Читать книгу The Judges and the Judged - Charles Kingston - Страница 3

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Whenever Justice miscarries it is usually in favour of the prisoner, although in such a case it is seldom followed by a public agitation. The reason for this is that we all profess to believe it is better to allow ninety-nine guilty persons to escape than that one innocent should be convicted, though if that smugly philosophical theory could be tested by actual fact it is certain there would be an outcry exceeding that following the acquittal of Abraham Thornton in 1817 and the popular indignation inspired by the conviction of Mrs. Maybrick in 1889.

It is, however, the judges who suffer most from the vagaries and inconsistencies of juries. “You must remember, gentlemen,” said a famous judge of the High Court not so many years ago, “that you and I are actually the only impartial persons concerned in this case. Counsel for the defence throws dust in your eyes on behalf of his client and counsel for the prosecution will not be satisfied unless you favour him. It may even be,” he added, with a smile, “that there are members of the jury who coming as they do from the same town as the man in the dock are inclined to favour him. Now I am here to hold the scales of justice evenly between both parties and while you will give every consideration to what the learned gentlemen have told you don’t forget that they are partial and I am impartial.” His lordship evidently knew something when he referred to the possibility of a local jury being prejudiced in favour of a local man, for in face of the clearest evidence the prisoner was acquitted.

“Well, gentlemen,” said the judge quietly, “it will be ever a source of consolation to me that it is your verdict and not mine.”

This question of erroneous verdicts will continue to the end of time. Someone may invent an infallible jury but by then the world will have ceased to be populated by human beings, and until then justice will have its ups and downs. Judges will always have their fads and counsel will not disdain trickery in fighting a desperate battle, while juries if they wish will exercise the right of the freeborn to display prejudice and partiality. There are men practising at the Bar to-day who can recall the second-rate Old Bailey barrister whose popularity amongst the small tradesmen of a certain Surrey town was a constant source of joy to his professional brethren. No one took him seriously in London, but whenever the Surrey Assizes were held in his native place briefs for the defence were showered on him because it was generally known amongst solicitors that the juries would be his to a man. Once he was defending in a clear case of theft, and on the return of the jury to court the judge was considering the sentence when in reply to the usual question by the clerk the foreman answered, “We find for Mr. Blank.”

“But Mr. Blank has nothing whatever to do with the case now,” said the judge irritably. “You are to decide whether the prisoner is guilty or not guilty.”

“Then we find for Mr. Blank’s client,” said the foreman obstinately, and thus another thief was restored to his relations.

In the bad old times juries could be fined and imprisoned for giving a wrong verdict, although it must be added that the country did not always agree with the judge as to what constituted a miscarriage of justice. In cases of high treason the juries dare not disappoint the anxiety of the state to procure a conviction, and, consequently, verdicts of guilty were a matter of course. The delinquent was executed and if there were any murmurs against the justice of the verdict they were silenced by the publication of an official account of the trial containing a full confession by the accused. The fact that this precious document was the work of a hack writer employed by the political party in power was not known outside a small circle of interested persons, but it probably served to convince the country that no injustice had been done. All these abuses have been swept away, and if they have been replaced by others these others are less venal. The jury system is the best safeguard of justice we possess, and a dozen citations of failure prove nothing to the contrary.

Chief Baron O’Grady, a great Irish judge, who had more than his fair share of stupid jurymen to deal with, was, nevertheless, a stout upholder of the system. There was one occasion, however, when he had to take special precautions to protect his own person against an obvious miscarriage of justice.

He was presiding at the assizes at Wexford when a notorious bully and thief was indicted for highway robbery with violence. The prisoner, a young man of enormous physical strength and a vicious ferocity which at times bordered on insanity, protested his innocence, but it was the eloquence of his counsel, Mr. Bennett, that hypnotized a not very intelligent jury into acquitting him. Considering that no one, least of all the prisoner himself, had expected less than seven years, it is not surprising that Bennett should have been delighted with an achievement which in the opinion of everybody in court bordered on the miraculous, and he was glowing with joy and pride when he rose to his feet to request the immediate discharge of the accused. Now all those present anticipated a display of anger on the part of the judge, for the verdict was as shameful as it was insolent to his lordship, who had summed up very strongly for a conviction. O’Grady, however, retained his judicial calm and did not betray his feelings in the slightest.

