John Mortimer - Rumpole On Trial Read online

  The Electro-Static Detective Apparatus was enjoying a period of considerable success; it had proved a number of confession statements unacceptable, and a jury would be unlikely to prefer the evidence of a senior copper out to avenge the death of one of his men to that of an independent machine.

  I couldn't see any way out of this impasse and didn't do so until I met Betty Yeomans, the murder victim's widow, which I did in an unexpected way. I was setting out to do an uninteresting robbery in Acton Crown Court and, on leaving my Chambers and walking up Middle Temple Lane, I heard someone calling, 'Mr Rumpole!' I turned and saw a youngish, dark and fairly attractive woman leaning her head out of the window of a battered motor car of indeterminate age. 'I'm Betty Yeomans,' she said as I approached her. 'I've been meaning to have a word with you, Mr Rumpole. You going anywhere?' I told her my destination and she said, 'Jump in the minicab. I'll give you a free ride. No problems.' I thought this remarkably kind of her, and indeed she drove me to Acton very quickly and with a good deal of expertise, but our conversation was frequently interrupted as she shouted abuse at other road users. As she kept all the windows shut after we started, the only person to be affected by these outbursts was me.

  'Friend of Roy Gannon's got this mini business, so he offered me a job. Part-time. Suits me. I do the hours and I can look after the kids as well.' 'Do you want to tell me something?' 'The world's full of wankers!' she shouted suddenly. 'Have a bit of bloody courage, mate!' This was directed at a car waiting to turn into the Fleet Street traffic. 'We can't all wait while you says your prayers!' And then, in more conversational tones, 'Roy's been wonderful to me and the kids, Mr Rumpole, since we lost Ted. Come on, madam! The light's gone green. Are you colour blind or something?' 'I don't think she can hear you.' 'I know, but it makes me feel better. Just like Roy made me feel better when he got our conviction.' 'But was it the right one? Isn't that the point?' 'Do you think he lied, Mr Rumpole? Just to give me the satisfaction? He's not like that, Roy isn't. Mind yourself!

  What're you doing, driving on your television licence? A straight copper. Roy's not the one Ted used to talk about.' 'Ted was talking about someone?' I was becoming interested.

  'Oh, I know he was only a uniformed man. Ted was never that ambitious. But his friend, the one he was at school with, he's the high-flier. Went straight in the C.I.D. and got Detective Sergeant. We used to see a lot of them though, him and Doreen. Our kids was the same age.' 'Mrs Yeomans, what are you trying to tell me?' 'Why don't you go home and take driving lessons! Sorry, Mr Rumpole.' 'That's all right. I'm getting used to it.' 'It was after Mr Pertwee got convicted. There was someone else Ted's friend was worried about, but it wasn't Roy. He always said, "Superintendent Gannon's clean as a whistle, not like some others I could mention."' 'Who said that?' My interest was increasing.

  'Oh, didn't I tell you? It was Chesney, of course. Oh, get a move on! What do you think this is, a funeral procession?' Over the sound of her furious hooting I repeated, 'Chesney?' 'Yes. We all got on so well together. Haven't seen much of them though, not since Ted went. Neither him nor Doreen Lane.' Now I remembered. Detective Sergeant Chesney Lane was one of those present when Pinhead Morgan was supposed to have signed the dubious confession. After Mrs Yeomans had vented her wrath on a taxi driver who had apparently cut her up, I asked her to tell me more.

  After my exciting ride with Betty Yeomans I met the indispensable Mr Bernard in the Acton Court. During the lunch adjournment we went round the corner for a Guinness and a slice of pie. Bernard, in his line of business, had to associate fairly closely with the Old Bill; he attended their dinner dances, bumped into them at the Rotary Club evenings and was on Christian name terms with the officers of that section which included Buttercup Meadows. Relying on his fund of knowledge, I asked him what he knew about the Pertwee business.

  'Oh, dear', my instructing solicitor looked a little shifty 'we never got instructed in that case, otherwise you'd've had the brief, Mr Rumpole. Quite definitely.' 'What was it all about?' 'A Superintendent Pertwee. Some people wanted to get rid of him. I never discovered who, or why exactly. It started with all sorts of minor persecutions. They actually did him for speeding when he was out with his family. Then he was said to be friends with a big local villain. Finally they got Jim Pertwee on a charge of perverting the course of justice, planting dope on a suspect. Although I was never sure who did the planting. Got two years and he's still at it.' 'You interest me strangely. Now, Bonny Bernard, I have work for you.' 'You usually have, Mr Rumpole.' 'Detective Sergeant Chesney Lane. Cultivate his friendship.

