Oryński, in charitable mood, could only describe the first ten minutes as the most boring event he had ever participated in.
And it was all downhill from there.
The prosecutor read out the indictment, which formally began the trial. Then there was a litany of instructions: the defendant was informed that he had the right to submit explanations, to remain silent, to refuse to answer specific questions . . . and so on and so on. Were it not for the fact that a man’s fate was at stake, Kordian would have fallen asleep.
As the judge continued to pontificate, Oryński looked around the room and thought how it clearly belonged to a bygone age, when people would queue for hours in the street just to buy meat. The crass lack of sophistication overwhelmed you the moment you stepped over the threshold; it was enough to make even an innocent person lose all hope.
Kordian had watched the trial of Breivik in Norway – there the courtroom décor was in the latest minimalist style, with the adjudicating panel sitting on black leather seats against a grey-painted wall. The furniture was made from warm, light-coloured wood, and the floor was ash-panelled. The lightness and elegance were in direct contrast to what Kordian was facing now.
He looked at Langer sitting next to him, and saw that he really didn’t give a damn. It was as if he had gone to the cinema to see a film he’d already seen several times. Prisoners often manifest their contempt or indifference towards the justice system, but normally they do it ostentatiously. Langer, on the other hand, seemed genuinely indifferent to what was happening around him.
‘Does the defendant understand the indictment?’ asked the presiding judge. Apart from the judge, Langer’s fate depended on four other people: three lay assessors and another professional judge.
‘Yes,’ replied Piotr.
‘Does the defendant plead guilty?’ asked the judge.
Chyłka turned round and looked at Langer. Kordian did the same, biting his lower lip. From the start he had been wondering what their client would say when the inevitable question was asked.
The judge looked expectantly at the detainee. ‘No,’ answered Piotr.
The defence lawyers exchanged glances.
‘The defendant may now make a statement, if he so wishes,’ grunted the judge. He clearly wasn’t thrilled to start this trial, and it was easy to understand why. So far, the case files had grown sky-high, while it was essentially an open-and-shut case. The fingerprints, the DNA and the flat itself were sufficient evidence.
‘I have no statement to make, Your Honour.’
The lay assessors looked at one another in consternation, but the defendant looked as if he really didn’t care.
‘Then we shall proceed to questioning the witnesses,’ said the judge, and summoned the first of the unfortunates who had come before the court to speak the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help them God.
Until the last minute, Kordian had deceived himself into thinking that Chyłka would defy Żelazny and Langer Senior’s wishes. But now that didn’t seem to be the case.
Instead of witnesses in the witness box, they saw experts. At first glance, the psychiatrist appeared to be a courtroom veteran able to grind any delinquent to a fine powder.
‘On what basis did you assess the prisoner’s state of mind?’ asked the prosecutor, when she had taken her place on the stand.
‘I had a variety of resources at my disposal,’ she screeched in reply. ‘Transcripts of the defendant’s statements, comments from his neighbours and my own observations.’
‘Do you consider this evidence to be sufficient?’
‘In my opinion, no.’
Rejchert’s face turned pale. Chyłka twitched, suddenly aware that fate might have a pleasant surprise in store.
‘Please explain,’ said the judge, frowning. At last he looked interested.
‘The thing is, Your Honour, establishing sanity, insanity or diminished responsibility is a long and complicated process. It is essential to delve into—’
‘Keep it succinct,’ admonished the judge.
‘Of course,’ said the expert. ‘In my opinion, the materials I received are not sufficient to make a clear diagnosis. Nonetheless, there is one additional factor that does allow for an unequivocal opinion.’
‘And what’s that?’ interrupted the prosecutor, taking over the questioning.
‘The defendant claims to have been of sound mind when he committed the crime,’ replied the woman confidently.
Joanna looked furiously at Rejchert. The prosecutor winked at her, which made her realise that it had all been set up expressly to raise her hopes, then dash them.
She swore silently. She knew she could have built a decent line of defence on the earlier statement. Could, past tense. The chance was gone forever. She was hamstrung, powerless to do anything. The psychiatrist had confirmed that Langer was insane, and Langer himself would soon confirm it too. She had no room to manoeuvre.