“You wish your client to be set free now, Mr. Bennett?” he said, in a coldly polite tone, “I am afraid I cannot accede to your request.”

“I must protest, my lord,” exclaimed Bennett, who was anxious to make the most of a triumph which was the best advertisement he had ever received in the course of his professional career, “an intelligent jury of his fellow countrymen has cleared his character and every minute he remains in custody is an outrage.”

“I shall say nothing against the verdict of the jury,” said the Chief Baron, with a suspicion of a smile, “and I will not deny you the satisfaction of having been the means of what you call clearing his character, but I regret I must order him to be retained in custody until twelve o’clock to-morrow.”

“May I respectfully ask your lordship why he should have to wait until noon to-morrow?” said the bewildered barrister.

“Because I leave Wexford at ten o’clock and I wish to have at least two hours’ start of your blameless client,” answered the judge, and in the laughter that followed the loudest came from the dock.

The wit of the Chief Baron was all the more effective because he combined with it a solemn and serious demeanour from which he never departed. Whether subtly sarcastic or broadly humorous he never indicated by his manner that he was conscious of it, and the result was to make it doubly effective. It was never necessary in his case for a subservient usher to herald one of his lordship’s jokes by facial signals, indeed, the humour came so unexpectedly that unless the court officials were unusually quickwitted they were the last to grasp the point. One never knew when the judge was about to turn away from judicial gravity, and that was why O’Grady was always original.

He was seen at his best in a trial of no real importance, the prosecution of a virago of the name of Hester Carroll for thieving. Hester was a local terror, and her proud boast was that the warrant for her arrest would have been ineffective had it not been accompanied by five policemen. When one of her captors went into the witness-box to give evidence she flung herself half across the dock rail and seizing him by the ears assaulted him savagely. There was a terrific uproar in court and a regular battle was waged before the woman was reduced to harmlessness, but Chief Baron O’Grady sat through it all like a statue and he passed no comment until after a verdict of guilty had been recorded.

“The sentence of the court is seven years, Hester Carroll,” he said quietly, “and may God have mercy on those whose duty it will be to look after you.”

But I must return to the subject of miscarriages of justice, dealing with that phase of it which the cockney character in Bernard Shaw’s play, “Captain Brassbound’s Conversion,” gleefully styled “wrongful acquittal.” No one is incensed by the escape of a guilty man from the consequences of his first misdeed because we all recognize that his arrest and trial are usually sufficient punishment. It is another matter, however, when the accused is a habitual criminal, for temporary immunity merely encourages him and he is the last person to show any gratitude. When a dozen dunderheads said that an old burglar of the name of Jackson was not guilty of entering a country house at night and removing the family plate they rejected the evidence that convinced to the contrary every intelligent person in court. Mr. Justice Hawkins contented himself with a wintry look of contempt from his glinting eyes and ordered the discharge of the prisoner. A few months later while on his way to attend the Bar Point-to-Point races he ran into Jackson, and Sir Henry, who had a remarkable memory for faces, recognized him immediately.

“You know, Jackson,” he said, speaking as the man of the world and not the judge, “that you were guilty of that burglary right enough.”

“Of course I was,” answered the burglar, with a hoarse laugh. “Your lordship and me knew them jurymen to be a pack of blinkin’ idiots.”

Within a year, however, the ungrateful burglar was sent to penal servitude by a chairman of Quarter Sessions, and the fact that he had not been sentenced by what he called a regular judge remained one of Jackson’s grievances to the end of his life.

“They might have sent me up before a proper judge,” he was in the habit of growling, “instead of a bloomin’ amachoor.”

It is an eloquent commentary on the inability of the average criminal to profit by experience that invariably those who escape conviction although obviously guilty reappear in the dock and suffer for it. This can be said even of murderers, though, as some one grimly remarked, murder is usually a first as well as a last offence. But what of the murderers who, escaping detection for years, profit nothing by their luck and continue until they tie the rope around their own necks? Dr. Palmer was one of these, and as a man of some education he ought to have appreciated his folly when he heard sentence of death, but right down to the moment of his execution he ascribed the final catastrophe to the circumstance that the crown had been able to retain Cockburn, a future Lord Chief Justice, to prosecute him.

