48
FEBRUARY 26TH 2004: THE TRIAL
At: North Haven Magistrates’ Court
Crown Versus Leonard Odysseus Bloom Before: Tobias Mahony
For the defence: John Shaffernacker For the prosecution: Matthew McNutt
“ Leonard Bloom, you are firstly charged on three counts. These are specimen offences under the Telecommunications Act (2003) whereby you transmitted obscene and harassing messages by wireless telephony between the dates of February 14th 2003 and March 12th with the intention to cause distress to one, Miss Rebecca van Hiller, how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?
My throat was sore. For three days I had felt an infection coming on. I was run down and tired but this was not the time to give in to it.
“ Not guilty!”
“You are further charged that on the evening of Wednesday March 12th 2003 on or around 6pm at Truva Park, North Haven, you did assault and batter Miss Rebecca van Hiller. How do you plead?” I pled a hope.
“Not guilty.” Slightly phlegmy need to keep clearing throat.
She rises before her audience. Rebecca van Hiller (juvenile sworn). I am 16 years old. In February 2003 I was fifteen years old. I grew up in New Haven and lived with my parents. I left home soon after I turned fifteen and stayed with Lita Limoncello and her mum, Barbara. They are related to the defendant; step dad and wife. This was twenty-ninth of April 2002 when I lived with them. The defendant came to visit only, nearly every day to that recent address. I left that house on the nineteenth of January 2003 and went and stayed with Cilla Karibdis until September 2003.
I had a mobile phone on which I received text messages. Generally from friends and usually funny ones. Sometimes I got small photos, too. Yes, I got regular messages from them and one particular ex boyfriend. Yes, that was more than all other text messages I ever got. No, maybe I got them two or three times daily. Yes, I found them offensive in nature. Yes, I recognise the list of texts. Given to me by the defendant when we met. He said nothing about anyone else sending them. No, he didn’t say he sent them. No, I never gave number out freely: only few friends, of course and family. Yes, I found the messages offensive. I did not like them. No, I never arranged to meet anyone for paid sex. I ignored them. Ok, yes I answered them. Yes, but I scared then and after I was scared even when I talked to Cilla. Cilla said to ignore them. Messages never stopped until I went to the police.
Yes, I did agree to get meet the individual and if I met them then I would know who it was. Always suspected him. Cilla suspected him. Abel agreed. Yes, my indication due was the personal details he knew. Only he knew about that. Yes, it was a hidden scar. No one knew that but him. Yes, one of the texts he said it-he said he saw it once long ago. Scar on my lower left side just above my hip.
Yes, I told Cilla of this. I decided to meet him and go with Abel with me. Yes, I also took that tape recorder. Yes, that’s right. I suspected it was him-the defendant. No, I hid the recorder in my bag to record the meeting. Yes, I gave tape of meeting to the police. Yes, the tape is of meeting in the park. Yes, those voices on the tape are the defendants and mine.
[Tape is played, transcript of recording given to bench]
Yes, absolutely sure. Those are our voices- the defendants and mine. I felt scared of what he would do, (he wrote to my doctor and my school). He threatened me and he said he would write to everyone. Yes, I felt he did get aggressive. My instinct was to run away. Too scared to move. I was petrified. The defendant’s mood was getting angrier and angrier. I was trying to move away from him but he grabbed my arm. No, he was not invited or permitted or welcome by me to do so. He would ‘fuck me up’ over and over he said. Yes, he did say he wanted to talk and walk home. No, I was scared. He was getting violent. No, I did want to run and go. But I was getting evidence. He snapped his fingers. Yes, he said there were eight people who would fuck up my life. Yes, more nervous. I wanted to get away from him. Yes, he mentioned Lita. I did not want to talk about her. Said all he wanted was an hour alone with me. He said Cilla hid behind the curtains to spy on him.
He grabbed my inhaler, had it over his head. After tape ended we left. No! Before then I hit his arm to bring it down. No, the heavy breathing is mine. Started to come back home. No, I did not permit him as we walked to kick me in my leg. And bruises swelling and not invited or permitted at any time to strike me.
Never attacked him. We went home to Cilla’s. Yes I was crying continuously. No, I do not know why it is not heard on the tape. Yes, straight inside and locked the door. Lots of pain, yes, my leg was dead. Soon after, yes, Cilla called police. Yes, right away I told Cilla everything. No, I did not send him any more text messages. Yes, that is my telephone number. Yes, there was physical contact. I had dropped my inhaler. No, I didn’t ask him. I told him to go away. Like I said, the defendant picked it up and held it over his head. Yes, that did happen. I then slapped him in the face. I was angry. I tried to get it back. Then the defendant slapped me. He held inhaler in his right hand and with his left hand. As he walked out he kicked me. No, the inhaler he kicked after. I don’t know where-at some place in the park. I think it was near the enclosure by the gate. No, I can’t remember how long. In time you mean? No, don’t know! No, I did not have a stopwatch! The defendant had left the inhaler there. Yes, the day after. The next day Cilla and me went back and found it. I had walked ahead and he continued to kick me to my side. Yes, as we walked. No, I tried to walk ahead but he returned with me. Yes, that is the whole truth…….
All through I sat and wrung my hands from time to time. I would catch myself showing weakness. Letting out some little slip of emotion. I tried hard to be Rodin’s Dante. I looked her pitying what she had become and mourning what she once was: my sweet little bean, my vanilla girl. It pained me to watch her go through that ordeal and it also pained my arse. Mucus back of throat. These court chairs were the pits-all bony and hard. Nevertheless, I was at such pains to look sombre, calm and composed. But all the while my guts were being eating out. I scribbled a poem for her in my diary.
