A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [100]
Peg said scornfully: “And we’re supposed to go along with this fairy tale, and protect Jay’s reputation.”
“If you want Sir George to plead for your life, yes.”
Cora said: “We have no choice. Of course we’ll do it.”
“Good.” Gordonson turned to Mack. “I wish your case was so easy.”
Mack protested: “But I didn’t riot!”
“You didn’t go away after the Riot Act was read.”
“For God’s sake—I tried to get everyone to go, but Lennox’s ruffians attacked.”
“Let’s look at this step by step.”
Mack took a deep breath and suppressed his exasperation. “All right.”
“The prosecutor will say simply that the Riot Act was read, and you did not go away, so you are guilty and should be hanged.”
“Yes, but everyone knows there’s more to it than that!”
“There: that’s your defense. You simply say that the prosecutor has told half the story. Can you bring witnesses to say that you pleaded with everyone to disperse?”
“I’m sure I can. Dermot Riley can get any number of coal heavers to testify. But we should ask the Jamissons why the coal was being delivered to that yard, of all places, and at that time of night!”
“Well—”
Mack banged the table impatiently. “The whole riot was prearranged, we have to say that.”
“It would be hard to prove.”
Mack was infuriated by Gordonson’s dismissive attitude. “The riot was caused by a conspiracy—surely you’re not going to leave that out? If the facts don’t come out in court, where will they?”
Peg said: “Will you be at the trial, Mr. Gordonson?”
“Yes—but the judge may not let me speak.”
“For God’s sake, why not?” Mack said indignantly.
“The theory is that if you’re innocent you don’t need legal expertise to prove it. But sometimes judges make exceptions.”
“I hope we get a friendly judge,” Mack said anxiously.
“The judge ought to help the accused. It’s his duty to make sure the defense case is clear to the jury. But don’t rely on it. Place your faith in the plain truth. It’s the only thing that can save you from the hangman.”
24
ON THE DAY OF THE TRIAL THE PRISONERS WERE awakened at five o’clock in the morning.
Dermot Riley arrived a few minutes later with a suit for Mack to borrow: it was the outfit Dermot had got married in, and Mack was touched. He also brought a razor and a sliver of soap. Half an hour later Mack looked respectable and felt ready to face the judge.
With Cora and Peg and fifteen or twenty others he was tied up and marched out of the prison, along Newgate Street, down a side street called Old Bailey and up an alley to the Sessions House.
Caspar Gordonson met him there and explained who was who. The yard in front of the building was already full of people: prosecutors, witnesses, jurors, lawyers, friends and relatives, idle spectators, and probably whores and thieves looking for business. The prisoners were led across the yard and through a gate to the bail dock. It was already half full of defendants, presumably from other prisons: the Fleet Prison, the Bridewell and Ludgate Prison. From there Mack could see the imposing Sessions House. Stone steps led up to its ground floor, which was open on one side except for a row of columns. Inside was the judges’ bench on a high platform. On either side were railed-off spaces for jurors, and balconies for court officers and privileged spectators.
It reminded Mack of a theater—but he was the villain of the piece.
He watched with grim fascination as the court began its long day of trials. The first defendant was a woman accused of stealing fifteen yards of linsey-woolsey—cheap cloth made of a mixture of linen and wool—from a shop. The shopkeeper was the prosecutor, and he valued the cloth at fifteen shillings. The witness, an employee, swore that the woman picked up the bolt of cloth and went to the door then, realizing she was observed, dropped the material and ran away. The woman claimed she had only been looking at the cloth and had never intended to make off with it.
The jurors went into a huddle. They came from the social class known as “the middling sort”: they were small traders, well-to-do