City of Spades (19 page)

And it was sad: the buoyancy had dropped, and for the first time since I knew him I thought he looked afraid. He wasn’t much interested in Theodora and in me, and talked most of the time to Laddy Boy in African. Theodora grew increasingly enraged. ‘We
must
get the information out of him, Montgomery. Do interrupt that wretched African, and
talk
to Johnny.’

‘The lawyer will see him for all that, Theodora. Don’t be angry – just try to cheer him up.’

Almost at once, the warder said, in tones like a funeral bell, ‘Time up!’ At this Laddy Boy seemed suddenly overcome with hysteria and, clutching the wire-netting,
cried, in English, ‘My brother! Bless you, my brother! Oh, my brother!’ – and tried to kiss Johnny through the grille. The warders tore him away, and Johnny was marched off.

‘Any more of that,’ the jailer said, ‘and you’ll be coming inside to keep him company.’

Out in the street, as soon as we’d turned the corner, Laddy Boy let out a roar of laughter. ‘I do it!’ he cried. ‘I do it.’

‘Do
what
, you idiot!’ Theodora shouted.

‘Theodora!’

‘The five-pound note, he get it! I kiss it to him through the bar!’

When the ingenious seaman’s mirth abated, he told us he’d screwed the note up in a ball, put it in his mouth, and passed it through the grille into Johnny Fortune’s. ‘But is money all that much use when you’re in jail?’ I asked the sailor.

Laddy Boy stopped in his tracks, and said: ‘Man, in that place, loot is
everything
. You can buy
anything
if you have loot.’

‘It’ll make him more cheerful, then. He didn’t look too happy, did he.’

‘Understand me, man,’ said Laddy Boy. ‘It is his family he think of. Wounding or even thieving, that is nothing; but this charge they put upon him is the top disgrace.’

Nearby Lambeth town hall, Theodora insisted on entering a phone box to call up again Sir Wallingford whoever-it-was, her family solicitor. I was not surprised
when she came out and told us, ‘He wasn’t there, but his chief clerk says it’s not the sort of case they handle.’

‘Very helpful. Let’s stick to Zuss-Amor.’

‘You want me to come with you to see him?’

‘Not unless you really want to. I think it’d be much easier if I call on him alone. But first of all I’m going to try to contact Muriel. I know where her mother lives in Maida Vale.’

‘I shall come too.’

‘No, Theodora, you will not. The last thing likely to encourage Muriel to help Johnny is to hear a rival pleading for him to her.’

‘What else can I do, then?’

‘Go to your office and write some enormous memos. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve seen Zuss-Amor.’

‘I might ask the Corporation to let me appear in court as a witness to his character.’

‘Suppose he gets convicted, Theodora.’

‘He won’t get convicted. He’s innocent.’

‘Yes, but if he were convicted, and you’d appeared in court, you’d lose your job.’

‘I wouldn’t. No one is ever dismissed from the Corporation.’

‘No doubt; but I can’t believe you’d rise to any further dizzy heights there if you got mixed up publicly in this case.’

‘You’ve no guts, Montgomery. No moral fibre.’

‘Oh,
SHUT UP
, Theodora. You’re beginning to get on my tits.’

‘Easy now,’ said Laddy Boy.

I seized his hand, shook it, waved to Theodora, and leapt into a taxi on the rank. Then, remembering I had no money for the lawyer, had to climb ignominiously out and borrow it from her. I set off northwards in a rage.

But I got no help from the Macpherson family. A horrible old woman who admitted to being the mother refused to let me in, and though I shouted through the door for Muriel, she wouldn’t come.

‘She’s finished with him – finished!’ Mrs Macpherson yelled, sticking her face and body out at me like the figurehead of a ship. ‘I don’t care if they hang him for what he’s done, my daughter wouldn’t lift her little finger for him!’ And she banged the door.

Mr Zuss-Amor didn’t receive me at the appointed hour: he kept me waiting in a corridor upon a kitchen chair, with nothing to regale me but yesterday’s daily newspaper. The typist with ornamental spectacles who’d let me in vacated her cubby-hole from time to time, stepped indifferently over my legs, and went through a door of corrugated frosted glass inscribed in black cursive letters with the name of this man on whom we now pinned our hopes.

