Blind Justice: A William Monk Novel (36 page)

Gavinton swore as to his name and occupation, and to the fact that
he had been the lawyer for the defense in the case of Abel Taft. When prompted by Wystan, he also gave a list of the principal witnesses for the prosecution and then for the defense.

It had been a case of moderate public interest. Many in the gallery might have attended, and that would be the reason they were here now. To the jurors the name, at least, would be familiar.

“A considerable number of witnesses for the prosecution,” Wystan observed. “What manner of people were they?”

Brancaster stirred, as if to object, and then changed his mind.

Wystan smiled at that and turned back to Gavinton on the stand, waiting for his reply.

“Ordinary, decent people,” Gavinton replied. “As far as I know, the only thing they had in common was that they were members of Taft’s religious congregation, and they were generous, regardless of their means. Too generous, perhaps. They had all given more than they were subsequently able to afford and were distressed by the consequences.”

“Were they good witnesses for the prosecution, Mr. Gavinton?” Wystan pressed. “And I am not looking for a generous opinion of their honesty or goodwill. I need your professional judgment as to their value to the prosecution, their effect on the jury.”

Gavinton’s lips tightened as if he were suddenly acutely unhappy. “No,” he said quietly. “I was able to … to expose in each of them a naïveté—a gullibility, if you like—and it made them appear financially incompetent.”

“More than that, Mr. Gavinton, were you not able to show in each of them a need to be liked, to be accepted and appear to be more generous, and of greater means than was actually the case?”

Gavinton looked uncomfortable as he moved his weight from one foot to the other. Rathbone saw this as an affectation and had no pity for him at all. He still found him self-regarding.

“I had no pleasure in it, but yes, that is true,” Gavinton said.

“Did it profit your case?”

Again Brancaster moved a little, but did not rise to object.

Rathbone felt the sweat break out on his body. Why not? Did Brancaster
have no idea what to do? Did he not have the heart or the courage to fight at all? He could have objected to that. It was a call for a personal opinion, not a fact.

Why was he doing nothing? He had said he would fight all the way.

“I believe so,” Gavinton replied. “I intended to make them seem both financially and emotionally incompetent, and I believe I did so.”

“How did you accomplish that, Mr. Gavinton?” Wystan pursued. “Did you cross-question each one and expose his weaknesses to the court?”

“No. I had one witness who knew them all, and knew both Mr. Taft himself and also the financial dealings of the church and all the members of the congregation. I was able to draw from him all that I needed.”

“And that witness’s name?”

Gavinton was clearly uncomfortable now. He moved his head as if his collar were too tight, even touching it with one hand, and then changing his mind.

“Robertson Drew,” he replied.

“Did you in fact win the case?”

Gavinton made a slight, rueful gesture perhaps intended to be self-deprecating. “I doubt it, but the verdict was never returned.”

“Why not?”

This time Gavinton paused, and the effect, intended or not, was highly dramatic.

“The defendant, Abel Taft, took his own life.”

Rathbone looked at the jury and instantly regretted it. They looked grim and slightly embarrassed, perhaps at being spectators, albeit unwillingly, at such a tragedy.

“My sympathy,” Wystan said quietly. “That must have been terrible for you and everyone else concerned. Do you know why he did such a thing? Did you see him that day, or did he leave a letter?”

“I saw him,” Gavinton replied. “He was devastated. He felt totally betrayed by the fact that Robertson Drew had changed all his testimony under cross-examination. I had no doubt that the verdict the following day would have been one of guilty.”

Wystan looked puzzled. “Do you know why Mr. Drew so radically altered his testimony? Did he give you any warning that he would do such a thing?”

Gavinton’s face tightened. Suddenly the charm was gone, and his expression was bleak, even dangerous.

“He gave me no warning. He had no opportunity to. He was on the stand being questioned by Mr. Dillon Warne, counsel for the prosecution, when Mr. Warne produced a photograph and showed it to Mr. Drew. Mr. Drew was clearly profoundly shocked by it. He seemed almost to collapse on the stand. Naturally I demanded to see the photograph myself, and when I did so I requested that we speak to the judge in his chambers, immediately.”

