LAST NIGHTS EVILby Jonathan Craig.

5When.l arrived at our house, which is in a rural area some eight miles from the

rest of the fa~~l)ty d>ml11~nity, I was not surprised to find that my wife's car was not inthe garage. I( " .

-~'''' l:;.::>

.. At least she hadn't entertained him - whoever -he was - in the house, I\ n ">}J\f\\ )(.\(\t) ~ •.•

refiected as I got back into my own car and restarted the eng Ine. But then, Lucitlewas a very pruocri'rit~&yng woman, as well as a very pretty one and, in th~2e!plouafcmost of my colleagues, much too young at nineteen to be married to a decidedly .~unexc{t~n~ professor twenty-three years her oonie:r. ~(tJn'47J(l}" .

I'd driven the two hundred and ninety miles from the sta~e ćapital, where I'dgone to address the State Historical Society, in four hours, slitl~~ my car through the

'jJIGJ>"C>C

near-zero cold of the December night even faster than I normally drove it. Just beforeI'd left the capital, I had been interviewed by the Riverton Sentineion the subjectofthe town's early myths and legends, and I had been most anxic:ius to get home andread the printed account of the taped interview, which the reporter had assured mewould run to a full page. In allh'Qn(;$tv, if not mo'desty, reading my"own words in print

hClt UC-(( I. ul!I-f!\!Ce::..

has always beenoneof my.cniefdelights.But my eagemess to read the Sentinel was not the major reason for my

hurried retum from the capital, and after buying a copy of the paper in town I haddriven straight home. I had, you see, told my wife that Iwould remain in the capitalovemight, a quite behevable lie in view of the bitterly cold weather and the icyconditions on the roads. - -- ~- -- -~-- - -- .~ _

Now, at a few minutes past midnight, I knew that the chances were very greatthat LucilIe - or, rather, they - would be in either one of the two places: the old sl~fee<"quarries, or the city dtfhl1J~either spot enjoyed any local popularity as a lover's lane,but both were almost exactly six and a half miles from our house.

When I had first become suspicious that Lucille was seeing someone elseduring my absence - because I had found lipstickless dgarettes in the ashtray of hercar - I had conducted a small experiment. By keeping a careful record of the mileagereadings on the odometer of her car, I had discovered that her romantic journeyswere invariably of a round-trip distance of thirteen miles. Since the quarries and thecity dump were the only two places six and a half miles from our house where onecould park a car for any length of time with a reasonable assurance of privacy, thetrysting spot seemed almost certain to be one or the other.

,fs it happened, it was the dump. The tiny white coupe was parked on thefrozen rms~midway between a pile of still smouldering garbage on one side and anenormous mound of what appeared to be freshlyg~Qosite<:l refld.~_on the other. Asetting not altogether conductive to the tender emotio~it would seem; but then,perhaps very young love was not blind but lacked a sense of smeli as well. In anycase, the car was well hidden; anyone not looking for it would not have seen it at all.

I cut my car's engine, coasted the last forty feet, and got about three yardsbehind my wife's. They had the engine running forwarmth and the left rear quarter-window was cracked a couole of inchss for air- - --- ;-- - - - - --- - - -- - - - - - - ~- - -

I had no real plan in mind, but since whatever developed might well entailconsiderable physical effort on my part, I removed my overcoat, with the anxiouslyawaited copy of the Sentinel in the right-hand pocket, folded it carefully and laid it onthe seat. Then I approached the coupe and quietly opened the door on the driver'sside.

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

45

50

They were sitting in the raked bucket seats as decorously as one might think, .their heads against the cylindrical headrest - my wife and a rather thin, mostunhandsome graduate student whose name, I seemed to recall, was Bolander. Bothwere sleeping soundly, and the over warm car smelled strongly of martinis, the latter

55 having unquestionably once resided in the small vacuurn bottle which seemed inimminent danger of sliding from my wife's lap. In the pale wash of moonlight, tnelrfaces had the troubled innocence of srnall children; also like children, they had goneto sleep holding hands.

