Читать книгу Pictures and Problems from London Police Courts - Holmes Thomas K. - Страница 8

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But a great change came over London police courts about eleven years ago. The description I have given of one court held true of them all at that particular time. If my memory serves me correctly, to Mr. Justice Wills belongs the credit of applying in the House of Lords for a Commission to inquire into the condition of things in London police courts. This brought about a blessed result, for everything that can be done for the comfort, refinement, and decency of the prisoners is now done at all our courts.

The moral atmosphere is vastly improved, but the physical is improved beyond knowledge. A matron to attend to the girls and women is now appointed, and paid by the State, at every court. Not only are there separate prisoners’ waiting-rooms for the sexes, but each prisoner, male or female, has a separate compartment if they like to avail themselves of it. Young girls are no longer placed among the older and gross women, and, beyond having to stand in the dock to answer the charge, make but little acquaintance with the police court proper unless they are of that age, and the charge is of such description, that their detention in the cells is absolutely necessary. Male prisoners can no longer bandy words and exchange obscenities with female prisoners. The cell-walls can no longer be covered with ribald or filthy writing, for the walls are built of white glazed tiles, on which writing is impossible. No longer do the prisoners sit in darkness and stew in filthy air, for the cells are lofty, light, and well ventilated. No longer are seven or eight prisoners crowded into one cell, for the number of cells is largely increased, while the size of each cell is lessened. There is no longer any necessity for the prisoners to be continually shouting for the gaoler, or to hammer their cell-door with their boots, for an electric bell in each cell gives them all the opportunity of communicating directly and at once with him. The tone of the police, too, is wonderfully raised, whilst the magistrates are not only humane, but also human, and in touch with the various agencies for the assistance of prisoners.

Everything is changed for the better as far as police court arrangements are concerned—everything but the prisoners’ van, for ‘Black Maria’ still remains the same, and the little cupboards still gape for their prey. This ride in the van to prison or from prison is to many people—especially to a refined man or a delicate woman—a frightful ordeal and punishment. Again and again I have been told by such prisoners that their sufferings whilst barred in their cupboard and locked in the van for one hour have been far worse than any punishment received during their imprisonment. Prisoners must, I know, be conveyed in a closed van; neither will it do to allow them whilst on their journey to have free access to each other; but the cupboards might be larger and more comfortable, for it is the horrible choking sensation the prisoners experience that constitutes the punishment. The worst feature of it is that a prisoner may, whilst on remand, be conveyed to and from prison any number of times, and be then discharged, presumably innocent.

With this exception everything is changed, everything but the humanity that stands in the dock or sits in the cells, and that continues ever the same—the same old sins and the same old sorrows, the same old difficulties and worries for individuals, and the same everlasting problems for the State. Tramp! tramp! tramp! goes this procession of humanity through our police courts. Tramp! tramp! tramp! goes the army of the dead. Tramp! tramp! tramp! go the thoughtless ones or vicious ones with eager feet hastening to join that army. Tramp! tramp! goes poverty with whining voice and suppliant look. Tramp! tramp! go the bewildered ones, the victims of circumstance. Tramp! tramp! go the afflicted ones. Day after day, year after year, a never-ceasing tramp of the wronging or the wronged.

In time the repulsiveness of the procession wears away, the evil smells do not so much offend, and one is able to make a close acquaintance with the procession. Then a field for the study of human nature is opened up, and nowhere in the wide world is there a field equal to it. Does anyone want to study the drink question?—here’s the chance; the social evil?—here’s the opportunity; causes of crime?—here they may be found. Every vice and every virtue, and every source of strength and every cause of weakness incidental to humanity are found here. Every phase of every social problem has its place here. The joys and pleasures of life, the sorrows and difficulties of life, the comedy and fun of life, the tragedy and despair of life, are illustrated here. Rich and poor, old and young, bond and free, refined and coarse, intellectual and idiotic, unite in this procession, strange specimens of humanity, provoking wonder, disgust, or mirth; pathetic bits of humanity, provoking sympathy and deepest pity; good and evil jumbled up; love and cruelty side by side. The ‘devil’s own’ and the ‘children of God’ blend in this procession. A tangled mass of humanity, a glorious hugger-mugger of confusion, goes tramping, ever tramping, through our London police courts.

