The Censor, page 31
Harrington bowed. He had accomplished what he had set out to do. Turk had made a mistake in calling somebody as vulnerable as Carmichael in the first place: he was to make an even bigger mistake in calling Celia Aston on the following morning.
Later, nobody really knew why Sir Walter Turk displayed such a bad error of judgement. The truth was that Celia Aston had telephoned Turk, offering to appear and substantiate what she had already written in New York and London: to verify every word about David Askelon and The Golden Spin. Turk had seen it as a dramatic master stroke that would either bring Askelon into the open or silence the defence for good. In one of those rare lapses which occur, even to the most professional men, Turk had failed to examine the circumstances surrounding the Aston article.
D’Arcy Harrington heard about the impending witness on the evening before she was called. Still flushed with the success of bringing the Carmichael plot to the Judge’s attention, he immediately telephoned Sutton who gave him Askelon’s number. Later that evening, Askelon and Harrington met. They were in conference for almost three hours.
Celia Aston was the prosecution’s last witness. She looked cool, even demure, dressed in a conservative white suit and navy-trimmed hat, quite out of keeping with the stern London weather: rain, boosted by a biting wind, had driven away the fog.
There could be no doubt that the Court was interested in Celia Aston’s presence, everybody mentally balanced on the edge of their seats, an atmosphere of powder flash and dynamite.
Sir Walter Turk introduced her simply: no great drama. He then turned to the Judge and jury.
‘My lord, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. This witness’s evidence is already in public domain. It consists of an article written for an American newspaper earlier this year and reprinted recently by a national Sunday newspaper in this country. You have all been provided with copies of the article.
‘As we have not had the benefit of examining, or indeed hearing from, the author of The Golden Spin during this trial, I felt that there should be some authoritative evidence concerning his intention in writing the book. That evidence can be provided by Miss Aston, who has already given us the facts in print.’ Turk switched, almost automatically to a dramatic stance as he turned to face Celia Aston.
‘Miss Aston, how long have you known the author, David Askelon?’
Her voice came over well, calm, medium pitch, a girl who knew where she had been and was pretty certain about where she was going. ‘I can’t really say that I know him at all. I only interviewed him once.’
‘When was that?’
‘Earlier this year. The day before I first wrote about him.’
‘And that was the only contact with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had you read his book, The Golden Spin, before you met him?’
‘I had.’
‘Had you formulated an opinion about the book?’
‘Yes, I had.’
‘Would you tell the Court that opinion.’
‘I thought the book was quite well-written pulp, and that it contained a great deal of unnecessary sex and violence. Really, I suppose I considered it an unnecessary book.’
‘Did you tell David Askelon of those feelings before you interviewed him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you recall your exact words?’
‘I told him I thought it was a load of crap.’
Mr Justice Baird coughed, holding up a hand; just the hand raised, palm facing outwards, ‘That last word, Sir Walter?’
‘Crap, my lord. A slang expression, American in origin and formerly meaning excrement. Now generally used to denote rubbish of any kind.’
The Judge nodded. ‘Thank you Sir Walter, unlike yourself, my knowledge of fringe language is limited. To put the Court’s mind at rest, however, I am highly qualified on the four letter words used throughout Mr Askelon’s book.’
Laughter; modulated; and easing of nerves.
Turk turned back to his witness. ‘You told Askelon that you thought The Golden Spin was, to use your words, a load of crap. What was his reaction?’
‘He laughed and said, yes he knew that, but they had wrapped the crap in money.’
‘And what did you deduce from that?’
‘I felt he was being honest: that he was only interested in making money from writing sensational fiction.’
‘Was that opinion reinforced?’
‘Very much so.’
‘How?’
‘Later in the conversation, the interview, he told me specific things which I put into the article.’
‘Would you repeat those things for us?’
‘He said that as long as you were reasonably literate you could make money these days by writing about sex and violence in a sharp manner. He said that the weird sex things could make a lot of money.’
‘Such as?’
‘He told me he had done a lot of research. He used to ask people about their sexual experiences. One of the things he said was, if you put a queer and a lesbian in the same room with a load of whips, you’re made; or if you write about couples indulging in what are known as unnatural practices, the general public will rush to read about it.’
‘Do you feel he was being totally honest with you?’
‘Completely honest. It was almost as though he was relieving his mind of a great weight. I felt that he had gotten rid of a lot of guilt by telling me. It was rather like a confession.’
‘What was your ultimate conclusion?’
‘Just what I said in the article, that here we had a highly literate author debasing his talent by writing sensational pornography and disguising it as literature.’
‘Has anything happened to change your mind about that conclusion?’
‘No.’
‘Neither Mr Askelon, nor the publishers have attempted to bring any action against either yourself or the newspapers concerned?’
‘No. It was all true. David Askelon told me he had written The Golden Spin for profit, and that it was written with the calculated idea of being sensational.’
‘Thank you.’ Turk looked across at Harrington, mockery around the eyes.