“And the judge in question was Sir Oliver Rathbone?”

Gavinton’s mouth was a thin line. “Yes.”

“Please explain to the gentlemen of the jury why you made such a request.”

“Because I had had no warning of the photograph, as the law requires that I should, thence I had no opportunity to verify its authenticity, or to find any indication of what it seemed to purport.”

“I assume from the reaction, which you described, in Mr. Drew that it was in some manner damaging to him?” Wystan said innocently.

“Profoundly so,” Gavinton agreed grimly.

“Did you manage to prevent it being shown to the jury?”

“Yes, but it might have been shown to them once it had been authenticated, if indeed it could have been,” Gavinton pointed out. “However, the damage was done. We returned to the courtroom and thereafter Mr. Drew altered his testimony completely. He went back on everything he had previously said, restoring the reputations of all the witnesses he had previously demolished and ruining Mr. Taft beyond help. Obviously he was terrified the photograph would be used to destroy him.”

“And was this photograph subsequently authenticated?” Wystan inquired. He glanced at Brancaster, clearly expecting him to object, but Brancaster sat silent.

“Not to my knowledge,” Gavinton answered.

Wystan drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “I will not ask you what was in it, because as you say, it was never authenticated. We may ruin an innocent man’s honor and reputation. My point in raising the entire issue—for which I am grateful to Mr. Brancaster”—he looked at him momentarily, then back at Gavinton again—“for refraining from interrupting me with any objections …”

His meaning was not lost on the jury, or possibly on the gallery either. Brancaster had already given up the fight. He had lost, and he knew it.

Rathbone felt a panic well up inside him, making it difficult to catch his breath. The room swam around him, disappearing at the edges, closing in. Was this how everyone felt in the dock, imprisoned, helpless, and terrified? He should have taken more care of the people he defended, realized how they felt. He ached to be able to interrupt, to explain. It was all slipping out of control.

Wystan began talking again. His pause for effect had seemed to stretch on and on, but it had been only seconds.

“My point in raising the issue is to find out and prove to this court here today,” he explained, “exactly where that photograph came from, who provided it to the court at exactly that moment when it had the most dramatic effect, and why they would do such a thing.”

“I cannot comment on the reasons,” Gavinton replied. “And as to where it came from, you will have to ask Mr. Warne.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Wystan said with clear satisfaction. “Believe me, sir, I intend to.”

Rathbone had known he would, of course, and yet still his heart sank. He looked at the jury, trying to read their faces, but their expressions could have meant anything. He could not be certain that they even understood. They were clerks, storekeepers, dentists, all kinds of men—the sort he had been happy to trust with other people’s lives.

Brancaster rose to his feet. He looked far more confident than he had any right to be. He had started acting, at last! Perhaps a little too late.

Brancaster looked up at Gavinton. “This photograph, Mr. Gavinton. I do not wish you to describe it, to tell me who was in it or what they were doing. It has not been introduced into evidence; indeed, I have not seen it. And because he has not mentioned it to me, I assume Mr. Wystan has not seen it, or does not possess it himself, and has no intention of introducing it as evidence either. However, he has made a good deal of it in testimony.” He regarded Gavinton inquiringly. “I imagine it would be fair to say that it is the center of this entire case? Do I understand you correctly that it was at the point he saw this photograph that Mr. Drew changed his testimony to almost the exact opposite of what he had said before?”

“Yes, sir, that is correct,” Gavinton agreed. He was grim, but not yet anxious.

“You said that he appeared to be stunned, appalled by it, almost to the point of passing out?” Brancaster pursued.

Gavinton hesitated only a moment. “Yes … I suppose that is true.”

“You suppose?” Brancaster looked surprised. “Did you not say so, just a few moments ago?”

Gavinton was definitely annoyed now. His voice was sharp. “Yes. He was appalled. It was a very natural reaction, Mr. Brancaster. Any man would have been.”

“Really? Quite plainly you have seen this photograph. Perhaps you could explain that to the jury. In what way was it so very dreadful?”

Gavinton’s face twisted with disgust.