Sweet my love be you to me
Ever in my soul with glee
X-rays of my heart do show
Indelible is your name and so
Heaven take my soul to thee
Untold pain but n’er do flee
Now is tolled your time to show
Kill me never with thine bow
…….No, no. I already said that! He kicked me over and over. He walked aside me and kicked me hard to my left thigh. All the way home He used force-kicking me. Kicked so hard to my left thigh. Yes, it’s in my Statement to the police made later that day (shown to victim). Yes, it was the seventeenth of March. Yes, I saw the policewoman on the twelfth, too and I returned the next week.
Defence Barrister: “ Miss van Hiller the officer’s statement shows you made reference to slaps not kicks while walking home. This is at variance with the evidence you are giving today.”
Complainant: “He slapped, he still slapped me with a hand. Don’t know why I didn’t mention it. It should be in the statement. I am telling the truth today.”
Defence Barrister: “ From the statement of events you gave to the officer on March 17th 2003 then at today there is a clear difference, Miss van Hiller. Do you not accept that?”
Complainant: “ I’m telling you he kicked me to my thigh as I walked away and he also slapped me.”
Defence Barrister: “ And you want the court to believe your story that along a busy residential area Mr Bloom was walking beside you on the pavement and alternately taking kicks and slaps at you in full public view at six-thirty on the evening of March 12th 2003? Is that your story?”
Complainant: “ It’s not a story! It’s true! I showed the police my injuries. I showed them my thigh.” A torrent of tears explodes down her face. The court usher ushers forth with a box of paper tissues to stem the tide. Her tortured face grew red and twisted and globs of greenness she had to wipe from her top lip. Her hair now seemed matted and unkempt with that staged composure slipping badly just like the locks that covered that errant bad eye. It occurred to me now it was her who was more the Cyclops than that bumbling Godbolt.
Defence Barrister: “ Yes, Miss van Hiller we get the picture. A hail of blows to your face and leg rained down upon you from a man twice your size inflicted upon you for what you allege was the entire journey back from Truva Park to your front door some five or six minutes’ walk away.
[Plan of park produced]
The complainant identifies the areas where the alleged assault occurred.
I wistfully mused on the loss of my girl next door. All Virginal. Where is the beauty that rescued the child in me? Bourbon vanilla or Bourbon-Madagascar vanilla, produced from Vanilla planifolia, a wicked and indecent Madagascan obscenity with the name Île Bourbon. A wretched, simple and damned efficient artificial pollinator. Men in white coats would attend to her as they had once to me. They will likely in their anonymous shuffling usurp my position as her heroic guardian. Barmy Bloom: the up hill gardener of the calloused fingers and trouser fumblings Daft. Then abruptly it all stops. No more questions for the witness. The witness is excused. Hentai is no more and the brief recess is called. Throat sore (still stinging).
A clamour of coughs, a fulmination of chatter, screeching chairs, a laugh then a ‘sorry’ tear away at the sombre air that had grown heavy and wearing for the past two hours. With a swish of his black cape my able sidekick turns to me and breathes a foul breath of garlic.
“How are we doing?” I gingerly enquire of him. A ‘fine-mostly’ is the response. My defence counsel elucidates for me his overview of the morning’s testimony so far. Counsel for the Crown has endeavoured to pile up a cumulative case and conclusive against me.
“ Those crocodile tears near the end will carry no truck with the bench. Be assured, Mr Bloom, courts are wise to that little game these days.”
Looking like a sham ham of Batman he purposefully brushed down then straightened his crusading garb. According to estimates, 500 million text messages per month are sent on UK mobile phones. He warned me the prosecutor would be due to make his big play on the texts. Now hurts to swallow.
“Electronic sexual harassment was “a significant and growing new issue” as this case proves when people send each other so many mobile phone text messages or e-mails without a thought as to the consequences.”
The Blackened One took me into the cell-like ten-by-ten conference room adjoining the courtroom. He went on to tell me in some great detail that, at every stage, as technology has the potential to improve lives, it has the potential to have a negative impact in other ways. It would be quite possible for an offensive text message or e-mail to be part of an environment that constituted unlawful sexual harassment. Apparently, while sexual harassment would not be based solely on the complainant’s perception of whether an e-mail or text message was offensive, the guidance notes that “the complainant’s perception has to be given particular regard” were of some concern to me.
The only exception would be in cases where “no reasonable person with the same perceptions and sexual attitudes as the complainant” would take offence. My jolly foul-breathed barrister was ready for the prosecutor, our fat-fingered Mr McNutt, to submit to this court that this defendant, my good self, a teacher, sent the aforementioned sexually explicit text messages knowingly and with the express intention of causing offence to the recipient, a young girl of school age. He will argue to the court that such messages were grossly obscene and intended to corrupt her for the private sexual pleasures of good old Mr Bloom. Throat now worse and settled on left side.
“Leo, I must advise you in no uncertain terms that if you are found guilty of these offences you cannot expect much mercy from this court. In those circumstances they would be fully entitled to take the view that you cynically put a poor, impressionable child through a harrowing courtroom ordeal under the glare of much scrutiny and doubt. On that basis, as you pleaded not guilty you may be liable, on summary conviction, to imprisonment for a term not exceeding six months as well as a fine thrown in for good measure."
Those words shook me. I was unavoidably reminded that he was, invariably, accurate. My mouth went even drier. I felt light-headed and needed a drink fast. It was suddenly very claustrophobic. Then I felt the sickening, insipid yellow light fluorescing above my head. I wanted air, to feel some fresh air, a breeze, a fresh smell, anything but that garlic breath and this odorous little Calcutta hole. But I had printed off some notes from the Internet that he had asked me for about online text messaging services. He had seemed curious to know more about how the system worked when we had our pre-trial meeting last Friday. But now he was less impressed. He took the sheets from my hand. Thanked me and scurried out to the coffee machine. No doubt to top up his halitosis.
