A scuffle! More like a life-or-death struggle. I glanced over at the policeman next to me to see what he was making of it all. He was still leaning over with his head on his hands, but contrary to what I had at first supposed he was not dozing. The newspaper had been folded in a strategic manner and he was actually doing the crossword! So much for his concern for the drama that was gripping me.
As I looked around again I realized I’d be glad to be out of this place, no matter what the outcome. The courtroom was much smaller than such rooms appear on TV and in films and, with all its dark wood, it was beginning to press in on me.
‘I have weighed all the evidence and completed my deliberation…’
The last three words were like a whip-crack. One and a half hours had passed since the summing-up begun, but now the courtroom was fully alert once more. I leaned forward in my seat, partly in anxiety, partly in an attempt to catch the judge’s fading voice.
‘In the matter of the case for AOABH, the prosecuting counsel together with Mr Reynolds representing the CID have not covered themselves with glory. Far from it. Their performance borders on the shameful. I have not heard such an ill-prepared case in a long time…’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Relief was sweeping through me. Vindicated! Not only was their case not good enough, but they were being actively criticized for putting it together so poorly. ‘The evidence was atrocious. All the stories were false, nobody told two accounts the same, no two pieces of evidence were consistent…’
At this point the prosecution barrister rose to protest. ‘If it please your honour…’ The judge glared down at him over his glasses. The barrister quickly lost courage, mumbled something in a tone of voice hushed to the point of obsequiousness, then sat down, disheartened.
‘The only independent witness,’ Justice Ferguson continued, ‘should have been the barman. He wasn’t part of Peres’ party, he wasn’t police, he wasn’t with the defendant. But the only time he told the truth…’ Here the judge paused regally in mid-sentence, poured himself a glass of water from the carafe, drank half of it and then went on, ‘…was when he said that when it was all over he went round and collected money from everyone for the drinks. The only two prosecution witnesses who consistently spoke the truth were the two Chinese detectives who happened to be having a quiet drink in the bar. Even though they were appearing for the prosecution, their evidence undermined the very case the prosecution was attempting to establish…’
It was going my way. Maybe the due process of law had some merit after all! The tension in my shoulders had noticeably relaxed, and I eased back slightly in my chair.
‘I rule therefore that the charge of AOABH should be struck out…’
Wonderful! I could have been looking at a long stretch for that. Justice Ferguson is not as senile as he looks. One down, one to go. Because of the prosecution’s bungling on the first charge, the judge might have some sympathy with me on the second – possession of the duster. He might, after all, accept my argument of self-defence. I was in for a shock.
‘As for the charge of possession of an offensive weapon…’
Here Justice Ferguson reached forward for one of the large volumes of case history that lay before him, adjusted his wig slightly, shaded his eyes with his left hand, turned the pages of the book with the other and proceeded to cite the case in 1974 of a Chinese civilian who had got involved in a punch-up in a bar in Kowloon. He’d ripped an ornamental sword from where it was displayed stapled to the wood above the bar and used it to defend himself. He was arrested, charged with POOW and sentenced to six months. My euphoria was quickly dissipating.
‘In spite of the considerable extenuating circumstances surrounding this case, I have still been given no valid reason why you should have about your person an offensive weapon, namely a knuckleduster. Even if it formed part of your training – and who am I to question these things? I leave that to the judgement of the military authorities – even if it was part of your official equipment, you should not have been carrying it, let alone using it in a public place. Before we know it we will have off-duty members of the forces walking down the street with rifles and machine guns. That is something that just cannot be tolerated.’
All hope was fading. How would I cope with a prison sentence? Would I be able to bear the strain of the claustrophobic routine? What would I do when I got back to the UK? Would the RE have me back? If they wouldn’t, it would be a dishonourable discharge and into Civvy Street to try to get work with the only trade I knew: driving trucks.
‘Taking everything into consideration I have no alternative but to find you guilty as charged…’
Here the judge paused. He was sitting with a large ledger before him, pen poised. The pen was just coming down to write me off for six months when my lawyer, the colonel, stood up. ‘My learned judge, before you pass sentence…’
The judge looked at him with a certain benign curiosity.
‘There are certain mitigating circumstances in this case.’
There was a moment of silence. The judge looked over his halfglasses, pen still poised, and said in a slow, enquiring voice, ‘Yes, Colonel?’
The colonel proceeded to launch into a well-prepared plea of mitigation covering five full sheets of paper. Not only did he repeat every aspect of the case that was in my favour, but he also went into every detail of my family background, placing special emphasis on the fact that I had a seven-month-old son to look after. He brought forward an impressive list of character references. I was almost embarrassed. The essential thrust of the pleas was an endeavour to demonstrate that basically I was not criminally inclined and therefore was not a suitable candidate for jail, but rather that as a man who had served in the forces I must be deemed to have some substance. The incident in the bar had simply been a temporary and uncharacteristic aberration, which could be penalized with a short, sharp sentence. The colonel ended by making a strong plea for corporal punishment.
‘Well…’ said Justice Ferguson, a little bemused, ‘it certainly didn’t do me any good at school, but I sentence you to six strokes of the cane. The sentence will be carried out at Stanley Jail. Take the prisoner away.’
Thank fuck for that, I thought as I was led down the stairs in the dock that disappeared below court, that’s great. At least I’ve got a fighting chance of saving my Army career now. My mind was hardly on the sentence at all. When I heard the judge refer to the cane, I felt as if I was back at school. It felt like nothing more serious than a visit to the headmaster’s study.
I was taken to a holding area beneath the courts which consisted of one large transit cell full of pimps, prostitutes and drug-pushers – the fallout from that day’s hearings, the dross from the seething social cauldron that was Hong Kong. It was midday. I would have to remain there until late afternoon when the courts rose and the full complement of convicts had been assembled ready for onward transport to their appointed place of punishment. I didn’t relish the prospect of five minutes in that cell, let alone five hours. Hardened faces looked up and took my measure as the door clanged shut behind me and the key clicked in the lock. The inside of the cell consisted simply of a concrete block running around the edge, a hole in the middle of the floor serving as a primitive – and very public – latrine for both males and females, and nothing else. The floor was filthy and stank of urine and human faeces. There was no ventilation and it was unbearably hot.