The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Page 3

  “I was fourteen.”

  “Thievery?”

  “Aye. But never again. My mother and wife’ll tell you I’m clean as a lady’s kerchief, and ’ave been since that day. I didn’t take that man’s goods—”

  “Mr. Periwinkle,” the judge interrupted. “Can we move this along?”

  The prosecutor nodded graciously. “Of course, your lordship. I’ve nothing further for the accused.”

  The justice of the peace presiding, Magistrate Alfred Plessing, settled back in his chair, waving a hand toward William.

  Judge Plessing was not a bad man. His manor lay just a few miles west of London. William knew for a fact that he was good to his people, to the village that relied upon him, to the local parson of his diocese. He did his duty as a magistrate each quarter, prodding justice along at a reasonable and measured pace. But he was no scholar of the law, nor master of his own biases. And William could see that he’d already lost patience with this proceeding, with two more cases scheduled for the jury yet that afternoon.

  “I’ve no questions at this time,” William called.

  “I call as my final witness Mr. Keyes,” the prosecutor declared.

  The most critical witness was now taking the witness box. William glanced at Edmund, seeing a trickle of sweat trace a trail along his temple. William looked to the gallery, where the managing solicitor of the case and Edmund’s close friend, Obadiah Cummings, was seated. The solicitor returned William’s nod with a hopeful shrug.

  Edmund leaned to William’s ear, thrusting his nose amid the wig fibers. “Are you sure of this strategy, Mr. Snopes?” he asked.

  William looked back at him with widened eyes. “Am I sure? Of course I’m not sure. This is a trial, not a mathematical equation.”

  Edmund heaved a breath and nodded.

  “And you’ve got the goods?” William asked in return.

  Edmund gestured toward the bag on the floor.

  “Good.”

  William rose. “My lord,” he called, “I wonder if we may approach the bench?”

  The judge looked perturbed but nodded his assent. Edmund followed in William’s wake, joining Periwinkle beside the raised table where the judge presided.

  “My lord,” William began, leaning in at a whisper, “I understand that Mr. Periwinkle intends to call an eyewitness to the theft. A Mr. Daniel Keyes.”

  “That’s correct, my lord,” Periwinkle acknowledged, the fumes of his lunch at the pub dominating the air about them. “He will unequivocally identify this Mr. Cooper as the thief.”

  “Given the importance of this testimony,” William replied, “I request that my client be permitted to leave the dock and sit at counsel table. Just for the short time needed to consult with him regarding Mr. Keyes’s testimony. It would, I believe, save time from me seeking an adjournment to confer before my examination of this witness.”

  The magistrate shook his head. “Highly irregular, Mr. Snopes. Highly irregular.”

  Periwinkle raised a confident eyebrow. “Ah, but your lordship, I have no objection.”

  The judge looked them all over. “Well then. So be it. Your client may join you at counsel table, Mr. Snopes—only for the duration of this witness, mind you.”

  “That is very gracious, Mr. Periwinkle,” William said. “Thank you, my lord.”

  They returned to their seats at counsel table. Young Patrin Cooper left the dock and moved to join them as Periwinkle called out again, “The prosecution calls Daniel Keyes to testify.”

  It took no more than several ticks of the ancient clock hanging above the jurors for the new witness to appear from a side door. But in those few moments, Edmund stood, ushering their client into the seat beside William, then seated himself two chairs farther away. In that same instant, Edmund procured a well-groomed horsehair wig, identical to his own, from the cloth bag beneath the table and placed it on Patrin’s head.

  Periwinkle, focused on the new witness in the box, took no notice.

  “Mr. Keyes,” Periwinkle addressed the new witness. “You are a hostler, are you not? You care for horses at the Inn of Grey Gables near the chemist’s shop?”

  The witness coughed to clear his throat, then thrust his chest out importantly. “I do indeed, master.”

  “Were you at your job the day there was a theft of goods in front of the chemist’s shop last month?”

  “Aye.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “I saw a man come out of the chemist’s and reach in and take a wooden crate from a large wagon there—plain as can be. Then he put it on another wagon, got aboard, and drove away.”

