John Brunner - The Squares of the City

“Good morning,” I said. “Are you involved in this?”

“Of c-course,” he said with dignity. “My d-department’s proof of nuisance is very important.”

His companion spoke up suddenly. “Forgive Nicky’s bad manners, Senor Hakluyt. Permit me to present myself. My name is Ruiz, Alonzo Ruiz, and it is a pleasure for me to meet you. I am a doctor,” he finished with a sudden lessening of his vehemence.

I remembered and shook his hand.. “You’re the—uh—the director of health and hygiene, aren’t you? Glad to meet you. You’re giving evidence, too, I take it.”

“Assuredly, senor! Why, I have statistics to demonstrate that the presence of this slum of Sigueiras’s has raised the typhoid rate in Ciudad de Vados one hundred and twenty per cent in the past ten years—”

An usher walked down the corridor announcing that the court would be in session in five minutes; Angers hastened back as I was starting to look for the anteroom where I had spent yesterday afternoon and wishing that I’d brought a good book.

“It’s all right, Hakluyt,” Angers said breathlessly. “I arranged with Lucas to ask the judge to let witnesses sit in court today—something about special circumstances. He’ll fix it.”

He did. Three minutes after the judge had taken his seat, an usher escorted me into the courtroom. I was given a place near Angers and sat down under the glaring eyes of Fats Brown. Presumably he’d just had a fast one put over on him, and he wasn’t enjoying it.

I looked around the court—this was a room identical to the one where Dominguez had had his ears pinned back the other day—and stiffened as I recognized two of the people in the public seats. Side by side in the front row were Felipe Mendoza—and Maria Posador.

She looked at me expressionlessly, her red lips slightly parted, and at length shook her head once, as though I had failed in some important test. Annoyed, I turned my head away.

But that was interesting, finding those two here. Another case with political implications. It looked as though half the courts in the city were becoming battlegrounds for the rival factions.-

Having recovered from his annoyance, Fats Brown got up with a bored air and asked leave to address the court.

“I should like to make it plain,” he said, “why in my view it makes no difference whether or not witnesses sit in court. Obviously it makes no difference. Failing perjury, nothing can hide the simple fact that the city traffic department, the city council, and that man Angers over there have conspired to deprive my client of his citizen’s rights and many hundreds of people of their homes.”

The bang of the judge’s gavel coincided with Lucas’s fierce, “Objection!”

“Sustained,” said the judge. “Struck from the record. Senor Brown, when appearing before a jury, interjections of that kind serve some purpose. I assure you I’m unimpressed by them.”

“Yes, your honor,” said Brown, unabashed. “It was purely for the benefit of the reporters.”

The judge—he was a distinguished-looking man of about fifty—half-smiled. Plainly he made allowances for Fats; equally plainly, the fact annoyed Andres Lucas. I glanced at what I presumed was the press table and saw five men and a girl exchanging amused whispers.

“So many reporters?” I said under my breath to Angers. He glanced in the direction I indicated and gave a nod.

“Liberdad, Tiempo, a commentator from the radio, and I should think someone from the local papers in Cuatrovientos, Puerto Joaquin, and Astoria Negra.”

“This case must be attracting a lot of attention.”

“Haven’t you seen today’s papers? It is.”

The judge was frowning down at Angers; he sat back with a mutter of apology.

“Continue, Senor Brown,” the judge invited.

Having got his first thrust in, Brown seemed to have calmed down. He had obviously presented most of his case the previous day; he reviewed it now, referring to witnesses who had deposed that they had no alternative accommodation, that in their view Senor Sigueiras was a public benefactor rather than a nuisance, and that they could not have stayed in their villages because their water supply had been diverted to Ciudad de Vados.

Then he quoted the city’s charter of incorporation at some length and asked leave of the court to recall his witnesses if need be to rebut counter-allegations made by the defense. Then he rested his case.

Here Lucas took over, and I had to admit that the man was a master of legal expertise. With assured authority, he took Brown’s interpretation of the relevant clauses of the charter and tore it to shreds—Fats looked definitely unhappy while this was going on. But obviously the mere letter of the law was not in dispute in this case; the city definitely had a right to subordinate citizens’ rights to redevelopment plans. What Sigueiras was saying was that if it hadn’t been for the intention to dispossess him personally, there wouldn’t have been any redevelopment plans; Brown was attempting to show on his behalf that the city council, the traffic department, and Angers—named conjointly in the suit—were motivated by malice rather than by a desire to benefit the citizens.

So it ultimately came down to the question of nuisance. And Lucas, winding up his opening speech, announced that he proposed to get rid of the imputation of malice and prove the nuisance beyond doubt.

The judge, sitting with a smile of appreciation on his face, recollected that it was time for the noon recess and stepped down.

He resumed his seat for the afternoon session with an air of expectancy; so did all of us. Lucas proceeded to call Angers, and Angers stoutly denied the imputation of malice. He made a good impression, I thought, studying the judge. But when Fats Brown lumbered to his feet, he had a sleepy, dangerous twinkle in his eye.

“Angers, are you honestly stating before this court that it’s bothersome to you to have this ground under the monorail central lying idle, when there ought to be a main road across it?”

“Of course not.”

“Does its present employment interfere with access to the station? Or with the flow of passengers?”

Angers frowned. “It’s definitely a nuisance to passengers.”

“That’s not the point. Is it? What’s at issue is the motive of your department. Have you any specific proposal for redevelopment of this ground?”

Angers suddenly looked acutely uncomfortable, and stammered over his reply, with a glance at me. Lucas rose to intervene smoothly, saying that a later witness—me, presumably—would deal with that point. But Brown’s thrust had gone home, and he exploited it.

“In fact,” he wound up, his voice dripping sarcasm, “you decided that as cover for your attempt to evict Sigueiras you’d hire this outside expert and invent—yes, invent!—a new use for his ground so as to cheat him of his legal rights. Yes or no?”

“I—” began Angers, but Brown had thrown up his hands in disgust and sat down.

I began to see how Brown had acquired his reputation. All Lucas’s careful smoothing-over couldn’t hide the fact that a great hole had been knocked in Angers’ statements. I saw Senora Posador and Mendoza looking satisfied.

Lucas had less luck still with his next witness—Caldwell. The poor guy stammered more than ever. Trading on this, Lucas made a great show of sympathy and got the court’s leave to introduce affidavits covering some of the evidence about the menace to the health and well-being of the citizens at large caused by Sigueiras’s slum.

Brown was not so kind. He kept Caldwell in the box for almost an hour, forcing one admission after another—that conditions in the slum were no worse than others in Puerto Joaquin; that there was no adequate alternative accommodations; that, in short, poverty was the root of the trouble and of everyone in a position to do anything to ameliorate it; only Sigueiras had taken practical steps to help the sufferers.