The Trial
The Prosecution's Case
Rector Collins
The short, stout, Judge Rutherford Bartholomew (known also by his enemies and detractors as Judge Bartholomule for his stubbornness on the subject of allowing women as witnesses even though it had become the law of the land), entered the court-room as all present rose in respect. The prisoner in the dock could not rise because of his chains, but he nodded respectfully in the direction of the judge. The judge ignored him, seating himself and rummaging through a mass of papers, finally looking up to glance at the prosecutor and the defense barrister.
"All right," he said. "Who are you three?" One of the two defense attorneys rose. Middle aged: well-groomed, face shaven, and greying locks, his voice was deep and cultured. "Solicitor Samuels assisted by my colleague," he gestured towards another at the defense table and made as if to continue to speak. The judge interrupted. "He can speak for himself, I trust," he said nodding to the second member of the defense.
A man even smaller and fatter than the judge rose and spoke in a hoarse, rasping voice from behind a full white beard that proclaimed his advanced age. "Dr. Porticus for the defense, your honor," and then sat down. The prosecutor rose. "Crown prosecutor Simpson," he announced somewhat pompously. At the judge's nod, he began to speak in a tone of oratory to describe the vile circumstances of the crime. The judge snapped at him, impatiently. "I've read the circumstances of the crime. What I want to know is why this man is charged with it." The prosecutor smiled ingratiatingly. "Surely the public would like to hear the details of the case…," he began, but the judge roared at him. "D'ya think I sit here to entertain the public, you idiot. Get on with it!" The crowd let out a gasp and the prosecutor turned a bright red. The defendant's bearded barrister hid a smile behind a slim hand and resolved to treat this judge like a petulant child. The other lawyers showed no response, sitting in silence.
The prosecutor pointed a finger at the defendant. "On the 5th day of July in the Year of Our Lord 1813, that man raped and murdered a lass in the fields of the Estate known as Rosings Park."
The judge grabbed his head in two hands. "If I don't hear some evidence of that in the next sentence I am setting that man free," he growled. The prosecutor paled and reached a trembling hand to the table in front of him, raising a small object towards the Judge. "This is the evidence, your Honor," he croaked, his oratory tones extinguished by his shaken nerves. "If I may approach the bench…?" he quavered. The judge waved him forward. He handed the object to the Judge, who frowned as he examined it. "A button?" the judge remarked with a questioning tone.
"Torn from the coat of the murderer by the poor girl as she was dying," the prosecutor announced in a tone of triumph.
"How'd ya know that?" the judge asked, frowning. (He gestured a bailiff over. "Show this to the defense and then the jurors," he ordered.)
"Ah! As to that I call the first witness for the crown." He turned to the table he had sat at. "Rector Collins, will you take the stand to give your evidence of this foul murder?"
A small man in clerical garb jumped up and scurried forward.
After swearing on a bible to tell the truth under penalty of punishment, both divine and judicial, he sat in the witness chair, settling himself in a self-important manner. The judge disliked him before he opened his mouth to testify.
"Identify yourself for the court and tell us the circumstances under which you came in possession of this object, Rector Collins," the prosecutor told him. The little man swelled with pride and self-importance. "I am the Reverend William Collins, Rector of Hunsford Parsonageby the Grace of both our Lord, Jesus Christ, and of my Patroness, the Lady Catherine de Bourgh," he announced in his best Sunday sermon voice. He nodded in the direction of a stately woman sitting in the first of row of spectators. She did not acknowledge his nod, but stared straight at the defendant in the dock.
Collins continued with a slight frown of disappointment that his recognition of his patron was not returned. "It was my wife who put it into my hands. She and another good woman of our church had the honor and duty of preparing the victim's body for burial by washing it and dressing it a white gown. A simple white gown indicating purity and appropriate to one who was chaste (in so far as we can judge)," he added looking at the judge for approval. The judge gritted his teeth and waved him on.
"When my good wife opened the maiden's hands to wash them, this object fell to the floor. Not recognizing its value, but concerned that it might be of importance, she brought it to me, of course. In my sermons I always stress that a good wife should consult her husband on all matters of importance even if they seem at first trivial. A man should be the one to make the judgement as to what is trivial and what is important. As the Bible says…"
The judge waved him on. "Yes, yes. We are in agreement on this point. Proceed with your testimony."
Collins bowed obsequiously to the judge and cleared his throat. "Noticing some faint markings on the metal surface of the button, but unable to discern their meaning, I immediately sought out the advice of my patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh." Here he paused and bowed his head again in the direction of the stately looking woman. This time she gave him the slightest of nods; her cold and haughty expression never changing.