Harrington rose. He was silent for a long time: the best part of two minutes. He stood, quite still, arms to his sides, looking at the small figure in the witness box.
When the barrister began to speak, his voice was so low that Freddy Cadogan had to strain in order to catch every word.
‘The defence does not dispute one word of Miss Aston’s evidence concerning what was said. There is little doubt that Mr Askelon said what he is claimed to have said to this lady.’ He looked around the Court. A flashed smile. ‘But we all say things in private that we do not mean. When we feel dejected, sorry for ourselves. We sometimes like to appear as crude villains. In private. I stress that. In private.
‘I would also call your attention to the evidence given by Dr Irving Scholes who said that nothing the author had to say about his work would change the work. Dr Scholes, you recall, considers it a work of literary brilliance.’ Everyone could hear now, Harrington enunciating each word. ‘I maintain that no author is ever in a position to evaluate his own work. In any case, we must be quite clear about the circumstances in which David Askelon relayed these feelings to the witness.’ He lifted his head, as though to throw words at Celia Aston.
‘Miss Aston, would in not be true to say that, within the full meaning of the word, you did not interview David Askelon at any time?’
‘Of course I interviewed him.’
‘Maybe. If you say so. But did he know that he was being interviewed?’
‘He knew my name. He knew who I was.’
‘Is that the same thing as knowing that he is being interviewed?’
‘I’m pretty well known in New York. I have a daily column that …’
‘You still haven’t answered my question, Miss Aston. Did David Askelon know that he was being interviewed?’
‘I thought he understood, yes.’
‘You thought he understood. Is that really enough? Where then was this interview being conducted?’
‘At a party.’
‘At a party. Quite so. A private party?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, Miss Aston. A private party at which you talked to David Askelon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you considered a little chat at a party constituted an interview?’
‘He talked a lot.’
‘Many people do at parties. Tongues are loosened. Did he only talk at the party?’
‘We talked at the party, yes.’
‘I repeat. Only at the party?’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Would it not be more to the point if you told us that you met David Askelon at a party where you indicated to him that you found some of the sex scenes in The Golden Spin not unnecessary but highly stimulating?’
She paused, looked down, the trace of a flush, her hand nervous on the rail of the box, white gloved fingers drumming and crabbing. ‘I guess I did say something like that.’
‘To win his confidence? To lure him?’
‘It’s a ruthless profession.’
‘I put it to you, Miss Aston, that David Askelon had no idea that you were interviewing him. He thought that he was having a friendly conversation with a friendly girl. I put it to you that he got a little drunk, a little maudlin: that he felt sorry for himself. I put it to you that you carried matters a stage further and that you went home with him.’
‘I?’
‘You went to his apartment, where you, Miss Aston, suggested that he should make love to you using a somewhat way out method described in The Golden Spin.’
Turk was on his feet and the Judge was nodding in violent agreement to his protest.
Harrington turned quickly to the Judge. ‘My lord, I am sorry. But my learned friend, Sir Walter Turk has seen fit to bring in what, at first sight appears to be most damaging evidence against the author and his book. I simply wish to make it clear that the information is unreliable, vague, emotional and was gained by means which, in this country would be regarded as unethical, and in circumstances which were not conducive to getting at the truth.’
Mr Justice Baird hesitated before making any pronouncement. Finally he turned to Celia Aston. ‘Miss Aston, remembering that you are on oath. I would like you to comment on Mr Harrington’s suggestions.’
‘Must I do that?’
‘No, it is not obligatory. But I must warn you that your silence on the matter will put grave doubts into the minds of the jury and others. I must also counsel you to take great care that your answer is a truthful one, lest at any future date you are found to have committed perjury or contempt.’
The wait was endless. Celia Aston opened her mouth two or three times as if to speak, but nothing came. At last, very quietly she nodded. ‘All that Mr Harrington has suggested is true.’
It was a moment of relaxed tension, as though everybody in the Court suddenly breathed out. A small babble of conversation rose and promptly fell away to silence again as the Judge started to speak. ‘Then you may leave this Court Miss Aston; and I have to instruct the jury to delete any evidence they have heard about the author’s intention from their minds. My feelings are that Sir Walter has wasted a great deal of our time with a red herring which swam very close to being evidence of a most irregular nature.’
There was a restless shifting, a sea building one great wave. For all the quiet judicial comment, everybody knew that the prosecution’s case had suffered.
The closing speeches followed. D’Arcy Harrington careful, making constant references to the Law; a reasoned plea of sanity. Next to Harrington, Sir Walter Turk became almost hysterical in a dramatic final attempt to hammer nails into a coffin for The Golden Spin.
On the following morning, Mr Justice Baird summed up, leaving nobody in doubt that he was not satisfied with the way in which the prosecution had been conducted.
‘As you have already been told several times,’ he said to the jury. ‘We are not interested if this book simply shocked or disgusted you. Come to that we are not really interested in the author’s intention.’ A sidelong look towards Turk. ‘We are only interested in knowing whether or not this book is an obscene article under the meaning of the Act. If you are in any doubt as to its obscenity, then you have no other course than to bring in a verdict of not guilty.’
