Chapter 51 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

51

If you don't like what someone has to say,
argue with them.
Noam Chomsky

Barry was courting disaster but he couldn't stay away.

Notwithstanding, he'd secured a good spot in the gallery. He'd convinced himself that, if caught, he could claim to be keeping an eye on the Preacher, having failed to kill him when thus instructed.

He settled down to watch.

He was concerned that he'd heard nothing on the grapevine about the Judge presiding; one Wilderspin Whatmore and was not sure what to make of his serious demeanour.

The charges were read out by the clerk of the court, a tall gaunt man with a fixed expression. As he intoned the list of crimes that one Nicholas Balderstone, aka the Preacher, was accused of there were gasps and a few groans, one of these escaped Barry before he clamped his lips together. Could it be any worse? Incitement to racial hatred; conspiracy to commit murder; and the final, most damning, high treason for the crime of disloyalty to the Crown.

The Preacher stood up to plead 'not guilty' in a firm voice, then sat down at once.

He was flanked in the dock by two huge police constables but seemed unabashed by this. Barry was pleased to note he was in a suit, albeit not a good suit, and that his hair had been trimmed, possibly done it himself with a blunt pair of scissors, but at least he'd been made to make the effort.

To Barry's experienced eye the two members of the Preacher's defence counsel, Burke and Dix, were an unprepossessing pair but perhaps looks would prove deceptive and they would be capable of mustering a good argument nonetheless. Barry glanced over at the prosecuting barrister; QC Crapper. He was a fierce looking man, made fiercer by a perpetual scowl and the grey wig. Now this man Barry had heard of and his reputation outdid even his looks; savagely upright and a man who took no prisoners. All in all, Barry was none too hopeful.

QC Crapper stood up and turned to address the jury, his voice was commanding as he spoke, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," then he went on to explain the process by which he would prove to them that "this man before you", this was said with a sneer and followed by a dismissive wave towards the preacher who smiled amiably, "is guilty of heinous and egregious crimes, the most evil of which is that he did conspire with the residents of the Eden Hall Retirement Village to attack Parliament and to kill over 500 of our most Honourable Members of Parliament," and so on and so on.

Barry was not as impressed by his opening remarks as he had thought he would be and his heart lifted.

"Your honour," said Crapper, moving on swiftly, "I would like to present Crown Exhibit A; transcribed evidence taken from one of the defendant's meetings, an ad hoc affair in a run down theatre. I would also like to submit for evidence a tape of a televised session; Crown Exhibit B."

One of the court assistants held up a few sheets of paper and a box. The judge nodded, accepting them into evidence. The papers were passed to the foreman of the jury and he scanned the first page quickly.

"I intend to show portions of the televised session," said Crapper, "However I could save you the trouble; it preaches vile and inflammatory religious hatred."

"Objection!" shouted the Preacher.

"Please be quiet," snapped the Judge, "your counsel acts for you, it is they who must object if they feel it necessary."

The Preacher looked to his barrister, Alvin Burke, who remained seated and silent. Clearly Burke by name and nature. Questioningly the Preacher raised his palms and his eyebrows.

"If I may continue, your honour," said Crapper, glaring at the Preacher, "these texts indicate a high level of religious hatred, anti faith and anti church protestations; all designed to inflame public opinion and arouse emotions. Added to this, I have witnesses to the vile tirades to which he subjected innocent bystanders, sheltering from the rain. I call Mark Nibblett to the stand."

The court usher brought in a young man; clearly over-awed and nervous, yet pleased to be in the spotlight. Crapper took the young man through how and when he first saw the Preacher and then got to the heart of the matter; what he'd heard the Preacher say about religion. Crapper took to repeating almost everything the young man said, in a loud display of histrionics. The jury appeared transfixed.

Barry almost snorted his disgust; hearsay, ignorant mumblings of an ill-adjusted youth, incapable of understanding the finer messages being offered to him.

The next witness was little better; Monica Adcock, portly, mid-fifties and bitter. She asserted the preacher was a pro-life radical, an anti-abortionist, a misogynist of the worst order, a dyed-in-the -wool communist and an anarchist.

Barry marvelled; she'd got all that from one session with him.

A stream of these people followed; a mixed bag, some of whom Barry thought he recognised but all saying more or less the same thing; communist, radical, anti-faith and more dangerously, anti-Semitic.

