THE CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT;—THE OLD BAILEY
CURRENT TRIALS.
At the corner of Newgate and Old Bailey streets, near Fleet street and not far from Ludgate Hill, stands a modern building, officially known as the Central Criminal Court, but popularly called "the Old Bailey." It occupies the site of the ancient Newgate Gaol and Fleet Prison, where, for nearly seven centuries the criminals of London expiated their crimes. There they were tried and, if convicted, hanged on the premises, or—a scarcely better fate—thrown into Newgate Prison, which, from time immemorial, was so overcrowded, so ill-ventilated and so poorly supplied with water that it was the hot-bed of diseases designated as "prison fever." At a single session of court the fever had been known to carry off fifty human beings; not only prisoners, but such august personages as judges, mayors, aldermen and sheriffs.
The present fine structure is exclusively a court house to which prisoners are brought for trial and confined in sanitary cells beneath the court rooms only while awaiting the call of their cases. There are three courts: two presided over by judges called, respectively, the Common Serjeant and the Recorder, together with the Lord Chief Justice of England, or such other judge of the High Court as may be designated for the month, who comes from his civil work in the Strand Law Courts to try criminal cases at the Old Bailey. Each month, also, two or three Aldermen and Sheriffs of the City of London are scheduled for the complimentary duty of attending their Lordships and entertaining them at luncheon.
The court rooms are rather small and nearly square. Like every London court, they have oak panelled walls, and excellent illumination from above by skylights; they are arranged with a high dais—on which are the chairs and desks for the presiding judge, the sheriffs, or for any guest—and they have the usual steep upward slope of the benches for barristers on the one side and for the jury on the other. Only the solicitors' table is at the floor level. This arrangement brings all the participants in a trial more nearly together than if they were distributed over a flat floor. At the end of the room farthest from the judge is the prisoners' dock, a large square box, elevated almost to the judge's level. This the prisoner reaches by a stairway from the cells below (invisible because of the sides of the dock), accompanied by officers, and he stands throughout the trial—unless invited by the judge to be seated—completely isolated from his barrister and from his solicitor and can only communicate with his defenders by scrawling a lead pencil note and passing it to an officer. A small area of sloping benches, together with a very inadequate gallery, are the only accommodations for the public.
If the visitor happens to be a guest of the Court, he will be ushered in by a door leading to the raised dais and will sit at a desk beside the judge. His eye will first be arrested by a small heap on his desk of dried aromatic herbs and rose leaves and, while speculating as to the purpose of these, he will discover similar little piles on the desks of the presiding judge and sheriffs. He will also observe that the carpet of the dais is thickly strewn with the same litter. Vaguely it is suggested that the court room has been used over night for some kind of a horticultural exhibition and that the sweeping has been overlooked. Later, his astonishment, however, is redoubled when enter the sheriffs and the judge each carrying a bright colored bouquet of roses or sweet peas bound up in an old-fashioned, stiff, perforated paper holder. The visitor ventures to whisper his curiosity and he is then informed that, in the former times, these herbs, and the perfume of fresh flowers, were supposed to prevent the contagion of prison fever; and that the ancient custom has survived the use of disinfectants and the modern sanitation of prisoners and cells.
The opening of court in the morning and after luncheon is a curious ceremony. The Bar and audience rise and, through a door corresponding to the one by which the visitor has reached the dais, enter the two sheriffs gowned in flowing dark blue robes trimmed with fur. Then comes the under-sheriff in a very smart black velvet knee breeches suit, white ruffled shirt, white stockings, silver buckled shoes, cocked hat under arm and sword at side. The sheriffs bow in ushering to his seat the judge, who is arrayed in wig and robe, which, in the case of the Lord Chief Justice, or one of the judges of the High Court, is of brilliant scarlet with a dark blue sash over one shoulder, or in the case of the Common Sergeant, is of sombre black. Each member of the court carries the bouquet referred to and the whole group afford a dash of color strong in contrast with the dark setting. The judge, having seated himself in a chair—so cumbersome as to require a little track to roll it forward sufficiently close to the desk—the sheriffs dispose themselves in the seats not occupied by the judge or his guest, and, later, they quietly withdraw. They have no part in the proceedings, their only function being to usher in and out the judges, and to entertain them at luncheon—the judges being by custom their guests. The judge having taken his seat, the Bar and public do the same and the business begins. There are usually two such courts sitting at the Old Bailey—sometimes three of them.
