The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [198]
“Do you? Then let me continue. Just before Victor’s father died, I visited him in a field hospital, and he asked only that I should take care of his wife. She died in childbirth. I therefore considered my responsibility passed on to their only child.”
Sir Hamish remained silent for a moment. “I appreciate your attitude, Minister, but ten percent of one of your largest contracts?”
“One day,” continued the secretary of state, as if he had not heard Sir Hamish’s comment, “Victor’s father was fighting in the front line at Zacatecas, and looking out across a minefield he saw a young lieutenant lying face down in the mud with his leg nearly blown off. With no thought for his own safety, he crawled through that minefield until he reached the lieutenant, and then he dragged him yard by yard back to the camp. It took him over three hours. He then carried the lieutenant to a truck and drove him to the nearest field hospital, undoubtedly saving his leg, and probably his life. So you see, the government has good cause to allow Perez’s son the privilege of representing them from time to time.”
“I agree with you, Minister,” said Sir Hamish quietly. “Quite admirable.”
The secretary of state smiled for the first time.
“But I still confess I cannot understand why you allow him such a large percentage.”
The minister frowned. “I am afraid, Sir Hamish, if you cannot understand that, you can never hope to understand the principles we Mexicans live by.”
The secretary of state rose from behind his desk, limped to the door and showed Sir Hamish out.
TRIAL AND ERROR
It’s hard to know exactly where to begin. But first, let me explain why I’m in jail.
The trial had lasted for eighteen days, and from the moment the judge had entered the courtroom the public benches had been filled to overflowing. The jury at Leeds Crown Court had been out for almost two days, and rumor had it that they were hopelessly divided. On the barristers’ bench there was talk of hung juries and retrials, as it had been more than eight hours since Mr. Justice Cartwright had told the foreman of the jury that their verdict need no longer be unanimous: A majority of ten to two would be acceptable.
Suddenly there was a buzz in the corridors, and the members of the jury filed quietly into their places. Press and public alike began to stampede back into court. All eyes were on the foreman of the jury, a fat, jolly-looking little man dressed in a double-breasted suit, striped shirt and a colorful bow tie, striving to appear solemn. He seemed the sort of fellow with whom, in normal circumstances, I would have enjoyed a pint at the local. But these were not normal circumstances.
As I climbed back up the steps into the dock, my eyes settled on a pretty blond who had been seated in the gallery every day of the trial. I wondered if she attended all the sensational murder trials, or if she was just fascinated by this one. She showed absolutely no interest in me, and like everyone else was concentrating her full attention on the foreman of the jury.
The clerk of the court, dressed in a wig and a long black gown, rose and read out from a card the words I suspect he knew by heart:
“Will the foreman of the jury please stand?”
The jolly little fat man rose slowly from his place.
“Please answer my next question yes or no. Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict on which at least ten of you are agreed?”
“Yes, we have.”
“Members of the jury, do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty as charged?”
There was total silence in the courtroom.
My eyes were fixed on the foreman with the colorful bow tie. He cleared his throat and said …
I first met Jeremy Alexander in 1978, at a Council of British Industries training seminar in Bristol. Fifty-six British companies that were looking for ways to expand into Europe had come together for a briefing on Community law. At the time that I signed up for the seminar, Cooper’s, the company of which I was chairman, ran 127 vehicles of varying