"Mortimer, John - Rumpole on Trial" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)
Men've got too much something in their glands. That's a fine excuse, isn't it?' 'Never tried it.' But I thought it over. 'I suppose I might: "My client intends to rely on the glandular defence, my Lord."' 'It wouldn't wash.' Hilda was positive. 'When I was a child we were taught to believe in the Devil.' 'I'm sure you were.' 'He tempts people. Particularly men.' 'I thought it was Eve.' 'What?' 'I thought it was Eve he tempted first.' 'That's you all over, Rumpole.' 'Is it?' 'Blame it all on a woman! That's men all over.' 'Hilda, there's nothing I'd like more than to sit here with you all day, discussing theology. But I've got to get to work.' I was making my preparation for departure when She said darkly, 'Enjoy your lunch-hour!' 'What did you say?' 'I said, "I hope you enjoy your lunch-hour," Rumpole.' 'Well, I probably shall. It's Thursday. Steak pie day at the pub in Ludgate Circus. I shall look forward to that.' 'And a few other little treats besides, I should imagine.' Hilda was immersed in her newspaper again when I left her. I knew then that, no matter what explanation I had given, She Who Must Be Obeyed had come to the firm conclusion that I was up to something devilish.
It's a strange fact that it was not until nearly the end of the three score years and ten allotted to me by the psalmist that I was first called upon to perform in a Juvenile Court. It was, as I was soon to discover, a place in which the law as we know and occasionally love it had very little place. It was also a soulless chamber in Crockthorpe's already chipped and crumbling, glass and concrete courthouse complex. Tracy's three judges, a large motherly-looking magistrate as Chairwoman, flanked by a small, bright-eyed Sikh Justice in a sari, and a lean and anxious headmaster, sat with their clerk, young, officious and bespectacled, to keep them in order. The defence team, Rumpole and the indispensable Bernard, together with the prosecutor, Mizz Liz Probert, and a person from the Council solicitor's office, sat at another long table opposite the Justices. Miss Mirabelle Jones, armed with a ponderous file, was comfortably ensconced in the witness chair and a large television set was playing that hit video, the interview with Dominic Molloy. We had got to the familiar dialogue which started with Mirabelle's question: 'He wanted you to play at devils? This man did?' 'He said he was the Devil. Yes,' the picture of the boy Dominic alleged.
'He was to be the Devil. And what were you supposed to be? Perhaps you were the Devil's children?' At which point Rumpole ruined the entertainment by rearing to his hind legs and making an objection, a process which in this court seemed as unusual and unwelcome as a guest lifting his soup plate to his mouth and slurping the contents at a state banquet at Buckingham Palace. When I said I was objecting, the clerk switched off the telly with obvious reluctance.
'That was a leading question by the social worker,' I said, although the fact would have been obvious to the most superficial reader of Potted Rules of Evidence. 'It and the answer are entirely inadmissable, as your clerk will no doubt tell you.' And I added, in an extremely audible whisper to Bernard, 'If he knows his business.' 'Mr Rumpole', the Chairwoman gave me her most motherly smile, 'Miss Mirabelle Jones is an extremely experienced social worker. We think we can rely on her to put her questions in the proper manner.' 'I was just venturing to point out that on this occasion she put her question in an entirely improper manner,' I told her, 'Madam.' 'My Bench will see the film out to the end, Mr Rumpole.
You'll have a chance to make any points later.' The clerk gave his decision in a manner which caused me to whisper to Mr Bernard, 'Her Master's Voice.' I hope they all heard, but to make myself clear I said to Madam Chair, 'My point is that you shouldn't be seeing this film at all.' 'We are going to continue with it now, Mr Rumpole.' The learned clerk switched on the video again. Miss Jones appeared to ask, 'What was the game you had to play?' And Dominic answered, 'Dance around.' 'Dance around.' Mirabelle Jones's shadow repeated in case we had missed the point. 'Now I want you to tell me, Dominic, when did you meet this man? At Tracy Timson's house? Is that where you met him?' 'It's a leading question!' I said aloud, but the performance continued and Mirabelle asked, 'Do you know who he was?' And on the screen Dominic nodded politely.
'Who was he?' Mirabelle asked and Dominic replied, 'Tracy's dad.' As the video was switched off, I was on my feet again.
'You're not going to allow that evidence?' I couldn't believe it. 'Pure hearsay! What a child who isn't called as a witness said to Miss Jones here, a child we've had no opportunity of cross-examining said, is nothing but hearsay. Absolutely worthless.' 'Madam Chairwoman.' Mizz Probert rose politely beside me.
'Yes, Miss Probert.' Liz got an even more motherly smile; , she was the favourite child and Rumpole the black sheep of the family.