I stood looking at them for fully half a minute; then closed the door and leaned60 an elbow on the top of the car, watching the shredded winter clouds drifting across

the face of the moon, as bleak as winter sky as I could remember. No Iover's rnoon,that, I refJected vaguely as I reached for a cigarette; nothing there to inspire the lovesongs of my own youth; nothing but a cold, disinterested witness to aninconsequential happening in the middle of a smouldering city dump.

65 Surprisingly, I felt nothing at all. I was cold, but I felt no emotion. But later,once I got home an settled down in my chair to read the Sentinel's account of myinterview, I suddenly teil into such an excess of self-castiqation that it was only by adetermined and prolonged exercise of will that I was able to dissuade myself fromdriving back to town for another copy of the paper. 1Was still very muchupsetwhert

70 the phone rang at five a.m.It was Harry Benson, the chief of POlice, a friend of mine since high school,Aterrible, a tragic thing had happened, he told me. My wife and a young man

had taken their lives in a suicide pact at the city dump. They had taken a discardedvacuum-sweeper hose from among the refuse, connected their car's exhaust pipe

75 with a partly opened window, and packed the space around the hose withnewspaper. Then they had, apparently, had a few tarewell drinks together while theywaited for the eng ine to ftll the tiny car with carbon monoxide and death.

When I hung up, I was still very angry with myself. To have carried it off soperfectly, and then to mar it by using the wrong section of the Sentinel- the section

80 containing the interview I had been so very anxious to read - was enough, I shouldthink, to upset anyone.

S5~,

DUSKwritten by HECTOR HUGH MUNRO - SAKI (1870-1916)

_NORMAN~RTSBY sat on a seat in the park. Hyde Park Comell with itsnoise of traffic, lay immediately to his right. It was about thirty minutes pa_st~ on an~arly March~g, and dusk had fallen heavily over the scene, dusk with some faint

5 moonlight and many street lamps. There was a wide emptiness over road andsidewalk, and yet there were many figures moving silently through the half-light, orsitting on seats and chairs.

The scene pleased Gortsby and suited his present feelings. Dusk, in hisopinion, was the hour of the defeated. Men and women, who had fought the battle of

10 life and lost, who hid their dead hopes from the eyes of the curious, came out in thishour, when their old clothes and bent shoulders and unhappy eyes might passedunnoticed.

On the seat by Gortsby's side sat a rather old gentleman with a look ofdefiance that was probably the last sign of self-respect in a man who had stopped

15 defying successfully anybody ar anything. As he rose to go Gortsby imagined himreturning to a home where he was of no importance, or to some uncomfortablelodging where his ability to pay his weekly bill was the beginning and end of theinterest which he caused.

His place on the seat was taken almost immediately by a young man, fairly20 well dressed but scarcely more cheerful than the other. As if to show that the world

went badly with him, the newcomer threw himself into the seat with a cry ofdispleasure.

'You don't seem in a very good temper,' said Gortsby.The young man tumed to him with such a look of frankness that Gortsby felt

25 that he must be very carefu1.'You wouldn't be in a good temper if you were in the difficulty I'm in,' he said;

'I've done the silliest thing I've ever done in my life.''Yes?' said Gortsby calmly.'I came here this aftemoon, meaning to stay at the Patagonian Hotel".'

30 continued the young man; 'when I got there I found it had been pulled down someweeks ago and a civem! thea~ put up in its place. The taxi-driver told me of anotherhotel some way off and I went there. I just sent aletter to my family, giving them theaddress, and then I went out to buy some soap - I hate using the hotel soap. Then Iwalked about a bit, had a drink and looked at the shop s, and when I came to tum my

35 steps back to the hotel I suddenly realized that I didn't remember its name or evenwhat street it was in. There's a difficult situation for a man who hasn't any friends orrelations in London! My family won't get my letter until tomorrow, and so I can't askthem for the address; meantime I'm without money, came out with about a shilling,which went in buying the soap and getting the drink, and here I am, wandering about

40 with twopenceJn my pocket and nowhere to go for the night.'There was a pause after the story had been told. 'I suppose you think I've told

you an impossible story,' said the young man presently with anger in his voice.'Not at all impossible,' said Gortsby. 'I remember doing exactly the same thing

once in a foreign capital; and on that occasion there were two of us, which made it

..

more remarkable. Luckily we remembered that the hotel was on a sort of canal, andwhen we found the canal we were able to find our way back to the hote1.'

