CHAPTER 19

‘Well, Black,’ the judge says, as his summing-up comes to an end, ‘you have had a long, anxious and careful trial. There is only one sentence that can be pronounced. You are either guilty of murder or not. It is up to the jury, twelve good men and true, to decide on your innocence or guilt.’

Of course, Ken McKenzie thinks, they have been deliberating all along. At the Station Hotel, minds had been made up before the closing addresses. These words have wrung his heart, but not those of his fellow jurors, or not many of them. And whatever good words Black’s counsel has had — some of the hard and fast among his fellow jurors might have been momentarily swayed — the judge has put short work to that. He has effectively ruled out manslaughter, saying that it is applicable only if provocation can be proven and, given the time that had elapsed since the fight at 105 Wellesley Street, they should be cautious about such a verdict.

Once they are inside the jury room and the doors close, James Taylor says, ‘This shouldn’t be difficult, gentlemen. Let’s start with a show of hands to see who thinks Albert Black is guilty.’

‘It’s irrefutable,’ says the accountant.

Heads nod around the table. Hands are raised, eight in all.

Ken, Jack Cuttance the butcher, Arthur the lecturer, and Marcus from men’s wear, who has hardly spoken at all except to the night watchman and the grocer in the intervals between their duties, keep their hands in their laps. Ken sees that Marcus’s face is set in a frightened grimace as if he can’t believe he is doing this.

‘How can he not be guilty?’ Wayne the gasfitter asks. ‘A knife in the back of the neck is murder.’

‘But it was a fluke,’ Ken says, recalling the words of the pathologist. He is endeavouring to sound calm, hoping they might still listen to reason. ‘Remember, he said even he couldn’t have hit the exact spot the first time, even if he’d tried.’

Neville Johns speaks then. ‘The judge clearly believes he’s guilty. You can make all the fancy excuses you like, a good New Zealand man wouldn’t do a thing like that.’

So it is there again, Ken thinks, the prejudice against the outsider that the judge expressed to the Grand Jury. It is alive and well in the room; it has been there all along.

‘Irish. One of those Mickey Doolans,’ Wayne says.

‘He’s an Ulsterman,’ Arthur remarks quietly, ‘a Protestant lad. Not that it should matter what his religion is.’

‘He speaks like a bog-trotter.’

So they range, backwards and forwards, reliving the moments of the trial that have struck them the most. The girl is pretty and well spoken, don’t they think? An impressionable girl who’d done a silly thing, going to that party, but she was brave all right, and you could see she has a bit of spirit.

‘Larsen wasn’t brave,’ Ken says. ‘I read that bit in the paper about Larsen being bound over to give evidence, just a little item.’ It’s something that’s been buzzing around in his head like a blowfly in a bottle. ‘They found him and brought him back. Like Mr Pearson said, he must have been scared of giving evidence. The others wanted to shut him up. Why would they do that?’

‘Mr McKenzie,’ Taylor says, any friendliness of the past days evaporating like cold mist in the hot room, ‘that did not form part of the evidence. They didn’t recall Larsen to the stand. It’s too late to speculate.’

‘I tell you, it was in the paper, they put sugar in his petrol.’

‘That leads us nowhere.’

‘But it does, don’t you see that? Those witnesses, they want to be on the right side of the law. I reckon they’ve all got things to hide.’

‘It’s a little late to play Sherlock Holmes.’ Taylor’s voice is cold.

‘Don’t you care if there’s a miscarriage of justice?’ Ken’s voice is anguished. ‘This is a man’s life.’

‘Gentlemen, we need to move along,’ Taylor says. He speaks as if Ken is a recalcitrant child. ‘I believe most of us are of like minds. Sir,’ he says, turning to Marcus, ‘I’m surprised that you don’t share our views.’ He nods to the other men from Queen Street. ‘Your friends seem sure enough.’

‘They think it’s not worth arguing over.’

‘Is that true?’ Taylor says.

There are shrugs and silence. Marcus casts his eyes downwards, his fingers knotting and unknotting.

‘You don’t seem very sure about this.’ Taylor looks around at the man’s friends.

‘We all have our secrets,’ the night watchman says.

‘You mean he’s a faggot, and you’re not,’ Johns says, with quiet menace.

‘I’m not,’ Marcus says in a high, terrified voice.

‘You know what happens to faggots if the law gets hold of them, don’t you?’ the banker says. ‘Perhaps you fancy Black.’

