St. Urbain's Horseman (52 page)

Then he told Nancy that he had lied to her; Harry had indeed been staying in the house and he was there the night of Jake's return from Montreal. He had a girl with him, somebody he had picked up in a coffee bar. Harry and the girl had played all manner of sexual games in which he had not taken part, he said, but he had joined them downstairs for a drink, and something the girl had said outraged him. He had thrown her bodily out of the house in a paroxysm of anger. Vengefully, the girl had gone to the police and sworn out a complaint. Jake told her what he was charged with and what Harry
was charged with. He assured her he was innocent and that the case against him, if not Harry, was bound to collapse in Magistrates' Court in eight days' time, but reporters would be there, there would be publicity, obscene publicity, and they would have to stand up to it.

Nancy didn't cry. Neither did she admonish him. With the utmost calm all she said was, “I think we should return to London immediately.”

“You could stay here with the kids. It might be better.”

“No.”

He told her that Harry blamed him and confessed that there was some justice, however convoluted, to his complaint. He would pay for Harry's defense, he said, but once the hearing was over he would never see him again. That was a promise.

“It could go further than Magistrates' Court, Jake. I think you should be prepared for that.”

“It won't,” he cried. “It can't.”

“If it's going to be in the newspapers, you'd better write to your mother before she reads it herself.”

Canada. He told her about his father's funeral, light years ago it seemed, on the other side of the moon, and about his quarrel with Uncle Abe over the Horseman. Which was the only time she revealed how fragile was her composure.

“You've got him to thank for this, you know. If not for Joey,” she said, “you would never have met Ruthy or …”

“Don't,” he protested, appalled.

“I'm sorry.”

It was dawn; and the packing was done.

“We can start back as soon as the kids are up,” he said. “I don't need any sleep.”

In London, the following evening, Jake had his first meeting with Ormsby-Fletcher. In the morning, Detective Inspector Mallory came to call with two policemen, one of them a photographer, and Jake hastily sent Nancy out with the children. Mallory's affable men
measured the house from end to end. They took pictures, discussing lenses with Jake, and exposures, for after all he was a professional. Jake served drinks.

“I've got some good news for you,” Mallory said amiably.

“What's that?”

“I shouldn't be telling you this, but it will all come out in the wash. We found a small quantity of cannabis in her room. She claims Stein gave it to her, but …” He shrugged. “… It might not hold up.”

“I should hope not,” Jake replied fiercely.

“You're too worried, Mr. Hersh. In my opinion, you haven't much to fear.”

“Oh,” Jake said cautiously.

“It's bad luck your being involved with Stein. He's a villain. He's got a nasty record. Did you know that?”

“I don't think we should discuss the case any more.”

“Not to worry. This is all unofficial. We didn't find any cannabis in Stein's flat, you know.”

“Harry doesn't smoke pot.”

“Maybe not. He could keep it for his girls. He's a very fancy fellow, you know. Something of a photography buff.”

“Mmmn,” Jake said.

“I should think pot will be legalized soon enough, wouldn't you?”

“The sooner the better.”

“You ever tried it yourself?”

“I shouldn't discuss these things with you.”

Mallory looked wounded.

“I will say one thing and no more,” Jake said. “Harry did not rape that girl.”

“Maybe not this one,” Mallory allowed, rising. “Well, we shan't be bothering you again.”

“Sorry we didn't meet under more pleasant circumstances,” Jake said.

“Good luck in court.”

It was all so agreeable, so bracingly civilized, that Jake was lulled into a sense of well-being until he saw that instead of getting into his car and driving off, Mallory strolled next door to see Lady Dry Cunt. He emerged an hour later to ring the Clarkes' bell.

Jake and Harry met with Ormsby-Fletcher every afternoon and most evenings, mulling over the police depositions, as well as the brief Ormsby-Fletcher was preparing, in the days leading up to their hearing in Magistrates' Court, Great Marlborough Street.

The hearing got off to a rocky start. Once the barrister who was appearing for the Director of Public Prosecutions had opened the case, outlining the charges against Stein and Hersh, Ormsby-Fletcher rose for the defense.