‘Thank you, I have no more questions,’ declared a self-satisfied Rejchert, returning to his place.
‘Counsel for the defence?’ said the judge, looking at Chyłka sternly. Joanna cleared her throat and straightened her jacket. Slowly approaching the expert, she realised she only had one roll of the dice. She would have to use a ploy so embarrassingly crude, that the two judges now sending her urgent glances would never forget. The next time she met them in court she would be in a weaker position than the prosecution. But she could worry about that later.
‘Counsellor?’ urged the presiding judge.
Chyłka nodded and forced a smile. Then she turned her gaze to the forensic expert.
‘How long have you practised psychiatry?’ she asked.
‘Fifteen years.’
‘How many criminals, or rather, potential criminals, have you worked with in that period?’
‘I don’t understand, how is that—’
‘Please answer the questions unless they are overturned,’ said the second judge.
The psychiatrist thought for a moment.
‘It’s hard to say,’ she replied, looking out into the distance as if she was trying to reach the farthest recesses of her mind.
‘Best estimate.’
‘Four, maybe five.’
‘And did the accused in any of these cases claim to be insane when in your opinion they were of sound mind?’
‘Yes.’
‘I ask because it seems to me that it could also work the opposite way round.’
‘Your Honour,’ interrupted Rejchert, spreading his arms. ‘The counsel for the defence is expressing her opinion, while—’
‘Please confine yourself to asking questions,’ said the presiding judge, giving Joanna a hostile look. She smiled at him again, radiantly this time, and turned back to the psychiatrist.
‘Is what I have said possible?’
‘Theoretically, yes.’
‘Your honour,’ interrupted the prosecutor again. ‘I request that the question be withdrawn. The forensic expert has been summoned to assess a particular case, not to speculate about abstract theories.’
‘Withdrawn!’ confirmed the judge.
‘Your Honour, this is an important matter for—’
‘Please continue,’ interrupted the judge. ‘Do you have any further questions?’
Chyłka nodded.
‘To be more specific: did my client believe he was of sound mind whereas in fact he was not?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But it is possible?’
‘In my opinion, no, not in this particular case.’
‘Is it absolutely impossible that it could be the case?’
‘Your Honour . . .’ pleaded the prosecutor.
‘Please allow the expert to answer the question, counsellor,’ growled the judge.
Kordian listened to all of this with mounting disappointment. He had expected a sophisticated legal battle, not a verbal brawl.
‘Of course, it’s possible, just like it’s possible that one of us will be run over by a car when we leave this courtroom,’ screeched the psychiatrist.
In her mind, Chyłka chalked up a minor victory. The lay assessors took notice of such things, and if she could count on anyone in this trial, it would be the lay assessors. There wasn’t even the slightest chance that the judges would think the defendant was innocent.
‘Do such cases occur?’
‘Your Honour . . .’ Rejchert chimed in again, rising from his chair; but with a wave of his hand, the judge indicated he should sit back down. The question was no longer general, but concerned a specific case, therefore the judge could not withdraw it.
‘Absolutely. Just like there are cases of Stockholm syndrome, where victims start defending their persecutors. But does that mean the persecutor is innocent?’
‘Allow me to ask the questions please,’ said Chyłka, eyeing the expert. The psychiatrist pursed her lips and sniffed, looking disapprovingly towards the adjudicating panel. ‘Is it possible that my client’s assertion of his own sanity was actually an argument for his insanity?’
‘Your Honour, this is a complete—’
‘Mr Rejchert,’ exclaimed the presiding judge, in a tone that left him in no doubt he was sailing too close to the wind. The prosecutor raised his hands in a gesture of apology and returned to his seat. He was annoying, but Chyłka had expected nothing else.
‘So what’s your verdict?’ she asked, looking at the expert.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I don’t think that’s the case here.’