I had with my some papers I wanted to show my counsel. He seemed rather pleased with my transcript of the audiotape. He was looking forward to presenting that when I took the stand. We would blast the balls off them once the court hears the tape again and compares my transcript with that fiction McNutt tried to pull off.
I unscrambled the rest of the papers I had stuffed quickly that morning into my briefcase. I began to read, ‘ In 2002 the advertising watchdog reprimanded a company for sending an offensive text message calling for consumers to upgrade their mobile phone.
Phonetastic UK, based in Newport, Gwent, sent a text message that stated: "You are a dick and I am going to kick your head in ya big useless donkey. UPGRADE UR MOB 0800 0859362" the Advertising Standards Authority (ASA) upheld the complaint adding that it was concerned at the company's lack of response to its investigation. It ruled that the message was "likely to cause serious or widespread offence to recipients" and told the advertisers not to repeat the text message.
The genealogy of this particular law may be traced back to section 10(2)(a) of the Post Office (Amendment) Act 1935, which made it an offence to send any message by telephone which is grossly offensive or of an indecent, obscene or menacing character. That subsection was reproduced with no change save of punctuation in section 66(a) of the Post Office Act 1953. Never archaic bell. It was again reproduced in section 78 of the Post Office Act 1969, save that "by means of a public telecommunication service" was substituted for "by telephone" and "any message" was changed to "a message or other matter". Section 78 was elaborated but substantially repeated in section 49(1)(a) of the British Telecommunications Act 1981 and was re-enacted (save for the substitution of "system" for "service") in section 43(1)(a) of the Telecommunications Act 1984. Section 43(1)(a) was in the same terms as section 127(1)(a) of the 2003 Act, save that it referred to "a public telecommunication system" and not (as in section 127(1)(a)) to a "public electronic communications network". Sections 11(1)(b) of the Post Office Act 1953 and 85(3) of the Postal Services Act 2000 made it an offence to send certain proscribed articles by post.’
Still sore, some catarrh, left sided, hurts to swallow. The fifteen minutes had passed and the usher recalled the sitting. We were back in those awful hard seats again. Rebecca would not look at me and turned her head resolutely towards the prosecutor. She seemed more intent on acting out her pathetic drama to him than anyone. I felt sure it was the psychopathic tendency she had-always bent on swaying the one chosen, impressionable male who she thought could do most for her. She had forsaken poor old, tall, dark, handsome, enigmatic Leo and was now eyeing short, fat, oily, pompous, self-important McNutt.
Her perpetual presence continually sucked my eyes back to her. I saw her then just as Joyce had so aptly written, ‘….streetwalker glazed and haggard …palpably reconnoitring on her own with the object of bringing more grist to her mill.’
The nobler man inside of me had long ago determined I was never to properly seed her mill. Other men’s seeds she no doubt had taken in such mercenary fashion. No doubt once this trial was done she would quickly dispense with Tractabull and be off with the next poor fool. Such a mix of seed in such a short span of time had that novel mill taken.
WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWww
Tractabull sought to corroborate her evidence and so on, and so on, nonsense without end. This was the first blow to the case against the accused. It was a pretty stiff one, you will admit. Already it had begun to collapse like a house of cards.
McNutt said I was ‘grossly offensive’. Throat still sore, both sides, dry and stinging. I laughed inwardly and contemplated my grand inquisition in police custody about a common prostitute. People sell much more than she ever had and do a roaring trade. Fear not them that sell the body but have not power to buy the soul. She is a bad merchant. She buys dear and sells cheap. I lifted up my gaze once more. I turned to the bench. Their grey faces as stern as in mourning. Were they my executioners? Was I going to be on the first in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland to be convicted and sent down under the Communications Act 2003?
I want to be absolved of my hideous sins, oh, Father. I was a good catholic-pope hailed-always at morning prayers-the matins. I long observed, talking of body and soul. A holy vigil service I rendered. Let me believe in the soul. But in this minute of my trial preserve my intelligence, the brainpower as such, as distinct from any outside object, the table, let us say, that cup. I believe in the convolutions of the grey matter. Jimmy Jay, an Irishman as is I. My stiff, cold fingers clasped at my lap as I feel the stabbing eyes upon me. The Birmingham six, Guildford Four, the Balcombe Street trial, ad naseum. What pitiful justice once more for an Irishman.
But this crazy, unworkable statute seems so very out of place in a liberal society. Whatever happened to free speech? We have a Bill of Rights now don’t we? If the crux of the matter was harassment then we can all get our heads around that, can’t we? The issue could have easily been resolved under the old laws. But this nanny-knows-best establishment has brought in a statute to measure what constitutes acceptable taste on the electronic super highway. It smacks of overkill. Now feeling something stuck in throat. The barristers both craw together and like vultures they perch in their garb. What relics they are. My mind is free from them. I shall be fixed her in my recourse, as a trance. I cannot take this. It is torture and I feel those eyes burning on me. I cannot look at them now. Then a cold hand on my shoulder and the man in the black drape whispers to me again.
“ Did you pick up on that? “ He fixed me in a hunter’s stare as I scrambled my senses to come back to him. “ Did you see the faces …on the bench….less tense….good sign.”
He pulls me to my feet and I see I must stand. Protocol. We have been adjourned for lunch. He puts his black-clothed arm round my shoulder and whispers the greatest secret. “ The mood has shifted…did you not sense it?” His sweaty, furrowed brow and ghastly breath was all I sensed. I straightened my tie and buttoned my suit jacket and shuffled away beside King Shafter toward the exit past the usher.
