debilitating.
She said, “I don’t understand why you let a case like this get to you.”
It became clear to me then, as it had not been before, that the gap between listening and hearing, comprehension and understanding, was even to an intelligent creature like Lisbeth very wide indeed. Lisbeth, I should explain, was born in Hungary. One has to make allowances for foreigners. Still, I wonder sometimes if she has heard a word I have said.
“Anyway, Charlie. As you say, it will all be over next week.”
The next few days were full of the usual excitements familiar to all decaying mammals who stray into God’s waiting room. Medical and dental appointments (mine) and volunteer work (hers). Lisbeth is rostered on to drive people who are needy to the Marsden Home on Mondays. Twice a week she goes to the Hospice. That week I had to give a paper ata two-day conference dealing with suicide prevention. During question time an old colleague from out of town stood up and asked a question which I answered by referring to Huey’s situation, without of course identifying the case. Afterwards over a cup of tea we compared notes and she chatted about her own field of interest, “country values”. She mentioned a family she knew, decent folk, farming, hard-working, dependable, but with a history of trauma. The eleven-year-old son had hanged himself in a wardrobe.
“Nobody could understand it,” she said, “until the father, realising he’d contributed to the tragedy, confessed that he had beaten the boy badly when he was young.” I listened, bemused. I wasn’t sure where she was heading, until she said: “What he said was, the father—he said to me, ‘I thought that’s what everyone did. If they played up, you hit them.’”
I doubt if her story coloured my thinking about Huey at the time, though it may have influenced Lawrence’s thinking when I mentioned it to him later. The conference began on Wednesday, the day before we got the verdict. It was as I had feared. Lawrence rang me from the courtroom on Thursday afternoon. The jury had rejected the defence of flashback and Lawrence’s plea for a verdict of manslaughter. It found Huey guilty of murder. He was sentenced to life imprisonment.
“How long were they out?” I said.
“Nearly five hours.” The jury had retired shortly after11 a.m. It was then 4.30 in the afternoon. Lawrence said that one of the women, the young juror in the front row, had wept when the judge pronounced sentence. Before he rang off, I asked Lawrence to send me the local newspaper report and the judge’s summing up.
“I’m glad,” Lisbeth said, when I gave her the news. “I’m sorry you’ve lost but I’m glad it’s over.”
“I think it’s bloody awful,” I said.
A moment later she said, “Is Lawrence going to appeal?”
“Don’t know, darling,” I said, and went into the kitchen. I didn’t feel like talking just then. Nor did I feel like cooking the celebratory meal I’d been planning—artichoke hearts with broad beans and an egg-lemon sauce—just in case we won. I wasn’t surprised at the verdict but I was depressed, and that surprised me even though old Andrew had predicted it.
“I can just see it,” I muttered out loud. I had remembered his prediction: “AXE MURDERER”. Now they would demonise him. (Andrew was right. Axe Murderer Gets Life would span the front page of the local paper the next day.)
“What’s that?” Lisbeth had followed me into the kitchen.
“Nothing. Just something Andrew Gort said to me about the axe he used. I told you I had dinner with Andrew in Cornford. What’s the matter?”
“You didn’t tell me he used an axe.”
“Kindling axe. It was lying there in front of the fire. He picked up the kindling axe.”
“My God. How can you justify appealing on behalf of a monster like that!” She went out and came in again. “Of course he’ll appeal. That’s what Lawrence is good at, getting people off. You always say
She said, “I don’t understand why you let a case like this get to you.”
It became clear to me then, as it had not been before, that the gap between listening and hearing, comprehension and understanding, was even to an intelligent creature like Lisbeth very wide indeed. Lisbeth, I should explain, was born in Hungary. One has to make allowances for foreigners. Still, I wonder sometimes if she has heard a word I have said.
“Anyway, Charlie. As you say, it will all be over next week.”
The next few days were full of the usual excitements familiar to all decaying mammals who stray into God’s waiting room. Medical and dental appointments (mine) and volunteer work (hers). Lisbeth is rostered on to drive people who are needy to the Marsden Home on Mondays. Twice a week she goes to the Hospice. That week I had to give a paper ata two-day conference dealing with suicide prevention. During question time an old colleague from out of town stood up and asked a question which I answered by referring to Huey’s situation, without of course identifying the case. Afterwards over a cup of tea we compared notes and she chatted about her own field of interest, “country values”. She mentioned a family she knew, decent folk, farming, hard-working, dependable, but with a history of trauma. The eleven-year-old son had hanged himself in a wardrobe.
“Nobody could understand it,” she said, “until the father, realising he’d contributed to the tragedy, confessed that he had beaten the boy badly when he was young.” I listened, bemused. I wasn’t sure where she was heading, until she said: “What he said was, the father—he said to me, ‘I thought that’s what everyone did. If they played up, you hit them.’”
I doubt if her story coloured my thinking about Huey at the time, though it may have influenced Lawrence’s thinking when I mentioned it to him later. The conference began on Wednesday, the day before we got the verdict. It was as I had feared. Lawrence rang me from the courtroom on Thursday afternoon. The jury had rejected the defence of flashback and Lawrence’s plea for a verdict of manslaughter. It found Huey guilty of murder. He was sentenced to life imprisonment.
“How long were they out?” I said.
“Nearly five hours.” The jury had retired shortly after11 a.m. It was then 4.30 in the afternoon. Lawrence said that one of the women, the young juror in the front row, had wept when the judge pronounced sentence. Before he rang off, I asked Lawrence to send me the local newspaper report and the judge’s summing up.
“I’m glad,” Lisbeth said, when I gave her the news. “I’m sorry you’ve lost but I’m glad it’s over.”
“I think it’s bloody awful,” I said.
A moment later she said, “Is Lawrence going to appeal?”
“Don’t know, darling,” I said, and went into the kitchen. I didn’t feel like talking just then. Nor did I feel like cooking the celebratory meal I’d been planning—artichoke hearts with broad beans and an egg-lemon sauce—just in case we won. I wasn’t surprised at the verdict but I was depressed, and that surprised me even though old Andrew had predicted it.
“I can just see it,” I muttered out loud. I had remembered his prediction: “AXE MURDERER”. Now they would demonise him. (Andrew was right. Axe Murderer Gets Life would span the front page of the local paper the next day.)
“What’s that?” Lisbeth had followed me into the kitchen.
“Nothing. Just something Andrew Gort said to me about the axe he used. I told you I had dinner with Andrew in Cornford. What’s the matter?”
“You didn’t tell me he used an axe.”
“Kindling axe. It was lying there in front of the fire. He picked up the kindling axe.”
“My God. How can you justify appealing on behalf of a monster like that!” She went out and came in again. “Of course he’ll appeal. That’s what Lawrence is good at, getting people off. You always say
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