‘Is that your professional opinion?’ The lawyer stressed the penultimate word, looking at the lay assessors with disbelief. She saw that she had their attention. ‘You don’t think . . . wait. Let me get this right. This man’s fate rests on your expertise, and you say you only think he is sane?’
‘No, no,’ protested the psychiatrist. ‘He is sane, only—’
‘Only you can’t say that in all certainty. Isn’t that what you have just told us?’
‘No, I . . .’
‘So tell me, is it possible, from what we’ve heard today that he only thought that he was sane?’
‘No, I don’t . . .’
She’d tangled herself up in her own words. As an expert she was now worthless, so in that sense Joanna had won.
‘Let me remind you that my client has not given us any details about the crime. Is that normal, since you think he was sane? Shouldn’t he remember the crime, along with all the details? What do you think?’
Every word was pushing the expert closer to the edge. She looked increasingly uncomfortable on the podium and looked nervously around the public gallery, seeking help, before fixing her gaze on the adjudicating panel. But the panel was silent, as was the prosecutor, who could have requested the withdrawal of a question on at least two occasions. But he had taken too many liberties at the start and now had to bite his tongue.
‘It seems to me that . . . yes, he should. He should remember. And in my opinion, only—’
‘Only what?’ interrupted Chyłka, watching the judges’ reactions from the corner of her eye. ‘If Piotr Langer claims he does not suffer from mental illness, and has no psychosis or dementia, then surely he should be able to confirm this by recounting the details of the crime he has allegedly committed? Surely this would make his claim of sanity more credible?’
The courtroom fell silent. The expert worried that everyone would notice the beads of sweat on her forehead; she wanted to wipe them off, but stopped herself just in time. That wretched defence lawyer had twisted everything round and made her look like an idiot. Never again would she agree to do anything like this, no matter how much they paid her. This was the last time she would ever agree to appear in court as a forensic expert. To hell with this stress.
‘So what do you think? Should he know the details?’
‘Of course, if—’
‘Then why didn’t he share them with anyone?’
‘Perhaps—’
‘No, no, not “perhaps”,’ interrupted Chyłka, noticing the prosecutor preparing to make a strong objection that would probably end the hearing. Joanna knew she was pushing the court’s patience to its limit, but on the other hand, the expert was embarrassing herself. ‘You were asked to provide a professional, expert opinion. But by using expressions such as “perhaps” and “I think”, you do not allow—’
‘Your Honour, this is just ranting!’ protested Rejchert.
‘Counsellor,’ cut in the judge. ‘Please limit yourself to asking questions.’
‘I am only pointing out that phrases such as “perhaps” can be used by anyone.’ She looked at Kordian, who straightened himself on his chair. ‘For instance, I could say that perhaps my trainee is of sound mind, and perhaps he isn’t. Such is the diagnosis. Perhaps my client has an antisocial personality disorder which is manifested, for instance, by him trying to convince everyone that he was of sound mind at the time he committed the crime, when in fact this was not the case. Perhaps.’
Oryński smiled slightly and looked at the lay assessors. They were hers; you could see it. Her attack was merciless, but she was not rude. This was what made a good defence lawyer.
Kordian recalled one of the many wisdoms of Piłsudski: hold the balance for as long as possible, and when you can’t hold it any longer, set fire to the world. It was a perfect description of courtroom tactics; now he only had to wait for Chyłka to light the fire.
‘Thank you, I have no more questions,’ Chyłka said.
She returned to her seat and gave the lay assessors a friendly smile. The way all three of them looked at her proved to Kordian he was right.
But Kordian was far from optimistic. He recalled an article he had read some time ago about court hearings like this, where the author had said that lay assessors were no more than courtroom decorations. There was a lot of truth in that.
Lay assessors were appointed by town councils, who habitually chose residents well past retirement age. These people just wanted to turn up, get paid and go back to their own lives. This was hardly surprising, because in Poland the trial-by-jury tradition was not very widely known. Even now, there were many Poles who didn’t realise that ordinary citizens were invited to participate in some criminal trials.
After a while, Kordian concluded that it didn’t matter anyway. They would still need a miracle to win the case.