THE CASE IN COURT
“I will have to bring ’er up!”
It was Susan who spoke. She had returned to the house, where the news of
the fight had preceded her. The whole family had been on the point of
issuing forth to her rescue when she appeared, and now they were again
assembled in full conclave to discuss at length this new aspect of the
situation.
“‘Vengeance is mine,’” quoted her aunt; “but there is a time for all
things. An’ if y’u don’t teach a gurl like Maria a lesson, she will go
far wid you.”
“She is a very rude young ooman!” exclaimed Mr. Proudleigh with
indignation, following up his sister’s remark; he felt that he must lend
his daughter his moral support. “Ef I was a younger man,” he went on, “I
would . . . I would . . . well, I don’t know what I wouldn’t do! But
Mother Smit is a dangerous female to interfere wid, and de cramps is
troubling me in me foot so badly dat I wouldn’t like ’er to put ’er hand
’pon me at all.”
“Ef she ever touch you,” his wife broke in, “old as I is, she an’ me
would have to go to prison.”
“You was always a courigous gal, Mattie,” said the old man approvingly;
“but I don’t want to see y’u get into any quarrel; an’ to tell you de
trute, I don’t t’ink I could help you at all. Susan is goin’ to bring up
Maria, an’ that is a satisfaction. I are going to de court-house wid ’er
to encourage her.”
“But suppose Susan lose the case?” Catherine suggested. She had been a
witness of the encounter, and though she fully intended to forget every
fact that would make against Susan in the court-house, she was sagacious
enough to realize that Maria’s friends would not do likewise.
“Lose me case?” asked Susan incredulously. “That can’t be done! She
provoked me first, an’ the judge must take note of that. Besides, I am
goin’ to put a good lawyer on her: not a fool-fool man that can’t talk,
but a man who will question her properly an’ make her tell de truth.”
“Dat is right,” said Mr. Proudleigh with proud anticipation of coming
victory. “Sue, I advise you to get de Attorney-General.”
“I never hear about him,” Miss Proudleigh remarked; “an’ it won’t do for
Susan to get a lawyer we don’t know. But who to get?”
As Mr. Proudleigh knew nothing about the leader of the local bar except
his name, he decided not to urge the claims of that high official upon
his daughter. One after another, the names of the several lawyers of
whom the family had heard were mentioned, and their various merits were
discussed. As this was to be the most important case ever tried—or at
least so the family thought—it was of the utmost importance that the
brightest legal luminary should be obtained: the difficulty was to
select one from the many whose reputation for ability commended them all
as fit and proper persons to prosecute Maria Bellicant for assault and
abusive language. At last Miss Proudleigh suggested a lawyer whose
cleverness in handling witnesses determined to perjure themselves had
often appealed to her admiration. Having once mentioned his name with
approval, the worthy lady thought it was incumbent upon her to argue
away all that might be said against him and all that might be urged in
favour of other solicitors; and at length Susan decided that she would
go to see Lawyer Jones in the morning. Miss Proudleigh was so delighted
with the prospect of having Mr. Jones proceed against Maria, that during
the rest of the time she remained at the house she could talk of nothing
but that lawyer’s merits. But on leaving she reminded Susan of the value
of prayer as a consolation for all the troubles of life, and suggested
that supplications made properly and in a reverent spirit might lead to
Maria’s being afflicted with manifold ills throughout the rest of her
days.
After Miss Proudleigh had left, the family sat up until twelve o’clock
discussing the fight and the coming case. And in many of the yards and
houses of the lane the fight also formed the topic of discussion. In the
yard where Maria lived some thirty persons assembled to express their
sympathy with her and to give fervent utterance to the hope that she had
beaten Susan properly. They were comforted on learning from Maria that
she had. Mother Smith herself performed a sort of war dance about the
premises, showing in pantomime what she would do as soon as she should
lay hands upon Susan and Susan’s people, down to the third and fourth
generation. Everybody agreed that Maria had been most shamefully
ill-treated, and one of the girls who had been with Maria at the street
corner went so far as to “think” she had seen Susan draw a pair of
scissors out of her pocket, presumably to stab Maria. Indeed, in some of
the tenement yards it was actually reported that blood had been drawn,
one eye-witness even undertaking to describe the wounds. Altogether, it
was a very exciting night in that section of the lane in which the girls
lived, and almost every one was glad that Susan had at last met her
match.
