Blind Justice: A William Monk Novel (43 page)

A couple of the jurors stirred to attention. Several of the others looked embarrassed, as if decency required that the end be swifter than this.

York sighed.

The usher repeated the call, and after a few more seconds a tall, lean man with receding hair emerged from the doors into the hall, walked across the floor, and climbed to the witness stand. He was duly sworn, and he faced Brancaster.

The man had a thin, intelligent face, deeply lined but good humored. Rathbone tried to place him, and failed.

Brancaster walked out onto the floor and looked up at Athlone with a slight smile.

“You are a professor of law, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Athlone agreed.

“And as well as the law itself, you have made a speciality of studying most of the more famous cases that are recent—shall we say, within the last thirty years?”

“Yes, sir,” Athlone replied.

York shifted his position and glanced at Wystan.

Wystan rose to his feet. “My lord, the prosecution is happy to stipulate that Sir Oliver has been an outstanding lawyer and won remarkably many cases. Indeed, we would state it positively. It is part of our own case that his extraordinary success has led to his arrogance, and is at the very least a witness to his supreme ambition. He must win at all costs, even the cost of loyalty to his wife and her family and, beyond that, to honor and to the principles of the law. That is the heart of the case against him.”

“If you believe the law is as important as you say,” Brancaster retorted instantly, “then you will allow that the accused is entitled to the best defense he is able to find.”

Wystan rolled his eyes, unusually expressively for him. “If this is the best defense you can find, then by all means, make it, sir!”

Brancaster bowed. “Thank you.” He turned back to Athlone.

“Professor, perhaps we might pick two or three of Sir Oliver’s most remarkable cases and mention, very briefly indeed, some of the truths that he uncovered in court, so that justice was done where it had previously appeared that the truth was the exact opposite of what had actually transpired. Shall we say one for the defense, one for the prosecution? And so that we do not exhaust the patience of the court, let us keep it to not more than five minutes each?”

“By all means,” Athlone agreed. Then he proceeded to tell the story of how Rathbone had defended a man who appeared to be unquestionably guilty but, by brilliant questioning, Rathbone had left no doubt at all, either with the jury or with the public in general, that another completely different person was in fact to blame.

Athlone recounted it with wit and a considerable flair for drama. Not a single member of the jury moved his eyes from him while he spoke. The people in the gallery sat motionless, silently staring at the witness box.

Athlone started with the second account, this time a case where Rathbone had appeared for the prosecution. The crime was particularly unpleasant and the proof slight. The defense was brilliant, and it seemed inevitable that, at least legally, there was reasonable doubt. This time Rathbone had found a witness who was able to discredit the accused totally, and within the space of minutes the entire trial turned the other way. The man was convicted.

At the end of his account several people in the gallery actually cheered. Even the jury looked impressed.

“That is an excellent example, Professor Athlone, but I rather expected you to cite the case of Mr. Wilton Jones.”

Athlone looked slightly puzzled. “Wilton Jones? Remind me, sir.”

“A man of great skill, and villainy,” Brancaster replied. “But his violence was always well concealed. Frequently he corrupted others to do his worst work. He presented himself as a gentleman, but he was greedy, cruel, and totally ruthless. That case was one of Sir Oliver’s greatest victories.”

“Ah. Yes.” Athlone smiled. “I believe I recall the case now. Was that not the one where another gentleman of excellent family, and rather a lot of influence, swore to Wilton Jones’s innocence, how he was misunderstood, misrepresented by lesser men envious of him …?”

Brancaster nodded and smiled.

“Yes, indeed,” Athlone picked up the thread. “Sir Oliver turned this witness against Wilton Jones. As I recall, he tripped him on a statement as to where he was at a particular time, and suddenly the witness changed his entire testimony. Instead of defending the accused, he condemned him. I believe Jones was found guilty and must still be in prison.” Athlone smiled, as though he were pleased to have been of use. “A brilliant piece of work,” he added.

“Justice was served.” Brancaster apparently could not resist adding the point. Then he turned to offer the witness to Wystan.

Wystan rose to his feet and all but swaggered out onto the floor before looking up at Athlone.