Barry was forced to admit that though the testimonies, by themselves, were insubstantial, layer upon layer of them had some power.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," thundered Crapper, "the prosecution has laid before you many witnesses who have attested to the multitude of crimes of this man," again he sketched a dismissive wave at the Preacher, "however, my last witness will attest to the most wicked of all his crimes, that of conspiracy to murder, to cause harm to our beloved Majesty, and that of rank disloyalty to the Crown, High Treason in its most foul form."

There was a stirring in the court at this; Barry was shocked. How could they have a witness to this when it was a complete fabrication?

The Preacher looked up at him, a question in his eyes. Barry lifted his shoulders and shook his head. Burke rustled his papers, looking for the name on the witness list, finding it and, realising he couldn't protest, slumped back in his chair.

Crapper's voice rose theatrically, "I call Mortimer Claypole to the stand."

The doors at the back of the room opened and two court ushers came in, one pushing a wheelchair, the other a wheeled drip-stand. The person in the wheelchair was tiny; husk-like and frail. The Preacher looked seriously disconcerted for the first time.

Barry was appalled; this ancient creature, so obviously sick, should not be put through this farce. Crapper had no such compunction; he had the witness sworn in, still in his wheelchair, and began the questioning immediately.

"Mr Claypole, were you part of the attack on Parliament?"

The old man's face lit up and he nodded vigorously, "I was that," he said, proudly.

There were gasps round the room; what was he thinking? That was a capital offence.

"Do you see anyone in the court here today that you recognise?"

The old man squinted and looked up at the gallery, then a dreamy smile creased his face, "Why there's Albie," he said, with such affection it caused Crapper to stumble his next words.

Then, "Not the gallery, Mr Claypole," he hissed, then said in a low tone, "the dock, remember?"

"Call me Morty," said the old man, "everybody does."

Finally Crapper extracted what he wanted from Morty; yes, the preacher was known to him, such a nice young man, yes, he'd been at the Eden Hall Village, yes, that was where the plot was hatched, yes, he could have been there on numerous occasions, but there was also someone called Bob who died, which was a good thing if a little unexpected and if only Mort could tell the court a story about a Greek then he was sure they would understand everything.

It was at this point that Crapper decided Morty was too ill to continue, the Defence decided not to cross-examine and the witness was excused. As Morty was pushed out of the court he waved cheerily up at the gallery, as if he'd seen a friend.

Crapper attacked the jury with his closing argument and even Barry had to admit he was impressed with the comprehensive attention to detail and the sheer weight of the case he had put together. No doubt about it; Mortimer Claypole had unwittingly put the preacher at the heart of the conspiracy.

They broke for lunch; the Preacher glanced up at the gallery as if seeking out someone. Barry lifted his head in slight acknowledgment and was rewarded with a brief smile.

∞

It was the turn of the defence; unsurprisingly they had only one witness to put forward, the Preacher himself. He climbed into the witness box, swore he would tell the truth and the whole truth and nothing but...and then inexplicably smiled at the jurors.

Defence counsel, Alvin Burke asked the Preacher if he recognised any of the people the prosecution had brought forward to speak against him. The Preacher shook his head; he'd seen so many people and none, was his enigmatic response. Burke essayed another question aimed at the most damning witness of all, one Mortimer Claypole. Had the Preacher ever met this man?

Morty hadn't stood out amongst the audience of seriously old people; truth be told, the preacher's most vivid memory was of the Angel cake. However, the old man had remembered the Greek story and the Preacher felt he owed him the same recognition.

He looked at Burke and nodded, to gasps from the court, then he spoke, his voice strong and unequivocal, "I met him, on one occasion, at the Eden Hall Village Retirement complex."

Burke looked nonplussed; he'd asked the question not knowing the answer, a classic misjudgement on his part but he had hoped the Preacher's innate common sense would cause him to deny the man's veracity, or if not that, then declare him senile as he so obviously was.

"No further questions, M'Lord," Burke said, peering up dispiritedly at the bench.

Crapper leapt up with alacrity to cross examine, "Please identify yourself for the court," he said, his voice a whiplash.

The Preacher paused, this was a crucial moment; if he acknowledged their right to try him as an ordinary person rather than as a missionary then he could be damned without second thought, then he shrugged, they'd damn him anyway so what the heck, "Norman Balderstone."