  “Very well. And is that man seated at counsel table?” Periwinkle waved an arm in the direction of defense counsel. “With Mr. Snopes?”

  “Aye, plain as can be.”

  “Thank you. Nothing further.”

  William rose instantly to his feet. “Which one, Mr. Keyes?”

  The witness stiffened. “Which one what?”

  “Which one? Which of the gentlemen seated at my table was the perpetrator of the theft?”

  Periwinkle’s eyes shifted to the table, where Edmund had now slid off his robe, resting it behind Patrin’s chair.

  “Why, I object!” Periwinkle shouted, seeing the three wigged men.

  The magistrate stared across the room, taking in the sight. “This is most inappropriate, Mr. Snopes,” the judge bellowed. “You’ve cloaked the accused as a barrister.”

  “My lordship, I cannot see why that would offend. While a barrister must be properly wigged in the courtroom, I know of no admonition against a party wearing such a wig as well.”

  “But you’re clearly attempting to confuse this witness.”

  “Not at all, your lordship. I’m simply trying to determine whether this witness—critical to the prosecution—really knows who he is accusing of the serious crime of theft.”

  The magistrate hesitated.

  “Mr. Plessing, this is simply not done!” Periwinkle objected.

  The judge’s eyes shifted to sear the prosecutor like hot coals.

  “I am Justice Plessing today, Mr. Periwinkle. Or your lordship. However you might address me at a club or at a card game, you will kindly not forget to address me appropriately in this setting.”

  “Your lordship,” William chimed in. “Perhaps a compromise might be agreed upon. What if you were to direct both the accused and my assistant to stand and remove their wigs. That would provide Mr. Keyes a fair chance to view them as he would have seen the culprit that afternoon.”

  Perhaps he wouldn’t have agreed minutes before. Now Judge Plessing contemplated the room like a circling hawk, his nasal breaths filling an expectant silence in the gallery that a parson would have envied.

  “Very well,” the magistrate said. “The two gentlemen at defense table besides Mr. Snopes will stand and remove their wigs.”

  Edmund and Patrin were nearly the same height, but as Edmund rose, he crouched just a bit where he stood, still several chairs down from William. His hair beneath his wig was deliberately grown out and cut ragged, while their client’s was coiffed and oiled. Patrin’s shirt was finely pressed and spotless; Edmund’s, now fully revealed, carried stains of several meals.

  “Why, it’s him.” Keyes squinted. “Surely as the sun rose this morning!” He extended a finger pointed directly at Edmund. “That man stole the other’ns goods from that wagon. I saw him with my own eyes. Plain as can be.”

  “This is unfair! This is an ambush!” Periwinkle cried out amid gasps and shouts from the gallery.

  Leaning across their client to address Edmund, William allowed himself a small smile. “I believe that’s the best summation I’ve ever heard old Periwinkle give,” he said.

  3

  RED HOUND PUB

  FOUR BLOCKS FROM THE MIDDLESEX COURTHOUSE

  Edmund’s stomach was coiled with frustration, his jaw tight, his fingers tapping a repeating rhythm on the table. Barrister Snopes glanced at him over
a sip of beer. Solicitor Obadiah took them both in before opening his mouth to speak.

  “It’s not port, Mr. Snopes,” Obadiah declared. “You’re sipping it as though it were. Beer doesn’t get better in small quantities. In fact, knowing the quality of the beer at this place, I’d venture the opposite is true. You’ll be here tomorrow at this time if you keep at it that way.”

  “You and Edmund may drink your beer any way you wish, Solicitor,” William Snopes replied. “It’s a free country. But gulping beer has always seemed to me like swallowing without troubling to chew. Now leave me to my own preferences.”

  The table grew quiet.

  “Edmund, you’re unusually subdued,” Snopes spoke up. “Disappointed with this afternoon’s jury verdict against young Patrin?”

  “I’m fine.” Edmund smiled weakly, taking a draught of his own beer.

  “Objection!” Snopes called. “This man is lying!” He grinned at Edmund. “Don’t be naïve about the outcome today. Our strategy proved very effective.”

