The Governor's Lady (34 page)

He spoke in a soft, polite-sounding voice as though this part were the merest formality, and he was saying simply what the Chief Justice had been expecting him to say.

The Chief Justice, however, was quite unprepared. He had been warned that Mr. Das was erratic in cross-examination and quite likely to overstep the limits. He had not, however, expected any difficulties so
early. Indeed, he could not help feeling that it was rather unsubtle of Mr. Das to have antagonised the Court before the trial had even properly begun.

‘Mr. Das,' he said severely, ‘you are not answering the question. The question was quite specific: it asked whether there was objection to
any
of the jurors.'

Mr. Das bowed back.

‘There is an objection, m'lud. It is to each one of them. The objection is collective not individual. But if your Lordship chooses, I will object individually.'

‘On what grounds, pray?'

‘On the grounds that they are all European and that my client is an African, m'lud.'

The Chief Justice became even more severe.

‘Let it be clearly understood,' he said, ‘that this is a court of law. It is not a parliament, and therefore it is not a forum for political speeches. The case that I shall be judging is one of murder. Evidence has nothing to do with racial origins. And it is purely upon the evidence which they hear—evidence, Mr. Das, to the total of which you will yourself contribute—that the jurors will reach their verdict. The objection is over-ruled.'

Mr. Das rose again.

‘I am relieved, m'lud, to hear your Lordship refer to the case specifically as one of murder. If it is murder there can, in my submission, be no reason for discrimination against Africans as jurors. If, on the other hand, the jury is exclusively European then my client may suffer because the crime could be misconstrued as one of political assassination, m'lud. Like your Lordship, I am most anxious to avoid even the slightest introduction of politics.'

This time, the Chief Justice was more than severe: he was stem.

‘The imputation of motive is purely one for the prosecution to decide.'

This time Mr. Das bowed a little lower.

‘I am most grateful to your Lordship for having accepted my submission,' he said.

This time, the Chief Justice recognised the danger signal: Mr. Das had succeeded in getting him annoyed. He was therefore deliberately very calm and restrained when he delivered his rebuke.

‘It is my duty to warn you, Mr. Das …' he began.

But he was interrupted. There was a sudden disturbance in the jury-box; and, leaning forward, the Chief Justice could see that the retired Inspector of Native Schools had collapsed onto the rail in front of him. Then, before anyone could catch him, he had slid down out of sight among the feet of his fellow jurors.

It was not easy in the already ridiculously overcrowded court room to make way for the passage of a sagging and unconscious body, and the Chief Justice adjourned the court until the commotion was over. He went back into his chambers and, removing his robes, stretched himself out on the settee, using a folded-up copy of the day's Order Paper for a fan.

The problem of a twelfth juryman now presented itself. Nor was the solution going to be easy. There were plenty of other white men in Amimbo—fair-minded, responsible people—sub-managers, and company representatives and so forth—who would have suited the case admirably, had it not been for the house-holding qualification.

The Chief Justice closed his eyes and mentally ran through the names of every respectable resident he could think of.

It was already after eleven when the court resumed. And, by then, the Chief Justice and the Clerk of the Court had revised their entire stratagem for the handling of the case.

‘Mr. Das, would you rise please,' he said.

Mr. Das's bow was most respectful.

‘Before the court resumed,' the Chief Justice went on, ‘it became incumbent on me to administer a most severe rebuke for certain improper observations which you had seen fit to make upon the composition of the duly appointed jury. Unfortunately, through illness, one member of that jury has suddenly been withdrawn from us. Emergency papers have accordingly been served on another gentleman who is present in this court at this moment. Moreover, without the due notice to which he is entitled, he has agreed to serve. Would you stand please, Mr. Ngono?'

Ever since he was a boy, Mr. Ngono had wanted to be right at the very centre of things with everyone looking at him. Possibly it was because he was only his father's favourite son and not the lawful heir that the desire was so strong in him. But, now that it had actually
happened, he found that he simply hated it. The whites of his eyes were showing conspicuously; and he did not know what to do with his hands. He behaved as if he were wringing something.

