Blind Justice: A William Monk Novel (15 page)

W
HEN THE TRIAL OF
Abel Taft resumed the following morning, Blair Gavinton rose to his feet and straightaway recalled Robertson Drew.

Rathbone sat on his high, carved judge’s seat slightly above the body of the court. He felt as if he had sand in his eyes, and his mouth was as dry as wool. The photograph was seared so deeply on his mind it might as well have burned a scorch mark onto his retina.

The jury, to his right, sat in two rows. They looked refreshed. Perhaps they were no longer struggling with decisions. Drew’s testimony could have made up their minds for them. Taft was an innocent man, the victim of misfortune and the distress and malice of lesser people, followers who could not keep up the pace of his Christian charity. It was a nice comfortable answer. They would all feel happier with it, sorry for Bicknor and Sawley, especially sorry for John Raleigh, but essentially identifying with Drew—as Gavinton had intended.

Rathbone watched Drew as he climbed the steps and took his place
in the witness box again. Was he still the same man inside who had raped that child in front of the camera? Or had he repented of that, perhaps bitterly and with tears of horror and remorse, even secretly paid what penance he could? Was his joining of Abel Taft’s Church an act of contrition, a plea for God’s mercy as regards his past?

And if it were, or were not, had Rathbone any right to judge the man for it, and exact the terrible punishment that exposure of that photograph would bring? No, of course he hadn’t. There was no question about that.

“How long have you known Abel Taft, Mr. Drew?” Gavinton began.

Drew considered for several seconds before replying. “Seven or eight years, as closely as I can recall.”

Interesting, Rathbone thought. The photograph had been dated. He had known Taft during the time of his membership in Phillips’s club. So his joining the Church was not an act of penance? He must be sure.

He leaned forward and interrupted.

“And have you been a member of his congregation all that time, Mr. Drew?” Rathbone asked.

Drew looked slightly surprised. “Yes, my lord. I met him as I joined. I heard him preach and recognized immediately a voice of conviction rather than the voice of a man merely earning his living by the cloth.” He bowed his head a little. “I apologize if that seems critical of the clergy. I don’t mean it to be so. I’m sure there are many churchmen who have given their lives to the service of others, and done it with a whole heart. I simply believe that Mr. Taft has given more.”

“To charity?” Rathbone questioned mildly. He kept his hands below the level of the ornate bench, where his slightly trembling fist could not be seen.

“Precisely,” Drew agreed.

Rathbone let out his breath and leaned back again, indicating to Gavinton that he should continue.

There was little more to add, just a reaffirmation of the amount
passed to charity and the denial that any of the papers Hester Monk’s bookkeeper had given Mr. Sawley were of any worth or validity at all.

Gavinton excused Drew, with thanks, and called Abel Taft to testify in his own defense.

There was a moment or two of restless silence while Taft was brought from the dock, down the stairs, and back into the courtroom. Previously Rathbone had been able to see only his shoulders and face, and not even that unless he had deliberately turned his head to look up. Now Taft was far more visible. He was a striking man in appearance, of good posture, and with commanding features. His thick, fair hair was streaked with silver at the temples. It was not difficult to see why he commanded attention.

He climbed to the witness stand with confidence. One could not blame the jury if they believed he was an innocent man who trusted that the court, in its honesty, would find him so. Rathbone knew Taft might well leave the courtroom vindicated, more famous than before, and with the sympathy deserved by one who had been falsely accused and had to endure the strain and indignity of a public trial.

He swore to his name and address, and that he was a preacher of the gospel of Christ. Gavinton asked for all of this in a tone of great respect.

He was standing in the middle of the floor, like a gladiator in the arena. Rathbone had stood exactly there himself more times than he could count. He knew the feeling, the rush of excitement, the heart racing—and he knew the effect it had on the jury.

No one coughed or rustled as Gavinton began.