“I don’t recall the case myself, Professor, but you have described it particularly well—with a little prompting from my learned friend. You say that this witness—rather like Mr. Drew, come to think of it—suddenly changed his testimony. Was there any reason for it that you are aware of?”

Athlone looked slightly puzzled.

Rathbone could see what was coming. His mind was completely numbed. He couldn’t remember the case. Even the name Wilton Jones meant nothing to him. It seemed as if his mind was paralyzed.

“Professor?” Wystan prompted.

“He did change his mind absolutely, as I recall,” Athlone agreed.
“Because Rathbone caught him out during his testimony. If I have the right case, of course?” He made it a question.

“Oh, I expect you do,” Wystan said, his tone lofty. To Rathbone, it seemed as if satisfaction oozed out of him. “You see, Sir Oliver did exactly the same thing recently, as a judge presiding over a case—he managed to change the sworn testimony of a witness, turning the verdict toward the side he personally had concluded to be right.” Wystan swung away from the witness stand, took a few steps, and then spun around again. “Professor, as the law is the subject upon which you are an expert—is it a judge’s task to decide whether the accused is guilty or innocent?”

“Of course not,” Athlone replied with just the slightest edge to his voice. “That is the duty of the gentlemen of the jury. The judge’s task is to preside over the proceedings and make certain that all is conducted fairly and according to the law.”

“Thank you, Professor. Now, if you please, tell us, how would counsel, or anyone else, make a witness suddenly recant his entire testimony—given under oath and therefore making him liable to charges of perjury—and then swear to the exact opposite?”

Athlone shrugged. “Catching him in a lie, making him see an error, making him fear reprisal, bribery … there are several possibilities.”

“Threat of ruin?” Wystan asked.

Athlone sighed. “Of course.”

Wystan smiled for the first time, so widely that he showed a flash of white teeth. “Thank you, Professor. You have been a perfect witness yourself.” He swiveled a little to Brancaster on a gesture of invitation.

Oddly enough, in that moment Rathbone felt most deeply for his father, who had chosen Brancaster with such faith. The pain of it was almost unbearable; it was like a stone weighing hard and heavy inside him.

Brancaster rose to his feet and looked up at Athlone. He took only a couple of steps out into the wide space of the floor. His body was rigid with tension.

“Professor, you agree that threat of ruin is a possible motive for changing testimony, even if it might result in charges of perjury, am I correct?”

“Yes,” Athlone agreed. “I imagine if the threat is serious enough, most of us would risk perjury.”

“As, for example, if an outwardly respectable man, possibly a man with power, feared the exposure of his proclivity for performing obscene and criminal sexual acts with small children?”

Athlone winced. “Of course. That would be extremely effective. And the more power the man in question possessed, the more effective such a threat of exposure would be.”

“He would be likely to testify however you wished him to?” Brancaster pursued.

Rathbone felt as if he were facing a firing squad. Whose pay was Brancaster in that he was doing this?

“Certainly,” Athlone agreed.

York looked satisfied, even pleased.

Wystan resembled the cat who had eaten the canary.

Brancaster shook his head. “What a terrifying thought. And of course the man who is the subject of such a photograph, who can be twisted this way and that, could be anyone, couldn’t he? What I mean is we do not know such people by sight; they would look exactly like any other respected and powerful man on the surface, wouldn’t they?”

“Of course,” Athlone agreed. “Your banker, your lawyer, your physician, your member of Parliament, for that matter. Even your judge in court, your minister in government, the senior officers of the police whose word might well be taken ahead of your own. Your bishop. Anyone at all.” He looked pale as he said it, and his voice was now hoarse with emotion. “The thought is a nightmare. A living hell of corruption.”

“I think you are frightening us, Professor,” Brancaster said grimly.

“I am frightening myself,” Athlone agreed. “It presents a terrifying image. I wish I could say it is a hideous dream and we shall awaken from it. But Mr. Wystan has made it clear that it is all too real.”

Suddenly Wystan looked puzzled. A shadow of uncertainty crossed his face.

Brancaster was still rigid.

“I think perhaps, Professor, we need to know what you mean. Of what specifically are you afraid, sir?”

