The Censor, page 29
That evening, the newspapers carried stories, emanating from the Metropolitan Police, to the effect that John Sutton, as Managing Editor of William Sutton & Son, had been served with a Summons under Section One of the Obscene Publications Act 1959, and that the publication concerned was the novel, The Golden Spin by David Askelon.
The statement from the Yard was routine, issued in order that the public should be made aware of the facts. Not unnaturally, the Press made as much of it as they could: quarrying into Askelon’s past, getting a lot of mileage from the American success, not to mention guarded references to Celia Aston’s piece.
Irving Scholes read about the case the next morning. Ten minutes later he was on the telephone to John Sutton.
Sutton, depressed as any gambler facing up to a losing streak, accepted Irving Scholes’ call without any particular feeling of interest.
‘John Sutton.’
‘Good morning. My name’s Irving Scholes.’
‘Yes?’
‘You may have heard of me.’
Sutton made noises, his mind searching for the link.
‘Trends In The Modern Novel?’ Scholes prompted.
‘That Irving Scholes?’
‘I was sorry to read the news this morning.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I wanted to offer my support.’
‘That’s good of you. I’ll let my solicitors know. We can do with friends.’
‘I think I can be of particular assistance. You see, the DPP’s Department originally asked me for a report on the book. I gave it to them. A glowing report.’
It was a glimmer of hope which Sutton carried to D’Arcy Harrington that afternoon when he called at the barrister’s chambers to discuss strategy. Harrington’s reaction was one of elation.
‘Scholes is high-powered stuff. Authoritative.’ He grinned across the desk. ‘I hear the prosecution’s got Richard Wood and he’s not afraid to speak his mind. I think we would be advised to make a heavy play, as they say, with expert witnesses. I want literary figure after literary figure to go into the box on our behalf. Then I want them followed up with well-known public figures. That’s how you must instruct your solicitor. I can’t use Askelon but I can use his words and I can call as many experts as I can get. We’ll blind them, John. That jury has got to go out feeling that this book’s the nearest thing to the Bible that’s ever come their way. I mean that.’
‘What about Humphrey Carmichael’s little plot?’
‘I’ll try and make it work for us. There’s just the possibility that Walter Turk’ll call him. Man of high moral standing and all that sort of thing. After all he’s been used as an expert witness before. If they do put him up then I’ll have a go at him. Otherwise, I suppose, at the psychological moment, I pass the information to the Judge in Chambers. It might help. Anyway, we’ll make the sparks fly.’
*
Joe Tireling made final preparations for his return to New York, feeling downcast and uneasy. He had tried every way he knew to persuade his client to come home with him and his job was done. The whole time David remained in England he was a prey to the Press and the Law. Tireling did not like the idea of leaving him behind.
On his last day in London, he went down to the Magistrate’s Court with June for the preliminary hearing.
The procedure was simple enough. Written evidence was given by the police officers who had seized copies of The Golden Spin and served the Summons on John Sutton.
Sutton was told of his right to elect for trial before a jury and D’Arcy Harrington, on his behalf, asked for this to be done.
The date of the trial was set for the end of November.
The time was now packed with preparation for the case. Harrington chose his expert witnesses with exceptional care, for it was his aim to cover a broad cross section of public opinion: professional men; academics; one or two people from other walks of life, sympathetic and known to be public spirited — the Mayor of a notable London Borough; an Anglican priest who had special concern in ministering to the young; two teachers; a librarian. The list ran into around fifteen in all.
But the barrister’s main concern was the fact that the prosecution was bringing Norman Eade into court. Eade was tremendously well respected by his profession and the only way in which Harrington could fight the threat was by negating the evidence with a contrary opinion from an equally powerful source. He finally approached Price, who, after reading the book, agreed to appear.
Humphrey Carmichael, who had stumbled near to the pit of mental destruction, suddenly seemed to find new life when asked to appear for the prosecution as an expert witness of high moral character. Turk was being subtle, he knew that, while professionally Humphrey Carmichael was a standing joke, his power with people was undeniable. There were many middle road, steady income bracket folk who would identify completely with the ideals and moral tones displayed by Carmichael. His words, and the manner in which he would conduct himself might prove more powerful than the testimony of a whole bench of bishops standing there and claiming that they had been corrupted by The Golden Spin.
If only temporarily, Humphrey’s buoyant attitude brought a little peace of mind to Dorothy, who found herself actually looking forward to his return each evening. They talked more than they had done in years, and the atmosphere took on a friendly, and even intimate, tone.
*
The moist Autumn weather became colder and the mists and fogs of November clung along the river line late into the day, springing up again during the early evening, while in the afternoons there was a smell of wood smoke in the air from the parks. June Rabel always reacted emotionally to late Autumn. To her it was a time of special sadness: the usual poetic and sentimental things which are carried in the wake of childhood, like the idea of the death of Summer and the nostalgia felt in the burning of the leaves: the irreversible course of nature which goes its circular way in spite of mankind; and Man himself, often unknowing, moving with nature through the seasons towards eternity.
