And then there were the familiar faces of my brethren in the media, most of whom thought Lundy was as guilty as sin, and the officers of the court, and Lundy himself — sometimes I thought of him as the volunteer in some kind of experiment, as though he had been chosen at random to test the memory and knowledge of intimates, acquaintances, strangers and experts. The trial was a character study. It was an examination of how well we can know someone and the traces they leave behind. The trial was also a test of the efficiency and efficacy of itself; the workings of a trial sometimes assume a greater importance than the point of it. The guilty and the innocent share the same reply when they’re accused of something: ‘Prove it!’ The burden of proof provides the context of a trial. It can be a very heavy burden, and it can lead to a robust and lengthy discussion about issues which have no basis in reality. That way lies madness — and, inevitably, the founding document of the nightmare that swirls behind all false accusations.
One day when I was at Kumeu, Geoff Levick said to me, ‘Have you ever read a book called The Trial?’ I had, but it was a long time ago; and so I bought a copy of Kafka’s great novel at Unity Books on the way to court one morning, and sometimes even read it in the courtroom. I imagined Levick opening up the book, and relishing its famous opening line: ‘Somebody must have made a false accusation against Josef K., for he was arrested one morning without having done anything wrong.’ Crazy, of course, to treat the book only as a parallel to Lundy’s case. It’s a work of art, and its fantastical world was created by Kafka in response to his own crises — a heartbreak, a harsh judgment. In his introduction to his English translation of The Trial, Idris Parry writes of Kafka being summoned to face his accusers: ‘He remained silent as the words crossed over him like a knife passed from hand to hand.’ But that, too, was Lundy’s role in the trial. He stood there mute for the six weeks as one witness after another read him like a text, and claimed to interpret examples of wickedness. ‘My innocence,’ Josef K. broods, ‘doesn’t simplify the matter. What matters are the many subtleties in which the court gets lost. But in the end it produces great guilt from some point where orginally there was nothing at all.’
K. is never described in The Trial, but you imagine him as looking similar to Kafka — someone thin and haunted, bony, pale, a serious figure inside a tight black suit, intense. At least no one accused Lundy of looking like that. Still, it was strange to see him that first day in court in his blue blazer and long pants. He had shambled around in shorts and T-shirts that summer in Kumeu. Now he looked like a professional, and he swung his black briefcase with purpose. The goatee made him look either like an academic, or 1970s whistler Roger Whittaker. ‘You did murder,’ announced the court clerk, ‘Christine Marie Lundy.’ Her widower stood in the dock, with his hands behind his back; he wore his wedding ring. ‘You did murder,’ the clerk also said, ‘Amber Grace Lundy.’ He answered each charge with the only words he spoke in the entire trial, the two words that meant the most: ‘Not guilty.’
The voyage began. Justice Simon France, plump and cheerful, his silver hairdo as high and glistening as anything sported by Little Richard, welcomed the jury. ‘There is a rhythm to a trial,’ he said. But almost immediately he was out of step, and played a shocker when he tripped over his own tongue. He meant to say, ‘The prosecution will try to prove Mr Lundy is guilty.’ Instead, he misspoke, and referred to ‘Mr Guilty’.
It would be a long trial, he advised, and might even continue past Easter. Much would be said and much would seem strange. ‘Things unfold. There is more to come. Be patient.’
And then: ‘You may or may not know this is a retrial. Do not concern yourself with the first trial, or why we are here again.’ You could see the sense in that, but in essence he was asking everyone to pretend the first trial had never happened. He ventured further into make-believe in a note given to the media. ‘I am loathe to create a fiction by ordering there be no reference to a retrial. However . . .’ Yes, loathsome as it was, he wished to create a fiction. After a bit of hand-wringing, the note declared it was a request, not a formal order, and as such it was roundly ignored.
He introduced the lawyers, and invited them to proceed wih their opening addresses. Philip Morgan QC, a tall, remote, saturnine individual from Hamilton, with a widow’s peak and downturned mouth, led for the Crown. He was assisted by Ben Vanderkolk of Palmerston North, who had prosecuted the first trial. He was slim, affable, handsome, beautifully tailored, and only rarely questioned a witness. In fact, he idled for much of the following six weeks. His relationship with Morgan seemed distant. They seldom shared each other’s company during breaks; on the rare occasion that they did, they walked in silence. I said to Vanderkolk one day, ‘Are you ever going to, you know, do anything in court?’ He had a lovely smile, revealing small, even teeth,
