and her trusting nature. With a chance to talk freely about her dead daughter, she was taking full advantage of it. Marc sensed that at home her opinions were neither sought nor respected. He could see Neville Cambridge out of the corner of his eye trying not to grimace.

  “She had certain people she hero-worshipped?”

  “Well, she did go on and on about Mr. Seamus Baldwin after she’d come home from workin’ at Spadina in July and before she went up to work there steady.” Auleen looked down. “She never come home once after she started in – until I got sick.”

  Marc realized that the jury had already made up their minds about who the ‘uncle’ was and that if he were to probe too hard to unsettle the witness, all would be lost. So he let the assumption lay where it had landed. At least he had seriously weakened the Crown’s contention that this was a love-letter, and had planted the notion that Betsy was highly imaginative and a hero-worshipper. At worst, the jury might see her feelings as mere puppy-love, that worship from afar common to teenaged boys and girls.

  “Now, Mrs. Thurgood, one more question and then we’ll be done. This is a thank-you note but we are not told what the five pounds was for. Did you recently require money for an operation?”

  Auleen was startled. Hesitantly she said, “No, sir. What would give you that idea? I just had the croupe.”

  “Well. madam, in the police report – ”

  Cambridge was up like a shot. “No direct police evidence has been put on the record yet, Milord!”

  “Stop right there,” the judge said, giving Marc a long stare.

  “Sorry, Milord. I have no more questions of this witness.”

  In his rebuttal, all Cambridge could do was have the key points of Auleen’s initial testimony repeated. Marc looked behind him, and thought he saw Robert Baldwin smile. Two could play at Cambridge’s game.

  “Milord,” Cambridge was saying, “the Crown intends now to move on to phase two of its case and the specifics of the rape charge. The jury has heard a lot of testimony today. May I suggest we recess and begin phase two in the morning?”

  Justice Powell, who looked far wearier than the jury, nodded and adjourned the court until ten o’clock Tuesday morning.

  ***

  In chambers afterwards, the consensus was that the day had gone as well as could be expected. The Crown had set Uncle Seamus up as a procurer of abortions and seducer of minors, and posited a direct link between the banknote, Seamus, Betsy and Mrs. Trigger. But Marc had succeeded in weakening each link in this chain. Nevertheless, the guile and dexterity of Neville Cambridge had been fully displayed, and the rape incident was one where he had much more ammunition – and an eye-witness.

  “I went along and played the sly, subtle game today,” Marc said. “But it will have to be a different story tomorrow. The witnesses will not automatically have the jury’s sympathy. I’ll have no choice but to hammer each one of them hard. Cambridge will save Jake Broom to the end, and I want the jury to be thinking of alternative versions and even alternative murderers long before we get to him.”

  “So, Marc, you intend to be ruthless,” Hincks laughed, realizing how incongruous the words ‘Marc’ and ‘ruthless’ were when conjoined.

  “As ruthless as I can make myself be.”

  “Just be careful, Marc,” Robert said. “Please.”

  ***

  Marc tried to relax that evening, but couldn’t. He had gone over his notes numerous times, and knew what his approach to each witness would be. But Cambridge was an unpredictable and gifted prosecutor. Beth talked Marc into playing whist with Diana and Brodie in their spacious new parlour. But Marc couldn’t concentrate, and finally the other three switched to cribbage.

  Tuesday morning dawned bright and warm, a continuation of the Indian summer that seemed now to mock the sombre proceedings within the austere, regal Court House. The side-galleries were once again full, with a crush of disappointed citizens outside on the esplanade.

  First up was Sol Clift. His testimony was, in the onlookers’ view, a dull narrative of how five mill-hands spent their lunch hour on the day of the alleged rape. Tall and slim, but mumble-mouthed, he told the court what he had told Cobb about the comings and goings during that fateful luncheon: how Betsy had arrived at twelve with her father’s lunch, chatted briefly with those present (Burton Thurgood, Joe Mullins, Jake Broom, Seth Whittle and himself), and then left. He went on to say that Seth and Burton had left early (at twelve-thirty according to the big clock in the office) to repair the damaged sluice at the weir, that Joe Mullins had left to go for a stroll and a smoke about five minutes later, and that about ten to one Jake Broom had excused himself, saying he wanted to check on a sick horse in the barn. Sol himself, left alone, finished his lunch and returned to the mill for his afternoon shift. All pretty dull stuff. Surely the defense counsel would have little to say about this testimony.

  Marc looked sternly across at the witness and said bluntly, “You say you returned to work sometime after twelve-fifty when Broom left for the barn. Did anybody see you do so?”

  Clift was startled, near panic. “I don’t know what you mean . . . I – ”

  “Was anyone in the mill when you returned to it, sir?”

  “Why, how could there be? Seth and Burton was at the milldam, and the other men’d left the office and the mill-buildin’.”

  “So we only have your word for it that you went straight back to work?”