At lunch time the sheriffs again escort the judges from their seats, and all the judges, sheriffs and under-sheriffs, and any guests they may invite, assemble in the dining-room of the court house for an excellent, substantial luncheon served by butler and footman in blue liveries with brass buttons, knee breeches and white stockings. The luncheon table looks odd with the varied costumes, the rich blues, the bright scarlets and the wigs of the party, who, no longer on duty, relax into jolly sociability. Indeed one can not escape the impression that he has in some way joined a group of "supes" from the opera who are snatching a light supper between the choruses. These are some of the picturesque features of the Old Bailey which, at the same time, is the theatre of the most sensible and enlightened application of law to the every day affairs of the largest aggregation of human beings the world has ever seen.
While enjoying a cigar after luncheon with one of the under-sheriffs, the voice of the Common Serjeant or Recorder is heard at the door of the smoking room. Robed and armed with his bouquet, he smilingly inquires if there are no sheriffs to escort him into court. A hasty buckling on of sword, a snatching up of his bouquet and a little dusting of cigar ashes from his velvet knee breeches, prepares the under-sheriff for the function, and, preceded by the sheriffs in their blue gowns, his Lordship bringing up the rear, the little procession starts along the corridor and enters the door leading to the judges' dais. The under-sheriff shortly returns to finish his cigar but the guest tarries beside the judge.
The first case was a minor one—a charge of breaking and entering a shop and stealing some goods. His name having been called, the prisoner suddenly popped up into the dock at the far end of the room with police officers on either side of him. Asked if he objected to any of the jurors already seated in the box, he replied in the negative and the trial began. The junior barrister opened very briefly, merely stating the name, date, locality and nature of the charge. Following him the senior barrister gave the details at much greater length. These barristers were not, as with us, district attorneys or state prosecutors. They are either retained by the Treasury or, as the case may be, represent private prosecutors. The judge was fully conversant with the evidence, as he had before him the depositions taken at the Magistrate's Court.
In an English court, when counsel has finished the direct examination of a witness, he does not say, as we do, "cross-examine" or "the witness is yours", he simply resumes his seat as the signal for the other side to cross-examine. Sometimes, a pause of the voice simultaneously with a stooping of the barrister's head for a word of suggestion from the solicitor below, leads his opponent to believe he is seating himself and to begin to cross-examine prematurely.
Although in this case the plea was "not guilty," the charge was practically undefended, and a prompt verdict of "guilty" followed. Then came the important query from the judge to the police as to whether the prisoner "is known"—was there a record of former convictions? Learning that there was not, a sentence to eighteen calendar months at hard labor followed a caution that if he should be brought again before the court, he would be sent to penal servitude. With a servile "If your Lordship pleases" he turned to dive down the stairs, and, as he did so, with a grinning leer, seized his left hand in his right and cordially shook hands with himself—a bit of a gesticular slang which led one to think that the police were not very well informed as to his previous experiences.
The next was a more important case. A clever but sinister-looking Belgian, the master of several languages, was charged with obtaining a valuable pair of diamond earrings by an ingenious swindle. Having a slight acquaintance with a dealer in stones, he telephoned that a friend of his was coming over to London from Paris to join his wife and desired to present her with a pair of earrings. If the dealer had suitable stones and would allow a commission, the Belgian said he would try to effect a sale for him. He, therefore, arranged that the dealer, at a fixed hour the following day, should bring the stones to his lodgings for the Frenchman's inspection. The appointment was kept and the two men waited for some time for the Frenchman. Finally the latter's wife appeared and explained to the Belgian in French—which the Englishman did not understand—that her husband had been detained but would come by a later train, whereupon she withdrew, and the conversation was interpreted to the disappointed dealer.
