Charles Snow - George Passant

‘I think it necessary to remind you that, according to his own account, you are required to believe him capable of an irresponsible lie.’

One of the jury moistened his lips. The judge paused, passed a finger over his notes, continued: ‘That is all I wish to direct your attention towards. But there is one matter which makes me detain you a little longer: and that is to require you to forget, while you consider your verdict, much that you have heard during the conduct of this case. You have been presented with more than a little talk about the private lives of these three young people. You heard it in evidence; both counsel have referred to it with feeling in their closing speeches. I ask you to forget as much of it as is humanly possible. You may think they have behaved very foolishly; you may think they have behaved very wrongly, as far as our moral standards allow us to judge. But you will remember that they are not being tried for this behaviour; and you must not allow your condemnation of it to affect your deliberations on the real charge against them. You must be as uninfluenced as though you accepted the eloquent plea of Mr Getliffe and believed that the world is in flux, and that these actions have a different value from what they had when most of us were young.’ For a moment he smiled.

‘That is not to say, though, because you are to assume what may be an effort of charity towards some of the evidence which you have heard, that you are to regard the case itself with lightness. Nothing I have said must lead you to such a course. If you are not entirely convinced by the evidence for the prosecution you will, of course, return, according to the practice of our law, a verdict of not guilty. But if you are convinced by the relevant evidence, beyond any reasonable shade of doubt in your own minds, then you will let nothing stand between you and a verdict of guilty. Whatever you feel about some elements in their lives, whether you pity or blame them, must have no part in that decision. All you must remember is that they are charged with what is in itself a serious offence against the law. It is the probity of transactions such as theirs which is the foundation of more of the structure of our lives than we often think. I need not tell you that, and I only do so because the importance of the offence with which they are charged must not become submerged.’

Several people later mentioned their surprise on hearing, after the tolerant advice and stiff benevolence of his caution upon the sexual aspect of the case, this last sternness over money.

As the jury went out, the court burst into a murmur of noise. One could distinguish no words, but nothing could shut out the sound. It rose and fell in waves, like the drone of bees swarming.

The light from the chandelier touched the varnish on the deserted box.

Getliffe and I walked together outside the court. He said to one of the solicitors, in his breathless confidential whisper: ‘I want to get back to the house tonight. One deserves a night to oneself—’

My watch had jerked infinitesimally on. ‘They can’t be back for an hour,’ we were trying to reassure ourselves. At last (though it was only forty minutes since they went out) we heard something: the jury wanted to ask a question. When we got back to our places, the judge had already returned; his spectacles stood before him on his pad, their side arms standing up like antennae; his eyes were dark and bright as he peered steadily into the court.

Through the sough of noise there came Porson’s voice, unrestrained and full. ‘It’s inconceivable that he shouldn’t send it before Easter,’ he was saying to his junior. His face was high-coloured, but carried heavy purplish pouches under the eyes. He was sitting, one leg over the bench, a hand behind his head, his voice unsubdued, with a bravura greater than anyone’s there. He laughed, loud enough to draw the eyes of Mr Passant, who was standing between his wife and Roy, at the back of the court.

The door clicked open. Then we did not hear the shuffle of a dozen people. It was the foreman alone who had come into court.

‘We should like to ask a question. We are not certain about a point of law,’ he said, nervously brusque.

‘It is my place to help you if I can,’ said the judge.

‘I’ve been asked to inquire whether we can find one of them definitely had nothing to do with — with any of the charges. If we do that, can we leave out that person and consider the others by themselves?’

The judge said: ‘I tried to give you instructions about the law under which they are charged. Perhaps I did not make myself sufficiently clear.’ Again he explained. His kindness held a shade of patronage. Two of them could be guilty of conspiracy without a third. It was possible for any of them to be guilty of conspiracy and not guilty of obtaining money by false pretences. (If the jury considered that any of them had not, in fact, profited after joining in a conspiracy.) If they were not guilty of conspiracy, in the circumstances they could not be guilty of obtaining money under false pretences. Unless the jury considered only one person to be responsible — in which case there was no conspiracy, but one person alone could be found guilty of obtaining money by false pretences.

‘You are certain you understand?’ the judge went on. ‘Perhaps you had better write it down. Yes, it would remove any uncertainties if you wrote it down and showed it to me.’

Many found this interruption the most intolerable moment of the trial. Someone said the most sinister — meaning perhaps the confusion, the sudden flash of other lives, of human puzzlement and incompetence.

Through the hour of waiting which still remained, it shot new fragments of thought to many of our minds. Whom did they mean? What were they disagreeing on? But none of us could go on thinking for long: we were wrapped in the emptiness of waiting. The apprehension engrossed us like an illness of the body.

The message came. The jury were coming back. The three were brought up, and took their seats in the dock again. George’s arms were folded on his chest. His face was curiously expressionless: but his hands were as livid as though he had been hours in the cold.

The jury came in. Automatically I looked at the clock; it was after half-past four. Their walk was an interminable, drumming sound. The clerk read out the first charge — conspiracy over the agency — with a meaningless emphasis on the name of the town. ‘Do you find them guilty or not guilty?’

The foreman said quickly and in a low voice, ‘Not guilty.’

Then the second charge — conspiracy over the farm. Again the name of the town started out.

‘Guilty or not guilty?’ There was a pause. In the silence someone coughed. Suddenly — ‘Not guilty.’

Then the individual charges of obtaining money by false pretences. There was a string of ‘Not guilty’ for Jack and Olive, and finally the charges against George were read out for the last time; the foreman replied ‘Not guilty’ twice again, in a manner by this time repetitive and without hesitation.

The judge pressed his lips together, and spoke to them with a stiff formal smile: ‘You are free to go now.’

THE court seethed with whispers. The three were surrounded by friends and walked to the door. I waited, with Porson and Getliffe, until we could leave ourselves, watching Mr Passant come out of the crowd and take George’s hand. Gossip was already in the air. ‘They didn’t expect—’ someone said as I went out with Getliffe. People were laughing with excitement, face after face suddenly leapt to the eyes, vivid and alive.

Getliffe talked in the robing-room until Eden fetched him.

‘It’s been nice to be together again.’ And then: ‘Well, one’s pulled it off for your people. It was a good case to win.’ He smiled. We’ll have a crack about it in the train tonight. I’ve learned from it, L S, I’ve learned from it.’