"Mr. Balderstone, you are not a religious preacher, are you?" said Crapper, "You are, in fact, an alcoholic, drug addict, frequenter of brothels and womaniser, are you not?"

"Guilty as charged, your honour," said the Preacher with a wide, friendly smile.

"Most people still consider such things morally reprehensible," snapped Crapper, "and these predilections are not entirely of the past, are they, Mr. Balderstone?"

"I've slipped off the wagon once or twice, I'm not perfect."

"From your lecturing of others," snarled Crapper, "one could be forgiven for thinking that you believe you are. All these rants against society, against our leaders, against the banks and the minorities? Surely these were intended to convince people that you were some how elevated?"

"No," said the Preacher, sounding tired.

"Yes," snapped Crapper, "I put it to you that you employed manipulative language to win the hearts and minds of the weak, and that you did this in order to feather your nest."

"Objection, prejudicial, argumentative," said Burke, rousing himself from his torpor.

"Sustained," murmured the judge, "Restrict yourself to questions, Crapper, if you please."

"Not for money," stated the Preacher, "I presented people with the truth, as I saw it."

"As you saw it," said Crapper, "A self confessed drug addict and sex fiend."

"My drug issues don't invalidate my views," stated the Preacher. "I am a nationalist, I believe in this country and its people and I have spoken up in defence of my country and my people."

"Mr Balderstone," said Crapper, "We heard testimony from Monica Adcock who was present at one of your gatherings and I have here a transcript in which you openly condemn abortion."

"That's a deliberate misrepresentation; I think it's every woman's right to have an abortion, but having said that, I also think we should consider the rights of the unborn child, the unborn individual. In any event, I do not believe it is a crime to argue against abortion."

"It is if done in such a way as to incite violence of the sort conducted by the Pro-life activists," stated Crapper.

"I have never encouraged violence on the issue," said the Preacher.

"Then how do you explain the violence that followed your presentation on the subject," argued Crapper, waving papers in the air, "I have here the police reports of a disturbance at one of your meetings where you criticised the practise of abortion and where you so roused the emotions of the crowd that several people were assaulted and had to attend hospital for treatment."

"I know nothing about that," said the Preacher.

"There were several arrests as well," stated Crapper, "or were you also unaware of them?"

"I know nothing of any arrests. All that must have happened after I left."

"Ah," said Crapper, "and is it your normal practice to stir up a crowd to fever pitch and then leave them alone to find an emotional or physical outlet for the frustrations you have released?

"Of course not," said the Preacher.

"The evidence is here, thirty arrests, twenty hospitalised; all because of your radical and inflammatory spouting, Mr. Balderstone."

The Preacher stared at Crapper, then said, "It remains my opinion that many abortions these days are undertaken to address the selfish desires of either or both of the two parties able to express an opinion. Who amongst you," he shouted waving into the court, "would refuse the chance of life if asked? Who would say, 'NO! Abort me, I don't want to live'. No-one."

There was a spontaneous outburst of applause from some in the gallery.

The jury moved as one, a disturbance going through them like a wind. There were a few boos from the back of the court.

He continued, "It's freedom of speech; the cornerstone of the British way of life. People choose to listen. I can't be held accountable for how others react. It's their own guilt or regret that drives them."

"Silence in court!" shouted the judge, red-faced, banging his gavel, "Order!"

"As you can see, your honour," said Crapper, silkily, "even here, in a court of law, facing the gravest of charges, he cannot resist the temptation to cause mayhem."

"Mr Balderstone," said the judge, back in control of his blood pressure, "you will confine yourself to brief and non inflammatory answers to the questions put, is that understood? Pray proceed, Crapper."

"Members of the jury," said Crapper, "we have just seen for ourselves how this man, this self-styled preacher, can whip up a storm of emotion with a few well-chosen words." Crapper pointed at the Preacher, waving his arm like a conjuror, as if the words had been wrest from him by Crapper's gift of interrogation, "Witness the use of emotive language; guilt and regret; by such use he passes judgement against abortion; inflaming passions on all sides."

The judge leaned forward and addressed the jury, "You will make note of the defendant's ability to arouse emotions and will refrain from becoming thus aroused. Please be advised, you are here to determine only whether or not he is guilty of the charges laid before you. Is that understood?"

The jury nodded obediently.

Cheers for reading

Arun









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