“Mr. Taft, you have been accused of a wretched, devious, and deceitful crime. Many of your erstwhile parishioners have given evidence against you. Loyal friends and colleagues, like Robertson Drew, have defended you with passion, and in detail. Your faithful wife is sitting here day after day, with you in spirit during this ordeal.” He made a slight gesture to indicate to the jury where Felicia Taft was sitting white-faced and desperately miserable. At the mention of her name she tried to smile, and the effort only made her distress all the more obvious.

Rathbone considered her. She was a pretty woman, but there was no life in her face, no vitality. Happiness would have made her attractive. All he could feel for her now was a growing pity as he became more and more convinced that, previous to the charges, she had had no idea of any kind of fraud in her husband’s ministry. She seemed half numb from the shock. Perhaps for the first time in her married life she was contemplating the possibility that he was not the ideal man she had supposed. What connection had she had with his reality, day by day?

For that matter, how easy is it to dupe anyone who loves and wants to believe? How much had he seen in Margaret that was rooted in his own mind, not in hers? If you truly love someone, should you not bring out the best in them, rather than the worst? And wouldn’t you yourself strive to be the best? Was that not a measure of love, rather than need or possessiveness?

Gavinton was asking questions now.

“Mr. Taft, what was the purpose of your ministry, briefly?” he inquired. “I ask so the court can understand your intentions, and the need and use of the funds you receive.”

Taft smiled very slightly. “I preach the gospel of Christ to the poor in spirit,” he answered. “And by that I mean those who are humble enough to listen, and to help those poor in the world’s necessities, the cold, the hungry, and the homeless, sometimes also the sick. Clearly, to do this we must have money.” His voice was smooth, well practiced. “We ask those who are true believers, generous of spirit, to give as they can. In doing this, both the giver and the receiver are blessed. It is not complicated. Serve God by loving your neighbor. It is the message Christ himself taught when he was here on earth.”

“It sounds very simple,” Gavinton said, lowering his voice in respect. “One would wonder how anybody could take issue with it, except perhaps because it requires effort and sacrifice.”

Warne rose to his feet. “My lord, if we wish to hear a sermon we will go to Mr. Taft’s Church for it. The court requires that he defend himself from charges of fraud, not tell us what Christ taught regarding charity. If my learned friend has no questions for Mr. Taft, I certainly have.”

Rathbone looked at Gavinton. “Mr. Gavinton, please phrase what you have to say in the form of questions. We also require that you make them relevant to the case. Be precise. The prosecution has spoken of very exact sums of money given by specific people. That is what you must speak to, if you are to prove Mr. Taft’s innocence.”

Gavinton stiffened in annoyance, but it was only momentary. He believed he had a winning hand, but he did not take kindly to being told how to play it.

“Of course, my lord,” he said a little sharply, then looked up at the witness stand again. His manner altered completely, respectful again. “Mr. Taft, are you aware of the individual sums given by your parishioners?”

“No, sir,” Taft said courteously. “I preach, and I ask the congregation to donate when they can in general terms. I am concerned with overall principles. I make it my business to thank people, when I am aware of their gifts, but I leave the details to others.”

“Specifically to Mr. Robertson Drew?” Gavinton’s eyebrows rose.

“Yes.”

“Have you known him a long time?”

“Yes.” Taft offered a rueful smile. “More years than I care to remember.”

“You trust him?”

“Of course. I would hardly leave something of such importance in the hands of a man I did not trust. That would be not only foolish but morally quite wrong.”

Gavinton considered for a moment. Every man in the jury was watching him. He looked up at Taft. “You have heard several men testify in this case saying that they were pressured into giving more money than they could afford and that they therefore fell into financial difficulties themselves, they turned to you for help, and you did not give it. Is that true?”

Taft bit his lip and shook his head very slightly. He gave the impression of confusion and regret. “As Mr. Drew explained, we no longer had the sums in our possession,” he said sadly. “We pass over money almost
as soon as we have it. The people to whom we give it are in desperate need. Had I known at the time that it was more than the givers could afford I would have declined to take it.”

“But you didn’t ask if they could afford it?” Gavinton queried.