  There might be something he'd like to tell us.' So the industrious Bernard got to know a good deal about the life and habits of Detective Sergeant Lane. His firm had, as it so happened, helped the Lanes over a mortgage and as he knew other parents at the school the Lane children attended, he called on the Lanes one Sunday afternoon to discuss a sponsored marathon to raise money for books. He was told by Mrs Lane that her husband had taken their boys to the skateboard rink in the local park. So, as the young Lanes slid and trundled around, Bernard and Chesney Lane, in their weekend uniforms of jeans and chunky patterned sweaters, with Bernard leading his elderly spaniel, discussed my encounter with Mrs Yeomans. 'Betty doesn't want Roy to go down for this,' Bernard began. 'Ted wouldn't have wanted it either. Of course, you were pretty close to Ted, weren't you, Chesney?' 'Ted was an honest policeman. Perhaps that's why he stayed in uniform.' 'Ted would have wanted justice done.' 'What's justice when it's at home?' D. S. Lane sounded bitter.

  'I mean, has Pinhead got justice? Or Betty, with no one nicked after all this time? And Roy's the only one left to take the blame.' 'I know that. I've lost sleep over it.' 'You might sleep better after you've told someone,' Bernard spoke quietly.

  'Doreen doesn't think so. Doreen thinks I ought to keep my head down.' 'What do you think?' For a while, Bernard told me, Chesney Lane said nothing.

  Then he called the protesting boys away from their skateboards as it was time to go home to tea. And he extended a welcome invitation to my solicitor. 'You want to come with us? I might have something to show you.' As events moved towards the trial of Detective Superintendent Gannon, which was also to become, in more ways than one, the trial of Mr Justice Featherstone, a further conversation took place between the Judge and Lord Justice Parsloe in the bar of the Sheridan. It started, to the surprise of my informants, by Parsloe saying, 'Well, Guthrie. Your ears should be burning. I've been having a little chat with the Lord Chief about you.' 'Nothing about dancing, was it?' The Judge was never at a loss for something to feel guilty about.

  'Well, hardly. I mean, I don't suppose the Lord Chief dances much nowadays. Do you dance, Guthrie?' 'Dance? Of course not. Well, hardly at all. Well, only when I'm particularly depressed. Which, of course, is almost never!' 'Then why are we talking about it?' 'I don't know. It's probably quite irrelevant.' 'Yes, it is. Totally irrelevant. Shall we take our drinks over to the fire, away from the audience?' I can't even give hearsay evidence of what was then discussed but I'll lay a small bet that the Appeal Judge told Guthrie that, having made an absolute pig's breakfast of the Morgan affair, he was to have a chance of redeeming himself by conducting the trial of Detective Superintendent Gannon, who had apparently misled the court and forged a confession.

  To this the Judge agreed enthusiastically. Of course, he said, 101 rotten apples must be plucked out of the police barrel and destroyed. The last words of the Lord Justice, overheard by a passing member, were, 'That's settled then. And, by the way, Guthrie. I would advise you to give up dancing. You're probably far too old for it.' In spite of this grave warning Guthrie no doubt felt cheered by this conversation and the trust the powers that be were putting in him. However, his happiness was not long-lasting.

  When people talk about doing things in the 'interests of justice', I have found it usually means that the act they are about to perform will be extremely unpleasant. Hilda felt that it 'would be fair' to Marigold to tell her about the ill-fat
ed bop and the admissions of guilt attested to by the earwigger Harringay.

  As I have said. Marigold, Lady Featherstone, is a handsome and stylish woman, much given to shopping in Harrods, who has very little time for the weakness of the male sex in general and her husband in particular. Hilda told me how Marigold had passed judgment on the Judge. 'Look, you're not the greatest catch in the world, Guthrie,' she told him, 'and little Miss Whatsit is perfectly welcome to you, as far as I'm concerned. But why couldn't you keep quiet about it? How do you think I felt, having Hilda Rumpole being sorry for me in the Silver Grill? Let's face it, you've got absolutely no judgement, Guthrie. That must come as something of a drawback in your profession.' I also gather from Hilda that the Judge asked if his wife intended to leave or forgive him. To this Marigold replied, 'I'm not going to do either. Leaving would make things far too easy for you. I'm going to stay here and not forgive you.

