aside. It was all such a long time ago. That was what he must try to remember. All such a long time ago. He was not a little boy any more.
“Mr. Guillaume, have you any questions?”
“No questions, Your Honour. I would only invite you to rule in this case and excuse my client from the court.”
Tibo laid his pen down on the notebook in front of him and pinched the bridge of his nose between tired fingers for a moment before he spoke. “Stand up, please, Mr. Stoki.”
The little man stood up in the dock and shot his cuffs confidently.
“Mr. Stoki, it is my duty to consider all the evidence laid before this court, decide who is telling the truth and how much of the truth they are telling and come to a decision. Nobody tells all of the truth, no matter what they promise when they come here. I have to separate the wheat from the chaff. Having listened carefully to the testimony of your wife, I have come to the decision that she is as black a liar as I have ever heard and that you are as guilty as any man can be. The sentence of this court is one of thirty days’ imprisonment.”
Before Tibo’s gavel fell, Yemko Guillaume was already gripping the edge of the desk and struggling to his feet. “Your Honour,” he whistled, “this is the most astonishing miscarriage I have experienced in all my years of practice in the courts. Need I remind Your Honour that you are obliged to try the case on the evidence heard and only on the evidence heard—not what you think the opposite of that might be?”
Tibo looked bored. “That’s true. But I am the master in this court and, if you want to appeal my decision, you can always ask the superior judge.” He turned to the clerk. “Who’s on the circuit at the moment?”
“It’s Judge Gustav,” said the clerk.
“Judge Gustav,” Tibo told Guillaume. “And isn’t he in Umlaut just now?”
“Yes, sir,” said the clerk.
“Yes, sir,” said Tibo. “On that big murder case?”
“Yes, sir,” said the clerk.
“Yes, sir,” said Tibo. “But he should be free in about a week?”
“Yes, sir,” said the clerk.
“Yes, sir,” said Tibo. “So there you have it, Mr. Guillaume. Judge Gustav should be here in about a week and I’m sure he’ll take a very dim view of my decision and free your client. Until then, he goes to jail. Constable, take him down!”
Guillaume’s giant belly was heaving. His face was turning blue with fury. “You’ll be removed from the bench for this—for good!”
“Mr. Guillaume, I’m almost sure you are right and, if you are, I’ll find myself with a lot more free afternoons, won’t I? But that won’t be for another week and, until then, that little man,” he stabbed furiously towards the dock with his pen, “will be safely locked up.” Tibo heard the blood singing in his ears. He had to fight against the urge to shout.
He kept his eyes fixed on Guillaume’s fat face and said, “Mrs. Stoki, you have heard what has been said. Your husband is going to jail for seven days. If you are still in the house by the time he comes home again, then, God help you, you deserve all you get. This court is adjourned.”
The first chime of the cathedral’s eleven o’clock bell was lost in the blow of Tibo’s gavel but, down in the town, on the banks of the Ampersand, along the canal, down at the docks, in the municipal offices that stood to attention round City Square, the bell called Dot to coffee.
Ladies shopping in Castle Street suddenly looked up and wondered, “The Golden Angel—could we risk a pastry?” In Braun’s department store, the corsetry counter emptied, perfumery was abandoned, millinery was a desert and the coffee room on the top floor, where you can look across the street, eye to eye with a stone Walpurnia over the huge panelled door of the Ampersand Banking Company, became a forest of silver-plated cake stands, endlessly repeated in mirrored walls that would have done justice to Versailles.
In
“Mr. Guillaume, have you any questions?”
“No questions, Your Honour. I would only invite you to rule in this case and excuse my client from the court.”
Tibo laid his pen down on the notebook in front of him and pinched the bridge of his nose between tired fingers for a moment before he spoke. “Stand up, please, Mr. Stoki.”
The little man stood up in the dock and shot his cuffs confidently.
“Mr. Stoki, it is my duty to consider all the evidence laid before this court, decide who is telling the truth and how much of the truth they are telling and come to a decision. Nobody tells all of the truth, no matter what they promise when they come here. I have to separate the wheat from the chaff. Having listened carefully to the testimony of your wife, I have come to the decision that she is as black a liar as I have ever heard and that you are as guilty as any man can be. The sentence of this court is one of thirty days’ imprisonment.”
Before Tibo’s gavel fell, Yemko Guillaume was already gripping the edge of the desk and struggling to his feet. “Your Honour,” he whistled, “this is the most astonishing miscarriage I have experienced in all my years of practice in the courts. Need I remind Your Honour that you are obliged to try the case on the evidence heard and only on the evidence heard—not what you think the opposite of that might be?”
Tibo looked bored. “That’s true. But I am the master in this court and, if you want to appeal my decision, you can always ask the superior judge.” He turned to the clerk. “Who’s on the circuit at the moment?”
“It’s Judge Gustav,” said the clerk.
“Judge Gustav,” Tibo told Guillaume. “And isn’t he in Umlaut just now?”
“Yes, sir,” said the clerk.
“Yes, sir,” said Tibo. “On that big murder case?”
“Yes, sir,” said the clerk.
“Yes, sir,” said Tibo. “But he should be free in about a week?”
“Yes, sir,” said the clerk.
“Yes, sir,” said Tibo. “So there you have it, Mr. Guillaume. Judge Gustav should be here in about a week and I’m sure he’ll take a very dim view of my decision and free your client. Until then, he goes to jail. Constable, take him down!”
Guillaume’s giant belly was heaving. His face was turning blue with fury. “You’ll be removed from the bench for this—for good!”
“Mr. Guillaume, I’m almost sure you are right and, if you are, I’ll find myself with a lot more free afternoons, won’t I? But that won’t be for another week and, until then, that little man,” he stabbed furiously towards the dock with his pen, “will be safely locked up.” Tibo heard the blood singing in his ears. He had to fight against the urge to shout.
He kept his eyes fixed on Guillaume’s fat face and said, “Mrs. Stoki, you have heard what has been said. Your husband is going to jail for seven days. If you are still in the house by the time he comes home again, then, God help you, you deserve all you get. This court is adjourned.”
The first chime of the cathedral’s eleven o’clock bell was lost in the blow of Tibo’s gavel but, down in the town, on the banks of the Ampersand, along the canal, down at the docks, in the municipal offices that stood to attention round City Square, the bell called Dot to coffee.
Ladies shopping in Castle Street suddenly looked up and wondered, “The Golden Angel—could we risk a pastry?” In Braun’s department store, the corsetry counter emptied, perfumery was abandoned, millinery was a desert and the coffee room on the top floor, where you can look across the street, eye to eye with a stone Walpurnia over the huge panelled door of the Ampersand Banking Company, became a forest of silver-plated cake stands, endlessly repeated in mirrored walls that would have done justice to Versailles.
In
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