I was reduced to reading the opinions in the leading articles when the glass door was opened from inside and a voice said, ‘I’m ready for you now. Quite ready.’ When I went in, the door closed and a man stood between me and it, looking me up and down. He was wispy-bald, clad in a rumpled suit of good material, cigarette ash smothered his lapels, and his hands dangled by his sides. His face,
which looked battered, sharp and confident, wore a tired and hideous smile. ‘I’m your guide, philosopher and friend from now on, Mr Pew,’ this person said. ‘Come and tell me all about it.’

I did. He listened silently till I had nothing more to say.

‘Have a fag,’ he said, offering me one from a battered pack. ‘I chain-smoke myself – that’s why I don’t like appearing in court. I prefer the work here.’ He lit my cigarette. ‘Right. In the first place, you should understand I can’t be instructed by you. You’re not the accused, fortunately. It’s his instructions I have to take, you see.’

‘But he asked me to come here.’

‘I don’t disbelieve you. But if I accept this case, I’ll have to send someone down to the jail to see our friend. And whatever
he
wants me to do, I’ll have to.’

‘Am I wasting my time, then?’

‘No – nor mine either, altogether. The more I know about the background in a case like this, the better. So. A point. What is the relationship between the accused and you? I mean the
exact
relationship?’

‘I am his friend.’

‘For what reason?’

‘Because I like him.’

‘
Like
him?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘You like him. Oh. What I mean is – is there anything at all I ought to know you haven’t told me?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I see. Another point. Why did you come here to me?’

‘I told you. Mr Alfy Bongo gave your name to me.’

‘Alfy. He told you I was a snide lawyer, I suppose?’

‘He said you were a solicitor who wins cases.’

‘Flattering! Right. Now, most important of all. Have you got any money?’

‘Yes. Some.’

‘Pay twenty to my secretary when you leave, will you? That’ll do nicely to go on with. In notes, please – no cheques, or I can’t fiddle my taxes.’ He gave me a frosty grin, folded his fingers, and said, ‘Very well, then. From what you’ve said, I can practically guarantee you something: which is that your friend will lose this case.’

‘Why will he? He’s innocent.’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt it! I don’t doubt it one little bit! But these cases are always lost before they go to court. Believe the expert.’

‘Then we might as well have no defence?’

‘Not at all – why shouldn’t you? I’m here to advise you. For example. You don’t always have to fight a case, Mr Pew. You can also buy it.’

‘Sorry …’

‘Though it may be expensive. You say that two police officers were involved?’

‘Yes …’

‘And they’ll have their chief to remember …’

‘Do you mean …’

‘That’s just exactly what I mean.’

‘But they’ve already brought the charge.’

‘I know they have. You wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t. But for a consideration, they might not press it
in the courts. There’s evidence and evidence, you know.’

‘What sort of consideration?’

‘I’d have to see. But you’d better be thinking in terms of hundreds: not more than two, though, I dare say.’

‘Can you arrange that?’

‘It can be arranged. I haven’t said by whom.’

‘But if they got the money … wouldn’t they double-cross us?’

‘Why should they? It’s not an important case to them. And they know if they do they’d lose good business of the same description in the future …’

‘I see.’

‘I know what’s in your mind: you think I’ll take a cut.’

‘Well, I suppose you would, wouldn’t you?’

‘How right you are, Mr Pew! Think of what’s involved! Professional conduct of a disgraceful nature, and so on and so forth. I’d be quite reasonable, though. I’d not kill the goose that lays the golden egg …’

Mr Zuss-Amor’s dentures gave me an amiable, impatient smile. He clearly had other interviews in his diary.

‘I’m not sure I can raise that much money all at once.’

‘Oh. We can forget it, then.’

‘And in any case, I think it’s better to fight them.’

The solicitor ran his hand up and down his waistcoat buttons. ‘It’s not exactly you who’s fighting them, but your friend,’ he said. ‘All the same, I think your decision’s perfectly right.’

‘Oh? Why do you?’

If you take it to court, you’ll almost certainly go
down, as I’ve told you, though there’s always a chance, if slight. But if you give these gentlemen a little something, they’ll see to it you give them some more sooner or later. And probably sooner.’