Marcus raises his hands in a gesture of submission. Ken closes his eyes. There is a thick smell of men’s bodies around him, sweat, tobacco, an ugly tension that has descended. He supposes he has known that Marcus is a queer man, perhaps everyone has. It is not something he had dwelt on during the course of the trial. But he sees that Marcus’s friends knew and have been afraid for him all along.

‘Guilty,’ Marcus says in a whisper.

‘That makes nine of us in agreement. Come on, my friends, what’s the worst that can happen to Black? Yes, he can be put to death, but I expect there will be a plea for leniency. He’s young, he’ll probably get shipped off back to Ireland after he’s served a long term in prison.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Arthur says. ‘You’ve invented a scenario that suits you, so you can go home and sleep easy and not think about it again. If you find him guilty, the judge is bound to pass the death sentence once the verdict is delivered. All the rest is speculation on your part. Suppose you’re wrong and Black is put to death, will you still be so sure of yourself? Some of us beg to differ with you.’

‘It’s true, Black did stick it to Johnny McBride,’ Jack Cuttance says, as if he is beginning to waver. ‘The trouble is the death penalty. I do it to animals and that’s hard enough. It’s worse to think of it done to a man.’

Johns tamps his pipe, his lower lip stuck out. ‘Was that your lady wife you were talking to the other night, Mr Cuttance?’

Jack stares at him, a vein in his throat suddenly beginning to throb. ‘You listened to my conversation?’

‘I waited long enough to use the phone. I was standing right next to the booth and you didn’t seem to notice. Very affectionate, I thought, quite erotic in fact, all the things you’re planning to do to your lady.’

The only sound in the room is Johns puffing on his re-ignited pipe. The smoke curls higher, drifting around their heads. Ken notices spittle running down the side of the banker’s mouth when he draws on the pipe, and the sight of it makes him feel sick.

‘I’ll have to go with guilty then,’ Jack Cuttance says. He doesn’t look at Arthur or Ken. His face is drained of colour. ‘I’ve my kids to think about.’

‘Good man, well then, we’re just about there,’ Taylor says. Ken finds himself shouting. ‘You didn’t listen. You didn’t hear anything except what you wanted to hear. You’re a bunch of narrow-minded bigots.’ And then it happens, the worst possible thing. His piss runs down the side of the chair; its smell, like citronella oil, mingles with the whole grubby atmosphere. ‘Not guilty,’ he says, his misery plain for all to see.

‘Not guilty,’ Arthur says. But somehow, his and Ken’s words are lost, as if they simply don’t exist in the room.

Ken says, ‘Arthur, you can stop them.’ The faces he sees are implacable, their distaste and indifference clear, except in Cuttance who covers his face with his hands. Marcus is leaned so far over the table it’s impossible to see his expression. ‘So I’m a farm boy who’s pissed his pants. I piss you off because I disagree with you. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do the right thing.’

Arthur puts his hand on his arm. ‘It’s no fault of yours. We can sit here for hours or days. Their minds are made up.’

‘You’ve changed your mind too. What is it? Your important job too?’ He can stand up for himself and hold his ground. But first he will have to change his pants. Perhaps he will be found unfit in his absence. It’s all over, he knows.

Arthur hesitates and sighs. ‘Funnily enough, it might improve my standing, being the rogue juror, the man of principle. But it’s not going to change anything here. Ken, they were always going to find this man guilty. At best we can cause a hung jury, and the next jury might see it differently. Or not. I can’t deny that Black killed Jacques. Was he provoked? I think so. Was he defending himself? The witnesses say not. I believe it was manslaughter, but the judge isn’t having that. The best one can hope for is leniency.’

Rita Zilich and her friends fall silent from their ceaseless twittering chatter as the jury is ushered into the courtroom for the last time. Only an hour and forty minutes has passed since they left. Another four minutes pass while they take their seats. The hushed quiet is broken momentarily by a crowd of girls who have rushed to the courthouse in their lunch break, two taxiloads of them. They smell of perfume and fish and chips, and hastily eaten egg sandwiches, the surreptitious sucking of Irish moss jubes. In the dock, Albert Black holds onto the railing in front of him, fingering it as if he were trying to read Braille.

The judge asks James Taylor if the jury finds the defendant guilty or not guilty of murder.

‘Guilty, your Honour.’

Paddy sways forward so that Des Ball, standing on one side of him, and a court attendant on the other, have to step up and take his arms to support him.

‘Have you anything you wish to say?’ the judge asks.

After a few moments while he composes himself, Paddy says in a calm, flat voice, ‘Nothing to say, sir.’