The jury were out for an hour and a half. At two-fifteen they returned a ‘Not Guilty’ verdict.
The Judge made some closing comments, indicating that he was relieved and happy with the result. Finally he added, ‘There are certain aspects of this case which make it necessary for me to comment on the action of the Director of Public Prosecutions and his Department. I would suggest to him that, in the future, his Department should look more closely into the sources of any vast protests against works of this nature. For there is no doubt in my mind that these proceedings were set in motion because of a large amount of spurious opinions brought to the surface by a group of well-meaning people headed by a Member of Parliament who appeared as a witness for the defence. I refer, of course, to Sir Humphrey Carmichael.
‘While vigilant persons like Sir Humphrey are quite at liberty to protest, or to organise protest, it must be made clear that their views are not always majority views, nor are they always in the public interest. There is no doubt that the Director of Public Prosecutions brought these proceedings only after careful consideration, but, in balance, I do not believe that this book would have faced a prosecution at all had it not been for the very considerable weight of what seemed to be unsolicited protest. We now know the protest was not unsolicited. We also know those protests were not in the public good. All this has been made palpably clear. Much time and public money has been wasted, and I would not be doing my duty in this Court if I did not call the Director’s attention to these facts.’
A massive sense of relief for John Sutton. A personal relief and a great happiness for others. There were newspapermen. D’Arcy Harrington talking loudly. The car through the wet streets which seemed bright. The office. Smiles. Telephones constantly ringing. Non-stop words of good cheer.
Humphrey Carmichael heard of the verdict within a few minutes of the Court rising. The dark and nervous depression that had been with him since his experience in Court swept to a high peak. Sitting at his desk at Carmichael Properties, he felt the body shake and sing with anger. Through the anger came the small whimper of a child. It’s only a book, Nannie. Only a book.
It was later in Charles’ office, when they brought in the evening papers, that Carmichael’s full rage exploded. The headlines mentioned him by name, and, as he read the Judge’s final comments the blood started to pound in his head and the print blurred before his eyes.
‘You okay father?’ Charles had scanned the Press account and now rose quickly from his desk. His father was shaking, he looked ill and unsteady.
‘Yes.’ It was a roar of indignation. ‘Yes, of course I’m all right.’ With one move of his arm he flung the newspaper across the room, it fell apart, spinning and scattering its pages onto the floor. ‘Even the Courts are degenerate now. I’ve tried. God knows how I’ve tried to rid this country of its foulness. Charles, where will it all end? We’re shuttered up with sexual muck and vile filth. Nobody in their right mind could possibly find that book ...’ He clawed for the words but they were getting too difficult to find. ‘It stinks of corruption. It-is-obscene.’ He looked at his son: glazed tears, a plea for another’s blessing on his ideals, his standards, his fears and guilt. ‘Surely I am right?’
Charles felt a moment’s compassion for the man. He reached out and gripped his father’s shoulder.
‘Dad, you’re not God. You’re not the one to say what people should or should not read. I agree there ought to be some form of control. Certain people have to be protected. But you protect nobody by being an unseeing, unthinking, rigid, self-appointed censor. There are new ways of communicating now. What used to be considered naughty, or even dirty, filthy, as you would put it, can even be truthful and honest, beautiful even. You aren’t capable of seeing that any more. You’ve always been incapable, because you’ve never faced the facts as they are. And be fair, who have you protected with the private wall you’ve built around the facts? Certainly not mother, nor Joan, or me. If you’ve done so little for us, do you think you’ve done more for others? Get rid of the guilt, Dad. Open your eyes and take the dirty linen out of the cupboard so that it can be washed and shown off with pride.’
The book with the naked woman; the thighs; breasts; flesh. A strange tingling in the loins. Humphrey Carmichael looked at his son but saw something else.
The last day of the trial had also been a trial for Dorothy Carmichael. It had begun, uncalled for as usual, around ten in the morning: the fatal, terrible upsurge from within. The racing tingle which increased as the day wore on. She wanted terribly to be fair to Humphrey, and tried to keep herself occupied with the small housewifely duties which she neither liked nor understood.
At three-thirty she heard the news of the verdict on the radio and her first instinct was to telephone Humphrey, but she was restrained by the urgent messages of her vital sexual organs.
Finally, she went to the bedroom, stretched out on the bed and tried for sleep, but it would not come: only the palpitating images deep seated in her mind. The erect penis; tongues; the texture of flesh in motion. Her nipples burned and her vagina screamed for the satisfaction that would take her to the flat plane of normality.
At half-past four she heard the news again, and they mentioned the Judge’s closing remarks. She scowled, feeling considerable anxiety for Humphrey. She still did not want to call him, but felt a compulsive need to be near him. In a mist of sensuality and anxious mental strain, Dorothy found herself going down to Humphrey’s study. He spent so much of his time there and she rarely went into the room. On the previous evening he had remained in the study for over three hours.