Rathbone wanted to rise to his feet and protest, but he could not. It was as if he were watching his own execution. What in God’s name was Brancaster doing?

“It was obscene,” Gavinton replied. “Pornographic in the extreme.”

Brancaster looked unmoved. “Really?” His eyebrows rose. “And you believe that Mr. Drew had never seen pornography before? He was sufficiently innocent of the facts of nature that seeing such a thing caused him almost to lose his senses and pass out in public? You amaze me. I might find such a thing in extremely poor taste, even disgusting, but I doubt I would lose consciousness over it.”

“You might, sir, if the pictures were of yourself practicing obscene acts with a small boy!” Gavinton’s voice was shaking. His knuckles were white where his hands gripped the rail. “I hope you would have the grace to—” He did not finish. The gasps from the jury and the wave of horror from the gallery made him realize what he had said, and his face flamed with embarrassment.

York banged his gavel furiously.

“Order! Order! I will have order. Mr. Brancaster, you are completely out of—” He stopped as Brancaster’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. York’s face was white. He turned to Gavinton and all but snarled at him. “You forget yourself, sir. One more outburst as utterly inappropriate as that and you will oblige me to declare a mistrial, and then we shall have to send the accused back to prison and await the setting of a date for a new trial.” He looked at Brancaster and then back to Gavinton. “And you will not go unscathed either, sir. Remember where you are, and control yourself.”

Gavinton closed his eyes, as if by doing so he could block out the room. “Yes, my lord.” He did not apologize.

York glared at Brancaster. “And no more parlor tricks from you, sir. This is an extremely serious matter, whether you appreciate it or not. There is more than a man’s honor and reputation in the balance, or even his freedom. It is the cause of justice itself.”

“I am aware of that, my lord,” Brancaster said without a flicker. “I was as much taken by surprise by Mr. Gavinton’s outburst as you were. I thought I had made it perfectly clear that I was not seeking such information.” It was a blatant lie—of course, it was exactly what he had been seeking—but he told it superbly.

York said nothing.

“Perhaps I had better excuse the witness, my lord,” Brancaster suggested. “I would be very loath to provoke another such … indiscretion.”

There was nothing York could do, but the dull flush of anger still stained his cheeks. Rathbone knew that he would bide his time and rule against Brancaster when he could. Was it Brancaster’s tactic to
provoke York into doing something that would be grounds for appeal? A very dangerous course indeed, perhaps even lethal.

Rathbone should have burned the whole damnable box and smashed the plates into splinters the day Ballinger’s lawyer brought it to him. Too late now. Too late … the saddest words in the vocabulary of man.

T
HEY ADJOURNED LATE FOR
luncheon, and resumed again at about three in the afternoon.

Rathbone sat in the dock. He had found it difficult to eat, his stomach rebelling against the clenching of his muscles, his throat so tight that swallowing was almost impossible. He ate the watery stew and soggy potatoes only because he had to, and what he was offered was probably better than the food he would have from sentence onward.

He no longer understood what Brancaster was doing. He feared he was bluffing, playing for time, and that his earlier words of courage to Rathbone were empty. Now he was disturbing people, but possibly to no intended effect. What would it change, beyond lengthening the ordeal?

The next witness was Dillon Warne. He looked wretched. Rathbone knew it was inevitable that he would be called, but it was still painful to see him there and know what he would have to say.

He was sworn in and stood with his hands gripping the rail, his face tense and very clearly unhappy.

Wystan looked at him with grave disfavor.

“You acted for the prosecution in the case against Abel Taft, did you not, Mr. Warne?”

“I did,” Warne agreed.

“Did you have personal feelings, Mr. Warne?” Wystan inquired. “I mean, did you grow to feel very strongly about this case in particular?”

“I do find it peculiarly distasteful to see one of the witnesses for the defense mocking and humiliating people I believed to be both honest and unusually vulnerable,” Warne answered, looking straight back at Wystan.

“To the degree that you were very upset indeed when you thought you would lose the case?” There was the very slight suggestion of a sneer on Wystan’s face.

“A prosecutor who does not care is not worthy of the trust placed in him by the people,” Warne answered.

Wystan was annoyed.