‘I don’t get it, I’m sorry, Mr Zuss-Amor.’

‘I’ve no doubt your life is blameless, Mr Pew. All the same, if they decided to scrape around and look for some dirt, they’d possibly find you’d done something or other. We all have, at one time, I expect. Even the bench of bishops have a blot on their consciences somewhere, I shouldn’t be surprised.’

‘But how would they know it was me the money came from?’

‘Now, Mr Pew! Don’t underestimate the Law! They know you’re the friend of the accused, they’ve seen you in court this morning, they know – well, I dare say they know quite a lot of things.’ He took off his spectacles and wiped them with his fingers. ‘Or perhaps,’ he went on, ‘you think I’d tell them who paid up. Well, even if I did, I wouldn’t have to: they’d just know.’

‘So that’s ruled out, then.’

‘Very good. Right. So we go to court. The question arises: which court do we go to?’

‘Isn’t that automatic?’

‘To begin with, yes, it is. Everyone appears before a magistrate initially. Even if you murdered the prime minister, that’s where you’d first appear. But you needn’t be tried by the magistrate if you don’t want to be.’

‘What else can you do?’

‘You can elect to go before a judge and jury.’

‘And which is better?’

‘There are naturally pros and cons in either case.’

‘Well, tell me the pros and cons.’

Mr Zuss-Amor leant back with his hands behind his head. ‘My God!’ he said, ‘how often I’ve had to explain these simple facts! Don’t laymen know
anything
?’

‘Perhaps, Mr Zuss-Amor, it’s to your advantage that they don’t.’

‘Oh, quick! Below the belt, but excellent! Right. Here we go. You elect to go before the magistrate. Advantages. It’s over quicker, one way or the other. Less publicity, if that should happen to matter. The sentences aren’t so high as a judge can give, if you’re convicted.’

‘And the cons?’

‘No appeal – except to the bench of magistrates. From the judge, you can go up to the House of Lords, if all is well, but as you’ve not got the cash, the point’s academic. Trial by jury takes much longer: it may be weeks before your young friend’s face to face with my Lord and his merry men. Also, it’ll cost you more. There’ll be more for me, of course, and we’d have to get a barrister.’

‘If we went to the magistrate, we don’t need one?’

‘Ah – you’re catching on! Correct. Solicitors can appear before the beak. Though even in the magistrates’ court, a barrister can be a help if he waves his law books at the old boy without antagonising him unduly.’

‘What does a barrister cost?’

‘As you’d expect, it depends on who he is. If he’s any good, it won’t cost you less than fifty at the least – with
refreshers, of course, that you’ll have to pay if the trial lasted more than a day.’

‘Is it likely to?’

‘I don’t suppose so, but we might come on late in the afternoon and get adjourned.’ He paused. ‘Well, have you made up your mind?’

‘I don’t know yet, Mr Zuss-Amor. You’d better tell me what you advise.’

‘Advise! If I say, “Go to the judge,” you’ll think it’s because I want more money.’

‘Why should I?’

‘You’d be a bloody fool if you didn’t … But all the same, there are certainly big advantages. Though, before I tell you what they are, I should repeat what I said just now – I think in this case you’ll go down anyway.’

‘Why are you so sure?’

‘Because, my dear man, when the Law frames a case, they make a point of seeing it sticks. They have to.’

‘I see.’

‘I wish you did. You want to know why you should go to the judge and jury, then. In the first place, I don’t know who the magistrate will be, but nine out of ten accept police evidence: the more so, as I need hardly tell you, when the prisoner’s coloured.’

‘Don’t juries believe policemen, too?’

‘They do, yes, even more so in a way, but there’s a difference: twelve men have to be persuaded, and not one. Or twelve men and women, if we’re lucky enough to have any serving. But that’s not the chief consideration. What comes now is a point of legal strategy, so follow
me closely, Mr Pew. You elect to go before the judge and jury. Right. That means the prosecution has to state its case, so as to get you committed. In other words, we hear all their evidence and they can’t alter it afterwards much, though they can add to it if they get some nice new bright ideas. But as for you, you sit tight in the dock …’

‘It’s not me, Mr Zuss-Amor.’