Wrongful acquittals of murderers have been fairly numerous. Madeleine Smith poisoned Emile L’Angelier, and Dr. Smith murdered his humble friend, Macdonald, although a Scottish jury said he did not. It is not so very long since a young man was acquitted of the murder of a woman, the jury wisely giving him the benefit of the doubt owing to the weakness of certain evidence against him. Within a week that evidence was strengthened, but by then it was too late to use it, and the fortunate young man wisely betook himself to the colonies. He may regard the verdict as a certificate of character, but I doubt if he will ever cite it, for those acquainted with his history know that he is a murderer. Prisoners sometimes, however, discover to their cost that an acquittal is not always a good reference.

“This is a position of trust,” said the head of an important firm in the city to an applicant for employment as night watchman, “and as you will be in charge of a very valuable stock of jewellery I must ask for exceptional references.”

“That’s all right, sir,” said the man impulsively. “I can give you the best of references, for I have been tried three times for stealing and each time acquitted.”

It reminds me of the story of the pugnacious person who was charged with a savage assault. Brought into the dock at Birmingham he protested that he was as gentle as a lamb.

“Why, I’m the most peaceable man in the county,” he cried dramatically. “Haven’t I been bound over twenty-three times to keep the peace.”

He had five years for his offence, and was escorted from the court muttering that he was the most ill-used man in the kingdom.

It was at Birmingham, by the way, that a pickpocket famous in criminal circles was acquitted by the jury, and so amazed was the prisoner that thinking the foreman was playing a practical joke on him he refused to leave the dock until satisfied that the verdict was meant to be taken seriously. Then his delight knew no bounds, and when the court emptied he sought out the detective who had arrested him and offered him a drink. Now it is a detective’s business to learn all he can about the people with whom he wages warfare and so the invitation was accepted.

“Here’s better luck next time,” said the pickpocket genially, and emptied his glass in honour of the toast.

“I hope you’ll profit by your escape,” the detective remarked, forcing himself to be polite to his host. “But what I can’t understand is how you can live by picking pockets. Surely by now all your tricks are known and any person of ordinary intelligence can guard his pockets?”

“Your tie is out of order,” said his companion, and as it was the detective did not mind his host putting it straight for him. Half an hour later they left the public-house together and before they parted near the railway station the pickpocket asked the detective if he could tell him the time.

“Why, bless me,” the officer exclaimed, feeling his waistcoat pockets, “my watch and chain have been stolen!”

“Here they are,” said the pickpocket, with a grin. “I thought I’d explain to you how I manage to make a living.”

Perhaps the funniest story of an acquitted client’s gratitude was told by Montague Williams. Again it was an instance of twelve purblind and exceptionally stupid jurymen allowing themselves to be overcome by the histrionic performance of a master of the art of persuasive oratory.

“Gawd bless yer, guv’nor!” exclaimed Williams’ client, waylaying him outside the Old Bailey. “I ain’t paid you half enough for what you’ve done for me, but if you’ll come along to Piccadilly and choose a little bit of jewellery, watch and chain or ring, I’ll get it for you without any difficulty.”

Williams was inclined to suspect that the pickpocket was indulging in misplaced humour, but he was soon convinced that his client was really serious, and when he understood the position it took him some time to persuade him that a counsel learned in law could not be a party to a display of pickpocketing, neither could he stand in a public thoroughfare and choose a victim so that his legal fee might be augmented.

“Go away and don’t get into trouble again,” said Williams testily.

“That’s all right, guv’nor,” said the man, in a conciliatory tone. “You may be sure that after what you’ve done for me to-day I’ll give you all the family business.”

It is related of one of Williams’ rivals at the Bar that having defended successfully a young man accused of stealing a diamond ring he impressed upon the solicitor the necessity for sending the fee which had been promised but not paid. The solicitor was very doubtful on the subject, pointing out that as a jury had found the accused not guilty of stealing the ring they must assume that the young man had never had it and consequently had no means of raising a sum equal to the expenses of his defence.

“That’s all right,” said the barrister, with a far-away look in his eyes. “You just tell the young scoundrel that I must have five guineas or I’ll have the verdict reversed. He won’t know that I’m merely talking through my hat.”

Twenty-four hours later the solicitor called at the chambers of the barrister and paid over the five guineas.

“Our client wishes me to tell you that if he hadn’t sold the ring for more than he expected to get for it he wouldn’t have been able to pay you,” he said, and, no doubt, earned an appreciative laugh from the gentleman in the wig who had with the aid of lying witnesses brought about a miscarriage of justice.