Taft looked horrified. “Of course not! If a man offers you money to give to the poor, you don’t ask him if he can afford it. It is at best patronizing, as if you thought him incapable of managing his own affairs.” He gave a little shiver. “At worst it is downright insulting.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t either,” Gavinton agreed. “I dare say no one in this court would. I am going to ask another question that I would not, were this not a trial in which reputations are at stake. Do you trust Mr. Drew absolutely in matters of money?”

“In all matters,” Taft said instantly. “I would not have him in the position he is if I didn’t.”

“Is he responsible for the finances of your Church?”

“He is.” Taft straightened even a fraction more. “But if you are implying that any of this misfortune is his fault, then you are mistaken. I placed him in charge. The fault, if there is one, is mine.”

“Nobly spoken, sir,” Gavinton said warmly.

Rathbone felt a wave of revulsion wash over him, but he saw the respect in the jurors’ faces and knew that Gavinton, for all his unctuousness, was striking exactly the right note for them. The disgust in Rathbone, if it were misread in his expression, would reflect badly on him. Whatever it cost him, he must appear to be completely neutral. Above all else, he must not give the defense grounds for appeal because he appeared to be biased.

Warne’s frustration was visible not only in his face but also in the angles of his body; yet there was nothing for him to object to in legal terms.

Gavinton continued with Taft, drawing out details of his relationship with the men who had testified against him, first Bicknor, then John Raleigh, and lastly Gethen Sawley. His questioning dragged on until the luncheon adjournment and resumed afterward. Delicately, as
if with great reluctance, Taft displayed the weaknesses of each one, exactly as Drew had.

Bicknor was made to sound petulant, emotionally vulnerable, a young man desperate for attention to the point where his judgment was warped. He seemed unable to handle rejection and turned it into blame.

Warne was desperate to refute it. It was plain in his face and in the obvious discomfort with which he shifted position, but there was no legal fault in the line of questioning.

When it came to John Raleigh, Taft was more careful. He spoke of him respectfully; in fact so respectfully it all but overbalanced into sarcasm. Again he echoed the testimony of Robertson Drew.

Rathbone sat watching and listening intently. Had there been the least issue over which he could have challenged Gavinton he would have done so, but the man was clever, well prepared, and meticulously careful. He made no mistakes. He teetered on the edge of irrelevance, even of slander, but he never lost his balance. His only danger was perhaps in drowning the jury in so much information that they became bored. Taft’s charm probably compensated for that. Ten years of practice in the pulpit had taught him how to woo an audience.

Gavinton was winning, and he knew it.

Rathbone tried to quash his emotions and think of the facts of the law, but his anger was too great for him to concentrate on the kind of detail that would outwit Gavinton. Innocent, trusting, hopeful people were being picked apart and destroyed as he watched, and there was nothing he could do about it. Taft would walk away not only vindicated but more powerful than before.

It was only as he was looking around the faces in the gallery, not because he expected to see anything of value but simply to calm his mind by momentarily taking it away from Taft’s mellifluous denials, that he saw Hester. For a moment he was uncertain if it really was her. Then she moved, lifted her head, and looked straight at him. Even across the space of the open floor and four or five rows of other people, he could see the distress in her eyes. As clearly as if she had spoken, he
knew the strength of her wish that he should do something to stop this smooth, choking tide of self-righteous destruction, the painted charade of half lies.

He had not known she was here, but then, it would have been improper for her to approach him. She was not directly a witness, but she was unquestionably involved in the case, having first taken it to Squeaky Robinson. Heaven only knew how Squeaky had found all the evidence he had. Rathbone was happy to remain ignorant of that. It might well have been by moving beyond the law and into criminality. Perhaps that was one of the reasons Hester had not spoken to Rathbone about it. She was protecting the case.

She would not speak now, even if they were to bump into each other in the hall. The appeal was in her eyes. She knew that would be enough. Perhaps she also read the helplessness in his.

It was irrelevant, even inappropriate, but suddenly Beata York’s face replaced Hester’s in his mind. He remembered her smile, the sudden glance away as something hurt her and she did not want anyone to see, perhaps most of all not her husband.