Clergymen and ministers of religion might do well if sometimes they forsook the study, put away their books of theology, and as followers of the Son of Man came into our courts to learn from the sons of men. Here would they find texts for many a sermon, illustrations to give point to many an appeal. Members of Parliament might sometimes come here to learn their country’s wrongs and wounds, and, inspired by the knowledge, voice those wrongs and wounds at proper time and place. Students of men, lovers of their kind, specialists in reform, experts in every subject, might learn much and unlearn more from a close acquaintance with police court humanity and police court problems.

For let no one say he knows all about these persons or things; such knowledge cannot be obtained, not even by a lifetime of patient observation. Many men, many minds; rather is it true: one man, one woman, many minds. One individual’s moods and changes, vices and virtues, strength and weakness, the mind acting on the body and the body on the mind, now striving after good, now going headlong into evil—one individual alone presents an unsolved problem. But much worth the knowing and better worth the doing may be learned; yet it were well, perhaps, not to learn too much.

A short time ago I was listening to a very notable lady, who probably had never been in a police court. She was arguing that women were much better adapted for ‘rescue work’ than men. She may have been right, but I do not think she was; at any rate, her reason was quite wrong—‘women can see through people better than men.’ If this is true, the measure of their knowledge is the measure of their unfitness. Men may be the more credulous; if so, they have more faith and hope. I can see through no one. I do not want to. I am not worse than the average male, but I would not like anyone to see through me; and quite certain am I that I would not like to rake anyone fore and aft with mental rays. Many a time I have shut my eyes that I might not see, for I have learned to be pitiful. And this is the great lesson to be learned in a London police court. Wonder may be felt, resentment may be raised, but pity, deep and abiding, is the feeling that is bound to fill the heart of any lover of men that attends a police court regularly.

The public generally do not know the various uses to which a court is put; the poor and the unfortunate do know, for it is the rendezvous of the distressed. Let me give an idea of a day’s routine, not as regards the duties of the different officials, but merely as the day’s work reflects the outside world.

It is half-past ten a.m., and the worthy magistrate, accompanied by his clerk, has just taken his seat. The body of the court is already half full of people who have been admitted, after close questioning, by the official at the door. The general public are not yet admitted, for it is ‘application time,’ and the proceedings are in camera. Thirty applicants are seated quietly waiting for their turn to go into the witness-box and explain to his worship the nature of their trouble. Those thirty applicants are worth looking at and listening to, for they voice the difficulties, sorrows, and nuisances of life. It is, too, a comforting thought that at every London police court every morning the magistrate listens patiently and courteously to the different people who come and make known their wants to him. Of course, where summonses are asked for, it is the magistrate’s duty to listen and grant the summons, if he considers the grounds sufficient; but where legal or friendly advice is sought, it is a different matter, for then he departs from his mere duty, and, out of kindness, performs a great work, which the law and State do not demand of him. Day by day, year in and year out, men and women unburden their minds and expose their difficulties and sorrows to the magistrate; and though many of them know before they come that the magistrate cannot solve their difficulties or remove their sorrows, still they come, well knowing that they will be patiently listened to, and that kind words will be spoken to them. And scores of them go away comforted with the thought that they have been listened to, and in their turn have heard kind words spoken to them.

The hard-working father, husband of a drunken wife, comes and tells of the hell in which he lives, and though the magistrate has no help to give, and tells him plainly that the law provides for him no remedy, and offers no hope of release, yet even he goes away strengthened in some degree to bear his heavy burden, for has he not been spoken to kindly by the magistrate? The poor, battered wife comes and tells the story of her sufferings, is listened to, garrulous though she sometimes be, and is advised either to take out a summons or to ‘look over it this time.’ Mothers come about erring daughters, fathers about idle, dishonest, or dissolute sons. Married sons or daughters come to ask advice about and relief from drunken parents. Old and tottering men and women come because grown-up sons, upon whom they had lavished all their love and substance, refused to help them in their poverty and distress. A father or mother has died, there are household goods and some little money left; how shall these be divided and the difficulty settled?—by consulting the magistrate. The landlord has distrained, legally or illegally; how shall the truth be known?—by consulting the magistrate.

Every kind of domestic difficulty is laid before him. An unwelcome but persistent suitor for a daughter haunts the mother’s house; she seeks relief from the magistrate. The father and mother interfere with the course of true love, and a girl of sixteen seeks advice from the magistrate. An ardent lover has made his sweetheart presents, which she refuses to return now that the engagement is ‘off’; he applies to the magistrate. An expected husband does not return home on the Saturday or Sunday; on Monday the wife consults the magistrate.