The excitement was kept alive the next day by the news that Susan had
brought up Maria. Maria had been expecting this, for she had rightly
calculated that no girl in Susan’s financial position would forgo the
luxury of a case in court after such a fight. Maria was poor, but she
felt that the only proper thing to do in the circumstances was to “cross
the warrant”; so she went and crossed it that same day, and Mother Smith
began to sell some of her scanty stock of furniture to raise enough
money to employ a lawyer.
Susan acted very rapidly when her mind was made up. After leaving the
court-house she had sent a note to Tom telling him to come round to see
her that night; and Tom, who had already heard about the fight, came as
requested.
He was a short, stoutish young fellow of about twenty-six years of age,
and somewhat lighter in complexion than Susan. His watery eyes, weak
mouth, and tip-tilted nose showed a man of little strength of character;
you would rightly have described him as a nondescript sort of person. He
took great pride in his appearance, always used cheap scents on Sundays,
and carried on his amours as surreptitiously as possible. He had a
horror of domestic quarrels, and though it was true that he had been
attracted by Maria’s appearance, fear of Susan’s temper had kept him
fairly faithful to his vows of eternal constancy. He had flirted just a
little with Maria. He had made her one or two presents. He had written
her a couple of letters; he was rather (perhaps dangerously) fond of
writing letters. But Susan overawed him, and in the midst of these
amorous exercises he had devoutly hoped that she would never suspect him
of even speaking to Maria. Judge of his consternation, therefore, when,
after greeting him coldly and saying that she had sent for him because
he did not seem to care now about coming to see her as often as before,
she launched out upon a sea of reproaches, and overwhelmed him with
perfectly just accusations. Naturally, he denied all intercourse with
Maria, though remembering with a sinking heart that his own handwriting
might be produced against him. But Susan evidently knew nothing about
those letters: perhaps he could induce Maria to return them to him. He
began to take heart—too soon. For Susan did not believe a word he said,
though she pretended to do so in order to gain the end she had in view.
She heard him out to the end, and after he had expressed his indignation
at the conduct of Maria, and agreed with Susan that that young woman
deserved severest punishment, she quietly said:
“I bring Maria up to-day.”
Tom was thunderstruck.
“You mean,” he stammered, “that you going into a court-house with that
girl?”
“Yes,” she answered; “I make up me mind.”
“An’ then,” he protested heatedly, “my name will be called, an’ I will
be mixed up in it! What you talkin’ about, Sue?”
“You’ name won’t be called,” she answered inflexibly. “What you fretting
about? If you know, as you say, that you have nothing to do with Maria,
you needn’t trouble you’self. It is me bringing her up, not you. Who is
to call you’ name?”
Tom looked into her face, and realized that there was no turning her
from her purpose. The two were alone in the day-sitting-room; but even
if the rest of the family were there, he reflected ruefully, that would
hardly assist him.
“I don’t like it,” he muttered dismally.
“Don’t fret about anything,” she cheerfully advised him as he bade her
good-night. “You’ name won’t come into the case.”
But Tom left her with a sinking heart.
* * * * *
The eventful day of the case dawned at last, and found Susan and her
family in a state of intense excitement. The case was to be tried in the
Police Court, a building which had once been a barracks for the Imperial
soldiers when troops were stationed in the city of Kingston. The
courtyard of this building opened on one hand upon the city’s central
park, a large plot of land planted out in umbrageous evergreens and
flowering shrubs; on the other hand, it opened upon one of the city’s
busiest thoroughfares. Thus on the one side was an oasis of peace and
beauty, while in the adjoining street to the west all was squalor and
confusion. This street itself was filled with little shops and crowded
with clamouring, gesticulating people. A market was there, and the
echoes of shrieks of laughter and sudden volleys of abuse sometimes came
to the magistrates and lawyers as they transacted their business in the
court; but they accepted these minor interruptions as part of the
settled order of things, and never complained about them. Carts rattling
over the brick pavement, electric cars passing at frequent intervals and
incessantly sounding their gongs to warn the careless people out of
their way, diminutive venders shouting out the nature and superior
quality of their wares—all this, with the inevitable clouds of dust
which swept over and enveloped everything, made up the life and activity
of the street. And dominating the whole scene stood the weather-worn,
ugly, two-storeyed building which to so many thousands of the people was
the awe-inspiring symbol of a vague and tremendous power called Law.
