Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [34]
“Follow me,” Mr. Adams intoned solemnly.
Pat remained unusually silent as they proceeded down the yellow brick road, as the old lags call the last few yards before you climb the steps and enter the back door of the court. Pat ended up standing in the dock, with a bailiff by his side.
Pat stared up at the bench and looked at the three magistrates who made up this morning’s panel. Something was wrong. He had been expecting to see Mr. Perkins, who had been bald this time last year, almost Pickwickian. Now, suddenly, he seemed to have sprouted a head of fair hair. On his right was Councillor Steadman, a liberal, who was much too lenient for Pat’s liking. On the chairman’s left sat a middle-aged lady whom Pat had never seen before; her thin lips and piggy eyes gave Pat a little confidence that the liberal could be outvoted two to one, especially if he played his cards right. Miss Piggy looked as if she would have happily supported capital punishment for shoplifters.
Sergeant Webster stepped into the witness box and took the oath.
“What can you tell us about this case, Sergeant?” Mr. Perkins asked, once the oath had been administered.
“May I refer to my notes, your honor?” asked Sergeant Webster, turning to face the chairman of the panel. Mr. Perkins nodded, and the sergeant turned over the cover of his notepad.
“I apprehended the defendant at two o’clock this morning, after he had thrown a brick at the window of H. Samuel, the jeweler’s, on Mason Street.”
“Did you see him throw the brick, Sergeant?”
“No, I did not,” admitted Webster, “but he was standing on the pavement with the brick in his hand when I apprehended him.”
“And had he managed to gain entry?” asked Perkins.
“No, sir,” said the sergeant, “but he was about to throw the brick again when I arrested him.”
“The same brick?”
“I think so.”
“And had he done any damage?”
“He had shattered the glass, but a security grille prevented him from removing anything.”
“How valuable were the goods in the window?” asked Mr. Perkins.
“There were no goods in the window,” replied the sergeant, “because the manager always locks them up in the safe, before going home at night.”
Mr. Perkins looked puzzled and, glancing down at the charge sheet, said, “I see you have charged O’Flynn with attempting to break and enter.”
“That is correct, sir,” said Sergeant Webster, returning his notebook to a back pocket of his trousers.
Mr. Perkins turned his attention to Pat. “I note that you have entered a plea of guilty on the charge sheet, O’Flynn.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Then I’ll have to sentence you to three months, unless you can offer some explanation.” He paused and looked down at Pat over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “Do you wish to make a statement?” he asked.
“Three months is not enough, m’lord.”
“I am not a lord,” said Mr. Perkins firmly.
“Oh, aren’t you?” said Pat. “It’s just that I thought as you were wearing a wig, which you didn’t have this time last year, you must be a lord.”
“Watch your tongue,” said Mr. Perkins, “or I may have to consider putting your sentence up to six months.”
“That’s more like it, m’lord,” said Pat.
“If that’s more like it,” said Mr. Perkins, barely able to control his temper, “then I sentence you to six months. Take the prisoner down.”
“Thank you, m’lord,” said Pat, and added under his breath, “see you this time next year.”
The bailiff hustled Pat out of the dock and quickly down the stairs to the basement.
“Nice one, Pat,” he said before locking him back up in a holding cell.
Pat remained in the holding cell while he waited for all the necessary forms to be filled in. Several hours passed before the cell door was finally opened and he was escorted out of the courthouse