I continued to nod and smile what must have seemed the hollowest of smiles and caught the chuntering of the rabble from the cheap seats as they shuffled from the court. My barrister continued to enlighten me further.
We retreated to a vacant meeting room adjoining the court. A constricting feeling in throat during my walk. He was a blackbird chewing on a worm. Shaffernacker fidgeted and shuffled more papers. It was important stuff he told me-listen, Leo! The highest court in the land has, for the first time, considered what makes a message sent by means of a public electronic communications network “grossly offensive” - and therefore capable of amounting to the crime of “making improper use of a public electronic communications network”, which was outlawed very recently under the Communications Act of 2003. He loved this case now. His air of expectancy calmed me. This was new and fresh law, he said. I listened to him jabber on. The Law Lords have made it clear that people who leave offensive telephone and other messages can and will be held responsible. They have also attempted to clarify how bad a message needs to be in order to be caught by the provisions.
Shaffernacker said it was a tricky situation and the Lords trod the line between explaining which standards of behaviour will not be tolerated and left enough flexibility to allow them to reflect changing attitudes in future.
Shaffernacker wanted to impress me with his breadth of knowledge. I knew it. He was playing with a new set of rules here. The big benchmark case was that of Leslie Collins from North West Leicestershire. Racial bench lever. Mr Collins had allegedly made a number of calls to the offices of his MP, Lee Taylor, and left racially offensive telephone messages using language that was described by Lord Bingham, who gave the leading judgment, as being “beyond the pale of what is tolerable in our society”.
I still couldn’t quite fathom where Mr Safecracker was going with all this but as they say best say nothing and be suspected a fool rather than open your mouth and confirm it.
I had a numbing headache from the morning’s verbals but I still listened and tried to learn about ‘The Offence.’
‘Let there be some more test, made of my mettle,
Before so noble, and so great a figure
Be stamped upon it.’
Tickly feeling at back of throat then extends to left ear, sinuses. The Communications Act makes it a crime to send or cause to send a message or other matter that is “grossly offensive or of an indecent, obscene or of a menacing character” by means of a public electronic communications network. A “public electronic communications network” is a transmission system for conveying signals using electrical, magnetic or electromagnetic energy that is provided wholly or mainly for the purpose of making electronic communications services available to members of the public.
This offence is designed to deal with “nuisance” calls but the definition is wide enough to include messages sent by means other than telephone. So far, the courts have not been asked to consider messages sent using other media.
“ So I’m going to be the first mug to get a taste of what you can’t do when you combine the Internet and mobile phone network?” I asked. Information super highway? New utopia? Horrifying sham! More archaic bell nerve!
Not be interrupted, Morgan’s jabbered on. It is clear from Lord Bingham's judgment that the aim of the particular offence is to prevent a service provided and funded by the public, for the benefit of the public, for the transmission of communications from being used in a way that contravenes certain basic standards.
“ What matters, Leo, is not whether such a message is actually listened to or received. … and it’s not necessary for a recipient to be personally offended by the message.” He pointed to his papers in emphasis of the point.
” The court will consider whether the message uses terms that show an intention to insult the people to whom the message relates or where facts known to the sender about an intended recipient render or are likely to render the message peculiarly offensive to that recipient.”
Shaffernacker told me whether a message is grossly offensive is a question of fact and the courts will judge this on how a hypothetical reasonable person would react. They will also review the message according to the standards of an “open and just multi-racial society.”
Slight tickle right at the back of my throat. I think my eyes must have begun to glaze but Shaffernacker tried to clarify this.
He took my arm and guided me to my chair. “ Look, Leo, usages and sensitivities may change over time ... there can be no yardstick of gross offensiveness otherwise than by the application of reasonable contemporary standards to the particular message sent in its particular context…..the test is whether a message is couched in terms liable to cause gross offence to whom it relates.” ( All Branch Receive?).
I again nodded. Sharp pain in neck at front left side. What else was there for me to do? I’m a teacher so I should be able to discuss the finer points of law intelligently with my barrister! But she haunted my mind and thought only fruit. I was feeling delirious and tired and melancholy. Ailed he pop. I had lost her.
But it did start to sink in. Gradually. I came back to his words.
“ The Collins case is interesting because it reveals how the courts will work out whether a message is offensive enough to amount to a crime under the Communications Act. Although they have left themselves with enough flexibility to be able to reflect changing morality and standards of society, they have helpfully provided some guidance on what approach they will take. Feel a rash coming on face and neck - red, sore, itchy. Maybe that’s the cold weather outside.
He paused momentarily for breath and continued:
” Leo, It remains to be seen where this court will draw the line on your alleged offences. If Lita doesn’t make it here for tomorrow we must be prepared. But I have to say….Did you see their faces, Leo? It’s all in the mood…the mood….”
I didn’t quite get the nuance of that. He thrust several tatty sheets of printed-paper into my hand. I began to read the bits he had underlined.
’…………..a court should apply the standards of an open and just multi-racial society. For liability to arise under section 1(1), the sender of the grossly offensive message must intend it to cause distress or anxiety to its immediate or eventual recipient.’
With red asterix aside I saw another marked section; ‘ Not so under section 127(1)(a): the very act of sending the message over the public communications network (ordinarily the public telephone system) constitutes the offence even if it was being communicated to someone who the sender knew would not be in any way offended or distressed by it.’
I asked my barrister to explain that part.
“ Well, Leo, take, for example, those now common sex chat hot lines. You know the ones…..”
I nodded trying to look as intelligent and attentive as possible.