  Clift’s eyes widened. “Where – where else would I go?”

  “To the barn perhaps?”

  Clift gasped and spluttered out, “I never went near there!”

  “Did you not tell Constable Cobb that from where you sat in the office, you could see Betsy leave the property?”

  “I did, but – ”

  “And that she did not cross the road but rather turned to the right and headed north, where the barn is?’

  “I did see her go that way, but – ”

  “And that you, and others in that office, knew she loved horses?”

  Clift was now terrified, and looked guilty of something.

  “She’d sneak out to the barn to feed ‘em carrots, I knew that. But I’d never harm her! Never!”

  “Yet you have no-one to vouch for the fact that you – knowing Betsy was heading out towards the barn – did not move swif
tly through the mill, encounter the girl and – ”

  “Milord! This is intolerable!” Cambridge was close to losing his well-honed aplomb.

  “Take it easy, Mr. Edwards. Let the witness answer before firing further questions at him.”

  “I have no more questions for the witness, Milord,” Marc said, and sat down, with his stomach churning. For the first time Cambridge looked across at his opponent. His expression was unreadable. He nodded, and the dazed and miserable Sol Clift was allowed to stumble off the stand.

  Joe Mullins was next. With his short, slicked-down red hair and shilling-sized freckles, he looked considerably younger than his twenty-four years. Cambridge’s first question was whether Mullins had seen Betsy turn towards the barn.

  “No, sir. I couldn’t see outside the window from where I was sittin’.”

  Having established that Mullins was not a likely suspect (with a quick nod in Marc’s direction), Cambridge went on to his main point: the fact that Mullins had seen Seamus Baldwin in the ravine at twelve-thirty-five when he went there for a smoke.

  “What was the defendant doing, Mr. Mullins?”

  “Well, I’d often seen him anglin’ fer trout down there – there’s a trout pool nearby – so I was surprised to see he wasn’t carryin’ a pole with him.”

  “He was at a fishing-hole without a fishing rod?” Cambridge said, nicely feigning surprise.

  “That’s right.”

  “What was he doing there, then?”

  “He was just walkin’ up and down and lookin’ up at the mill.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “No, I was above and off to one side a bit, in a little grove I like to have a pipe in. If he’d’ve seen me he’d’ve waved.”

  “And did you observe him for long?”

  “Oh, no. I went into my grove, sat down in the grass, and smoked my pipe.”

  “So the defendant could have left the area immediately?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is there a path that would take you from the ravine to the barn?”

  “There is. It runs along the creek and comes out behind the barn.”

  “Would anyone up by the mill be able to see anyone using this path?”

  “No, sir. He’d be completely hidden.”

  “Thank you. That is all.”

  Cambridge sat down and looked straight ahead. This was devastating testimony. It placed Uncle Seamus on the mill property with enough time and a secure route to the barn. Moreover, he did not seem to be there for any other purpose than to commit a heinous crime.

  Marc stood up. “Mr Mullins, you told the jury that you went to have your smoke alone, say about twelve-forty or so?”

  “Yes, sir.” Mullins did not look concerned, certainly not frightened as Sol Clift had been.

  “Before that, you observed Mr. Seamus Baldwin in the ravine below?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Without his fishing pole?”

  “That’s right. He was just kinda wanderin’ up and down.”

  “As if he might be expecting someone to come and meet him?”

  Mullins looked puzzled, but said amiably, “Could be. He was glancin’ up and around.”

  “Could his fishing pole have been lying in the grass?”

  “Well now, you could be right. I didn’t do anythin’ more than take a peek at Mr. Baldwin and then leave him to his privacy.”

  “So the gentleman could have been there to angle for trout?”

  “I didn’t see no basket or net, though.”

  “Behind a bush perhaps?”

  “Could be.” Mullins was almost cheerful in his response, and certainly agreeable. Cambridge was not looking pleased. He would have to repair the damage.

  Marc suddenly dropped his own friendly demeanour. “Do you, sir, have anyone who could say they saw you smoking in that favourite little grove?”

  Mullins was taken aback, but not apprehensive. “I was alone. I wanted to be.”

  “At twelve-forty, eh? Could you, sir, have gone back up to the mill, circled it on the south side and reached the barn without being observed?”

  “But why would I do that?” Mullins, still innocent-eyed, was genuinely puzzled.

  “Why indeed, sir. What happened in that barn after twelve-forty-five is what we’re here to determine, isn’t it?”

  “Milord, Mr. Mullins is not on trial! Is Mr. Edwards going to accuse every Crown witness of the crime?”

  “I agree, Mr. Cambridge. Mr Edwards, you will forgo this line of questioning. You’ve already made your point.”

  For the first time Mullins looked shaken. His hands were trembling as he lifted them from the railing in from of him and turned towards Neville Cambridge.

  “Your witness, counsellor,” Marc said, and sat down. He felt like trembling himself.