The youth looked happier. 'In a foreign CIty, I wouldn't mind so much,' he said;'one could go to one's Consul and get the necessary help from him. But here in one's

5 own land one is in greater difficulties. Unless I can find some good many to acceptmy story and lend me some money, I seem likely to spend the night by the river. I'mglad, in any case, that you don't think the story quite improbable.'

'Of course,' said Gortsby slowly, 'the weak point of your story is that you can'tshow me the soap.'

10 The young man sat forward hurriedly, felt quickly in all the pockets of hisovercoat, and then jumped to his feet.

'I must have lost it,' he murmured angrily.'To lose a hotel and a cake of soap on one afternoon suggests great

carelessness,' said Gortsby, but the young man scarcely waited to hear the end of the15 sentence. He went away down the path, .his head held high.

'lt was a pity,' thought Gortsby; 'the going out to get some soap was the onething to make me believe the story, and yet it was just that little detail which ruined itoIf he had provided himself with cl cake of soap, he would have been a clever man.'

With that thought Gortsby rose to go; as he did so an exclamation escaped20 from his lips. Lying on the ground by the side of the seat was a smal1 packet which

could be nothing else but a cake of soap, and it had evidentIy fallen out of the youth'spocket when he f1ung himself down the seat. In another moment Gortsby was runningalong the dark path in search of the youthful figure in a light overcoat. He h~ Qearlygiven up the search when he caught sight of the young man standing doubtful1y on the

25 edge of the road. He. turned round suddenly with an unfriendly face when he heardGortsby calling.

'The important thing to prove the truth of your story has been found,' saidGortsby, holding out the cake of soap; 'it must have fallen out of your pocket whenyou sat down on the seat. I saw it on the ground after you left. You must excuse my

30 disbelief; but now the soap is found, and in may lend you apound ...'The young man quickly removed any doubt by pocketing the money.'Here is my card with my address,' continued Gortsby;'any day this week will

do for returning the money, and here is the soap - don't lose it again; it's been a goodfriend to you.'

35 'Lucky thing, your finding it,' said the youth, and then with a word of thankshe f1ed in the direction of Knightsbridge.

'Poor boy! He nearly wept, ' said Gortsby to himself. 'I'm not surprised; therelief from his difficulty must have been very great. It's a lesson to me not to be tooclever in judging by circumstances.'

40 As Gortsby went back past the seat where he had met the young man, he sawan old gentleman looking under it on all sides of ito Gortsby recognized the old manwho had sat there before with him.

'Have you lost anything, sir?' he asked.'Yes, sir, a cake of soap.

45 .

'.22.G .---'----.::

THE OPEN WINDOWBY SAKI (H. H. MUNRO)

10

In this story a very imaginative young lady of fifteen plays an amusing trick on o chance visi tor to her aunt's house. Asyou read, watch closely how smoothly she conducts herself. The story is told with a charm and grace that ischaracteristic of this English author (1870·1916), who commonly wrote under the pen name of Saki.

"My aunt will' be down presently, Mr. Nuttel, " said a very self·possessed young lady of fifteen; in themeantime you must try and put up with me."

Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the momentwithout unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formalvisits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to beundergoing. -1:> \"o::i.uf3" o \-. st.. 'u..G-V . /

"I know how it will be," his sister said when he was preparing to migrate to his rural retreat; "you will buryyourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from ,moping. I shali justgive you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quitenice."

Framton wondered whether Mrs. Stappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters ofintroduction, came into the nice division.

"Do you know many of the people round here?" asked the niece, when she judged that they had hadsufficient silent communion.

"Hardly a soul," said Framton. "My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know.isorne four years age,and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here."