This November, the impact of the natural turn of the year seemed more harsh to June, linked as it was to the pattern she had begun to recreate within her own life. She had loved John Sutton, and still in some ways would always love him. But she knew this had to be the end; that to stay longer would bring about a change which might destroy them both; and there was David, whose body she longed for, and whose mind encompassed her own with a firmness she had never known.
David was good to her during the time which led up to the trial: careful, understanding, gentle and kind; all the things a lover should be without actually taking her body. He did not press her, or try to push things to a quick conclusion, for he understood that she would find the right moment.
On June’s part there was also fear. She knew the moment had to come and she dreaded it, not certain if she would, in the end, find the strength to do it the fair and just way: to tell John Sutton as she faced him squarely, eye to eye.
On several occasions, June almost brought herself to the point of telling him, but was held back by Sutton’s forlorn and downcast demeanour.
Sutton himself came near to hell. The straightforward, day to day work in the office became more difficult for him, even though colleagues were there, sympathetic and to hand, taking a large amount of the weight from him.
The monster nightmare always trailed through into the day: the fact that a successful prosecution could mean the actual ruin of the business which his father had built and that he had so painstakingly tended; a struggle for Daphne and his children; a slide downwards for June. If it happened it would be his fault because it had been his decision. In the darkest moments he lived through vivid mental pictures of great physical crashes, the jolt as two automobiles met and the horrible rending noise of tearing metal; the death screech of a huge jet. At the better times he searched for that extra reserve of strength, the new sap that would be needed for survival, and heaven knew that in the ferment and change that was gradually making itself felt, they would all need every ounce of extra strength they could muster.
Sutton was also aware of there being something desperately wrong in his relationship with June. The knowledge he had faced briefly, months before, was there in focus now, yet he did not dare face her with it for fear of the truth, that they were nearing the end.
On the night before the trial, this certainty almost became reality. For weeks, they had ceased to be lovers in any physical sense. Then, quite suddenly, in the darkness, when the lights were out and they lay a little apart, Sutton felt the desire flood into his loins. He reached out and was conscious of the small catch of her breath.
June’s eyes snapped open. Aware of the presence and warmth of his hand on her thigh she tried not to flinch, but, in spite of herself, the body stiffened and she edged away.
He muttered something: soothing, loving, and she knew it had to be. The despair within turned to a physical gritting of the teeth, an empty thing that she had thought impossible with John Sutton. She could not return his kisses, nor allow her body response to his passion. Unawakened by his tender efforts, June tried desperately to simulate the act of love. But it would not be. Inside there was the question: where had it all gone, the fond, violent and beautiful thing she had once had with this man? The time when enjoying each other’s bodies was the same as a mutual joining of their minds? When passion leaped like a flame among dry wood and she was moistened with the sweet juice of their fucking? The moments when they would look, look again and swiftly strip, straining to be at each other and to become involved: and afterwards, the long talking, the pillow talk, or couch talk, grass talk, back of car talk, stair talk, in front of the fire talk with their bodies one and eased and all life’s problems whittled down to which one of them was going to get the coffee.
It had gone, and his entering her now was a dry, painful rending, a hurt. When it was over she felt only mental relief. A sad goodbye: not as she would have wanted it. She would have liked to speak then, and John Sutton knew it, but they both lay silent while the night passed, bringing them nearer to the changing time.
XVII
IT WAS DECIDED that Freddy Cadogan should attend the trial as an observer, in order to report quickly to Askelon and members of the William Sutton organisation. He did not like the job, which was a labour of love, finding the atmosphere of Number One Court at the Old Bailey smoothly oppressive. Even the dark wooden benches, rising back from the central well of the Court had a smoothness about them, the smoothness of authority. It was not amusing to wait for the Law to take its course when the work of one friend was involved, and the life of another. Cadogan was in no doubt that John Sutton’s life was at stake here, he caught the look of defeat in the publisher’s eyes.
Now, as the Judge entered, Sutton appeared almost diffident, though Cadogan knew this was far from the truth. Both D’Arcy Harrington and Walter Turk, with their assistants, seemed to exude confidence. It was as though they were about to play a complicated game, the rules of which were known only to a select few.
The jury (a pair of housewives, a grocer, an accountant, a stockbroker, the Chief Clerk of a firm which specialised in stainless and heat-resisting bolts and nuts, the buyer from a Regent Street gown shop, a British Railways Station Manager, a garage owner, a beautician, an electrical engineer and a bank clerk) looked interested, if nothing else.
The Judge, Mr Justice Baird, was a small, wiry man, thin faced with lively eyes, not given to humour, but with a reputation for scrupulous adherence to the formal procedures of the Law.
The first day was something of an anti-climax. Sir Walter Turk opened for the prosecution: a short statement, telling the Court pretty well what it already knew; that they were concerned with a case under the Obscene Publications Act 1959; that John Sutton, representing William Sutton & Son, Publishers, was charged with publishing an obscene article, in this instance, a novel by an American author, Mr David Askelon, titled The Golden Spin. There had, he continued, been a great deal of public protest about this novel, particularly about the areas of lawlessness, violence and sexual description. It was the duty of the prosecution to prove that The Golden Spin was, in fact, an obscene article. In other words, if, taken as a whole, The Golden Spin had a tendency to deprave and corrupt the majority of persons who were likely to read it, or hear it being read. He claimed that the prosecution had no doubt at all that this was an obscene article under that definition, and, in due course, would prove it through the evidence of expert witnesses and other relevant details.
