(1969) The Seven Minutes (57 page)

‘Pardon me, Mr Leroux. What you are speaking of now is not hearsay, not knowledge acquired second hand?’

This I heard first hand, directly from the lips of J J Jadway himself, in times when he was in despair, and I heard it again from Miss McGraw herself when I saw her after Jadway’s death.’

‘Mr Leroux, since anything you may have heard from Cassie McGraw, who was Jadway’s mistress as well as his agent, would be regarded as hearsay evidence, and therefore not admissible in this courtroom, let us confine ourselves strictly to what you heard from J J Jadway first hand. How many times did you speak with him?’

‘Four times.’

‘You spoke to Jadway four times ? Were these lengthy conversations ? By that I mean, did the conversations go on for more than -well, let’s say for more than a few minutes?’

‘Always longer. Once, when he was very drunk - by his own admission - he told me the whole story about Cassie and himself and how the book came to be written. He told me that after he took Cassie in and she became his mistress, she tried to rehabilitate him. She thought he had great creative gifts. And she wanted him to write. But he would not or could not. Then, he confessed, when they were having an impoverished winter, hungry, starving, cold, soon to be evicted from their dwelling, Cassie McGraw told Jad-way that if he would not write to earn them some bread, then let him earn money some other way or she would have no choice but to leave him. So Jadway said to her, as he reported it to me, “All right, I’ll make us some money, plenty of money. I’ll do what Cleland did. I’ll write the dirtiest book that’s ever been written, dirtier than his, and that should make it sell.’ Then, according to Jadway, he sat down, driven by his need for money, supported by absinthe, and he wrote The Seven Minutes in three weeks.’

Duncan held up his hand. ‘One moment, Mr Leroux. I’d like you to explain one thing. You referred to the name Cleland. You quoted Jadway as remarking that he’d do what Cleland dida he’d write the dirtiest book ever written, one even dirtier than Cleland’s. Can you tell us who this Cleland was?’

‘John Cleland?’ Leroux said with surprise. ‘Why, he was the foremost writer of obscenity in history, until Jadway came along Cleland was -‘

Barrett came to his feet. ‘Your Honor, objection! The question is completely irrelevant.’

‘Your Honor -‘ Duncan protested.

‘Mr Duncan,’ said Judge Upshaw, ‘do you wish to be heard on this objection?’

‘Yes, Your Honor, I do.”

‘Approach the bench.’

Immediately, in an undertone, the District Attorney tried to outline the relevancy of his question about John Cleland. The witness Leroux, he pointed out, had personally been acquainted with the author of the book on trial. Since the motivations of an author were relevant to learning whether a book had any redeeming social importance, it would be valuable to know that the author had once admitted he had undertaken the writing of the book only for money, and that he had intended to make the book dirtier than anything Cleland had ever written. Since many jurors might not have heard of Cleland, it was vital to elicit information about Cleland in order to reveal exactly what Jadway had in mind while preparing The Seven Minutes.

Judge Upshaw had a question. Just what kind of information did the District Attorney expect to bring out about Cleland? Duncan replied that the witness, who was learned about this genre of literature, no doubt would explain John Cleland’s background. Cleland had come from a good English family and had been well

educated. After leaving school, he had first served as British consul in Smyrna. He had then been employed by the East India Company in Bombay, but after a quarrel with his employers, he had returned to England. Bankrupt at the age of forty, Cleland had been thrown into debtor’s prison. In order to get out of jail, he had written Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure - the book popularly known as Fanny Hill - for a publisher who had paid him twenty guineas for this obscene work. When the book had become a best seller in 1749, Cleland had been brought before the Privy Council in London to receive his sentence, his punishment. Fortunately for Cleland, a relative of his, the Earl of Granville, had been president of the Privy Council. Granville had suspended punishment and awarded Cle’and a pension of one hundred pounds a year with the provision that he turn his talents to more respectable writings. Cleland later penned two more mildly erotic books, and some scholarly studies on the English language before his death in France at the age of eighty-two. All through history, Cleland’s name had been synonymous with obscenity. Since he had produced Fanny Hill only to get out of debtor’s prison, with no motive other than to save his neck, it would be useful to learn that Jadway had once confessed to Christian Leroux that he intended to manufacture an obscene novel exactly as Cleland had done.

