When Mr. Chaffanbrass left the prison he walked back with Mr. Wickerby to the attorney’s chambers in Hatton Garden, and he lingered for awhile on the Viaduct expressing his opinion of his client. “He’s not a bad fellow, Wickerby.”
“A very good sort of fellow, Mr. Chaffanbrass.”
“I never did—and I never will—express an opinion of my own as to the guilt or innocence of a client till after the trial is over. But I have sometimes felt as though I would give the blood out of my veins to save a man. I never felt in that way more strongly than I do now.”
“It’ll make me very unhappy, I know, if it goes against him,” said Mr. Wickerby.
“People think that the special branch of the profession into which I have chanced to fall is a very low one—and I do not know whether, if the world were before me again, I would allow myself to drift into an exclusive practice in criminal courts.”
“Yours has been a very useful life, Mr. Chaffanbrass.”
“But I often feel,” continued the barrister, paying no attention to the attorney’s last remark, “that my work touches the heart more nearly than does that of gentlemen who have to deal with matters of property and of high social claims. People think I am savage—savage to witnesses.”
“You can frighten a witness, Mr. Chaffanbrass.”
“It’s just the trick of the trade that you learn, as a girl learns the notes of her piano. There’s nothing in it. You forget it all the next hour. But when a man has been hung whom you have striven to save, you do remember that. Good morning, Mr. Wickerby. I’ll be there a little before ten. Perhaps you may have to speak to me.”
LXI
The Beginning of the Trial
The task of seeing an important trial at the Old Bailey is by no means a pleasant business, unless you be what the denizens of the Court would call “one of the swells,”—so as to enjoy the privilege of being a benchfellow with the judge on the seat of judgment. And even in that case the pleasure is not unalloyed. You have, indeed, the gratification of seeing the man whom all the world has been talking about for the last nine days, face to face; and of being seen in a position which causes you to be acknowledged as a man of mark; but the intolerable stenches of the Court and its horrid heat come up to you there, no doubt, as powerfully as they fall on those below. And then the tedium of a prolonged trial, in which the points of interest are apt to be few and far between, grows upon you till you begin to feel that though the Prime Minister who is out should murder the Prime Minister who is in, and all the members of the two Cabinets were to be called in evidence, you would not attend the trial, though the seat of honour next to the judge were accorded to you. Those bewigged ones, who are the performers, are so insufferably long in their parts, so arrogant in their bearing—so it strikes you, though doubtless the fashion of working has been found to be efficient for the purposes they have in hand—and so uninteresting in their repetition, that you first admire, and then question, and at last execrate the imperturbable patience of the judge, who might, as you think, force the thing through in a quarter of the time without any injury to justice. And it will probably strike you that the length of the trial is proportioned not to the complicity but to the importance, or rather to the public interest, of the case—so that the trial which has been suggested of a disappointed and bloody-minded ex-Prime Minister would certainly take at least a fortnight, even though the Speaker of the House of Commons and the Lord Chancellor had seen the blow struck, whereas a collier may knock his wife’s brains out in the dark and be sent to the gallows with a trial that shall not last three hours. And yet the collier has to be hung—if found guilty—and no one thinks that his life is improperly endangered by reckless haste. Whether lives may not be improperly saved by the more lengthened process is another question.
But the honours of such benchfellowship can be accorded but to few, and the task becomes very tiresome when the spectator has to enter the Court as an ordinary mortal. There are two modes open to him, either of which is subject to grievous penalties. If he be the possessor of a decent coat and hat, and can scrape any acquaintance with anyone concerned, he may get introduced to that overworked and greatly perplexed official, the under-sheriff, who will stave him off if possible—knowing that even an under-sheriff cannot make space elastic—but, if the introduction has been acknowledged as good, will probably find a seat for him if he persevere to the end. But the seat when obtained must be kept in possession from morning to evening, and the fight must be renewed from day to day. And the benches are hard, and the space is narrow, and you feel that the under-sheriff would prod you with his sword if you ventured to sneeze, or to put to your lips the flask which you have in your pocket. And then, when all the benchfellows go out to lunch at half-past one, and you are left to eat your dry sandwich without room for your elbows, a feeling of unsatisfied ambition will pervade you. It is all very well to be the friend of an under-sheriff, but if you could but have known the judge, or have been a cousin of the real sheriff, how different it might have been with you!
But you may be altogether independent, and, as a matter of right, walk into an open English court of law as one of the