‘Thank you, m'lud. Your Lordship has been most accommodating,' Mr. Das replied, and sat down again.

The Chief Justice ignored Mr. Das altogether. He addressed himself to Mr. Ngono.

‘Would you please follow the Usher and be sworn-in, Mr. Ngono?' he asked.

As he passed the press table Mr. Ngono avoided Mr. Talefwa's eye. Earlier, he had been trying to catch it. But, when the Clerk of the Court had sent for him, and Mr. Ngono had desperately needed someone, a friend, to help him and give him good advice, Mr. Talefwa had ignored him completely. Head down, and apparently oblivious to what was going on around him, he had simply continued with his writing. Mr. Ngono had a most uneasy feeling that somehow he had been betrayed.

Only that morning Mr. Talefwa had come out with a fine leading article entitled, ‘White Juries and Black Justice', and Mr. Ngono felt that the least he was entitled to was a smile, or a cheer, or even a wave of the hand.

And now, there he was, with the Bible in his right hand, and wondering what to do with his left. Because he was nervous, he had repeated the words of the oath very loud and rather brusquely as though ordering something.

Mr. Das rose again.

‘As this is now a new jury, m'lud,' he said in his softest, most bubbling of voices, ‘may I submit to your Lordship that all the jurors should now be asked to take the oath again. It is most irregular that…'

‘Summon the prisoner.'

There was a murmur that became a gasp, when Old Moses was brought in.

He was so small, so withered-up and husklike, that the two policemen on either side of him seemed to be there solely for his own support. They were like nurses: they walked very slowly and watchfully, making sure that he did not stumble. And, when they came to the step leading up into the dock, they put a hand each into his armpits and lifted him up, like a child being helped over a high kerb.

The Chief Justice was a humane man.

‘Let the prisoner be seated,' he said gently.

And, as the policemen deposited him, Old Moses, wrapped round mummy-fashion in his white Amimbo blanket, disappeared from the onlookers behind the high varnished woodwork of the dock.

The charge of indictment was read out, and Mr. Ngono found himself thinking how bleak and terrible the words sounded: they were like something out of the Old Testament. They scared him.

But already the Chief Justice was speaking, and Mr. Ngono resumed his concentration.

‘How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?'

Mr. Das bobbed up rather than rose.

‘Not guilty, m'lud.'

The Chief Justice inclined his head towards him.

‘And you are satisfied that your client is able to understand these proceedings?' he asked.

‘Quite satisfied, m'lud.'

‘And that in a trial of this nature—a trial upon a capital charge, that is—he is fully aware of the possible consequences of such a plea?'

‘I have explained everything most carefully, m'lud.'

‘Do you speak Mimbo, Mr. Das?'

‘No, m'lud.'

‘Then how do you communicate with your client?'

‘Partly in English, and partly through an interpreter, m'lud.'

‘Is the interpreter here today?'

‘Yes, m'lud.'

‘Where pray? I do not see him.'

Mr. Das hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he was quick to give his little bow. He gave it so politely as to convey the impression that he had been just about to provide the information when the Chief Justice had interrupted him.

‘He is seated at the press table, m'lud.'

‘At the press table!'

The Chief Justice repeated the words as though he suspected that he must have misheard them. Lowering his glasses, he peered incredulously over the edge of his rostrum onto the floor of the court beneath him.

‘And what is the name of your interpreter, pray?' he asked.

Again there was that same momentary hesitation, that same quick recovery.

‘It is Mr. Talefwa, m'lud,' Mr. Das replied. ‘Mr. Oni Talefwa.'

If he had been in his chambers, the Chief Justice would have raised his eyebrows when he heard the name. But here, in court and in his robes, it was different: he might never have heard the name before. He allowed no emotions whatsoever. Only a probing and professional curiosity.

‘Would you please rise and face me, Mr. Talefwa?' he asked.

In putting the question he had emphasised the ‘Mr.' ever so slightly.

‘In what capacity are you present in tins Court?' he went on.