  His pent-up dissatisfaction burst. “Effective? Truly? Mr. Snopes, they found Patrin guilty.”

  “And the good magistrate fined him when he could have transported him.”

  “But it was clear our client wasn’t guilty.”

  “Was it?”

  Edmund could hardly credit his ears. “Of course! You heard that Keyes witness. He had no idea who really took the figurines.”

  Snopes shrugged. “What of Mr. Tenbome’s testimony about seeing our client stop at his wagon after he left the chemist’s? Patrin admitted he’d done so—even that he’d placed his hands on a chest on the Tenbome wagon. Our client also admitted there was no one else near enough to take the goods.”

  Edmund stared at Mr. Snopes in shock.

  “Sir, then you think Patrin was guilty?”

  “No. The truth is, I’m not sure. Come on now, Edmund. I understand your disappointment. But you’re twenty-three now, not fourteen—and a trained barrister. You must know by now that believing someone is innocent and being able to prove it to the satisfaction of a jury are not synonymous. Don’t allow your belief in a client’s innocence to cloud your judgment as to how hard it might be to prove it.”

  Though his chest ached, Edmund tried another smile, raising his beer in toast to his mentor and employer. “Of course, sir,” he declared.

  Except he wasn’t disappointed. That was too small a word for it. Seeing that bloated excuse of a regent today on the street, thinking of all the toffs and scions of wealth in Parliament, only reminded him that the jury system was his last hope as an Englander. Now to lose a trial on such flimsy evidence threatened the collapse of even that tender faith.

  He gulped another mouthful of beer.

  “Anyway, the jurors couldn’t possibly see the truth, Mr. Snopes,” he burst out. “They were already biased against Patrin because he’s a gypsy.”

  Obadiah, who seldom strayed from Edmund’s side in an argument, nodded his agreement. “I’m with Edmund on this one, sir.”

  Mr. Snopes shrugged, unfazed.

  “Of course they were biased! And don’t forget that he’d been convicted as a thief as a young man! Did you think the jury would be unmoved by such things? You can’t banish what people believe when they step into the jury box—nor can you afford to despise them for it. Our job isn’t to save the jurors’ eternal souls but to guide their hearts and minds on the precise matter of our client’s guilt or innocence. Disdain for the jury will stink like sulfur, and the jury will sniff it and despise you and your client in turn. Who will wish to please someone with a congenial verdict if they believe that that someone holds them in contempt? If you want to win the jurors, Edmund, you must love them as children. Like children, they’ll be inclined to reciprocate. If they love you enough, they may hesitate before displeasing you. Love. That’s the bond that good barristers employ to sway jurors, Edmund. Now that you’ve completed your apprenticeship, you should know that.”

  “As you say, Mr. Snopes.” Edmund nodded, silently refusing to agree.

  “No, Edmund,” Snopes continued. “Not as I say. As I have observed. And as for today, I had few illusions we could move this jury—yes, with all of its biases—to find young Patrin Cooper innocent. I’d hoped, however, that we could seed enough doubt in the mind of our fine Judge Plessing so that, if the jury found Patrin guilty, he would refrain from imposing the terrible sentence of transportation. As I told you at the outset, our magistrate today is, at heart, a good man. And that latter goal, young Edmund, we achieved.”

  Eight pounds six. The judge’s fine was intended to match the value of the stolen goods. Snopes was right. That fine paled against the prospect of a life sentence after a voyage to the far side of the world.

  Still, how did one compromise with injustice?

  “It will take Patrin a year to save up so much money,” he said.

  “Far better than the alternative,” Snopes rejoined. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of coins. “Which reminds me. Here’s your portion of the fee.”

  The pile of coins sat on the table for a long moment. Heart aching at his weakness, Edmund gathered them up and thrust them into a pocket.

  “A better wage than Judas received,” he muttered. Rising, he bumped and nearly overturned the table in his haste to go.

  William watched Edmund’s retreat in silence.

  “He’s unbending, Mr. Snopes,” Obadiah said.

  “You’ve been his friend longer than my acquaintance,” William replied, disappointed. “Have you ever known him differently?”

  “Never.”