"It was she who recognized the faint impressions as being the emblem of the House of Pemberley… the House of the defendant, Lord Darcy. It was ripped from his coat by the poor girl as she was strangling her," he finished in triumphant tones. A roar went through the crowd and fists were shaken in the direction of the defendant, who sat in stoic silence. The judge was pounding with his gavel, shouting "Quiet in my courtroom or I'll clear it out!"; even as both defense attorneys leaped to their feet, crying "Objection!" in the loudest of voices. It was Dr. Porticus that cried in his hoarse voice. "The witness is not supposed to given his opinions: only testify as to facts."
The judge smiled wryly. "You may safely assume I know how to distinguish between fact, or at least the alleging of fact, and an unwanted opinion, my good Dr. Porticus." He turned a cold stare towards Mr. Collins who immediately lost his smug expression.
"In your further testimony, Rector," he said, in icy tones. "Please be precise as to facts and information. Save all your opinions for the lectern in your chapel… not in this courtroom!" Collins wilted, seeming to shrink into his seat. The judge nodded to the crown prosecutor. "Proceed!" he ordered.
"Actually, your Honor I have no further questions for this witness" he said and sat down.
The judge glanced over to the defense attorneys and raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Do you have some questions before I dismiss this witness?"
The small attorney was up immediately. "Thank you, your honor," he rasped hoarsely. He stepped up to the seated witness. "Mr. Collins," he began. The figure dressed in black bowed his head in acknowledgement. The round face of Dr. Porticus crinkled into a frown for a moment. "I admit I am confused about your testimony. Perhaps to clear my confusion, you will answer a simple question?" The Reverend's face clouded for a moment in puzzlement. But the attorney continued immediately. "Have you ever lost a button from an item of clothing?" Collins mouth dropped open for a moment in consternation. The prosecutor was on his feet. "Objection, your honor. Relevance?"
The judge also frowned. "I fail to see how your question will shed light on the witness's testimony, Dr. Porticus."
The fat lawyer bowed in the direction pf the judge. "A little leeway, your honor, in payment for the unjust imprisonment of my client," he rasped in his hoarse voice. The judge grimaced. "The slightest of leniency, then," the judge said, waving off the indignant prosecutor.
Dr. Porticus returned to the Rector. "Have you, then, Reverend Collins, had a button torn off an article of clothing?" The Rector wrinkled his brow for a moment. "Yes. In my youth I was rarely careless of my belongings but I recall on one occasion, losing a button in a mishap," he admitted.
"And what was its appearance?" Dr. Porticus continued. The Reverend frowned in confusion. Dr. Porticus added quickly to avoid a long dissertation on buttons by the Rector. "Did it not have threads hanging from it? Was there not material from the garment still attached to it?"
Collins face cleared. "Ah, yes," he simpered. "You are quite correct. There were threads hanging. I had to cut them off in order to resew the button to the article of clothing."
"And yet the button in evidence here has no loose threads hanging from it," Porticus announced, holding the button between a slim thumb and finger. "Did you trim the threads off, Rector Collins?" he asked, hoarsely.
Collins sat back in the chair. "I? Of course not!" he proclaimed indignantly. "I would not tamper with evidence in such a criminal case."
"Yet we have here a button you claim was torn off in a struggle from a garment, and all can see there are no threads hanging. Indeed it is neatly trimmed, or cut, from its garment. Is this the way the button was given to you by your good wife?"
"Yes, yes," he stammered. "She told me she immediately wrapped it in a scrap of cloth to preserve it. It has not been out of my hands until I presented it to my patron, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, for her opinion on the meaning of its markings." He nodded in the direction of the woman sitting erect in the audience. She made no sign of recognition, but her eyes were blazing in fury. She saw where this line of questioning was going.
"So, we have a button enclosed in the murder victim's hand with no threads or material hanging from it, neatly trimmed… a trimming which you testify neither you nor your wife did, and yet the Prosecutor would have us believe was torn off in a struggle!" Porticus finished with a tone of triumph.
There was a murmur among the crowd as the implications of this line of questioning finally become clear. A loud voice proclaimed behind them. "I trimmed the loose threads from the button. It was torn off and the loose threads offended me!" All eyes turned to the tall, stately figure, now standing in the first row of spectators. Her face was flushed with rage and eyes burning with indignation as she saw a key piece of evidence disappearing. The judge hammered on his stand. "Order! Order in my court. Who the devil is interfering with the testimony?"
"I am Lady Catherine de Bourgh," the woman stated proudly. Collins nodded his head up and down enthusiastically. "It was I who trimmed the hanging threads on that button."