Barrett’s own plea, defending his objection, was curt and to the point. This trial concerned one issue and one issue alone, he said -whether an Oakwood bookseller had or had not sold an obscene book. Admittedly, Jadway’s motives in preparing that book were a factor in judging obscenity under the law. But any discussion of another author’s motives amounted to no more than gossip. Such information was absolutely irrelevant to the central issue of the trial.

Without hesitation, Judge Upshaw sustained Barrett’s objection. Testimony concerning John Cleland was not relevant to the case being tried.

‘You may proceed with your examination, confining yourself to what is material to this case, Mr Duncan,’ the judge concluded.

With the bench conference ended, the court reporter returned to his desk, Barrett went back to his table, and a chastened Elmo Duncan once more confronted Christian Leroux, who had been waiting in the witness box.

‘Mr Leroux,’ said the District Attorney, ‘let us dwell a bit longer on J J Jadway’s motive for writing The Seven Minutes. He told you that he would write the dirtiest book that’s ever been written. But did the author, Jadway, ever speak of any other reason for writing this book - any reason or motive beyond the commercial one?’

‘No, never. Jadway’s Muse was a cash register.’

There was laughter throughout the court. Several jurors smiled understandingly. Leroux appeared pleased. Judge Upshaw was less amused, and he rapped his gavel sharply.

‘Mr Leroux,’ said Duncan, as soon as order was restored, ‘what kind of commercial success did The Seven Minutes have after you published it in 1935?’

‘Not as much success as we had hoped,’ replied Leroux. ‘Cleland’s publisher was said to have profited to the amount of ten thousand pounds. I am afraid I made less than one twentieth of that sum. At first there was some optimism. My initial printing was five thousand copies. This sold out in a year. I ordered another press run of five thousand copies. But the sales slowed down and eventually stopped. I think that was after the Vatican placed the book on the Index. I never did sell the last copies of that second printing.’

‘The Seven Minutes was officially condemned by the Catholic Church?’

‘The year after publication. And not by the Catholic Church alone. It was also condemned by the Protestant clergy throughout Europe and to a lesser extent in America, where the title was not as well known.’

‘Mr Leroux, didn’t Jadway’s death coincide with the condemnation of the Church?’

‘Not precisely. The book was condemned in 1936. Jadway died early in 1937.’

‘Do you know what led to Jadway’s death?’

T know what I was told by Cassie McGraw, who witnessed his death. You wish to know what led to it ? I will -‘

Vigorously, Barrett voiced his objection on the grounds that the question was irrelevant, and involved a response based on hearsay.

Briskly Judge Upshaw sustained the objection.

With a frown, the District Attorney accepted the rebuff, and turned away from the witness briefly, to stare over the heads of the spectators.

Wondering whether his opponent was lost in thought or searching for someone in the court, Barrett glanced over his shoulder. As he did so, he saw a formidable woman rise from her isle seat in the last row and start for the exit. Instantly Barrett recognized the woman. She was Olivia St Clair, president of the Strength Through Decency League. Observing her, Barrett became curious. Had her departure been a coincidence? Or had she received some kind of signal from Duncan? Then Barrett entertained a dark suspicion. Moments ago, the circumstances of Jadway’s death had been refused admission in this court of law. Were Duncan and Mrs St Clair preparing to enter these facts in the more permissive court of public opinion?

On hearing the District Attorney address the witness again, Barrett returned his attention to the examination.

‘Mr Leroux,’ Duncan was saying, ‘Do you still own any rights to The Seven Minutes ?’

‘No. From the day of Jadway’s suicide, I wanted to be rid of the book. I could find no buyer. Then, a few years ago, an American

came to me in Paris. He had heard of The Seven Minutes. He was a publisher of obscene material in New York. He wished to buy my rights to the book. I sold them to him at once, gladly. I practically gave it away. I was relieved to have it out of my life. I have been relieved ever since. Such books destroy all whom they touch, and I want no part of them again.’

“Thank you very much, Mr Leroux,’ said Duncan. He looked up at the bench. T have no further questions, Your Honor.’

As the District Attorney, his expression reflecting self-satisfaction, returned to the prosecution table, Judge Upshaw addressed the defense.