Harrington made a special note of the phrase, ‘other relevant details’, it had a ring to it suggesting shock tactics.
The Judge then pointed out that before they could proceed, the jury must be given time to read the article concerned. Cadogan thought there was a great deal of time wasted at this juncture. It was a stupid, legal hang up. Nobody seemed to know whether it was best that the three women and nine men comprising the jury should read The Golden Spin under lock and key in the Jury Room, or in the privacy of their own homes. Sir Walter was anxious for the former course, D’Arcy Harrington pleaded that they would read it in much more normal circumstances in their own homes.
After questioning the jury, Mr Justice Baird ruled that the Court would rise for a week, in order that the members of the jury could read the book within their own houses. He reminded them that they must not discuss the book, or, for that matter, any aspect of the case, with any person or persons outside the Court. He also counselled them not to return with their minds in any way biased or decided about the book.
‘You have much evidence to hear,’ he said. ‘Also, you must be clear about what you are eventually being asked to decide. You will be asked to decide whether or not this book, as a whole,’ he stressed the point, ‘is obscene. Whether or not the work, taken as a whole, has a tendency to deprave and corrupt a majority audience. This Court is not interested if you happen to be shocked or disgusted by parts of the book. One is shocked and disgusted by various aspects of life every single day: this does not mean that life constantly corrupts or depraves you. But I would expect some of you to be shocked and disgusted by a book of this kind. Read it in open fairness of mind. Then return here and listen to the evidence with that same open mind.’
The week passed like a year. A time of nails bitten to the quick, and Sutton’s temper dragged to the edge of the fire. He spent two days of the time in Guildford where things appeared to be worse than ever. Daphne, with time consumed around the house and children, had reached the stage of feeling both, her age, and a vengeful jealousy which spasmodically erupted against the children, because of their youth; other people, because of the stability which they outwardly appeared to maintain; and against John, for his retreat into work and because of his constant absence. As lightly as he could, Sutton tried to point out to her that they were all in peril because of the charges being brought against him. She laughed her strange, hysterical bray and could only say, ‘What can you expect if you publish a dirty book?’
The children were unnaturally quiet, concern for their father showing in their eyes. Martha finally confided in him that Dominic was going through a very bad time at school. It was obvious that other parents had not guarded their tongues, or put things into perspective when discussing the impending case in front of their children. Now Dominic was worried sick, thinking his father might be sent to jail. ‘You won’t, will you Daddy?’ Martha asked with an undue quiver in her voice.
Sutton had a long talk with both of them, quietening their fears and, incidentally, some of his own.
Then, suddenly the week was over and they were back in the Old Bailey, with the legal language, the wigs and gowns, the Press attentive and the stage set for drama.
But there was little drama in the beginning. In any trial brought under the Obscene Publications Act, the Law requires the defence to put its case first. D’Arcy Harrington opened in dazzling form.
‘For a group of men and women who have just read a book which the prosecution claims will corrupt and deprave the majority of the population, the jury looks extremely fit. I must congratulate them on their moral stamina, though I wonder if, having now read The Golden Spin, they should be considered by my learned friend,’ a nod in Sir Walter’s direction, ‘to be the right people to bring in a verdict in such a case.
‘To begin with, I must protest at this case being brought against my client at all. It seems preposterous that, in this day and age, an English Court of Law should waste its time arguing over the possibility of a book being able to deprave or corrupt a large number of people, when a very large number of people have already read it. Over one million copies have been sold in the United States, and, up to the moment my client was served with this Summons, forty thousand copies had been sold in the United Kingdom.’
He went on to read some of the best American reviews and continued. ‘I shall be bringing before this Court a number of men and women whose opinions count within our society. Without reserve each one of them will tell you what he or she thinks of this work, The Golden Spin. The crux of the matter, however, is the fact that we are dealing here with a most complex book.
‘It is quite an easy thing to say, “Yes, this is a book about four young men who journey across their native America, become embroiled in a great deal of sexual activity and in terrifying violence. Meet. Become a musical group, more, they become a social and sexual group. They go through the traumas of success a lot more sex and violence. Finally they become totally corrupted by their environment and we end on a note of despair, and, again, a note of violence.” Indeed you could say that, and it would be true. Yet, in this book there are greater truths than the simple, surface, narrative line. I put it to you that this book shows how real obscenity does in fact corrupt. And the real obscenities, as revealed in The Golden Spin, are things like racism; the unjust treatment of minority groups, whether they are religious, social, psychological or sexual; war; the misuse of power and wealth; starvation; pollution; unleashed, wanton violence. It is about these things that The Golden Spin speaks most strongly. But therein lies the strength of the book.’