  Now, run along and try that bent copper and please, Guthrie, do try not to make another cock-up.' So it was not an entirely happy Mr Justice Featherstone who took his place on the Bench as the trial of Detective Superintendent Gannon started at the Old Bailey.

  Miles Crudgington, Q.c., was a tall, willowy fellow with a carefully cultivated classless accent. He specialized in civil rights cases, those involving free speech, the liberty of the subject and miscarriages of justice. As a general rule he would not have been called on to appear for the Crown, but prosecuting the police was no doubt a worthy occupation for a radical lawyer. So there was the learned Miles leading for the Queen in her suit against my unfortunate Detective Superintendent.

  Fairly early in the proceedings my opponent was calling D.I. Farraday, a square-shouldered, square-headed officer, who answered all questions in a voice like machine-gun fire and whose face it would be hard to imagine lit up with a smile.

  'So, Superintendent Gannon was the only one writing down what Morgan was saying?' 'He was.' 'Without the help of that so-called written confession, could you remember exactly what Morgan said?' 'Not exactly.' 'Thinking back to that time, are you absolutely sure he said, "I'm sorry I cut the copper"? Are you sure he said that?' There was a silence and then the witness's answer came rattling out, 'No, sir. I'm not sure he said that at all.' 'So', Miles Crudgington drew the ponderous deduction, 'it appears that Detective Superintendent Gannon was writing down words that Morgan didn't say, completely ignoring that young man's human rights. Is that the situation?' 'Perhaps I could remind my learned friend', I clambered to my feet, 'that Detective Superintendents have human rights also. And one is that hostile witnesses shouldn't be asked leading questions.' 'Mr Crudgington was just drawing the obvious conclusion.' Guthrie came to the aid of the Prosecution.

  'And ignoring all other possibilities. As is the way with those who talk about human rights for a carefully selected minority.' 'My Lord, I'm quite prepared to play the game by Mr Rumpole's somewhat outdated rules.' Crudgington tried to earn Brownie points.

  'Not my rules. The rules of evidence. Have they gone out of fashion among radical barristers?' rotten apples must be plucked out of the police barrel and destroyed. The last words of the Lord Justice, overheard by a passing member, were, 'That's settled then. And, by the way, Guthrie. I would advise you to give up dancing. You're probably far too old for it.' In spite of this grave warning Guthrie no doubt felt cheered by this conversation and the trust the powers that be were putting in him. However, his happiness was not long-lasting.

  When people talk about doing things in the 'interests of justice', I have found it usually means that the act they are about to perform will be extremely unpleasant. Hilda felt that it 'would be fair' to Marigold to tell her about the ill-fated bop and the admissions of guilt attested to by the earwigger Harringay.

  As I have said. Marigold, Lady Featherstone, is a handsome and stylish woman, much given to shopping in Harrods, who has very little time for the weakness of the male sex in general and her husband in particular. Hilda told me how Marigold had passed judgment on the Judge. 'Look, you're not the greatest catch in the world, Guthrie,' she told him, 'and little Miss Whatsit is perfectly welcome to you, as far as I'm concerned. But why couldn't you keep quiet about it? How do you think I felt, having Hilda Rumpole being sorry for me in the Silver Grill? Let's face it, you've got absolutely no judgement, Guthrie. That must come as something of a drawback in your profession.' I also gather from Hilda that the Judge asked if his wife intended to leave or forgive him. To this Marigold replied, 'I'm not going to do either. Leaving would make things far too easy for you. I'm going to stay here and not forgive you.

  Now, run along and try that bent copper and please, Guthrie, do try not to make another cock-up.' So it was not an entirely happy Mr Justice Featherstone who took his place on the Bench as the trial of Detective Superintendent Gannon started at the Old Bailey.

  Miles Crudgington, Q.c., was a tall, willowy fellow with a carefully cultivated classless accent. He specialized in civil 102 rights cases, those involving free speech, the liberty of the subject and miscarriages of justice. As a general rule he would not have been called on to appear for the Crown, but prosecuting the police was no doubt a worthy occupation for a radical lawyer. So there was the learned Miles leading for the Queen in her suit against my unfortunate Detective Superintendent.