Lodgers with bad landlords and landlords with bad lodgers consult the magistrate; people with bad neighbours consult the magistrate; the watchful housedog barks at night; the neighbouring cock proclaims too early the dawn; the next door neighbour has a daughter who gives lessons on the piano; a strong-lunged youth practises the cornet on Sunday afternoons—these are some of the smaller troubles laid before the magistrate.

But deep and hopeless sorrows are never wanting; and in despair and perplexity not a few seek comfort from the magistrate. Poor old women, whom no one in the world cares for, and for whom the workhouse waits—a place of which they are mortally afraid—seek help from the magistrate. Rosy-faced young women fresh from the country to some place of service in London, finding their mistresses to be of doubtful character, fly in terror to seek the help of the magistrate. And he sits and listens, and advises. A great organization some years ago in their appeal for funds spoke as if they were the lawyers of the poor. For years, without any appeal, any advertisement, or any reward, the magistrates of London have been and are still the legal advisers of the poor.

The ever-increasing army of the demented ones also apply in their hopeless conditions and with their inexplicable delusions to the magistrate. One is persecuted by the police; another is shadowed by an assassin; another someone is trying to poison. A poor woman wants the telephone-wire removed—‘it talks to her.’ An equally poor man complains of the telegraph. So they come and go away with their scrap of comfort. Much patience, kindness, sympathy, and wisdom do our magistrates exhibit in dealing with those who seek their advice on every conceivable and inconceivable subject.

But while the applicants have been making, or trying to make, their wants known, the prisoners have arrived. Those admitted to bail have surrendered; others have been brought in the various cupboards of the prisoners’ van; others by different constables. The last ‘small tenement case’ has been disposed of; the inspector on duty for the day has applied for the police summonses; the doors are opened to the public, and No. 1 prisoner is announced. ‘Drunks’ first, with precedence for ladies, is the order.

There is a great deal that is monotonous and disgusting about a long procession of ‘drunk and disorderlies,’ and anyone is bound to be sickened at the repetition. The same evidence in almost the same words is given by constable after constable. Moving among men and women, one cannot be ignorant of the stupidly obscene language that prevails among labouring men, loafers, and immoral women. But one scarcely expects to hear all sorts of men and women credited with the use of this particular kind of language. It may be, and doubtless is, true with regard to some apparently respectable folk, but, on the other hand, I am afraid that some officers adopt a kind of ‘formula.’ Certainly the similarity of language credited to different kinds of people is striking. Another noticeable thing is that men, as a rule, admit the justice of the charge, while women, as a rule, deny its truth point-blank and absolutely, and as often as not bring some counter-charge against the constable, and were they to be believed, we have few honest or decent men among the Metropolitan police.

It is interesting, too, to notice the many and different reasons that are given to the magistrate as excuses for being drunk. Joy or sorrow, ill-health or good health, poverty or prosperity, heat or cold, life or death, friendship or enmity—anything serves, for all the opposing emotions and conditions of life are given as sufficient reasons for getting drunk. Another thing is noticeable with regard to the list of ‘drunks’; on Monday the charge-list is three times the size of any other day, but few women are charged, while on other days they often predominate; on some days the whole of them are women. I have a list before me now of twelve charges, all of them women, and all of them charged with being drunk. Taking one year as a guide, a recent one, when I kept a record of the whole of the charges, I find that about one-third of the charges are women, and two-thirds men; but, judging from my own observation, the women charged on the Monday do not constitute more than one-eighth of that day’s total. I cannot explain why this is; I have conferred with experienced police officers, and they agree that it is so, but, like myself, they fail to find any reasonable explanation of the fact. Although one case of drunkenness closely resembles another, the individuals differ widely, for though the poor in their dirt and misery predominate, yet well-dressed men and women who live in comfort and cleanliness are by no means absent. Ages differ even more widely than circumstances, for it is no uncommon thing to find a youth or girl of sixteen followed by an old man or woman verging on fourscore.