Both Susan and Maria knew the place well. They arrived there with their
attendant retinues at a little before ten o’clock, the hour at which the
court began to sit. Policemen were to be seen about the large courtyard,
clad in white jackets and blue serge trousers and white helmets. They
were the visible and self-conscious representatives of might, majesty,
dominion, and power. Habitual criminals made remarks about them as they
passed up and down amongst the scores of people who loitered in the
courtyard; but they paid no attention to these, for freedom of ambiguous
speech is the privilege of all habitual criminals.
Soon after their arrival, Susan and Maria entered the court-room with
their friends to wait until their case should be called. They had been
there more than once before as spectators, but now, as the principal
actors in such a tremendous drama, they gazed about them with new and
strange sensations.
The room was furnished in the plainest manner possible. At the southern
end of it was a platform, on which stood a desk and a chair: these were
for the magistrate. To the magistrate’s right was the witness box, and
just below his desk was a table, with a number of chairs around it. Here
the court serjeant, one or two police inspectors, and the lawyers sat.
Behind these, and facing the magistrate, was the dock; behind this dock
were ranged a few wooden benches without backs, and apparently designed
for the purpose of inflicting the maximum amount of physical discomfort
on those who might choose to sit on them. These were for the use of the
spectators.
A case over, a trifling thing relating to a young lady with fifteen
previous convictions for abusive language, the case of Susan Proudleigh
_v._ Maria Bellicant was called. Maria, as the accused, took up her
stand behind her lawyer, who rose and informed the magistrate that he
appeared for her.
“Susan Proudleigh!” called the court serjeant, and Susan rose. But the
policeman at the door, who acted as the crier of the court, would not be
defrauded of his privilege of shouting out her name; so immediately his
voice was heard screaming, “Su—u—u—san Pounder! Su—u—u—san
Pounder! Su—u—u—san Pounder!” And another policeman outside took up
the cry with, “Su—u—u—san Plummer! Su—u—u—san Plummer! Su—u—san
Plummer!” and was about to return the verdict of “No answer,” when he
learnt that the lady was inside.
Susan was motioned towards the witness box after Maria had vehemently
pleaded not guilty to the charge of assault and battery. She felt
nervous as she gazed around the crowded room, but she was comforted by
the reflection that she looked very well in her white lawn frock trimmed
with blue ribbons, with hat to match.
She took the book in her hand as directed, and swore that she would tell
nothing but the truth. Then she stated her case.
“My Honour, I was walking me way quite quiet an’ peaceful down Blake
Lane on Thursday night last week; I was goin’ for a walk, my Honour, an’
thinking about——”
“Never mind what you were thinking about,” said the magistrate; “go on.”
“Yes, my Honour. I was thinkin’ about me poor old father at home, when
all of a sudden I see Maria Bellicant at the corner. I was goin’ to tell
’er good evening, because as I know I never do her nothing, I had no bad
feelings against ’er, and——”
“Oh, never mind all that!” interrupted the magistrate impatiently; “we
don’t want to hear about your feelings. Tell us the facts.”
This was distinctly disconcerting. Susan, who had been trying to
manipulate her th’s properly so as to make a good impression upon His
Honour, now began to think he was prejudiced against her. However, she
went bravely on.
“I go up to Maria, my Honour, an’ I was going to say, ‘Good evening,
Maria,’ when she look at me an’ laugh. An’ she say, ‘Look at this
wort’less gal!’ I say to her, ‘But, Maria, why you call me wort’less?’
an’ I go up nearer up to ’er in a friendly spirit; an’ she take ’er
elbow an’ push me, an’ I hold ’er hand, an’ she collar me an’ begin to
beat me, an’ I bawl for murder.”
