all the same, there are certainly big advantages. Though, before I tell you what they are, I should repeat what I said just now – I think in this case you’ll go down anyway.’
‘Why are you so sure?’
‘Because, my dear man, when the Law frames a case, they make a point of seeing it sticks. They have to.’
‘I see.’
‘I wish you did. You want to know why you should go to the judge and jury, then. In the first place, I don’t know who the magistrate will be, but nine out of ten accept police evidence: the more so, as I need hardly tell you, when the prisoner’s coloured.’
‘Don’t juries believe policemen, too?’
‘They do, yes, even more so in a way, but there’s a difference: twelve men have to be persuaded, and not one. Or twelve men and women, if we’re lucky enough to have any serving. But that’s not the chief consideration. What comes now is a point of legal strategy, so follow me closely, Mr Pew. You elect to go before the judge and jury. Right. That means the prosecution has to state its case, so as to get you committed. In other words, we hear all their evidence and they can’t alter it afterwards much, though they can add to it if they get some nice new bright ideas. But as for you, you sit tight in the dock …’
‘It’s not me, Mr Zuss-Amor.’
‘… All right, your friend sits in the dock and keeps his mouth shut. He says nothing.’
‘But he has to speak later before the judge and jury …’
‘Of course he has to, if he’s called. But by that time we know the prosecution’s case, and they don’t know ours at all. And if me and the barrister, whoever it is we choose, take a good look at the transcript of the prosecution’s evidence before the final trial comes on, our trained legal brains may find a hole or two that can be picked in it. Because it’s not all that easy to think up a consistent story of what never happened – you’d be surprised.’
‘It seems we should go to the jury, then.’
Mr Zuss-Amor gave me a sweet smile, as of one who congratulates a nitwit for seeing what was perfectly evident all the time.
‘If you want to know the fruits of my experience, Mr Pew,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you these three golden rules. Never accept trial by magistrate, unless it’s a five-shilling parking offence, or something of that nature. Never plead guilty – even if the Law walks in and finds you with a gun in your hand and a corpse lying on the floor. And when you’re arrested, never, never say a word, whatever they do, whatever they promise or threaten – that is, if you have the nerve to stick it out. Always remember, when they’ve got you alone in the cells, that they also have to prove the case in the open light of day. Say nothing, sign nothing. Most cases, believe me, are lost in the first half-hour after the arrest.’
‘You mean if you make a statement to them?’
‘Exactly. Tell them your name, your age, your occupation and address. Not a word more. Even then, they may swear you did say this or that, but it’s harder to prove you did if you’ve signed nothing and kept your trap shut.’ Mr Zuss-Amor arose, walked to the window, and gazed out glassily. ‘It’s a wicked world,’ he said, ‘thank goodness.’ He pondered a moment. ‘What about witnesses?’ he asked me, turning round. ‘Who can we muster?’
‘I’ve told you this girl Muriel won’t speak for him.’
‘It might make quite a bit of difference if she did. And it looks rather bad, doesn’t it, if she won’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Come, now! If we say, as we’re going to, that the defendant was living not with a whore, Dorothy, but with his lady-love, her sister Muriel, wouldn’t the jury expect to see Miss Muriel in the box and hear her say so?’
‘I’ll have another shot at her. Are witnesses to character any use?’
‘None whatever, unless you can produce the Pope, or someone. No, we’ll have to do our best with Mr Fortune himself if we can’t get Muriel. Can he talk well?’
‘His only trouble is that he talks too much.’
‘I’ll warn our counsel. Now who will we have against us? The Detective-Inspector, of course, and his Detective-Constable, I have no doubt – and even an old hand won’t be able to shake them.’
‘But what on