He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.'Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?" pursued the self-possessed young lady."Only her name and acdress," admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Stappleton was in the

married ot widowed state. An indefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.____uHl!r great tragedy happened just three years ago," said the child "that would be since your sister's time."

"Her tragedy?" asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place."You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon," said the niece, indicating

a large French window that open ed on to a lawn. '"lt is quite warm for the time of the year," said Framton; "but has that window got anything to do with the

tragedy?""Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for

their day's shooting. They never came back. In crossing themoor to their favourite snipe-shooting ground they were allthree engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that weresafe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the_dreadful partof it." Here the child's voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly.human. "Poor aunt always thinks thatthey will come back some day, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that windowjust as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she hasoften told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronie, her youngestbrother, singing, 'Bertie, why do you bound?' as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Doyou know, sometimes on stilI, quiet evening like this, lalmost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in throughthat window - er

She broke off with alittle shudder. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt bustled into the room with awhirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.

"I hope Vera has been amusing you?" she asked."She has been very interesting, " said Framton."I hope you don't mind the open window, " said Mrs. Stappleton briskly; "my husband and brothers will be

home directly from shooting, and they always come in this way. They've been out for snipe in the marshes today, sothey'll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. 50 like you n1enfolk, isn't it?"

She rattledon cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds and the prospect for duck in the winter.To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to aless ghastly topic; he was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes wereconstantly straying past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coineidenee thathe should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary. ".,",vc;]., .ie..

'The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance ofanything in the nature-of physical exercise," announced Framton, who laboured under the tolerably wide-spreaddelu sion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities,their cause and cure. "On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement," he continued.

"No?" said Mrs. Stappfeton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenlybrightened into alert altention - but not to what Framton was saying.

"Here they are at last!" she cried. "Just in time for tea, and don't they look as if they were muddy up to the

20

30

40

u50

60

eyes!"

Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look intended to convey sympatheticcomprehension. The child was staring out through the open window with dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock ofnameless fear Framton swung in his seat and looked in the same direction.

In the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window; they all carriedguns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. Atiredbrown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse young voice -c)lanted out ..J;Jof the dusk: "I said, Bertie, why do you bound?" "'i> ,Z'"

Framton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall-door, the graveL drive, and the front gate weredimly.noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to turn into the hedge to avoid imminentcoliision.

"Here we are, my dear," said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window; "fairlymuddy, but most of it dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?"

"A most extraordinary man, Mr. Nuttel, " said Mrs. Stappleton; "could only talk about his illnesses, anddashed off without a word of good-bye or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost. "

80 "I expect it was the spaniel," said the niece calmly; "he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was oncehunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs, and had to spend the night ina newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him enough to make any one losetheir nerve. "

Romance at short notice was her speciality.

70

Find the words and phrases in the text which mean the following:

Soan presclld-t!; to tolerate 1"",-,1- v pappropriately

,to try evvdeO\ \JO u red oue.qimportant just now of +h.c lutO\M(M..+- to make less important JI::>cVS C (JU {1.L

refuge, withdrawal ,e-H e.oo.. t: to despair kJ IN\. O Fe...section d(\Jl~ (OlA exchange rGo(AhV\J",-,'O

clear diS'hv\~!...... to proceed QJr SlJ0visitor QO.1P~j' residence /tI.(l\1l1 Mt?>unsuitable,

p0cc.to point at 1 ilej I C {!1-' Il-::>

inappropriate OU1- off

unreliable marsh '-'ti eCiclAeJ,ov~ ;'1..'Oof hoo ,-SINt<1'vl Ih

trembling -Jh u d..der.' sfl" f.( 09 to hurry, rush in, v I

-1-0 bu-Sf-&. too&-to talk quickly and in a f't):. t rĆe. J quickly

0rt'S'~livelv way \(D.. ' <Oi;{expectation, possibility,

'f\o~~c t-insufficiency

-S'CCj(C(patentiai Jto wander, to drift I '\ko,. \.I dreadful, hideous 1ltot -i t-6J+omisconception V to be the victim of, v v

d.dvSI'Ov\ suffer because of r~ €ccbou( ) Yld-e..(sickness et iP ~Af1AA rS. bewildered ,q02e.dunderstanding CDWt?i e'.Ae-tA~I o t}\ rough, not

hoal~e...sophisticatedunavoidable i fV\ INI ; n.bV\"\ to growl to I ,C\I twith little warning GIt- ~b( 1- flOh'<'€, to send out (through -ha