Mr Justice Finlay, his long patrician face grim, lifts the black cap, which is not a black cap at all but a square of black fabric, and places it on the top of his wig. There is a moment when he fumbles it, arranging it so that one point falls towards his face. ‘You have heard the verdict of the jury,’ he says. ‘The sentence of this court, therefore, is that you will be taken from here to the place from whence you came and there be kept in close confinement until the date yet to be confirmed of your execution, and upon that day you be taken to the place of execution and there hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may God have mercy upon your soul.’

In the silence, the palpable perfumed silence of the courtroom, Paddy turns and stumbles to the trapdoor leading to the cell below. At the back of the court the pale girl who has sat throughout the trial, her eyes following every movement of the unfolding events, begins to sob, her cries becoming louder, until an attendant ushers her away.

The sun is brilliant in the sky as the jury enters the light, leaving the court behind them. They have been excused jury service for seven years. Most of them hope they will never be back, or so they say, as they walk out beneath the pale green of the spring trees. Some shake hands before they disperse, promising to see each other before long. Ken turns to leave, his sodden trousers cold against his leg. Arthur holds out his hand to him and Ken takes it.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ken says. ‘If it weren’t for me.’

‘No, not you. I gave you my word. When it came to the point I could see no hope at all. I kept telling myself Black might be spared. There’s sure to be an appeal, a bit of hue and cry. You should get along home, put it behind you.’

‘You listened to me. That’s something, I suppose.’ Ken’s voice is cool.

‘I’m as sorry as you.’

‘Are you? I’ve never met an educated man before. I didn’t know what to expect.’

‘I’m no different from you. I had opportunities, that’s all,’ Arthur says. He has taken a small notepad and a pencil from the breast pocket of his jacket. His shoes glint in the sunlight as he scribbles down a phone number.

Ken has begun to shiver in his trousers, despite the warmth of the sun on their backs. ‘Opportunities aren’t for everyone.’

‘You could still make some. Carpe diem, Kenneth, my friend. It means seize the day.’

‘You think better of me than I deserve,’ Ken says. He is mocking the man now, though Arthur is oblivious to his undertone.

‘The university calendar for next year should be out any day.’ Arthur hands Ken the piece of paper. ‘Ring me if you think I can help.’ He turns on his heel, walking away towards the university. In a peculiar way, Ken wants to laugh. It occurs to him that he is no better and no worse than the lecturer. As he heads towards the bus stop, he tears the piece of paper into little pieces and dumps them in a bin.

In the van with its darkened windows, Albert and Des sit in silence. Des doesn’t know it yet, but when he gets home his wife and children will be gone. He will understand soon enough that Marge has taken as much as she can and she isn’t going to take it anymore. It will surprise him to learn that she knows when trouble is coming, that she can read the signs from the stories in the newspapers and put two and two together. He will wish with all his soul that he had trusted her more with the grief that lies in his heart, the things he has seen. When the vehicle stops at intersections, trams clattering past make the only sounds. School is coming out for the day and children’s high voices can be heard. The van moves on, back towards the prison. Then, in the gloom, Albert begins to sing, his voice tentative at first, but rising and filling the van:

Wallflower, wallflower, growing up

so high

All the little children are all

going-to die

Except for Albert Black — he’s the

only one

He can dance, he can sing

He can dance, he can do the swing

Fie for shame! Fie for shame!

Turn your back to the wall again.

‘Shut up, Black,’ Des shouts. ‘Shut the fuck up or I’ll smash you.’

Paddy stops just long enough to say, ‘Have you always been a cold crackers, Mr Ball? Have you never lived? You’d best make the most of it, you never know when your time will come.’

Later, in the long night that lies ahead of him, Des will think that the Irish boy has the second sight.

And Paddy’s voice carries on, relentless in the dark, as the gates open to let the van through and they are back at the prison again.

Fie for shame! Fie for shame!

Turn your back to the wall again.

Rita’s mother looks at her daughter as if she doesn’t altogether recognise her. She has sat up late, waiting for her. It is close to morning.

‘Rita,’ she whispers, ‘what have you done?’

‘I didn’t mean for this to happen.’

‘Did you lie to that court?’

‘I don’t know, Mum. It’s the way I remember it.’

‘You’re soiled goods.’

‘I know. I’ll make it up to you, I’ll stay home. Let you find me a nice boy.’

‘If your father and I can. And what of the boy who is to die?’

Rita is wordless, her eyes suddenly full of tears. ‘He was a nice enough boy, Mum. Not a bad boy.’

‘May God forgive you, Rita,’ her mother says.