Then the Belgian suggested that, if the dealer cared to leave the stones, he would give a receipt for them and would either return them or the money by half-past four. The dealer replied that although he was quite willing to do so, he had partners whose interest he must consult. The Belgian then produced a certificate of stock in some Newfoundland Company, saying that it was worth as much as the diamonds. The dealer consented to receive this as security and he then left. Just before half-past four he was called up on the telephone and told by the Belgian that he had made the sale and had received the money in French notes which he would have changed into English money. The dealer told him to bring the French notes, which would be acceptable to him. That, of course, was the last he ever saw of the money, the diamonds or the swindler, until the latter was arrested some months later.
The leading nature of the direct examination, so marked in all English courts, was conspicuous in such questions as the following:
Q: "Did the defendant telephone you about 4.15?"
A: "Yes, sir."
Q: "Did you recognize his voice?"
A: "Yes, sir."
Q: "Did you send an assistant to the defendant's flat with a letter and was it returned to you unopened?"
A: "Yes, sir."
The Secretary of the Newfoundland Company having been called, was asked: "Were the shares in defendant's name formerly in the name of John Smith?" A: "Yes." Q: "Was there an order of court forbidding their transfer?" A: "Yes."
Two pawnbrokers testified that, shortly after four o'clock, the prisoner had brought the earrings to their shops and asked how much would be loaned upon them and that, the sum offered being apparently unsatisfactory, the Belgian took the earrings away.
Defendant's barrister: "My Lord, I submit, I've no case to answer."
The Court: "Oh, yes, you have."
Barrister: "Well, if your Lordship thinks so."
The defence was cleverer than the original swindle in that it did not attempt to deny the overwhelming evidence, but merely made the story tally with an ostensibly innocent explanation. The Belgian averred that he had himself been robbed by the Frenchman, with whom he had but a slight acquaintance gained at the Paris races. He said that the Frenchman had kept the deferred appointment and, though he admired the stones, he thought them hardly worth the price, whereupon the two had set off in a cab to obtain an opinion as to their value. If thus assured, he was to make the purchase and together they were to take them to his wife in a hotel near Piccadilly. As it was late in the day, they failed to find a French-speaking jeweller whom they sought, and it was suggested that, as pawnbrokers were very cautious in loaning, two opinions of that fraternity should be had. On stopping at the pawnbrokers' shops, the Frenchman, being ignorant of English, said there was no use of his going in as he would have to rely upon his companion's interpretation and might as well sit in the cab. Thus, the visits by the Belgian alone to the two pawnshops and the inquiry as to the amount procurable as a loan, were duly accounted for.
According to the prisoner's story, the Frenchman, being satisfied, proposed to pay in French notes and the Belgian entered a public telephone booth to enquire of his principal if that would be satisfactory, leaving the jewels with the Frenchman in the cab. When he returned the cab was gone.
His intention having been to leave for the Continent the following day, the Belgian said he had already notified the landlord of his flat—which was apparently true—and had dispatched his effects in advance. So, supposing that the Frenchman had gone to Paris, he immediately followed on the evening train in the hope of identifying him en route, or of finding him somewhere in that city. He swore he did find him a few days later and caused his arrest, and that the French magistrate declined to hold him because the crime had been committed in England where there was no warrant out, and, hence, no demand for extradition.
The weakest point in this ingenious fabrication was the prisoner's failure to communicate with the owner of the diamonds during the ensuing five months. This, and other discrepancies, having been easily laid bare on cross-examination, a verdict of guilty was quickly rendered.
The judge had hardly uttered the usual query whether the prisoner was known, before an alert police inspector replied, "He is an international swindler, well-known all over the Continent, wanted in Berlin for a job of 20,000 marks, in Paris for another of 30,000 francs and elsewhere."
Judge: "Suppose we give him a few months and allow the foreign police to apply for extradition?"
Inspector: "Well, Your Lordship, the trouble is that he claims to have been born in Paris of English parents and that he is, therefore, a British subject, and the French police will jolly well accept his statement."
Judge: "That's very awkward. We'll give him twelve calendar months and see what transpires."