Appearances differ even more widely than circumstances or ages, for while a great number of ordinary-looking individuals are charged, a great number of the most extraordinary-looking men and women stand before our magistrates. Snap-shots of all prisoners at any court for one year would form an interesting collection, and be quite a revelation. The simple ‘drunks’ are soon disposed of by the magistrate, and follow each other in and out of the dock with great rapidity. A stiff fine for the old offenders, a lighter one for the comparatively unknown, and a discharge for those who make their first appearance is the general rule, though some magistrates adopt exactly opposite rules with regard to some first offenders.

A well-dressed man is charged. ‘You are in good circumstances and ought to know better; there is less excuse for you than for the poor and wretched. We look to such as you to set a better example. You must pay ten shillings.’ Thus one magistrate, and it seems right. But another will say: ‘You seem a decent, respectable man; this is the first time you have been locked up and detained. I shall discharge you. Don’t come here again.’ This also seems right, though both cannot be right.

It takes much longer to settle the ‘drunk and disorderly’ charges, for most people who will readily admit the charge of drunkenness will deny the disorderly conduct, especially as the use of bad language generally forms part of the charge. The constable then has to give details, and call witnesses. The prisoner will cross-examine, and in doing so nine times out of ten will manage to corroborate the police, and convict himself or herself. ‘Drunk and assault’ charges take longer still, for no two witnesses give the same account of a scrimmage. It generally happens that no one sees every item from start to finish; but, as a rule, when some blackguard is in the hands of the police, there is no lack of ‘witnesses’ who are ready to perjure themselves in order to get the prisoner off. When one civilian charges another with assault it not infrequently happens that there are accommodating witnesses on each side, and the magistrate has to decide between conflicting perjuries. Common-sense and experience then come to his worship’s aid.

Numbers of lads from twelve to eighteen are charged with playing ‘pitch-and-toss’ or ‘banker’ in the streets. Up till quite recently it took a good time to dispose of such, for they were all innocent, or said they were, for the number of innocent boys charged with gambling is only equalled by the number of innocent women charged with being drunk. One day about eight decent-looking lads were charged. I was speaking to them in the prisoners’ room before they went into court, and gave them a word of good advice. I thought I had made some impression on them, and finally advised them to admit their guilt to the magistrate, and tell him that they would not do it again. To the magistrates’ surprise they all pleaded guilty and expressed penitence but one, who stoutly protested his innocence, when several constables were called to prove the charge. The magistrate told the boys that he was pleased with their honesty, candour, and penitence, and should deal very leniently with them, and, hoping they would keep the promise they had given, discharged them all excepting the ‘innocent’ one. He was fined ten shillings. So lads charged with gambling in the streets pleaded ‘guilty’ at North London till the plea no longer availed.

The more serious charges, as a rule, are held back till the ‘drunks,’ etc., are all disposed of. This is wise, for it allows the majority of the police-officers to go to their duties or rest, and it also allows the majority of prisoners to pay their fines, and go home or to work as the case may be. Then come the charges of felony, embezzlement, burglary, etc. Upon these charges a great deal more time and care are expended, and depositions taken, a task that devolves on the magistrate’s clerk; and a heavy task it is, for some witnesses are supremely stupid, others too clever by far, and very many are so talkative that it is almost impossible to keep them to strict evidence. But whether stupid, clever, or talkative, every bit of evidence is taken down in an accurate, but concise way; indeed, nothing is more remarkable in police court proceedings than the unerring manner in which the clerks note at once every word of the evidence that is germane to the charge. Rarely, very rarely, does it happen that when the clerk reads over the deposition before the witness signs it, he is asked to alter some part of it on the ground that it is not quite correct, and when this does happen it is invariably the fault of the witness. Such charges make a great demand upon the magistrate, and an absolute concentration of mind and memory are required.

Frequently solicitors are engaged, one trying to make the case appear black, and one trying to make it appear white. Very often they are able to twist witnesses at their pleasure, their business being not to arrive at the truth in any matter, but to make the opposing side appear in the wrong. To note and sift the evidence, to study the witnesses, and sweep away the sophistries of the defence or prosecution, is not an easy matter, but the London magistrates do it, and do it to perfection. I do not know any magistrate in whose hands the interests of a prisoner, guilty or innocent, are not absolutely safe. It is, in fact, no uncommon thing for a magistrate to protect a prisoner against himself and against his own or the prosecuting solicitor. To hold the balance of justice evenly day after day in all sorts of charges is not an easy task, but it is done; and the fact that very few of their decisions or sentences are annulled or revoked shows that the manner in which justice is administered in our police courts is beyond question.