‘I am representing my paper,
War Drum
, m'lud,' Mr. Talefwa replied.

‘Then you are here in a double capacity, are you not?'

‘In what way, m'lud ?'

This time the Chief Justice allowed his surprise to be seen by everyone.

‘Did you not hear Mr. Das tell me that you are also acting as the interpreter between counsel and client?'

Mr. Das rose hurriedly.

‘Mr. Talefwa's services as interpreter are not any longer required,' he replied. ‘The fullest possible use has already been made of them. My client is in no further need of explanation.'

‘But he
may
be, Mr. Das. He
may
be. The prisoner is Mimbo-speaking, remember,' the Chief Justice reminded him. ‘The fact that he has a working knowledge of everyday household English is neither here nor there. It may not be sufficient. Things may be said that the prisoner does not fully comprehend. You do not speak his tongue: you have just said so. It is therefore essential that the full-time, not part-time, services of an interpreter should be retained. I will not allow this case to continue without one.'

‘As you so rule, m'lud.'

The Chief Justice turned back to Mr. Talefwa who had remained standing.

‘I am sorry if this should interfere with your reporting activities for
War Drum,'
he said. ‘But you cannot have it both ways, you know. The choice is entirely yours and Mr. Das's. The Court will adjourn again for five minutes while you come to a decision.'

When the Chief Justice returned, he tried, by sheer pressure, to settle himself more comfortably onto the hard leather cushion decorated with the deep sunken buttons. It was, his instinct told him, going to be a long trial.

‘And what conclusions have you arrived at, Mr. Das?' he asked.

Mr. Das bowed extra low this time.

‘In the interest of justice, Mr. Talefwa is prepared to give his service exclusively to my client.'

‘Thank you.'

The Chief Justice looked down at his empty pad, and then up at the Office of Works clock opposite. Dealing with Mr. Das had wasted half-an-hour of the Court's time already.

Then, just when he was ready to begin, he noticed that Mr. Das was still standing.

‘Yes?' he asked.

‘M'lud,' Mr. Das began, ‘there is a matter which I wish to draw to your Lordship's attention. Already there has been an approach—I regret to have to say a most improper approach—from an exceedingly high quarter to try to influence me in the nature of my plea. Naturally, I resisted the approach. The promises, if they can be called promises, meant nothing to me. They did not deceive me. My client is not guilty, and I am so pleading, m'lud.'

The Attorney-General drew down the corners of his mouth.

‘Well, there's a thorough-going bastard for you,' he said to himself. ‘Try to help one of those fellows and that's all the thanks you get for it.'

He was not, however, surprised. Even in quite trivial matters, certainly in important ones, he had always preferred Africans to Asians: they were, for some reason, so much warmer-hearted.

The Chief Justice himself had no racial prejudices: he merely disliked Mr. Das. That was why this time he was so careful to conceal his feelings.

‘If during the course of this trial,' he said, ‘anything is done, whether by an interested party or by a stranger, which is calculated to impede the course of justice then the Court must be informed immediately so that suitable action can be taken.'

He paused.

‘I have no knowledge,' he went on, ‘of the alleged incident, and I have no wish to have knowledge. Clearly, before entering this Court you had already dismissed it from your mind as being of no significance. Otherwise it would have been your duty to inform me in chambers before the trial had opened. As it is, you have entered your plea, and that is sufficient.'

He paused again, and looked downward towards the Clerk.

‘Those last remarks of Counsel will,' he said, ‘be entirely struck out.'

It made Mr. Ngono feel uncomfortable seeing the clever Mr. Das rebuffed in that way. But he could not help admiring the Chief Justice. It must be rather nice, too, having the last word about everything: Mr. Ngono thought that he was splendid.

That was why, when the Attorney-General rose to open for the prosecution, Mr. Ngono found himself strangely disappointed. Neither grand and lofty like the Chief Justice, nor subtle and fault-finding like Mr. Das, Mr. Ramsden seemed by comparison altogether too ordinary and straightforward. For a trial of the magnitude, Mr. Ngono would have thought that they could have found someone more impressive.