My Autobiography (62 page)

Eventually the tension in the courtroom tightened and everyone was in his place. The clerk then banged three times with his gavel and we were off. There were four counts against me: two for the Mann Act and two for some obsolete law that no one had ever heard of since the Civil War, to the effect that I had interfered with the rights of a citizen. First Giesler tried to have the whole indictment dismissed. But that was mere formality; there was as much chance of achieving that as of dismissing an audience from a circus after it had paid admission.

It took two days to select a jury; there was a panel of twenty-four to choose from, each side having the right to object to six of them in order to select a jury of twelve. Members of the jury are interrogated and under terrific scrutiny from both sides. The procedure is that the judge and the attorneys question a juror as to his qualifications for judging the case without bias, with such questions as: has he read the papers, has he been influenced by them or acquired any prejudice as a result of reading them, and does he know any person connected with the case? This was a cynical procedure, I thought, since ninety per cent of the Press had been piling up antagonism against me for fourteen months. The questioning of a potential juror takes about half an hour, in
which time both prosecution and defence attorneys send their investigators scurrying to get information about him. As each potential juror was called, Giesler made notes and slipped them to his investigators, who immediately disappeared. Ten minutes later the investigator would return and slip Giesler a note with the information: John Dokes, clerk in haberdashery store, wife, two children, never goes to movies.’ ‘We’ll keep him for a while,’ whispered Giesler. And so the selecting went on, each side dismissing or accepting a juryman, the Federal Attorney conferring in whispers with his investigators; every once in a while Tippy Gray would look over at me with his usual smile.

After eight of the jury had been chosen, a woman entered the jury-box. Immediately Giesler said: ‘I don’t like her.’ He kept repeating: ‘I don’t like her – there’s something about her I don’t like.’ As she was still being questioned Giesler’s investigator handed him a note. ‘Just as I thought,’ he whispered after reading it; ‘she has been a reporter on the Los Angeles
Times!
We must get rid of her! Besides, the other side accepted her too quickly.’ I tried to study her face, but I could not see very well, so I reached for my glasses. Giesler quickly grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t put on your glasses,’ he whispered. I got the impression that she was immersed in herself, but without my glasses it was all indistinct. ‘Unfortunately,’ said Giesler, ‘we have only two objections left, so we had better hold her for the time being.’ But as the selecting went on he had to use up our last two objections on two who were obviously prejudiced against me, and he was forced to accept the lady reporter.

Listening to the legal abracadabra of both attorneys, it seemed to me a game they were playing and that I had little to do with it. And in spite of the absurdity of the charges there lurked in the back of my mind the possibility that I might be railroaded – but I could never quite believe it. And occasionally I had a thought about the future of my career, but now that was chaotic, remote. I put it out of my mind – I could think of only one thing at a time.

As with all trouble, one cannot be consistently serious about it. I remember at one time the court was having a recess to discuss a legal point. The jury had left, the attorneys and judge had retired to an ante-chamber, while the audience, a photographer and I were left in the courtroom. He was waiting to catch me in an off-beat pose. As I put on my glasses to read, he snatched up his camera and I snatched off my glasses. This got a laugh from those left in the courtroom. When he put down his camera, I put on my glasses again. It was a game of cat and mouse, played good-naturedly, he snatching up his camera and I snatching off my glasses – and the audience enjoyed it. When the court reassembled, of course, I took them off and assumed my serious demeanour.

The trial went on for several days. Because it was a Federal case, Mr Paul Getty, Joan Barry’s friend, was forced to appear as a witness, as well as two young Germans and others. Paul Getty had to admit to his friendship with Joan Barry in the past and that he had also given her money. But what was important were those letters she had written to me, apologizing for all the trouble she had caused and thanking me for my kindness and generosity. Although Giesler tried to put these letters in as evidence, the court objected. But I did not think Giesler was insistent enough.

Evidence came out in the trial that on one of the nights before she broke into my house, she actually slept all night in the apartment of a young German, who on the witness stand was forced to admit it.