~t>ll'Y1themeu+h) bubbles

LAW AND ORDER, CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

Study and practice

Below you see the story o ~n extraorclinary case in British legal history. The affair started in 1949, andwas finally closed in 1966. At the moment, there are a number of gaps in the story. Use the words belowto complete it.

t confessed cu~

-Ht>g.~<;.en,

c~ I~

senteiiC6:f

st~s·-droilDed-,tnea-The story began when aman called Timothy Evans was cl (('es +etd for the murder of hiswife and baby. He was CJ.t..(). \q~ with the double murder, but a short time later one of thecharges was d \O ppeol \J and he was -k Ied for the murder of his daughteronly. During the ' .~ \GJj Evans accused the man whose house he had been living in,John Christie, of the erimes, but no attention was paid to him. The f (>-1 found Evans

~ v:et-q and he was 's."etA khC ("o( to death. An " v\ P peqj wastumed ~own ~hd he was (? \( e c.v.l.c.d in 1950. Some time later, more wom~n's bodies werediscovered in Christie's house: two, three, four, five, six. John Christie was the police's chief

s:u S jX.C T and he started a nationwide hv tAt for him. He was soonC\W\Cille:"dPd . Alleged stcdeW\~ \-S by Christie while he was in

\ eu.(' +od.~l east doubt on the Evans hanging. When he went to CO\) r t-Christie [rf l~'c.d that he had murdered Mrs Evans, but in private it was said that 'he

co !Il f C_:M..d to that crime. His '{J( etA of insanity with regard to othermurders was rejected and he was CO" v \ C (..P A of killing his wife. Soan afterwards there was an

<2..'4' tj , ( "\ into the e o<: e cu h· o lA of Timothy Evans. The1uci qlJ

-) decided that justice had been dane and Evans had been righdy hanged. It wasotlif in'1966 that another Gvt'1 \l\l \\ I tr,' el was set up. This time it was decided that Evans hadprobably been i \!It\oCCA.~+- \l \.~~d he was given a free f~(d O[A • Better late thennever, as they say.

Quiz

Nowa quiz on same points of law - English style. The answers may well be different in our country.

1. Is it a crime to try to kill yourself? !\lQ.

2. Is it illegal to help somebody to commit suicide? o<"s3. Can you be executed for murdering apoliceman? iV' .Jo'''~ LoVl'1HiC J

4. If, after a murder, all the victim's relatives plead: 'Please, don't prosecute!' can charges againstthe suspected culprit be dropped? t\Jo.

5. If two armed thieves break into a house, guns in hand, and one of them shoots and kills thehouse-owner, is his accomplice guilty of murder? No

6. If I surprise an intruder in my lounge at night stealing my millions, do I have alegal right toassault him with a weapon? No

7. If I set a trap - a fifty-kilo weight just above the front door - for any burglars who might tryand enter the house, am I breaking the law? ~e ~

8. After a divorce or legal separation, can a wife be required to pay alimony to her ex-husband? ~es9. If I premise to marry my girlfriend and then change my mind shortly before the wedding, can she

take me to court? No10. If you said to your teacher in the middle of one of his lessons: <Youdon't know the first thing

about teaching!' could he / she brlng a civil action against you? ~~.s.~.••••1

12. If, as a defendant (ar the accused), I am not satisfied with the way my barrister has handledmy defence, can I sue hiro? No

13. If you were in my house - uninvited - and the ceiling, which had had a large erack in it for sametime, caved in and broke your leg, would it be a good idea to consult your solidtor? JeJ'

14. Can a person suspected of and charged with rape be allowed bail? ~

Practice 1

There are many crimes and offences apart from the few mentioned above. Explain, define ar giveexamples of the offences listed below.

