“As magister.”
The elderly Frenchman nodded and turned his attention back to the man in the dock. “We need your name,” said the Marquis. “We need to know that you understand our questions . . .”
Hamzah opened his mouth but no words came to carry his answer to the waiting court and seconds later the light went out of his eyes.
St. Cloud shrugged.
“Is there any man here who speaks for the defendant?”
“Yes,” came a voice from the back. “I do . . .”
Heads twisted but Raf didn’t need to look. It was his turn to smile.
“I said any man,” St. Cloud said gently.
“Whatever.” Zara walked to the front and stopped beside her father. “Let me speak for him,” she said. “God knows, he needs somebody.”
“The weight of a woman’s word is a third of that given to the words of a man . . . Isn’t that now the law in El Iskandryia? Come to think of it,” the Frenchman added softly, “I seem to remember that being the law across most of North Africa.”
“This court operates under the rules of The Hague,” said Raf firmly. “As you well know.”
St. Cloud nodded. “So you allow this girl to speak for her father?”
“Yes,” said Raf, without looking at Zara, “I allow it.”
“Remind me,” said the Frenchman with a sly smile, “in exactly which capacity did you make that decision?”
“A Grand Jury having unanimously decided that probable cause and sufficient reason exist to bring this case to trial, it is my duty as senior judge to apprise you of the formal charges . . .”
Pausing, St. Cloud reached for a glass and sipped, very slowly. The tumbler was smeared and the water it held tasted stale. Chances were, the water had been brought in a jug from a standpipe hastily erected in the square outside.
It was interesting just how much the people of any city relied on electricity without really realizing that fact. At least St. Cloud found it interesting; but then he found almost everything interesting, which had proved a salvation in his long and sometimes difficult life.
What interested him most, at least most for the moment, was how ready both the German boy and that irritating American were to agree that Hamzah Effendi was faking illness, when it was blindingly obvious that the defendant was crippled by despair. Not guilt, despair . . . The Marquis had been around enough of both to be able to tell the difference.
Also interesting was that the dutiful daughter who now stood beside the defendant spent more time watching Ashraf Bey than she did looking at her father or the judges. And that for his part, the young Berber princeling worked hard to do the opposite. So far he hadn’t looked at her once.
“The charge,” said St. Cloud as he carefully put down his glass, “is murder in the first degree, murder in the second degree and culpable homicide. The prosecution will bring a representative case for each of these charges. If all three charges are found, then a fourth charge will be considered to have been brought against you . . . That of a Section 3 crime against humanity . . .
“Under The Hague Convention you have a constitutional right to be represented. But I see that no law firm has been appointed.” The Frenchman made a show of consulting documents, if handwritten scrawls on cheap, lined paper could so be called. “Do you wish me to appoint counsel?”
St. Cloud took another slow sip from his glass. He’d first learnt of the trick as a young lawyer, watching an elderly judge in Marseilles. Every few minutes, the woman would stop to sip from a small glass of iced Evian. Rumour said the glass contained vodka but rumour lied. Water was all it ever was. The sipping existed to create natural breaks that let her words trickle into the bedrock of everyone’s thought. Faced with inexorable evidence and enough silence, defendants had been known to change their pleas midtrial, without consulting their lawyers and to their lawyers’ considerable horror. It had taken the Marquis months of watching the judge to work out how the old woman stage-managed it.
Of course, sometimes it didn’t work.
“Very well then,” St. Cloud said with a sigh. “This court orders that a public defender be appointed by the city.”
“No.” It was the first word Hamzah Effendi had uttered since being led into the room, the first word from the man in two days. “No attorney, no public defender.”
St. Cloud shrugged. “If that’s what you want . . . Do you wish to apply for bail?” He looked at the silent man but it was Zara who answered.
“Yes,” she said defiantly. “We do . . . I do. And I ask that my father be released on his own recognizance.”
“Completely impossible.” Senator Liz spoke without bothering to defer to the chair. On the other side of St. Cloud, the young Graf nodded frantic agreement.
“Bail, even with a bond, would be unusual in a case like this,” St. Cloud said softly. “But it might be possible, if the bond is set high enough and you, personally, give your word not to attempt to help your father leave the city.”
Her word.
The Marquis smiled at the outrage on the face of the ushers and court stenographer; even Hamzah looked momentarily shocked.
“You have my word,” said Zara. “Now how much do you want?”
“For myself,” said the Marquis, “I want nothing.” She had the grace to blush, though her chin came up and she refused to look away. “The sum is a matter for the court,” he added, “though I suggest not less than . . .”
“No bail,” announced Raf from his seat to one side of the judges. He stood up slowly and stepped into the empty area between the judges and the dock, feeling very alone. Turning to Zara, he spread his hands in apology.
“I cannot allow bail,” he said flatly. “And that decision is taken in my capacity as governor of this city.” He stared at St. Cloud. “You know as well as I do that if bail is granted, I cannot guarantee his safety . . .”
“In that case . . . Request for bail dismissed. All that remains,” said St. Cloud, “is for the court to set a date for trial. Since it seems the case will, after all, be tried in Iskandryia.” He smiled sweetly at the Senator. “And since the defendant has refused counsel I would suggest to the other judges that we begin first thing tomorrow . . .”
“Too soon,” said Raf. “Make it Saturday . . . Iskandryian airspace will need to be opened to fly in Jean René, the photographer who took the shots already seen by the Grand Jury.”
“Saturday it is.”
“No.” This time it was Zara who objected. “That doesn’t give my father time to find a character witness.”
“For a murder charge?” St. Cloud scanned his handwritten notes. There was nothing about a character witness in there.
“One only,” Zara said. “We’re also in the process of trying to organize travel arrangements.”
“You have until Sunday,” St. Cloud said firmly. “After that, the trial takes place, whether you have your witness or not.” He glanced at Raf and frowned. “And that decision is taken in my capacity as senior judge.”
CHAPTER 46
27th October
“Hani al-Mansur . . .” The child answered her mobile at the first ring, voice extra polite. “Can I ask who’s calling . . . ?”
Her Nokia was one of only a dozen let into El Iskandryia on special licence from the governor, who turned out to be the person on the other end of the call. She had to ask who it was because these cell phones were analogue, very stupid ones without the option of vision.
For some reason, Ashraf had been most insistent about the analogue bit.
Their conversation was short. “Yes,” said Hani, “Ifritah’s fine. She’s here with me and I’m really pleased to see her.”
She listened to Uncle Ashraf’s next question and sucked her teeth, but not that crossly. “Yes . . . I’ve had supper and I’m ready for bed. No, you don’t need to collect me in the morning. Donna’s going to the market. I’ll walk in with her . . .”