  As skilfully as he could, with Marc’s lingering accusation hanging over the witness, Cambridge went back to have Mullins repeat his earlier testimony. Whether the jury was actually listening was a moot point.

  Seth Whittle was up next. His testimony was brief. He left the mill office at twelve-thirty in the company of Burton Thurgood, and the two men went directly to the weir, several hundred yards above the mill itself. He saw or heard nothing unusual. He saw no-one about him except his employee, and neither man left the weir until four o’clock that afternoon. He knew nothing of any incident in the barn until Jake Bloom went to the police two months later.

  Marc declined to cross-examine the witness.

  Burton Thurgood got up and told much the same story, except that he had slipped into the bushes to “do his business” about two o’clock. Cambridge’s purpose in calling these men was apparently to have the jury place them well away from the barn at the time of the crime and to stress the fact that no stranger had been seen lurking about the grounds.

  Marc looked into the familiar bulldog face of Betsy’s father, and said, “Mr. Thurgood, to your knowledge, did the mill-hands in that office last August the third know about Betsy’s love of horses?”

  “They must have because she talked about it all summer, before and after she went to work at Spadina. But I warned her never to go to that barn – ever.” He looked imploringly at the jury.

  “Were any of the men there attracted to your daughter?”

  Thurgood’s lip curled. “’Course not! She was a child. She only got her monthlies last spring!”

  “So you were not aware that anyone might wish to court your daughter or that she was possibly in love with someone herself?”

  “I wasn’t.” It was a grunt and little else.

  “Were you planning to buy a pony, sir?”

  “What if I was?”

  “Did Betsy know of this plan?”

  “I told yer, yeah. It was gonna be fer her. I was gonna have a dollar a month taken outta my pay.”

  The jurors nodded their approval.

  “Did she offer to have a friend, knowledgeable in horse-trading, examine the pony?”

  Thurgood looked surprised, and wary. “No, she didn’t.”

  “I am asking, sir, because in one of the police reports Mr. Baldwin says he came to the mill to – ”

  “Milord! This is outrageous! Counsel is alluding to a document not in evidence. And the statement he was about to read into the record was a self-serving deception by the accused. That is precisely why we do not allow the accused to testify.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cambridge, for explaining the law to me,” the judge said acidly. “But you are quite right. Mr. Edwards, this is your last warning on this score. Understood?”

  Marc looked suitably chastened. “My apologies, Milord. It won’t happen again.” And it looked more and more as if Marc would have to call Cobb as a witness for the defense.

  Justice Powell banged his gavel on the bench. “Court is in recess until two o’clock.”

  ***

  While Marc could still taste part of his breakfast at the back of his throat, as a defense attorney he could n
ot help being pleased with the morning’s effort. Neville Cambridge had attempted to lay a damning context for this afternoon’s star witness, Jake Broom. But Marc had demonstrated the critical fact that Joe Mullins and Sol Clift each had the opportunity (time to get to the deserted barn where they might expect to find Betsy), the motive (the seduction or rape of a young woman they had gown to fancy from her visits to the mill-office), and the means (their superior physical strength as mill-hands). Since Broom’s description of the culprit was the keystone of the prosecution’s case, it didn’t hurt the jury to have at least two viable alternatives to think about. Finally Marc had one or two ideas about how to impeach Broom’s apparently unassailable testimony.

  Robert, however, was not as pleased as his pupil. He and Marc sat alone in Robert’s chamber over their luncheon, discussing the morning’s proceedings. Neither had done more than poke his food about his plate.

  “So I’m ready for Jake Broom,” Marc was saying, “and whatever Neville Cambridge can toss at me. I’m feeling cautiously optimistic. We’re unravelling Cobb’s meticulously knitted skein of events, stitch by stitch.”

  “You were nothing short of brilliant, Marc. Bob and I have taught you well. Perhaps too well.”

  Marc was taken aback. “How so?”

  “I don’t quite know how to say it tactfully, so I’ll just say it straight out. It is no victory for any of us if it is won in the manner you’ve chosen to do it in. I say that knowing full well you have no other option.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Robert reached for a macaroon, found the bowl empty, and said solemnly, “Marc, you and I have been through the wars literally and figuratively. What we have been fighting for is a government responsible to those who elected them freely and honestly.”

  “So we have.” Marc was used to Robert’s occasional lapses into melancholy or high seriousness, in which the weight of the world seemed to press down upon his sturdy frame, but he was not a little alarmed at the demeanour of his good friend as they sat here in quiet conversation. That he himself was being criticized seemed almost beside the point. “And we’re going to win in the end,” he said.

  “Yes, but not at any cost. You must realize that the people we are fighting for – on whose behalf we are crusading – are the Joe Mullins and Sol Clifts and Burton Thurgoods of this world. It is those without a voice for whom we seek a voice, and for whom we set ourselves up as models of what our shared future may be about. How we go about winning is as important as what we win. And in that courtroom today, we have represented a cross-section of our current society. They are watching and judging all.”