“…the ones where men and women are on a premium rate phone call both using the very language used in this present case. Plainly that would be no offence under the 1988 Act, and no offence, of course, if the conversation took place in the street….. But it would constitute an offence under section 127(1)(a) because the speakers would certainly know that the grossly offensive terms used were insulting to those to whom they applied and would intend them to be understood in that sense”.
I confessed that I had never realised before that a private telephone conversation or text message correspondence like in my case would be a criminal offence. But my barrister was at pains to point out that section 127(1)(a) is indeed intended to protect the integrity of the public communication system: as Lord Bingham had put it in the House of Lords, "to prohibit the use of a service provided and funded by the public for the benefit of the public for the transmission of communications which contravene the basic standards of our society".
Shaffernacker scratched at his chin, “ In fact sex chat phone lines, which by definition, must all involve the sending of indecent or obscene messages, are clearly proscribed by section 127(1)(a)…thus they are totally and utterly illegal!”
“Jesus! So where does that leave us in this trial?” I asked.
“ Well, as you must realise this is a point I am preparing to put forcefully in my closing speech to impress upon the court. They would be opening a can of worms to convict if they find that you did, in fact, send the texts for which you are charged but that Miss van Hiller was not distressed or offended by them and acquiesced for the purposes of taken money for sex. You see there is both an issue of enforcement and scapegoating…..It just might cause a furore that may lead to the shutting down of every sex chat line in Britain.” He smiled ruefully.
So I was gearing up for a final showdown where my brief was going to dare to challenge a court to convict knowing that there would be a precedent set and an avalanche of controversy over the legality of the country’s phone sex network.
49
“ Hey, Leo, you want a sandwich and a coffee?” I recognised the accent. No appetite. My wife saved me from further intense strategic legalese. She locked onto my arm and ushered me to the tearooms just down the road. She determinedly wore her stoical smile throughout. “ I hate not seeing what’s happening…are you sure I can’t sit at the back? It’s absolutely unbearable having to wait out in the halls.”
“No , no….you’re a witness…..to be called…maybe tomorrow or something…I…we can’t have you in there!” Her eyes rolled in frustration and she kicked at an innocent wooden bench.
The stiffness in my joints worsened as the afternoon’s proceedings played out. It was Tractabull to be mauled now. My turn would come after. I was Desmond Morris studying the anthropology of this strange game. But as I watched the styles of the opposing barristers I recognised a distinct and subtle change in play. The prosecutor’s fat, oily hands began to look clumsy. He knocked over his water cup once, dropped his pen two or three times, stuttered and stammered more. He was less and less the self-assured assailant I had feared that morning. My barrister preened himself and arched his back and grew inches. He maintained a softer, more self-assured voice than his adversary, not confrontational at all. It surprised me how softly and slowly he posed his questions. He seemed more the attendant physician or counsellor than the interrogator.
Yet Shaffernacker had got them all in knots. Abel now twisted and turned but his squirming could not conceal the lies. They could all see-he was a dupe. He was her puppy and a very dim witted one at that. Nauseous and sick for a second, felt like I was on a swing.
Counsel probed in his soft tones, “ Where were you when the Defendant allegedly accosted your girlfriend.”
A nervous and hesitant voice replied, “I was hiding behind the bushes...I was there to protect her… she was frightened he would hurt her…she asked me!”
“Tell the court what you saw regarding any alleged assault.”
“Yes..I saw them talk for a minute then he started shouting at her…like he wanted to grab her…he was obsessed with her…..she pulled away from him…he then went crazy on her…punching…kicking….I saw him kick her thigh and he punched and slapped her..three? No four times.”
“ Thank you, Mr Tractabull. But according to your police statement while you watched this awful savagery being inflicted on your beloved girlfriend you did nothing? Come, come Mr Tractabull surely by your own words you do not expect the court to believe that you were there to protect her. Please tell the court exactly how you protected her…did you come to her aid when you say you saw her being beating over and over about the head and kicked in the thigh the four times you say?”
An interminable tense silence and then he answered.
“ No,..er…I was told…she said wait and see!”
Another tense silence.
“Wait and see…Wait and see….. Well please tell the court Mr Tractabull what you were waiting for? Were you waiting for Mr Bloom to finish her off?
“No…I…er…I came out…I ran out to her… after…after…he left…..she said….I told the police I did….when he left the park. He went for a time…I asked her if she was alright…she said…get back and hide.”
Genuis. Pure and simple. Some men by unalterable frame of their constitution are stout, others timorous, some confident, and others modest and tractable, I thought.
“Ah, now we are getting somewhere…”
The hunter had baited his prey and savoured the moment.
“….you are asking us to believe that you knew the complainant was in fear of the defendant…you were her protector and was alert to her safety....you watched him batter her repeatedly you did nothing until you watched him walk away….then you run out and speak to ask of her welfare and she tells you to go back and hide”
No answer from the witness.
“ I ask you again, Mr Tractabull, do you expect us to believe you?
“Yes…I do !”
“Then can you please explain to the court why your voice is not on her tape recording?”
No answer.
“Mr Tractabull…I shall caution you that to knowingly give false evidence before this court is perjury…are you lying?”
“No…no….I told them….I went to the park to help….I saw him…he beat her…I ran out and talked….!”
“ Sadly these are all lies aren’t they, Mr Tractabull ….nothing but a tissue of lies….and the law takes a very dim view of witnesses who come to court in a sordid and pitiful attempt to have an innocent man convicted and face imprisonment.”
“Objection! This is harassing the witness…..Mr Tractabull has given his answer to the same question…he has been adamant more than once””
“ I concede to my learned friend on the point…..Mr Tractabull….you see before you a diagram of the play area at the park. Please indicate for clarity where exactly you hid.”