'Mr Rumpole is used to practising at the Old Bailey ' 'And has managed to acquire a nodding acquaintance of the law of evidence,' I added.
'And of course this court is not bound by strict rules of evidence. Where the welfare of a child is concerned, you're not tied down by a lot of legal quibbles about hearsay.' 'Quibbles, Mizz Probert? Did I hear you say quibbles?' My righteous indignation was only half simulated.
'You are free,' Liz told the tribunal, 'with the able assistance of Miss Mirabelle Jones, to get at the truth of this matter.' 'My learned friend was my pupil.' I was, I must confess, more than a little hurt. 'I spent months, a year of my life, in bringing her up with some rudimentary knowledge of the law.
And when she says that the rule against hearsay is a legal quibble...' 'Mr Rumpole, I don't think my Bench wants to waste time on a legal argument.' The clerk of the court breathed heavily on his glasses and polished them briskly.
'Do they not? Indeed!' I was launched on an impassioned protest and no one was going to stop me. 'So does it come to this? Down at the Old Bailey, that backward and primitive place, no villain can be sent down to chokey as a result of a leading question, or a bit of gossip in the saloon bar, or what a child said to a social worker and wasn't even cross-examined.
But little Tracy Timson, eight years old, can be banged up for an indefinite period, snatched from the family that loves her, without the protection the law affords to the most violent bank robber! Is that the proposition that Mizz Liz Probert is putting before the court? And which apparently finds favour in the so-called legal mind of the court official who keeps jumping up like a jack-in-the-box to tell you what to do?' Even as I spoke the clerk, having shined up his spectacles to his total satisfaction, was whispering to his well-upholstered Chair. 'Mr Rumpole, My Bench would like to get on with the evidence. Speeches will come later,' the Chairwoman handed down her clerk's decision.
'They will. Madam. They most certainly will,' I promised.
And then, as I sat down, profoundly discontented, Liz presumed to teach me my business. 'Let me give you a tip, Rumpole,' she whispered. 'I should keep off the law if I were you. They don't like it around here.' While I was recovering from this lesson given to me by my ex-pupil, our Chairwoman was addressing Mirabelle as though she were a mixture of Mother Teresa and Princess Anne. 'Miss Jones,' she purred, 'we're grateful for the thoroughness with which you've gone into this difficult case on behalf of the Local Authority.' 'Oh, thank you so much. Madam Chair.' 'And we've seen the interview you carried out with Tracy on the video film. Was there anything about that interview which you thought especially significant?' 'It was when I showed her the picture of the Devil,' Mirabelle answered. 'She wasn't frightened at all. In fact she laughed. I thought...' 'Is there any point in my telling you that what this witness thought isn't evidence?' I sent up a cry of protest.
'Carry on, Miss Jones. If you'd be so kind.' Madam Chair decided to ignore the Rumpole interruption.
'I thought it was because it reminded her of someone she knew pretty well. Someone like Dad.' Mirabelle put in the boot with considerable delicacy.
'Someone like Dad. Yes.' Our Chair was now making a careful note, likely to be fatal to Tracy's hopes of liberty.
'Have you any questions, Mr Rumpole?' So I rose to cross-examine. It's no easy task to attack a personable young woman from one of the caring professions, but this Mirabelle Jones was, so far as my case was concerned, a killer. I decided that there was only one way to approach her and that was to go in with all guns firing. 'Miss Jones', I loosed the first salvo, 'you are, I take it, against cruelty to children?' 'Of course. That goes without saying.' 'Does it? Can you think of a more cruel act, to a little child, than coming at dawn with the Old Bill and snatching it away from its mother and father, without even a Barbara doll for consolation?'.
'Barbie doll, Mr Rumpole,' Roz whispered urgently.
'What?' 'It's a Barbie doll, Mrs Timson says,' Mr Bernard instructed me on what didn't seem to be the most vital point in the case.
'Very well. Barbie doll.' And I returned to the attack on Mirabelle. 'Without that, or a single toy?' 'We don't want the children to be distracted.' 'By thoughts of home?' 'Well, yes.' 'You wanted Tracy to concentrate on your dotty idea of devil-worship!' I put it bluntly.
'It wasn't a dotty idea, Mr Rumpole, and I had to act quickly. Tracy had to be removed from the presence of evil.' 'Evil? What do you mean by that exactly?' The witness hesitated, momentarily at a loss for a suitable definition in a rational age, and Mizz Liz Probert rose to the rescue. 'You ought to know, Mr Rumpole. Haven't you had plenty of experience of that down at the Old Bailey?' 'Oh, well played, Mizz Probert!' I congratulated her loudly.
| © 2025 Библиотека RealLib.org (support [a t] reallib.org) |