blackmail - \J~'(,v..o, fraud - f f j'ev61. rqid . ~iC&.. ' bb ith vi I -"''''$I-e..", o{..;""""-c"~"ki napptng - OlT' muggmg - ro ery w1 VIOence '1

arson . FW(c ~ drug peddling - jK ef 00: 'Zr eF O~~• .~. 'c p:::;,>\ro.o.. -trespassing -orvteA''''''''J \ \J . espionage - spying • Sp I \J~to-

" I h L. <. ••••• Lu.,ne..l--<?v'~ h lifti •.. ,1."" J \~vc.<M..U'1lf'~,einans aug ter -1J\ls~o '"""I"" \J S op ng - "-ltl.0'

4- ~ smuggling - \::::l.IvrY'CC-~G<AJ- treason - ve-ee.\-z.,d.~ q

forgery - IL,\\10 Of ""~ hijacking _~IU> 0."'0'" o, •• '6\J'.o t-bigamy .JuoieN.!.hlo " obscenity - y\~,ddtO-O ro"c~rV'~c.. t.J-Jbaby- or wife-battering.obi-ldAsco 2.CoS\C'f.i'bHbery and corruption - W\ltc \ ~ (vP'71~

Q '~~~ ~conspiracy _v~()\-e,(,?O\v;e...>M petty theft - sl o- 'c.('O\

drivingwithoutdue care andattention fO'--- \ '''I':'.V/,<: ;t\ISV~l. kopa.lnl>.. oIOi\<.f\ .u::\~~ . V' - -

Which of the above would or could involve the following:b{'vol..~tO,c... ot(C.Vf"'tI\~ ':,\ilvl"\Č6\~'e -t-c.OCll \"'d::.

counterfeit money, a ransom, state secrets, pornography, heroin, c~tra~and, hostages, a trai or,a store detective ,v,,",C"Z]C

:§;vo, COURTS~ ~c\"W"f{C ""~ r,AlIdu

Court is a govemment institution that settles legal disputes, administrates justice, decides the legal guilt or. ~e.I."L"~f1 . 'lo\' c;c. ~ z...'>' .innocence of persons accused of cnmes and sentences the gUilty. The word court may refer to a judgealone ar to a judge and jury aCJM~~together.Courts differ in their jurisdic~on, i.e. authority to decide a case:

a) trial courts (various types of cases) - pt\l VILe:'

b) appeal courts (the losing side has the right to appeal) z.o2-w. rrll&< J ,o' ~v.:! OJ '

c) civil courts (settle disputes involving people's private relations with one another - civil suits in 'la,'which an individual or organization sues another individual ar otganization. Most ciY,ildecisions tytlO w-c e-,

:'i"<,!'rv-'o tiCi1 s-e-("do not involve a prisan sentence, though th~ may be ordered to pay damages.

d) Criminal courts (deal with actions considered hannful to society. In criminal cases, thegovemment takes legal action against an individual. Sentences range from probation and finesto imprisonment, and, in some states, death. :et;' Z-vc# ' .suDCV1 tir'"

HOW CRIMINAL COURTS WORK

Crime is a wrong against the comrnunity, for which punishment is prescribed. To establish guilt, it mustbe proved not only that the act was done but that it was done with MENS REA. (a guilty mind), i.e, anintention to do the act,Most persons arres~ed on suspicion of a crime appear before a judge within 24 hours after the arrest. Incases involving miner offences the judge conducts a trial and sentences the guilty. In more serious caseshe decides whether to keep the defendant (the accused person) in prison Gail)or to release hiro on ball.He may appoint a state-paid defence attorney (publie defender) to represent a defendant who cannotaffotd a lawyer. In a case ~volvJW~a serious crime, the police give the evidence on the suspect's guilt to agovernment attorney, a pro~ečUtor, who presents the evidence at a preliminary hearing to judge ar tojury, on which the judge will decide whether there is a probable cause (good reason for assuming) thatthe defendant committed the crime (whether the evidence justifies bringing the case to-a trial). If the