‘… All right, your friend sits in the dock and keeps his mouth shut. He says nothing.’

‘But he has to speak later before the judge and jury …’

‘Of course he has to, if he’s called. But by that time we know the prosecution’s case, and they don’t know ours at all. And if me and the barrister, whoever it is we choose, take a good look at the transcript of the prosecution’s evidence before the final trial comes on, our trained legal brains may find a hole or two that can be picked in it. Because it’s not all that easy to think up a consistent story of what never happened – you’d be surprised.’

‘It seems we should go to the jury, then.’

Mr Zuss-Amor gave me a sweet smile, as of one who congratulates a nitwit for seeing what was perfectly evident all the time.

‘If you want to know the fruits of my experience, Mr Pew,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you these three golden rules. Never accept trial by magistrate, unless it’s a five-shilling parking offence, or something of that nature. Never plead guilty – even if the Law walks in and finds you with a gun in your hand and a corpse lying on the floor. And when you’re arrested, never, never say a word, whatever they do, whatever they promise or threaten – that is, if you
have the nerve to stick it out. Always remember, when they’ve got you alone in the cells, that they also have to prove the case in the open light of day. Say nothing, sign nothing. Most cases, believe me, are lost in the first half-hour after the arrest.’

‘You mean if you make a statement to them?’

‘Exactly. Tell them your name, your age, your occupation and address. Not a word more. Even then, they may swear you did say this or that, but it’s harder to prove you did if you’ve signed nothing and kept your trap shut.’ Mr Zuss-Amor arose, walked to the window, and gazed out glassily. ‘It’s a wicked world,’ he said, ‘thank goodness.’ He pondered a moment. ‘What about witnesses?’ he asked me, turning round. ‘Who can we muster?’

‘I’ve told you this girl Muriel won’t speak for him.’

‘It might make quite a bit of difference if she did. And it looks rather bad, doesn’t it, if she won’t.’

‘Why?’

‘Come, now! If we say, as we’re going to, that the defendant was living not with a whore, Dorothy, but with his lady-love, her sister Muriel, wouldn’t the jury expect to see Miss Muriel in the box and hear her say so?’

‘I’ll have another shot at her. Are witnesses to character any use?’

‘None whatever, unless you can produce the Pope, or someone. No, we’ll have to do our best with Mr Fortune himself if we can’t get Muriel. Can he talk well?’

‘His only trouble is that he talks too much.’

‘I’ll warn our counsel. Now who will we have against us? The Detective-Inspector, of course, and his Detective-Constable, I have no doubt – and even an old hand won’t be able to shake
them
.’

‘But what on earth can they say?’

‘Oh-ho! You wait and see! You’ll be surprised what that pair saw through brick walls two feet thick! And then, of course, they may call little Dorothy.’

‘They’re sure to, aren’t they?’

‘No … She’s a common prostitute, don’t forget, and juries don’t seem to believe a word they say. I hope they do call her, though – I’d like to see our counsel tear her guts out in cross-examination …’

Mr Zuss-Amor rubbed his chest with relish. I got up to go.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll believe,’ I said, ‘that Johnny Fortune hasn’t been a ponce. But isn’t it clear, from all you tell me, that these cases are sometimes framed?’

‘Oh, of course they are! Who said they weren’t?’ Mr Zuss-Amor stood face to face with me. ‘I handle a lot of cases for the defence,’ he said, ‘that they don’t like to see me get an acquittal for. So the police don’t love me all that much, as you can imagine. And believe me, whenever I get into my car at night, I look it over to see if they’ve planted anything there.’

‘You do?’

‘Well, if I don’t, I ought to. And that reminds me,’ he went on, leaning his lower belly against the desk. ‘If you can pay for it, we’ll have to get a barrister who’s not afraid of coppers.’

‘Some of them are, then?’

‘Most of them are. But one who certainly isn’t is Wesley Vial – even though he’s a junior.’

‘A Mr Vial who lives near Marble Arch? A fat, hairy man?’

‘You know him, I dare say. He’s a friend of little Alfy’s.’

‘I know him slightly. And so does Johnny Fortune. We went to a party at his house. I don’t think he likes either of us much.’