  Fairly early in the proceedings my opponent was calling D.I.

  Farraday, a square-shouldered, square-headed officer, who answered all questions in a voice like machine-gun fire and whose face it would be hard to imagine lit up with a smile.

  'So, Superintendent Gannon was the only one writing down what Morgan was saying?' 'He was.' 'Without the help of that so-called written confession, could you remember exactly what Morgan said?' 'Not exactly.' 'Thinking back to that time, are you absolutely sure he said, "I'm sorry I cut the copper"? Are you sure he said that?' There was a silence and then the witness's answer came rattling out, 'No, sir. I'm not sure he said that at all.' 'So', Miles Crudgington drew the ponderous deduction, 'it appears that Detective Superintendent Gannon was writing down words that Morgan didn't say, completely ignoring that young man's human rights. Is that the situation?' 'Perhaps I could remind my learned friend', I clambered to my feet, 'that Detective Superintendents have human rights also. And one is that hostile witnesses shouldn't be asked leading questions.' 'Mr Crudgington was just drawing the obvious conclusion.' Guthrie came to the aid of the Prosecution.

  'And ignoring all other possibilities. As is the way with those who talk about human rights for a carefully selected minority.' 'My Lord, I'm quite prepared to play the game by Mr Rumpole's somewhat outdated rules.' Crudgington tried to earn Brownie points.

  'Not my rules. The rules of evidence. Have they gone out of fashion among radical barristers?' 'Perhaps you should rephrase your question, Mr Crudgington.' 'No, my Lord. I'm content to leave the matter to the Jury.' And the great defender of the oppressed, no doubt having forgotten what his question was, sat down, not apparently discouraged by what I thought was a particularly shrewd attack.

  'Detective Inspector Farraday, you gave evidence at the trial of Pinhead Morgan?' I said, as I rose to cross-examine.

  'I did, yes.' 'At the time you had no doubt that Pinhead had said what's written in the confession?' 'I couldn't recall exactly what he said but had no reason to doubt what Mr Gannon had written.' The answer came out like automatic fire.

  'And you have now?' 'Since Chief Superintendent Belmont showed us the test.

  He proved page two had been written later.' 'Was Mr Gannon asked to attend that demonstration?' I tried to sound as though it were a matter of casual importance.

  'Not so far as I know.' 'Were you and your Sergeant being asked to gang up on Mr Gannon?' 'My Lord', the radical Q.C. rose in his wrath, 'that's an outrageous suggestion. Chief Superintendent Belmont hasn't had a chance of answering that very serious accusation.' 'You mean. Chief Superintendent Belmont has human rights, even though he's a policeman?' I asked politely.

  'He has a r
ight to answer these charges, so I shall be calling him as a witness, my Lord.' This was excellent news as I was anxious to cross-examine the top man, so I looked worried and only reluctantly agreed to Belmont being added to the list of prosecution witnesses.

  When that was settled I turned back to the D.I. with, 'Just one other matter. Pinhead had refused to talk during his first three days in custody?' 'Yes.' 'Then you saw him, without Superintendent Gannon being there?' 'Detective Sergeant Lane was present on that occasion.' 'I know he was.' And then I put the questions I owed to Mr Bernard's industry, 'Did you tell him that unless he made a confession you'd hand him over to Ted Yeomans's mates and they'd do him over in a way he wasn't likely to forget.' There was another unusual pause, but finally the answer shot out as loudly as ever, 'No, I didn't tell him that.' 'But by a remarkable coincidence the next day he talked at length to the Superintendent, and did so the minute Mr Gannon arrived at the station.' 'Yes. But I don't think it was exactly the statement that's been produced in court.' 'Not exactly the statement produced in court.' Guthrie noted down the answer carefully and then said, 'Have you any more questions, Mr Rumpole?' 'Not at the moment, my Lord.' 'Then I shall rise for a few minutes,' the Judge told us all.

  'Public business, my Lord?' I asked, because that was the excuse given for all his Lordship's absences, whether caused by the need to visit the Gents, place a bet or, on one famous occasion, to help organize industrial action by the Judiciary.* On this occasion he said, 'No, Mr Rumpole. It's an entirely private matter,' and he went off to telephone his wife and appeal to her, once more, to forgive him.