The judge rose. He put both fists on his stand, and, leaning on them, glared at her. "First of all, Madame whoever you are… no one… particularly a woman, gives evidence in my court from the galley. Secondly, does your primitive, imbecilic, female brain not realize you just stated you tampered with the evidence in a murder trial?" His bushy eyebrows were jumping up and down in rage. "I have a good mind to sentence you to two weeks in Newgate for your confessed tampering!"
Porticus rasped loudly: "There was no interference, your honor, since the Reverend Collins has stated that the buttons had no loose threads and his wife has told me the button was clearly cut off, not ripped off. In addition, though I am not acting for her, I would point out that Lady Catherine was not under oath, so her proclamations are not in evidence and she cannot be guilty of perjury… only of extreme malice towards the defendant, her own nephew."
"Who married some chit instead of my daughter as he was honor-bound to do," the woman raged, her daughter coaxing her back into her seat by tugging on her sleeve.
The prosecutor was on his feet again. "Objection, your honor! The defense just introduced testimony from the witness's wife who is not here under oath."
Porticus quickly pointed a slim finger at Collins and rasped, "Is it not the case your wife told you the button was trimmed and had no loose threads when she removed it from that poor girl's hand and you agreed with her at that time?"
"Y… yes" he stammered. "But Lady Catherine…" he began. "Has nothing to do with this trial," the judge bellowed. After one more glare at the woman who had reseated herself in furious silence, the judge glanced at the prosecutor, and shouted "Over-ruled! Let's get on with this witness. You have more questions, Porticus?"
"As a matter of fact I do, your honor," he rasped. Turning to Collins, the lawyer growled out a question. "Did you yourself see the unfortunate victim's body?" Collins turned a bright red. "Of c…course… n… not" he stammered. "I would never view a woman's unclothed body… dead or alive."
"But I believe the bible states a man and a woman are one. So, if your good wife did view the body and spoke with you about its condition, you can speak for her?" The prosecutor leaped to his feet, but the judge waved him off.
"I'll accept the Rector's report of what his wife told him, otherwise we'll have to have his wife up here testifying. If you still have an objection after his statement, I'll listen to it then." The prosecutor sat down, heavily, a scowl twisting his face.
"Specifically, Mr. Collins: did your wife find a wound on the body, or any sign of blood on the maiden?" Collins frowned. "No, I recall at the time asking her how the girl died and she told me there was no wound. She did say there were bruises around the throat as though large fingers had gripped the girl's neck and squeezed from behind."
Porticus walked back to the defense table and removed a sheet of drawing paper. "Is this not the sketch your good wife, a talented artist, made of the girl's throat showing clearly the finger bruises you just described?" Porticus rasped.
The prosecutor was on his feet. "This is an outrage! The defense offers some drawing which could have been done by the defense itself as evidence?"
Before the Judge could respond, Porticus pointed to the bottom of the sheet. "Is this not your good wife's signature and a date signifying when she had done this drawing?"
"Yes," Collins responded. "She signed the drawing in case it might be important to the trial in some way. It was the suggestion of her friend…" Porticus interrupted him.
"One moment, Mr. Collins" he rasped. He gestured towards a bailiff. "Let His Honor view the evidence and decide whether to share it with the jurors." The bailiff glanced at the judge who nodded his approval, then took the drawing and handed it to the Judge, who studied it a moment, and with a wave of his fat hand, sent the drawing to the prosecutor and then to the jurors.
After the jurors had viewed the drawing, Porticus returned to the Rector. "In you testimony you stated your good wife found no wound or blood on the victim?"
"That is true," Collins said. "As I was about to explain…" Porticus cut him off. "But she did tell you she found blood under the poor girl's finger-nails, did she not?"
Mr. Collins frowned "How did you…" Porticus cut him off at once. "Just tell the court what your good wife told you after her examination and washing of the victim's body!" he rasped.
Collins frowned in reflection. "She told me the girl had someone's flesh and blood under her fingernails…"
"But not her own since she had no wounds," Porticus interjected quickly.
The prosecutor was on his feet again. "Your Honor, the defense is leading the witness and making this a mockery of a trial with all their assumptions and conclusions"
The Judge nodded in agreement, but his tone was mild as he rebuked the fat defense counsel. "Save your conclusions for the closing arguments, Dr. Porticus," he said.
"My apologies, your Honor. I will restrain myself," Porticus rasped, bowing towards the Judge. "I have no more questions for this witness, but reserve the right to recall him if further testimony requires it."
The judge looked at the prosecutor. "Call your next witness."
"Barnabas Wiggins," he said, loudly. "Come forward and be sworn."