She paused, for this was her version of the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth. Her lawyer asked her a few questions, the answers
to which all tended to corroborate her story. She felt quite satisfied,
believing that she had already won the case; but Maria’s lawyer rose
very quietly, and intimated that he desired to ask her a few questions.
“Your name is Susan Proudleigh?” he asked, the tone of his voice
suggesting that he thought the name might be an _alias_.
“Yes.”
“You live at No. 101 Blake Lane?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your intended’s name is Thomas Wooley?”
“What has that to do with the case?” asked the magistrate.
“A great deal, your Honour,” answered the lawyer. “Now, Susan,” he went
on, “remember you are on your oath! Your sweetheart’s name is Thomas
Wooley, isn’t it?”
Susan looked at him dumbly. But his “Answer me!” was too peremptory to
be disobeyed.
“Yes,” she answered, and her heart sank, for she remembered what she had
said to Tom about his name not being called.
“And he is tired of you, isn’t he?” her questioner continued
mercilessly, rejoicing in her confusion.
“What you mean?”
“Answer my question, miss!” was again the command.
“No; him never tell me so.”
“Ah, now, don’t you know that Thomas is in love with Maria?”
“I don’t know dat at all; in fact, you ’ave no business——”
“Don’t you dare argue with me! Now when you met Maria Bellicant that
night, and when you told her that she had stolen the clothes she had
on——”
“I never tell ’er so!” Susan burst forth. “I tell ’er she didn’t ’ave a
decent dress to wear!”
“Oh! so you provoked her, did you?”
Susan perceived that she had blundered, but the lawyer did not give her
a chance to recover herself.
“Why did you provoke her? Answer me at once!” he insisted, and she was
about to blunder further, when her lawyer rose and asked the magistrate
if his client was to be intimidated and bullied in that fashion? He
suggested that Susan had offered no provocation whatever, and, although
the magistrate promptly stopped him, Susan caught the cue. She had to
admit, however, that she had struck Maria after she herself had been
struck, and Maria’s lawyer was satisfied that Susan’s principal witness
would admit far more than that.
This witness was a young man, one Hezekiah Theophilus Wilberforce.
Catherine had taken ill almost at the last moment, fear of the
court-house having much to do with her sudden illness; so Susan had had
to fall back upon the assistance of Hezekiah. Had she been sophisticated
she might have tried to obtain the services of a professional witness. A
few of these are always to be found in every West Indian town of any
importance, and they perform the useful function of swearing to things
they never saw. You relate the circumstances to them, and they find that
they were in the vicinity of the occurrence (whatever it was) on the day
or night in question; and, if they were not seen by any of the other
witnesses, that may be attributed to the fact that the excitement was
intense.
These men are well known to the magistrates and lawyers, and sometimes
they are called upon to explain their astonishing ubiquity. But a man is
by British law considered honest until he is proven to be a scoundrel,
so these witnesses continue to flourish like green bay trees. Susan,
however, knew nothing of the high mysteries of the law and the customs
of the court. So Hezekiah had been selected by her, chiefly on the
strength of his own recommendation, as a person most likely to give a
graphic and satisfactory account of the ill-treatment she had suffered
at the hands of Maria Bellicant.
Hezekiah had always had an ambition to figure as something in a court of
justice. Not being able to prosecute anybody himself, he longed for the
time when he should “kiss de book,” and then proceed to tell a story
which should assist in sending a fellow-creature to prison. On his name
being called, he came into the court all smiles, and holding high his
shining head, as one who realized the importance of being a witness. He
repeated the story that Susan had told, varying it only by a detailed
description of the treatment to which she had been subjected. Asked by
the magistrate why he had not attempted to separate the girls, he
replied with a grin that “horse don’t have business in cow’s fight,” a
reason which, he thought, amply explained his apparent cowardice. That
said, he was about to step down from the box, not anticipating that
anything further would be required of him, when Maria’s lawyer abruptly
asked him where he was going to?
He paused, confused by the sharp and even threatening tone of the
lawyer, who knew his type well.
“Hezekiah, what do you do for a living?” was the first question put to
him.