‘You may cross-examine, Mr Barrett.’

‘Thank you, Your Honor,’ said Barrett. Gathering together the notes that he and Zelkin had made, he said in an undertone, ‘Abe it’s not going to be easy. I don’t know whether I can pull this one out.’

Zelkin uttered one word. ‘Try.’

Rising with his handful of papers, Barrett made his way past the jury to the witness box. The French publisher, arms crossed complacently on his chest, jade cufflinks shining in the light of the overhead fluorescent lights, waited with equanimity.

‘Mr Leroux,’ Barrett began casually, ‘let me take you back to the time when you first received the J J Jadway manuscript from Cassie McGraw.’ He consulted his notes. ‘You told People’s counsel that the time was “late in the year 1934.” Correct?’

‘Yes, correct.’

‘Can you be more exact ? Do you recall the exact date, or at least the week, when Miss McGraw appeared with the manuscript ?’

‘Why, certainly. It was the last week in November of 1934. A Friday, a Friday morning.’

‘Very good. Do you recall Cassie McGraw’s appearance? Can you tell us what she looked like ?’

Leroux smiled. T remember precisely. She was about five feet two. She wore a yellow raincoat of the kind Americans called slickers. She had brunet hair, bobbed, shingled. Gray eyes. Small upturned nose, some freckles, pretty. Most generous lips, a cute pout. In all, a gamin, clever, bright, witty, amusing. But she could be very serious when discussing Jadway.’

Barrett nodded appreciatively. ‘Good. And you received her at your office in - where was it again? I know it’s printed in the book -‘

‘My office was 18 Rue de Berri.’

‘That’s right. Thank you, Mr Leroux. It had slipped my mind. Uh - where were you living at the time?’

Leroux hesitated. T am trying to remember. There was so much moving from place to place, so much dislocation during the war and after.’

‘But this was the last week of November in 1934. That was well

before the war had even begun.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Leroux, ‘but I still am not certain. I think it was an apartment in Neuilly, or possibly -‘

‘Well, if you can’t remember exactly -‘

Leroux shrugged. ‘I am afraid not.’

‘ - perhaps it would help you if you tried to remember your landlord’s name or the name of your concierge. Can you recollect the name of either one?’

‘No.’

‘Well, perhaps you remember your apartment telephone number?’

‘Hardly. No, I am sorry.’

‘Then certainly your office telephone. You must have used it constantly. Can you tell me the office number?’

Leroux had become mildly exasperated. ‘Of course not, not after almost forty years. To be reasonable, that was far back in 1934, and one cannot be expected to remember every …’ His voice drifted off.

‘I agree with you, one cannot be expected to remember everything that happened so long ago,’ said Barrett softly. He paused. Suddenly his tone hardened. ‘Yet, Mr Leroux, I have heard you state from this witness box that you do remember every single word that J J Jadway and Cassie McGraw said to you in 1934, almost forty years ago. Is that not - ?’

‘Objection!’ bellowed Duncan from across the courtroom. ‘I object, Your Honor. Defense counsel is being argumentative.’

‘Sustained,’ announced Judge Upshaw.

‘Yes, Your Honor,’ Barrett murmured. He was satisfied. He had struck a blow at the veracity of the witness’s testimony by stressing the frailty of memory. Objection or no, the jury had heard the exchange. Now he determined to make certain that no member of the jury had missed the point. ‘Mr Leroux, in your testimony you have claimed that you heard first hand that J J Jadway drank heavily, was addicted to drugs, dashed off his book for money and only money, and more of the same. A question. After giving it a second thought, are you absolutely positive that you remember every word and every alleged fact told to you almost forty years ago ?’

‘Your Honor, again I must object!’ Duncan protested. ‘Witness has already testified to these conversations and facts under oath. This is repetitious.’

‘Objection is sustained on that ground,’ said Judge Upshaw. He fixed his unsmiling visage upon Barrett. ‘Court also admonishes defense counsel not to persist in argument with the witness.’

Barrett’s expression was contrite. ‘I am sorry, Your Honor. It was unintentional.’ He turned back to Christian Leroux, who was sitting erect, arms no longer complacently crossed, hands now planted firmly on his knees. ‘Mr Leroux, let us return to the years 1934 and 1935. You have stated - you have recollected - that