” For the record….the witness is pointing to the entrance quadrant and a symbol showing a clump of shrubs and bushes…is that correct, Mr Tractabull?”
“Yes…yes! I was behind the bushes!”
“So when Mr Bloom left the scene at …er….five minutes into the meeting..”
Counsels looks across at each other and nod, “....ah....yes… testimony from the complainant and also the tape recording already played to the court is unequivocal on that…five minutes into the meeting…Mr Bloom departs the scene for two minutes….at that time you come from your hiding place and quickly run to your girlfriend ..in your statement you observed she was slumped in pain sat on the slide...is that correct?”
“Yes…I ran straight away to her….she was sat on the slide… about from me to you was the distance”
“Ah so about twenty feet you say? You ran straight to her…you didn’t make any detour? Go any other way?”
“NO…no …straight to her.”
“So nothing…….. impeded your route?”
“What?”
“I’ll rephrase….there was nothing blocking your way as you ran to her?”
“No…nothing….nothing at all…I saw her alone and I ran straight to her…I knew I had only a moment and I was worried for her!”
“ So worried in fact, Mr Tractabull you were totally forgetful of the three feet high safety fence around the play area?”
“What..er…no..what?”
“Please show the witness the photographic exhibits noted for the record as Exhibits E3, E4, E7 and 8.”
“Mr Tractabull, please tell the court what you see on those photographs between the bushes you say you hid behind and the slide where you say you ran to where the complainant was sat.”
No answer.
“Mr Grifftiths…..again…the court has admitted this crucial photographic evidence…counsel for the prosecution and the complainant herself…both agree these are fair, accurate and clear depictions. Please tell us what you see on the photographs between the slide in the play area and the bushes you say you hid amongst!”
“A fence…a metal fence! I forgot!”
“No further questions.”
I sat there, in awe, fascinated, spellbound. This new game had become the only reality. It was the physical manifestation of my own relations with the universe. Everything else had become remote and unreal. In the public gallery every seat was taken. The lynch mob huddled as a tight pack in their darker corner. Comprised of Rebecca, Cilla and their cronies. To my astonishment the fat bald man whispering in Cilla’s ear was none other than Charlotte’s father. He quickly felt my gaze and returned his daggers back. No love lost here. He wore his customary demeanour of self-satisfaction. He was savouring the show and gleaning from the gossipers further ammunition for my demise. But there was sat one friendly ally, or so it seemed. My eastern friend was here as he promised he would be. Gilgamesh. He nodded reassuringly as he caught my eyes.
50
He was good my safecracking defence counsel-quietly efficient and to the point. I watched him and learned something of the subtleties of legal probing. The comic book princess cut to mincemeat by the black-robed kamikaze. This was his arena and he was masterful. Shaffer knackered them all. I gloated at his victories and he got my thumbs up. The Crown Prosecution Service had crossed swords with the wrong foe. As the drama played on an ironic anger developed within me. It was not me who should have been on trial but the scum who had falsely accused me. I wanted to get into the fray. I was itching to be on the stand. Then came the next recess and my caped crusader gave me the shock to burst my testosterone-fuelled bubble. Shaffernacker had tension in his face.
“It is going well, isn’t it? I asked nervously. He shrugged and waved some papers and pointed to something.
He laid into me; “You do need to realise you have three specimen charges here for the text messages…you did say to Brigid Kearney you’d have your stepdaughter here to testify. Where is she? I need to brief her! Why in god’s name did you not tell me she was in New York?”
I looked at him perplexed. “ I thought you said you were going to call their bluff on the texts…something about sex chat lines all having to be shut down?”
He looked at me like I had pole axed his mother or something.
“ My dear Mr Bloom…I thought you would have grasped the difference between a sure fire certainty and a long shot, a bluff, a calculated gamble!”
I hadn’t. Hope? I paled. It was all in the provable, I thought.
“ May I suggest we refrain from dabbling with possibilities and instead focus our efforts on probabilities? Deliver to me your daughter then I will have no need to employ a tenuous argument over ifs and buts with speculative legal ramifications!”
.” Er…ok…I guess …you’re telling me ‘bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’ well…Barb….can you get Lita here and have her up for the fight?” I looked pleadingly at my wife.
My wife shot daggers back, “ Look…I told you! She’s six months pregnant…Albany is in the grip of a snow storm so god knows what you want me to do! I’ve already phoned Steve and he says the Interstate is mostly with snow ploughs out but there’s been gridlock with black ice jamming up the Interstate…but if she gets to Newark in the next hour she’ll be ok….Vista Atlantic have the flight to London clear.”
My barrister looks at Barb quizzically. “Are you up for testifying tomorrow Mrs Bloom? This has been a traumatic time for you all…you especially…I can see…please be frank.”
Globs of tears suddenly fill her sunken eyes as her bottom lip trembles in sympathy.
“Well….I’ll leave you both to discuss it….but do please get back to me with a decision at close of play today, chaps.”
As the winged one exits the conference room I shuffle out quickly to intercept.
“ er…just quickly…Mr Shaffernacker.. I can get Ms Mayes on standby if you think it’s advisable” My sly hand shields my words from my distraught wife.
“ But she will only helps you on the text charges, Mr Bloom. You know this.... not the assault…you do appreciate this? He turns and looks soulfully at ashen-faced Barb. I nod and he strides away purposefully.
I think I grasped what he meant. I was playing and my game was fraught with consequences of terrible importance to those connected with me as well as myself. I 'castled' my king and then sacrificed my queen in a daring gambit, like Retzsch depicted Satan playing at chess with man for his soul. These Trojan foot soldiers must be outwitted. I had forsaken Charlotte to be with my wife but I may still need her. But my better legal option is the defence my wife and stepdaughter could give me. Anyway I was ahead of myself as usual; contemplating a big damages claim against the incompetence and malice of the police and CPS.