The question was quite unexpected, and it was simply impossible for
Hezekiah to answer it straightforwardly. For the truth was that he did
nothing for a living. While he stared open-mouthed at the lawyer,
wondering what to say, the latter called His Honour’s attention to the
fact that the witness could not answer a simple question about his own
means of livelihood, and then suggested that Hezekiah must either be a
thief or a loafer.
The magistrate was peremptory. “What do you do for a living?” he asked.
“Me mother help me, sah, an’ me uncle,” stammered poor Hezekiah, reduced
to the sad extremity of telling the truth.
“Now, sir!” thundered the lawyer, “do you mean to tell me that a big man
like you is living on a poor old woman? And have you nothing better to
do than come to the court-house and tell lies?”
“I don’t tell no lie, sah!” grumbled Hezekiah.
“Don’t be impertinent, sir! Now remember you are on your oath: didn’t
the Chinaman at the lane corner once threaten to put you in charge for
stealing a pack of Rosebud cigarettes off his counter?”
The question came like a thunder-clap. Hezekiah’s love for these
cigarettes was well-known to all his friends, but he had fondly hoped
that that little episode, which might have had so unpleasant a
termination, had been forgotten by the Chinaman himself. How did the
lawyer know of it? In his bewilderment it did not dawn on him that his
whole life-history, in so far as Maria knew it, had been told with point
and circumstance to Maria’s lawyer.
Fear now took possession of him—abject fear. A few more questions like
the last, and his reputation in the lane would be ruined for ever. He
moved about in his circle as a man of some importance, for he played the
guitar, swore with remarkable fluency, and claimed superiority on the
ground that he neither worked nor wanted. This examination was not at
all what he had bargained for. As he explained afterwards, the lawyer
took a mean advantage of him. But the fierce interrogatory had had its
effect; for when the lawyer asked him, “Now, didn’t you see Susan
Proudleigh assault Maria Bellicant first?” he meekly answered, “Yes.”
After that the truth, or as much of it as Hezekiah could remember, came
out. All that Susan’s lawyer could do was to prove that Maria had been
as quick to quarrel as Susan. Long before the witnesses were finished
with, it had become clear to the magistrate that he had here a simple
case of jealousy to deal with, and, as he had acquired something of a
reputation as a maker of compromises (which satisfied nobody) he thought
he would interpose at this point and so still further add to his fame as
a peacemaker.
Looking sternly at Susan, he told her that she could go on with the case
if she liked; but that though it was clear that he would have to fine
Maria for provoking her to a breach of the peace, by putting her hand in
her (the prosecutor’s) face, which act amounted to a technical assault,
he saw clearly that when Maria Bellicant’s case came on he would also
have to fine the present prosecutor. Both had used insulting words; both
were to blame. So he would advise them to make up their differences out
of court, especially as they appeared to be two decent young women.
Being a man of decided views on morality, he was particularly hard on
Tom.
“That young man, Tom Wooley,” he said, “has really been the cause of
this quarrel. I wish he was here so that I could deal with him. But I
hope that some one will tell him what I say. He seems to be a very loose
character, and I fear that there are only too many such in Kingston. I
have no doubt that he is deceiving a number of other women, and his acts
may lead to some of them going to prison one day.” The speaker glanced
at the reporters to see if they were taking down his little speech.
Satisfied that they were, he went on to urge upon the girls the
necessity of leading a respectable and self-sacrificing life. This they
most faithfully promised to do, all the while thinking him an old crank
who interfered too freely with other people’s business. Much pleased
with the apparent result of his efforts to rescue Susan and Maria from
the broad and easy way, and proud that he had effected another
compromise, he ordered the serjeant to call the next case, and the young
women and their several friends left the court.
Maria was delighted, for Susan had to all intents and purposes lost her
case. Hezekiah was dazed, his mind being awhirl with new and
uncomplimentary thoughts about His Britannic Majesty’s courts. They were
to him places where mean advantages were taken of truthful witnesses,
and in his heart of hearts he knew also that he had fallen from grace
for ever, in so far as Susan was concerned. As for Susan, she was
furious. She had not succeeded in getting Maria punished. She had been
lectured by an “ole fool” as she called the learned magistrate. Worst of
all, Tom’s name had been repeatedly mentioned during the trial. It had
been an entirely miserable affair, and, for her, a humiliating defeat.