Being the centre of all these sordid facts was like being put into public stocks. But the moment I left the courtroom all was forgotten and after a quiet dinner with Oona I would fall into bed exhausted.

Besides the tension and worry of the trial, there was the boring routine of getting up at seven in the morning, then having to leave immediately after breakfast because it was an hour’s drive through Los Angeles traffic, and to be strictly on time, ten minutes before the court opened.

At last the trial came to an end. Each attorney agreed to two and a half hours in summing up. I had not the faintest idea what they could talk about for all that time. To me it was all clear, cut and dried: the government case had collapsed. And of course the possibility of facing twenty years if I were found guilty on all counts never entered my mind. The judge’s summing-up I thought could have been less vague. I tried to see what impression it was making on the lady of the
Times
, but her face
was averted. When the jury was sent out to deliberate she filed out of court, looking neither right nor left.

As we left the courtroom Giesler whispered discreetly: ‘Today we can’t leave the building until a verdict is given, but,’ he added optimistically, ‘we can sit outside on the balustrade and get a little sun.’ This subtle information gave me a feeling of a sinister omnipresence quietly tightening its grip around me, reminding me that for the moment I was the property of the law.

It was now half past one and I surmised that a verdict should be reached within twenty minutes at the most. So I thought I would wait before telephoning Oona. But an hour elapsed! I telephoned her that the jury were still out and that as soon as I heard the verdict I would let her know.

Another hour passed and still no verdict! What was causing the delay? It should not have taken them more than ten minutes – they could only arrive at a not-guilty verdict. In the meantime Giesler and I sat outside on the stone balustrade, neither one of us commenting on what was causing the delay, until Giesler was compelled to look at his watch. ‘Four o’clock,’ he said casually. ‘I wonder what’s holding them up?’ This brought us to a calm open discussion as to what possible points in the case could have delayed them.…

At a quarter to five the bell rang to announce that the jury had reached a verdict. My heart gave a leap, and as we entered the building Giesler hastily whispered: ‘Whatever the verdict is, don’t show any emotion.’ Passing us, racing up the stairs to the courtroom, breathless and excited, was the prosecuting attorney with his assistants cheerfully racing up after him. Tippy Gray was the last, and as he passed us he glanced grinningly over his shoulder.

The courtroom filled quickly and was packed with tension. For some reason I was calmly composed although my heart was thumping in my throat.

The clerk of the court hammered three taps, which signalled the judge’s entrance, and we all stood up. When everyone was settled again, the jury entered, and the foreman handed a document to the clerk of the court. Giesler sat with his head down, staring at his feet, muttering nervously under his breath: ‘If it’s guilty, it will be the worst miscarriage of justice I have ever known!’ and kept repeating. ‘This will be the worst miscarriage of justice I have ever
known!’

The clerk of the court now read the document, then tapped with the gavel three times. In the intense silence he announced:

‘Charles Chaplin, Case 337068 Criminal… On the first count –’ (there was a long pause) ‘not guilty!’

A sudden scream came from the audience, then a sudden silence as they waited for the clerk to continue. ‘On the second count… not guilty!’

The audience broke into a pandemonium. I never knew I had so many friends – some broke through the partition rail and hugged and kissed me. I caught a glimpse of Tippy Gray. The grin had left his face and he wore a blank expression.

Then the judge addressed a few words to me: ‘Mr Chaplin, your presence will no longer be required in the court; you are now free.’ Then he offered me his hand from the bench and congratulated me, so did the prosecuting attorney. Then Giesler whispered: ‘Now go over and shake hands with the jury.’

As I approached them, the lady whom Giesler had mistrusted stood up and extended her hand, and for the first time I got a close look at her face. It was beautiful, glowing with intelligence and understanding. As we shook hands she said, smilingly: ‘It’s all right, Charlie. It’s still a free country.’

I could not trust myself to speak; her words had shattered me. I could only nod and smile as she continued: ‘I could see you from the window of the jury-room pacing up and down, and I so wanted to tell you not to worry. But for one person we would have come to a decision in ten minutes.’