“Your Worship,” he began, “as you may know, my client is a well-known film director, particularly vulnerable to bad publicity. As I strongly feel the case against him will go no further than this court, I ask that this examination should be conducted in private as you are allowed to do by section 4 (2) of the Magistrates' Courts Act, 1952.”

His Worship didn't ponder. He hardly blinked.

“I am afraid I cannot accede to your request. It is the general practice of the courts to hold these preliminary examinations in public, and I see no reason at this moment for departing from that practice.”

The barrister for the Crown concluded his opening speech without any further interruptions. Then the depositions of the witnesses were taken and read aloud to them by the Clerk of the court. Ingrid signed hers, then Detective Inspector Mallory signed, followed by Sergeant Hoare and the police doctor. They all entered into a recognizance to give evidence at the Old Bailey, if the case were committed for trial.

Gilbray, a colleague of Ormsby-Fletcher's appearing for Stein, pleaded not guilty and reserved his client's defense. Then Ormsby-Fletcher,
simulating impatience, bravely raised the flag for the defense once more.

“Your Worship,” he said, “I submit there is no case here for my client to answer and none to justify a committal for trial. The evidence against my client is thin and inconclusive. Even supposing the girl was raped, there is nothing to show my client was anything more than a bewildered bystander to the act. Surely such evidence does not justify you putting my client to the expense and anxiety of a trial.”

His Worship did not agree.

“As you well know,” he said, “I have not to be satisfied beyond reasonable doubt that the defendant raped Ingrid Loebner. That is a much higher standard of proof which must be attained before a jury can convict. I must be satisfied only ‘that there is sufficient evidence to put the accused upon trial.' As the case now stands, I am so satisfied unless the prisoner in giving evidence himself or by calling witnesses is able to convince me that the evidence is insufficient.”

But the prisoner, Hersh, remained silent. He made no statement. He gave no evidence.

“My client,” Ormsby-Fletcher said, “pleads not guilty and reserves his defense.”

“Very well.” His Worship turned to Jake. “You will be committed for trial at the next sessions of the Central Criminal Court.”

M
ORE THAN THREE MONTHS PASSED BEFORE JAKE
actually stood with Harry in the dock of Number One Court of the Old Bailey, or more properly the Central Criminal Court, at 2:30 on a Thursday afternoon in October. The dock, an octagonal-shaped structure with glass panels in black wooden frames, measured sixteen feet by fourteen feet, sufficient to hold up to twenty prisoners. It faced the bench.

The presiding judge, Mr. Justice Beal, sat on the bench. Not on the center chair, under the elegant Palladian arch, flanked by pillars, with the coat of arms of Edward VII at the top and the Sword of Justice, pointing upwards, in the center, for this seat was traditionally reserved for the Lord Mayor of London as senior Commissioner. Mr. Justice Beal filled the chair next to it, resting his enormous bottom on a green velvet pillow.

The necessarily somber, oak-lined Number One Court was really astonishingly small, measuring forty-four by fifty-six feet, but this did ensure that the tone of the proceedings was subdued, conversational, as it were, rather than overblown. Below the bewigged judge there was a table for the Clerk of the Court and below that the well of the court. To the left of the well, there were benches for counsel, those for the prosecution being nearest the judge and those for the
defense being closest to the prisoners. Counsel for Regina, instructed by the Director of Public Prosecutions, was Mr. Peregrine Pound, Q.C., assisted by Mr. Henry Fraser. Counsel for the defense, instructed by Messrs. Ormsby-Fletcher & Co., Solicitors, was Sir Lionel Watkins, Q.C., and Mr. Guy Harrington, on behalf of the prisoner Jacob Hersh; Mr. William Coxe and Mr. Julian Fowler on behalf of the prisoner Stein. On the right of the well of the court, there were benches for officials and the press, and to the right of the press benches, there was the jury box. The witness box, supplied with a microphone, was set between the bench and the jury box. There were also a number of benches, as well as a gallery, available to the public, who were free to drift in and out as they liked.

