Read Online B-Berry and I Look Back by Dornford Yates - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dornford Yates
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Hall had a great and compelling personality, and I’m very proud to have known him.”
“Did the prisoner in a murder case always go into the box?”
“As a rule, he did. I mean, it looked damned bad if he didn’t. Even Crippen went into the box.”
“When you say it looked bad,” said Daphne…
“Well, it suggested very strongly that he wished to avoid being questioned by Counsel for the Crown. If you were accused of something you hadn’t done, would you be afraid of cross-examination? Of course, you wouldn’t. Your one idea would be to get into the witness-box. But if in fact you were guilty, the prospect of being cross-examined by a trained lawyer in open court would be, er, less attractive.”
My sister covered her eyes.
“I should be frightened to death,” she said.
“Exactly. So you would have to decide whether to face that ordeal or to leave upon the jury’s minds the dangerous impression that you were afraid to face it. Your counsel would probably decide for you. Or, at least, advise you which to do, for the choice is really yours.
“Counsel for the Crown is not allowed to comment, in his final speech, on the fact that a prisoner has not gone into the box. But the Judge may – and in my time almost invariably did. After all, the Judge’s function is to direct the jury and unless the prisoner is, for instance, labouring under great emotion or a singularly stupid man, it is his duty to remind the jury that he has not seen fit to enter the box and deny the charge upon oath. But times have changed. I remember a case of murder which was tried long after I had left the Bar. Counsel for the defence must have passed sleepless nights, trying to make up his mind whether to call the prisoner or no. If ever there was a case in which the accused should have been called, it was this one. I mean, that stood out. Yet the material for cross-examination was – well, deadly. In the end his counsel decided not to call him – and if I may humbly say so, I think he was right. To be perfectly honest, I think he put his money on the Judge. And did he romp home? For the Judge actually directed the jury to pay no attention to the fact that the prisoner had not gone into the box.”
“Why on earth?” said Berry.
“You can search me,” I said. “For the prisoner was very much all there. But, as I say, times have changed.”
“What happens,” said Jill, “what happens if the jury can’t agree?”
“Well, in the old days they used to keep them shut up on a diet of bread and water till they did agree. But now the Judge has them in and asks if he can help them and then sends them back to have another shot. But if it’s no good, then the jury is discharged and the prisoner is tried again at the next Assizes or the next session at the Old Bailey.”
“The unsolved murder,” said Berry, “seems not so uncommon today. Were there many in your time?”
“I don’t think so. To be perfectly honest, I only remember two: but I expect there were more than that. The word ‘unsolved’, of course…”
“Let me confess,” said Berry, “that the phrase ‘the unsolved murder’ is an unpardonable piece of jargon. What I should have said was, ‘the capital crime, whose author was never discovered’.”
“That’s very much better,” I said. “You see, if no one is convicted of or possibly even arrested for the crime, the public naturally assumes that the murderer is unknown. But that isn’t always so.
“Now, before I go any further, please bear this in mind – that in all I am going to say I am referring to capital crimes which attracted attention, that is to say were accorded the dignity of headlines in the daily Press. I have little doubt that there were others; but to those I cannot speak.”
“That,” said Berry, “is understood.”
“Well, in the years immediately preceding the outbreak of the first Great War I can only remember two murders, the authors of which were never found. Only two.
“Did the prisoner in a murder case always go into the box?”
“As a rule, he did. I mean, it looked damned bad if he didn’t. Even Crippen went into the box.”
“When you say it looked bad,” said Daphne…
“Well, it suggested very strongly that he wished to avoid being questioned by Counsel for the Crown. If you were accused of something you hadn’t done, would you be afraid of cross-examination? Of course, you wouldn’t. Your one idea would be to get into the witness-box. But if in fact you were guilty, the prospect of being cross-examined by a trained lawyer in open court would be, er, less attractive.”
My sister covered her eyes.
“I should be frightened to death,” she said.
“Exactly. So you would have to decide whether to face that ordeal or to leave upon the jury’s minds the dangerous impression that you were afraid to face it. Your counsel would probably decide for you. Or, at least, advise you which to do, for the choice is really yours.
“Counsel for the Crown is not allowed to comment, in his final speech, on the fact that a prisoner has not gone into the box. But the Judge may – and in my time almost invariably did. After all, the Judge’s function is to direct the jury and unless the prisoner is, for instance, labouring under great emotion or a singularly stupid man, it is his duty to remind the jury that he has not seen fit to enter the box and deny the charge upon oath. But times have changed. I remember a case of murder which was tried long after I had left the Bar. Counsel for the defence must have passed sleepless nights, trying to make up his mind whether to call the prisoner or no. If ever there was a case in which the accused should have been called, it was this one. I mean, that stood out. Yet the material for cross-examination was – well, deadly. In the end his counsel decided not to call him – and if I may humbly say so, I think he was right. To be perfectly honest, I think he put his money on the Judge. And did he romp home? For the Judge actually directed the jury to pay no attention to the fact that the prisoner had not gone into the box.”
“Why on earth?” said Berry.
“You can search me,” I said. “For the prisoner was very much all there. But, as I say, times have changed.”
“What happens,” said Jill, “what happens if the jury can’t agree?”
“Well, in the old days they used to keep them shut up on a diet of bread and water till they did agree. But now the Judge has them in and asks if he can help them and then sends them back to have another shot. But if it’s no good, then the jury is discharged and the prisoner is tried again at the next Assizes or the next session at the Old Bailey.”
“The unsolved murder,” said Berry, “seems not so uncommon today. Were there many in your time?”
“I don’t think so. To be perfectly honest, I only remember two: but I expect there were more than that. The word ‘unsolved’, of course…”
“Let me confess,” said Berry, “that the phrase ‘the unsolved murder’ is an unpardonable piece of jargon. What I should have said was, ‘the capital crime, whose author was never discovered’.”
“That’s very much better,” I said. “You see, if no one is convicted of or possibly even arrested for the crime, the public naturally assumes that the murderer is unknown. But that isn’t always so.
“Now, before I go any further, please bear this in mind – that in all I am going to say I am referring to capital crimes which attracted attention, that is to say were accorded the dignity of headlines in the daily Press. I have little doubt that there were others; but to those I cannot speak.”
“That,” said Berry, “is understood.”
“Well, in the years immediately preceding the outbreak of the first Great War I can only remember two murders, the authors of which were never found. Only two.
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