I spluttered out a hopeful enquiry to Shaffernacker, “ Do you think if this all does go my way and I’m acquitted….do you think….do you think I could push to have charges brought against my accusers for perjury or have a civil claim?”
He looked at me again with that air of disgust or astonishment. It was hard to fathom which it was.
“Mr Bloom, I can assure you there will be no question in the minds of the court that Tractabull lied but as to charges…or civil remedies!”
“Right…right…I know what you’re going to say; focus on getting Lita here. I know-I know-say no more. Barb assured me Lita was already on her way to Manhattan bound for the afternoon flight to Heathrow. She’s all clued up on flights-she’s a frequent flier-if she says her daughter will be here in time, she’ll be here in time.” I nodded as much to convince myself as my brief.
As I stood at the doors preparing to re-enter the gladiatorial arena a tap on the shoulder made me spin on my heels. Gilgamesh.
“Peace to you my friend. Chin up. Why look so glum?” He enquired.
I bade him hello and he gave me ‘ a hi old peep!’ then a few bland pleasantries. I thought it strange he should be in court. I broached the subject. Apparently a business colleague of his was here to collect his wife who sitting in on a hearing with a friend. He seemed excited and looked this way and that, took my forearm and pulled me closer to whisper. His business associate had agreed a deal for some newly imported artefacts. Then he took my arm and pulled me closer to confide something. Museum artefacts. Imports undeclared. American connections at the military base. Did I have an interest in a small figurine black diorite? A princess of King Entemena. Of course! how insensitive. Now is certainly not the time. Apologies offered and accepted.
“My dear Leo, good sir, I sat down to watch and see while others merely listen. I watch. I see much. I am not of your culture but some things we do share-the common sense of the street and the market place. Have faith, my friend. You will cross these waters of death. Listen to me. I will tell you why. No one goes to the greengrocers to pick unripened fruits. A man chooses the most succulent and juicy on display. No one expects a man to buy from the decaying crop- the seller knows to tempt the buyer with the sweetest most delectable flavours and that only comes from the ripest fruits. That is no innocent child in there-she is one possessed of evil. Of Angra Mainyu sent sun-ripened and ready for the plucking. She has been well blessed by the Spenta Mainyu! Next time you will learn. I know. I have had my own such trials. Ah, how I do so love certain of your western values-no burkas! I tell you one thing Asha will triumph over truj!”
He tells me my inquisitor is nothing more than a fat fool- a mad monk or pious pries. He has no time for that kind. He thanks his beloved Mazda as his saviour. I must come again to Siduri when this mess is done. He gives a deferential half nod and purposefully we each retake our places.
Again I watch. I study but with fresh eyes. I see her again as if she were my delectable fruit. No green bananas there. Nature’s done her work. All things grow with variance and peculiarity. Like Darwin postulated: survival of the fittest. The horticulturalists strive for the best growth in the best conditions. Optimum yields when you tender the crop and nurture the most favourable genes. I reflected back on what Professor Hare had to say on psychopaths. They thrive by predatory instinct, too. Criminal but cunning to avoid prison with chameleon charm with the abilities to cut a swathe through society with a scythe of evil leaving a wake of ruined lives. Hare said it ''emotion for the psychopath is like a second language,'' one she struggles to speak and never master deep down.
As I glanced at her in repose sat amongst her henchman huddled in the corner gallery she shot me a cold and withering look that betrayed the protective arm wrapped around her shoulder. She wore her camouflage well that one. The psychopath. It all fitted her purpose. Glib when it suited or friendly and easy-going, then in an instant switched back to her stock in trade performance as the hapless victim. She was truly devoid of the petty anxieties that trouble most of us. No conscience. Her wooden tops had all been danced around to the merry tune of a masterful puppeteer.
51
VA02 landed safely and on time. I read the arrivals screen with mute satisfaction. Lita gave me a fond peck and I tenderly stroked the back of her neck as I had done long ago and back came the ineffable tingle. Then I lingered.
My stepdaughter pushed me away. I expected that. “Where is she?”
“Toilet break-you know her bladder…. Flight ok?”
“Yeah…cut it fine…had to dump the car in the short term zone…racking up charges…but hey…” She pinned my eyes back with a forceful stare. Her quizzical look betrayed her need to know if I had completed her task.
“Don’t look so worried…no more photos…all gone ok? I did my best…..all I could….there was nothing from the mobile…took me an age to get the USB to work….so I think the bitch either deleted them or stored them somewhere else….I’ve cleared what I could off the hard drive…used a program called ‘Evidence Eliminator’ you should never have left them there. I still don’t know if the police found any!”
“Alright! I know! It was a mistake…shit happens…I would die if she found out.”
“Shit will happen to me, too, but with compound interest if the police got their hands on any of them!”
I now saw a different Limoncello from the one of last summer. I gave my stepdaughter a peck on the cheek and a gentle fatherly rub to her back and we strode purposefully toward the exit.
Then I slipped my hand over hers and loosened the rucksack from her grasp and tossed it over my shoulder. I took a more studied glance at her fuller form from the side. Lita had flowered in womanly fashion walking tall and lithe beside me with the slightest hint of motherhood to her midriff. I was acquiring a desire for a new taste-an Amalfi dashed with alcohol or a Grappa more refined. Try a little chitchat to break the ice. Food was plastic, flight attendants boorish and no complimentary drinks. Her blonde streaks and wacky hair colours had now all grown out. She was back to her natural lustrous brunette I was finding and identifying my new lemon with an altogether sweeter flavour. Better sugars infused for a sweeter liqueur. The Italians do say those darker alcohols add complexity. Pregnancy graced her with a glow of femininity and her rosy cheeks shone healthily defying the arduousness of her exhausting transatlantic trek. We navigated our way through the throbbing crowds to the meeting point where my wife was dutifully waiting. I had secured my key witness. I had found the recipe for the sweetest dessert to follow my main course. Here she was my golden lemon delight. I shall whisk McNutt’s eggy yolk until he is pale yellow and thick. Then I shall whip in the cream of my sugar semantics to softy reach my triumphant peak. A compelling creamy mix of egg yolk and Limoncello to be fairly judged sublime. For everyone knows good limoncella spurns vanilla.