Athlone was very grave. “I gather from what I have overheard while in the hall waiting to come in, and from the questions that both you and Mr. Wystan have asked me, that there is a serious question as to whether photographs of both obscenity and crime have been used to sway the testimony of witnesses in criminal trials. Mr. Wystan said that such a photograph is what Sir Oliver Rathbone is accused of having used and that it is a very reasonable suggestion, far too serious to be ignored, that another such photograph may have been used in another trial, again to oblige someone to change their testimony. It could not have been done unless he, or someone extremely close to him, was the subject of the photograph.” He looked harassed with anxiety.

There was not a whisper of breath in the court. Every juror stared at Athlone as if he had risen out of the ground like an apparition.

Brancaster was as motionless as a statue.

“Which forces us,” Athlone continued, “to ask how many of these photographs there are, and of whom? Perhaps the most terrifying thing of all is that, if we do not know, then we must suspect and fear everyone. And yet if we are not even aware of this horror, then it will continue unseen among us. Justice, the government, the police, the Church, medicine, every aspect of our lives may be poisoned by it, and we shall not know or understand why things go terribly wrong, or who is to blame.”

Wystan shot to his feet like a jack-in-the-box.

“My lord! This is preposterous. Mr. Brancaster is blowing this completely out of proportion. He is attempting to frighten us out of all sense and judgment. It is perfectly reasonable to draw the conclusion that Rathbone used one of these vile photographs to cause Robertson Drew to change his testimony and thus condemn Abel Taft.” His face was ashen white. “Which, we may draw the unspeakable conclusion, caused
the poor man to take not only his own life but also the lives of his wife and daughters …” He shook his head. “And though unproven, it is possible he has done this one other time in the past, judging from the facts Professor Athlone brought up. But implying this … this further web of terror is unnecessary and unfounded.”

“I agree,” York said a little hoarsely. He too was pale. “Mr. Brancaster, please restrict yourself to the matter in hand.”

Brancaster smiled, but there was no humility in it.

“My lord, Mr. Wystan opened the door by suggesting to Professor Athlone that Sir Oliver may have used obscene photographs in more than one trial. That necessarily implies that there are other photographs. How are we to know how many more?” His dark eyes were wide. “Or who possesses them? Is it a subject we can leave hanging in the air? The jury knows of them. The gallery knows of them.” He waved his hand airily in the direction of the gallery. “And no doubt when the newspapers are printed tomorrow morning, all London will know of them. Can we possibly put a lid on such a matter and hope it will stay closed? Indeed, the question is—should we?”

There was a terrible silence. Suspense crackled in the room like the air before a great storm. Not a juror moved.

Rathbone looked at York, whose face was pale, eyes like hollows and so dark as to seem lightless.

Then Rathbone looked at Wystan, and for the first time saw a shadow of unmistakable doubt in his face.

Was this the edge of the final disaster, or was it the beginning of hope? His heart pounded; the weight inside his chest was painful.

Very slowly Wystan rose to his feet. “My lord, I withdraw my objection. Mr. Brancaster is quite right. This prospect is too appalling to leave it in the air, unresolved. It would cause a public panic.”

York looked at Brancaster with loathing.

“You have raised a demon, sir. You will now deal with it.”

Brancaster inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I cannot do it alone, my lord, but I will seek such help as I need. Tomorrow morning I will call the accused to the stand.”

Rathbone felt the sweat break out on his body. It was a terrible gamble Brancaster was taking, but he was playing for the highest stakes of all—the complete exposure of the photographs with all the ruin they would bring. Was it a defense? It was certainly an attack. Could they win? Or was he prepared to sacrifice Rathbone if he had to, to end it once and for all?

If he were honest, Rathbone had to admit that, unwittingly, he had sacrificed himself.

I
T WAS THE LONGEST
night Rathbone could recall. He tossed from one side of the wretched mattress to the other, hot one minute, cold the next. Did soldiers feel like this waiting to go into battle the next day? Victory and honor—or death? He had no escape. He was locked in, as he might be for years. However unrealistic it was, this was the last night he could cling to hope. He was torn between wanting to savor every minute of it and wishing it were over.