curtain goes up.”
Mr. Adams
smiled, and turned to leave.
“By the way,”
said Pat, as Mr. Adams touched the handle of the door, “did I tell you about
the time I tried to get a laboring job on a building site in Liverpool, but the
foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me...”
“Sorry, Pat,
some of us have got a job to do, and in any case, you told me that story last
October.” He paused. “And, come to think of it, the October before.”
Pat sat
silently on the bench and, as he had nothing else to read, considered the
graffiti on the wall. Perkins is a prat .
He felt able to
agree with that sentiment.
Man U are the champions. Someone had crossed out Man U and replaced it with Chelsea. Pat wondered if he should cross
out Chelsea, and write in Cork, whom neither team had ever defeated. As there
was no clock on the wall, Pat couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before
Mr. Adams finally returned to escort him up to the courtroom. Adams was now
dressed in a long black gown, looking like Pat’s old headmaster.
“Follow me,”
Mr. Adams intoned solemnly.
Pat remained
unusually silent as they proceeded down the yellow brick road, as the old lags
call the last few yards before you climb the steps and enter the back door of
the court. Pat ended up standing in the dock, with a bailiff by his side.
Pat stared up
at the bench and looked at the three magistrates who made up this morning’s
panel. Something was wrong. He had been expecting to see Mr. Perkins, who had
been bald this time last year, almost Pickwickian .
Now, suddenly, he seemed to have sprouted a head of fair hair. On his right was Councillor Steadman, a liberal, who was much too
lenient for Pat’s liking. On the chairman’s left sat a middle-aged lady whom
Pat had never seen before; her thin lips and piggy eyes gave Pat a little
confidence that the liberal could be outvoted two to one, especially if he
played his cards right. Miss Piggy looked as if she would have happily
supported capital punishment for shoplifters.
Sergeant
Webster stepped into the witness box and took the oath.
“What can you
tell us about this case, Sergeant?” Mr. Perkins asked, once the oath had been
administered.
“May I refer to
my notes, your honor?” asked Sergeant Webster, turning to face the chairman of
the panel. Mr. Perkins nodded, and the sergeant turned over the cover of his
notepad.
“I apprehended
the defendant at two o’clock this morning, after he had thrown a brick at the
window of H. Samuel, the jeweler’s, on Mason Street.”
“Did you see
him throw the brick, Sergeant?”
“No, I did not,”
admitted Webster, “but he was standing on the pavement with the brick in his
hand when I apprehended him.”
“And had he
managed to gain entry?” asked Perkins.
“No, sir,” said
the sergeant, “but he was about to throw the brick again when I arrested him.”
“The same brick?”
“I think so.”
“And had he
done any damage?”
“He had
shattered the glass, but a security grille prevented him from removing
anything.”
“How valuable
were the goods in the window?” asked Mr. Perkins.
“There were no
goods in the window,” replied the sergeant, “because the manager always locks
them up in the safe, before going home at night.”
Mr. Perkins
looked puzzled and, glancing down at the charge sheet, said, “I see you have
charged O’Flynn with attempting to break and enter.”
“That is correct,
sir,” said Sergeant Webster, returning his notebook to a back pocket of his
trousers.
Mr. Perkins
turned his attention to Pat. “I note that you have entered a plea of guilty on
the charge sheet, O’Flynn .”
“Yes, m’lord .”
“Then I’ll have
to sentence you to three months, unless you can offer some explanation.” He
paused and looked down at Pat over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “Do you
wish to make a statement?” he asked.
“Three months
is not enough, m’lord .”
“I am not a
lord,”
Mr. Adams
smiled, and turned to leave.
“By the way,”
said Pat, as Mr. Adams touched the handle of the door, “did I tell you about
the time I tried to get a laboring job on a building site in Liverpool, but the
foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me...”
“Sorry, Pat,
some of us have got a job to do, and in any case, you told me that story last
October.” He paused. “And, come to think of it, the October before.”
Pat sat
silently on the bench and, as he had nothing else to read, considered the
graffiti on the wall. Perkins is a prat .
He felt able to
agree with that sentiment.
Man U are the champions. Someone had crossed out Man U and replaced it with Chelsea. Pat wondered if he should cross
out Chelsea, and write in Cork, whom neither team had ever defeated. As there
was no clock on the wall, Pat couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before
Mr. Adams finally returned to escort him up to the courtroom. Adams was now
dressed in a long black gown, looking like Pat’s old headmaster.
“Follow me,”
Mr. Adams intoned solemnly.
Pat remained
unusually silent as they proceeded down the yellow brick road, as the old lags
call the last few yards before you climb the steps and enter the back door of
the court. Pat ended up standing in the dock, with a bailiff by his side.
Pat stared up
at the bench and looked at the three magistrates who made up this morning’s
panel. Something was wrong. He had been expecting to see Mr. Perkins, who had
been bald this time last year, almost Pickwickian .
Now, suddenly, he seemed to have sprouted a head of fair hair. On his right was Councillor Steadman, a liberal, who was much too
lenient for Pat’s liking. On the chairman’s left sat a middle-aged lady whom
Pat had never seen before; her thin lips and piggy eyes gave Pat a little
confidence that the liberal could be outvoted two to one, especially if he
played his cards right. Miss Piggy looked as if she would have happily
supported capital punishment for shoplifters.
Sergeant
Webster stepped into the witness box and took the oath.
“What can you
tell us about this case, Sergeant?” Mr. Perkins asked, once the oath had been
administered.
“May I refer to
my notes, your honor?” asked Sergeant Webster, turning to face the chairman of
the panel. Mr. Perkins nodded, and the sergeant turned over the cover of his
notepad.
“I apprehended
the defendant at two o’clock this morning, after he had thrown a brick at the
window of H. Samuel, the jeweler’s, on Mason Street.”
“Did you see
him throw the brick, Sergeant?”
“No, I did not,”
admitted Webster, “but he was standing on the pavement with the brick in his
hand when I apprehended him.”
“And had he
managed to gain entry?” asked Perkins.
“No, sir,” said
the sergeant, “but he was about to throw the brick again when I arrested him.”
“The same brick?”
“I think so.”
“And had he
done any damage?”
“He had
shattered the glass, but a security grille prevented him from removing
anything.”
“How valuable
were the goods in the window?” asked Mr. Perkins.
“There were no
goods in the window,” replied the sergeant, “because the manager always locks
them up in the safe, before going home at night.”
Mr. Perkins
looked puzzled and, glancing down at the charge sheet, said, “I see you have
charged O’Flynn with attempting to break and enter.”
“That is correct,
sir,” said Sergeant Webster, returning his notebook to a back pocket of his
trousers.
Mr. Perkins
turned his attention to Pat. “I note that you have entered a plea of guilty on
the charge sheet, O’Flynn .”
“Yes, m’lord .”
“Then I’ll have
to sentence you to three months, unless you can offer some explanation.” He
paused and looked down at Pat over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “Do you
wish to make a statement?” he asked.
“Three months
is not enough, m’lord .”
“I am not a
lord,”
Similar Books
