Have been summoned to attend as a Witness in the trial of the six
roughs who first drugged and then savagely ill-treated a foolishly
convivial citizen in Whitechapel. Don't know if it was wise of me
to tell the Police that I could identify the men. Since my evidence
before the Magistrate came out, I have had thirty-seven threatening
letters, my front windows have been broken several times over, and a
valuable dog poisoned. Still, evidently a patriotic duty to "assist
the course of Justice;" and no doubt I shall be compensated.
So this is the "Central Criminal Court," is it? Should hardly have
believed it possible. Outside mean and dirty.
Interior, meaner and much dirtier. Speak to Usher. Usher most
polite. Glad, that at any rate, they _do_ know how to treat important
Witnesses. Am assured I shall have a seat "close to the Judge."
Produce my witness-summons. Demeanour of Usher suddenly changes. I
shall have to go to the "Witnesses' Waiting-room in the old Court."
Where's that? _He_ doesn't know. I'd better ask a Policeman. It now
flashes across me that Usher mistook me for a wealthy, and probably
generous spectator, and thought when I was fumbling in my pocket for
my summons, I was looking for half-a-crown for _him_! Depressing.
Policeman leaves me in a dark, draughty passage, with a bench on each
side. "But where is the waiting-room?" I ask an attendant. "_This_ is
the waiting-room," he replies. More like the Black Hole. _Was_ it wise
of me to give information to the Police?
_Two Days later._--They crammed _forty_ Witnesses into that passage!
No seats for half of them. We had one chair, and Usher took it away
"as a lady wanted it in Court." Lady no doubt a spectator--did _she_
hunt in her pocket for half-a-crown? Anyhow, after two days in the
passage, I have just given my evidence in Court, with fearful cold
on my lungs, owing to the draught. Very hoarse. Ordered by Judge,
sternly, to "speak up." Conscious that I looked a wretched object.
Jury regarded me with evident suspicion. Severely cross-examined.
Mentioned to Judge about my windows being smashed, &c.; could I
receive anything for it? "Oh, dear no," replied the Judge; "we never
reward Witnesses." Amusement in Court--at my expense. In fact, the
course of Justice generally seems to be altogether at my expense.
Home in a cab and a fever. Find ten more threatening letters, and an
infernal machine under area-steps. Go to bed. Doctor says I am in
for pneumonia and bronchitis, he thinks. Tells me I am thoroughly
run down, and asks me, "What I've been doing to reduce myself to this
state?" I reply that, "I have been assisting the course of Justice."
Doctor shrugs his shoulders, and I hear him distinctly mutter, "More
fool you!" I agree with Doctor, cordially. Am quite certain now that
it _was_ unwise to tell Police that I could identify those criminals.
If this is the way in which Witnesses are treated, let Justice in
future assist itself!
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