  “Unbending in a very windy world. Passion and idealism are wonderful, until they drive their host mad. He’ll break if he isn’t careful.”

  “You know where it comes from, Mr. Snopes.”

  “Yes. Still I worry. Perhaps you should follow him.”

  “Not tonight,” Obadiah said. “It’s too fresh. I’d only annoy him further. But about those coins you’ve given Edmund and me, Mr. Snopes. Patrin told me that you refused any fee on his case.”

  Snopes shrugged. “So?”

  “Paying us when you’ll accept no fee is a generous act. You should tell Edmund. It might mollify him.”

  “And risk his turning it down in a proud gesture of his own? No. Refusing the fee was my decision. I won’t have it impoverish you or Mr. Shaw.”

  “My wife and I thank you. Still, I believe you should’ve told Edmund—”

  “Ah, Master William Snopes and one of his band of legal knights! Fresh from another joust in court!”

  Startled, William turned.

  A man had appeared at Obadiah’s shoulder—a dark-haired priest, narrow-faced with resolute but not unkind eyes.

  “We don’t joust, Father Thomas,” William answered. “Wrestle, perhaps. We grapple with the inscrutable truth. Yes, I prefer that metaphor.”

  The Anglican priest, Father Thomas Neal, went to the bar, returning with his own mug of beer.

  “Take my seat,” Obadiah said, standing. “I’ve got to be getting home. Suzie promised pigeon and kidney beans tonight, along with a mince pie.”

  “Don’t blame you a bit,” William said.

  “Mr. Snopes.” Obadiah addressed the barrister once more. “It was good work today. Edmund will come around to see it.”

  “Thank you, Solicitor. Now enjoy an evening of rest. And my best to Suzanne.”

  The priest sat silently at William’s elbow, working at his beer as the pub grew louder with the deepening evening. The tall fire molded wavering shadows about the patrons that filled the space.

  William waited until it was clear that the priest wouldn’t launch his point without an invitation.

  “So, what did you think about the trial today?” he asked at last.

  Appearing relieved, the priest looked to William. “I believe you should be looking after your charge’s spiritual life.”

  “There it is! I was curious what your lecture points would
be today.”

  “Edmund’s path was dark enough for many years.”

  “Edmund’s a brilliant young man. He’ll work out his own eternity, thank you. I’m certain with your fine help.”

  “William, you may have chosen a spiritual desert for a career, but you should steer Edmund away from your profession while you still can. Before its inherent contradictions break him. At least shelter him from the methods you employ. He would listen. The boy looks up to you.”

  “As I said. A brilliant young man.”

  “I’m serious. Your profession is fraught with danger, William. Trying to help the guilty go free can damage a soul.”

  “So you’ve said on many occasions. And I respond the same: everyone deserves a defense.”

  “Yes. But Barrister William Snopes goes beyond just delivering a defense, and you know it.”

  “Why so serious, Father? When I saw you in the gallery today, I knew I was in for a verbal lashing. You clearly thought young Patrin was guilty. Well, he was found guilty. You should be satisfied.”

  “You nearly achieved a finding of innocence.”

  “Nearly so. As I’ve told you before, my friend, innocence is a relative thing in the world of law—highly dependent on the prisms through which jurors view their own lives, and the quantity of hard work and skill a barrister applies to achieve it.”

  “That’s not correct. Innocence isn’t achieved and it isn’t relative. Your client either did the deed or didn’t. It’s an objective fact.”

  “Yes, but one known with certainty only to God, who has ignored my every request to take the witness stand. In this fallen world, innocence is what the jury or judge says it is. It is our difficult task to help them see the matter as clearly as possible.”

  “You mean favorably to your clients.”

  “Of course.”

  “Sinners are sinners, no matter your skill in achieving a wrongful verdict.”

  “Yes, our clients are sinners in a fallen world—as are we. Yet doesn’t our Lord Jesus defend us before our Father despite our guilt?”

  “Don’t twist Scripture to suit your purpose, William. It’s not the same, and it’s beneath you to contend it is. And please, please don’t compare yourself to the Christ. At least not when I’m raising a mug within earshot.”