52
Sickly yellow lamplight staccatos shot beams in through the smeared windscreen as the wiper blades ceaselessly dashed across its span hour after dreary hour waving and whirring relentlessly as we threaded through the night time traffic. Exhaustion from lack of sleep and seven hours of driving to and from the airport were starting to take their toll. Crankiness suffused with fear. The predominant emotions on day two of the ‘trail of the lewd teacher.’ The press had gotten to work. The front pages of the regional rags were full of it-even the nationals. The gutter press had taken a warped angle on it. A pile of papers at least a foot deep was stuffed into a cardboard box on the back seat aside my discomforted and pregnant stepdaughter. None of us needed a snowstorm as we drove gingerly all the way from London. But the added tension we endured like everything else those tortuous few days. ‘Moses, Moses, King of the Jews, Wiped his arse in the daily news’.
Barbara was indignant as she rustled through tomorrow’s fish and chip wrappers. “Jesus! That is the worst picture I’ve ever seen taken of us! Leo, you look like some pompous presidential candidate in that stupid suit. I don’t believe it! That photographer has us walking back and forth in the snow and ice to get his god dam shots three times and he still couldn’t get it right!”
“Let me see, pass it back here- let me see! Why have you got all these in this box-there’s dozens and all the same ones!” Pleads a newly plump Lita. My mortified wife never tried to hide the shame. Appearances count for a lot in her book.
“They’re not all the same-it’s what we grabbed from the corner store on the way out of town!” Howled her mother.
Lita sifted the piles and then read aloud a headline news story; “It says here that a ‘tormented schoolgirl’ kept her wits about her and trapped her sex pest teacher to expose his secret obsession with her….and ….and…Mr Bloom of Eccles Drive, North Haven, who works as a supply teacher was heard to shout and terrorise the girl!” (applied hoe).
I yelped. “On my god! Hi ad people! I’m really truly finished…they’ve even published my address? God…this will be the end of me!”
Lita had more to add. “Ha, this bit is funny …the Evening Echo goes on to say how the’ distressed boyfriend nervously told the court how he saw her savagely beaten.’ Mr Bloom was heard calling his own stepdaughter a ‘whore’!”
“That’s not how it happened, Lita…don’t believe all you read in the press!” I exclaimed.
“You need to grow some backbone, Leo. If you hadn’t run off to your dumb assed floosies in a ‘pie lead hop’ you wouldn’t have dug this pit for yourself!”
“Thanks, Barb! You’re all heart. I knew I could count on you to be supportive.”
My wife turned to her jetlagged daughter and started in on her; “Lita, have you got your story straight? You know what the deal is? At least someone round here has the balls to go the whole nine yards!”
She knew. It was agreed. Lita was here to confess on my behalf. An eight thousand mile round trip to bale me out of the deepest of deep holes.
“Change the record, Barb! Lita-tell me-is Ryan going to be around for the birth when we get back?
“No…he’s just been called up for active duty…that Iraq thing…it’s all over the news now…. it’s looking really bad…I hope he doesn’t get into any fighting!”
Barbara took my hand and it suddenly felt incongruous and senseless to argue. I had never given her the child she craved. I never would. So why prolong a fruitless marriage? It was hard to answer that question. I looked askance from the steering wheel and I saw sorrow in her still sweet azure eyes. Her skin loosening and sallow now in her middle years but still the beauty was in there. I kissed her hand and softly stroked her trousered thigh. Winter, spring or summer she never let anyone catch sight of those thick, manly calves.
As I drove I remembered as a child growing up in a dull and dreary English town and how I gloated over a map of North America that had the legend ‘Northern Appalachians’ and ‘Catskill Mountains’ boldly featured. I was fascinated by the territories of the northern forests so evocatively entwined in the romance of old films like ‘The Mohicans’, "Keepers of the Eastern Door" and other epics of noble frontiersmen and Indian wars. Those were my heroes of yesteryear. I never conceived that I would one day walk through those mountain glades of the old Iroquois with my New York Internet bride, hand in hand trekking through the preserved, large unfragmented forests, admiring the sights of hemlock ravines and high elevation spruce-fir standing mixed within a mosaic of hardwoods.
We took those driving trips down and around the Delaware River to spy the bald eagle habitat and strain with binoculars to catch a rare nesting bird like Bicknell's thrush. The tranquillity and escapism of those days dissipated like old sepia-stained photos and fragile relics of another life. What demeaned the dream was the cold, prosaic reality of redneck trailer parks, rusty windowless shacks peopled by drunken, welfare-stoked indigents we so often passed by. I learned that the nine million city folk down below cared not a jot for all this outstanding natural beauty. All they coveted was the water supply. So much for the American dream now. The longer the months passed and I lived season to season away from gentle England I began to rue the trash-blown decaying hick towns with their smoking garbage incinerators that painted smoke grey upon the greyness of heavy skies. A perfect blue summer in England was what possessed me and forever would. But the seasons do pass and life moves on spurning like an insult our heart’s truest desires. I drove on, we all went on, forever on through wind and snow and forward and on and then home.