The Clerk of the Court charged Harry Stein with sodomy, rape, indecent assault, and the possession of cannabis. “Harry Stein,” he said, “are you guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty.”

Jacob Hersh was charged with aiding and abetting sodomy, a reduced charge of indecent assault, and the possession of cannabis. He, too, pleaded not guilty.

“May it please your lordship, members of the jury,” the avuncular Mr. Pound began, opening for the prosecution, “there is a letter and some pages of film script which I think I shall have to refer to in my opening address.”

Mr. Justice Beal allowed him to pass out some pages of film script to the jury, pages from
The Good Britons
, and then he read the pages aloud.

Peregrine Pound described how Ingrid Loebner, an
au pair
girl, had been picked up by Stein in a coffee bar, The Scene, on Finchley Road, and had been tricked into accompanying him to Hersh's house. A detached nine-room dwelling, with a walled garden, in the most enviable part of Hampstead. “Stein promised her there would be no ‘funny stuff' and even assured her that his wife was at home.
He further alleviated the girl's suspicions by purporting to be Hersh, a reputable film director, and showing her such
bona fides
and press clippings as would support this claim.”

Here Mr. Pound graciously apologized for a digression. “But I should make it clear, members of the jury, that the
au pair
girl is no common domestic. She is normally the well-brought-up daughter of a respectable middle-class family, come to this country to learn the language, paying her way by being a mother's help, living as one of the family. Dame Joan Vickers, Conservative M.P. for Devonport, and for years,” Mr. Pound ventured, “a veritable Joan of Arc of the
au pair
girls, has only recently spoken of the hazards into which a green girl, inexperienced and far from home – under an alien sky, as it were – might fall.”

Mr. Pound paused to peer at the jury over his bifocals.

“Stein's ‘wife' was not at home when Miss Loebner arrived, but he assured her she would soon be with them. Meanwhile, he offered her a drink and what she took to be a cigarette, but what was actually cannabis. He showed her the pages of script I have read to you. She protested she could not read for a part which obliged her to appear in no more than a bra, a corset, and high-button shoes. He was reassuring. It would not be necessary, he said.”

But Miss Loebner, he went on to explain, her resistance weakened by drink and drug, soon found herself reading for Stein clad only in her bra and panties.

“Even so,” Mr. Pound said, “she would not acquiesce to anything more, and when he made physical advances to her, she resisted. She threatened to scream for help. Which is when he put a record on the player,
Lumpy Gravy
by Frank Zappa, playing it very loud indeed. Stein became menacing. He brandished a riding crop. He warned Miss Loebner that if he beat her with wet towels they would leave no marks on her body. She discovered that her clothes were hidden. Even then, frightened as she was, under the influence of drugs, she
resisted Stein when he attempted to have intercourse with her. She resisted as well as she could under the circumstances, which the medical evidence will abundantly support. Once he had taken his pleasure, Stein seemed to calm down. She hoped that he would pass out, she could retrieve her clothes, and flee. So imagine her consternation when Hersh arrived and instead of the games breaking off, they were to take an even more unpleasant turn.”

Mr. Pound described the games, such as they were, calling the jury's attention once more to the saddle and riding crop kept by a man who was no equestrian himself. He told them how Hersh, seizing Miss Loebner by the hair, had forced his erect penis into her mouth and ejaculated therein. And how Stein, inflamed by Hersh's presence to even greater acts of perversion, penetrated Miss Loebner
per anum
.

“It is the case of the Crown,” he concluded, revealing a sudden flash of temper, “that Miss Loebner accompanied Stein to the house, expecting to read for a part in a cinema production. Naïve, perhaps, but not an uncommon dream for a comely young girl. She most certainly did not go to the house with Stein anticipating that she would be beaten – raped – buggered – and be held prisoner until five in the morning by two men, each of them almost twice her age.”

The amiable Detective Inspector Mallory was the first witness to be sworn in by the prosecution.

“What,” Mr. Henry Fraser asked him, “did Hersh say to you when you told him he was charged with aiding and abetting sodomy?”

“He said, ‘What can I get for that?' I told him seven years to life.”