It was difficult not to weep at her words, but I just grinned and thanked her, then turned to thank the rest. All of them shook hands heartily but one woman, who held a look of hate. I was about to move away when the foreman’s voice said: ‘Come on, old girl, loosen up and shake hands!’ Reluctantly she did so and I thanked her coldly.

Oona, who was four months pregnant, was sitting at home on the lawn. She was alone and when she heard the news over the radio she fainted.

We dined quietly at home that evening, just Oona and I. We wanted no newspapers, no telephone calls. I did not want to see or speak to anyone. I felt empty, hurt and denuded of character. Even the presence of the household staff was embarrassing.

After dinner Oona made a stiff gin and tonic and we sat together by the fire and I told her the reason for the delayed verdict and about the lady saying that it was still a free country. After so many weeks of tension there was an anti-climax. That night I reeled off to bed with the happy thought of not having to get up early in the morning to attend court.

A day or so later, Lion Feuchtwanger said humorously: ‘You are the one artist of the theatre who will go down in American history as having aroused the political antagonism of a whole nation.’

*

And now the paternity case which I thought had been disposed of by the blood-test loomed up again. By adroit finagling another lawyer, influential in local politics, was able to reopen the case; by his tricky device of transferring the guardianship of the child from the mother to the court, the mother’s agreement was not violated and she was able to keep the $25,000. So now the court as guardian was able to sue me for the support of the child.

In the first trial the jury disagreed, much to the disappointment of my lawyer, who thought the case was won. But in the second trial, in spite of the blood-test, which has since been accepted as positive proof by Californian State law in a paternity case, a verdict was returned against me.

*

One thing Oona and I wanted was to get away from California. In the year we had been married we had both been put through a meat-grinder and we needed a rest. So we took our little black kitten and embarked on the train for New York; from there we went to Nyack, where we rented a house. It was away from everything, surrounded by stony, unproductive terrain; nevertheless, it had its own particular charm. It was an attractive, small house, built in 1780, and with the rent of it went a most sympathetic house-keeper who was also a wonderful cook.

With the house we inherited a sweet old black retriever who
attached himself to us like a lady’s companion. He appeared regularly on the porch at breakfast-time and after a gentlemanly wag of his tail would lie down quietly and efface himself while we had breakfast. When our little black kitten first saw him she hissed and spat at him. But he simply lay down with his chin on the ground to show his willingness to coexist.

Those days in Nyack were idyllic, although lonely. We saw no one, and no one called. It was just as well, for I was not yet over the embarrassment of the trial.

Although the ordeal had crippled my creativeness, nevertheless I had almost completed
Monsieur Verdoux
. Now my desire to finish it was returning.

We had intended to stay at least six months in the East, and Oona was going to have her baby there. But I could not work in Nyack, so after five weeks we returned to California.

Soon after we married Oona had confessed she had no desire to become an actress either on the screen or the stage. This news pleased me, for at last I had a wife and not a career girl. It was then that I abandoned
Shadow and Substance
and went back to work on
Monsieur Verdoux
– until I was so rudely interrupted by the Government. I have often thought that the films lost an excellent comedienne, for Oona has a great sense of humour.

I remember, just before the trial, Oona and I went into a jeweller’s shop in Beverly Hills to get her vanity case mended. While waiting we began looking over some bracelets. An exceptionally fine one set in diamonds and rubies we liked, but Oona thought the price was too high, so I told the jeweller we would think about it and we left the shop. As we got back into the car I said nervously: ‘Hurry up. Drive on quickly!’ Then I put my hand in my pocket and cautiously pulled out the bracelet which she had admired. ‘I took it while he was showing you the other bracelets,’ I said.

Oona turned white. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have done it!’ She drove on, then turned up a side-street, pulled over to the kerb and stopped the car. ‘Let’s think it over!’ she said and repeated: ‘You shouldn’t have done it!’