2

'Jeri !~~l\lC(

evidence is considered sufficient, there will be a formal accusation called indictment against the suspect.~ij'.n~\X- ""h<"~V

The defendant appears in a court. If he pleads guilty, the judge pronounces the sentence. Manydefendants plead guilty rather than go to trial, in return for a reduced charge or a shorter sentence (pleabargaining). If the accused pleads not guilty, the case goes to trial. The defendant may request a jurytrial or a bench trial, w~~l~As a trial before a judge. The jury (a body of 12 persons, unanimouslyreaching a verdict - eligibleJperions, anyone on a jury list must serve if summoned) or judge must decideif the evidence presented by the prosecutor ptoves the defendant guilty beyond any reasonable doubt. Ifnot, the defendant must be acquitted (found not guilty). If the defendant is found guilty, the judgepronounces a sentence. Convicted defendants may take their case to an appeal court, but prosecutors maynot appeal an acquittal, because a person cannot be put in double jeopardy for the same crime.

DEFENDANTS' FUNDAMENTAL RIGHTS

1. The defendant is presumed innocent until he/ she is proved guilty.2. The prosecutor must ~f;';t'tRecharge hel she is making against the accused.3. Proof must be beyond all reasonable doubt.4. The hearing must be in public.5. Witnesses must give their evidence in the presence of the accused and the accused must be

allowed to question them when they have given their evidence.6. Once the court comes to a decision whether to acquit or convict, the defendant can never again

be charged with the particular offence.

Below are some extracts from court cases. In all of them a silly question is asked. Why is it silly?

1. 'And the youngest san, the 20-year-old, how old is he?2. 'Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a pulse?'

'No.''Did you check for blood pressure?''No.''Did you check for breathing?''No.''So then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy?''No.''How can you be so sure, doctor?''Because his btain was sitting on my desk in a jar.''But could the patient have sti11been alive, nevettheless?''It is possible that he could have been alive and practising law somewhere.'

3. 'Was it you or your younger brother who was killed in the war?'4. 'You say the stairs went down to the basement?'

'Yes.''Did they also go up?'

5. 'Now, doctor, isn't it true that when a person dies in his sleep, he doesn't know about it until thenext morning?'

6. 'Were you present when your picture was taken?'

In the courtroom

1. The words and phrases in the box are all connected to the theme oflaw. Put the words under one ofthe headings below. 1. J t...criri'ies punishments people legal processes

q 1...,

3

-~ -

rh\ 2.~ words and phrases from 1 to complete these sentences.~ .

a) What is the difference between the two? Well, slander is when you say something about someonewhich isn't true. A;1sd is when you publish it, and that's when people generaliy takeaction.

b) If a person is on trial for murder the press can't tefer to them as 'the murderer'. They have to say'-1 it-.e..... cl. ccu ,sJ '.

c) You are guilty of 1"1\IA.A.~C\.UQ".!..e-J when you didn't kill the victim deliberately.cl) You .sv~ someone if you want to claim money from them because they have

harroed you in some way. I ~\c.J.W0\',q v1 '-'F,VCNf""""'CCe) The jury has to listen to the case, " and then re +-Jr tl\ c, J.ecd c+

f) A "U<i:Z""'~ Pc.v-~cmeans that you don't actualiy have to go to prisan unless you commitanother crime.

g) , (J:JU ~ SeQ ' is amore formal term for a 1egaladviser,h) Co ••.••.•..u ., • tJ sCI.l<:6n be anything from teaching kids to p1ayfootball to cutting the grasso

Obvious1y, it's not paid.

3. Listen to three conversations, Which of the crimes from 2, above, are the speakers talking about?rt W ~r~"UI HCMJ(J .

Test yourself

1. Look at the sentences below. Which of the three conversations from 3, above, do they comefrom?

a) The verdict we returned was unanimous - guilty. .2:Jb) That's a 1esson I won't forget in a hurry. 1-c) The best person to ask is Fred MacIntyre. Ild) It was fascinating, seeing how the court works. ::)e) It's been almost three weeks since they published the article. 1\

Crime and punishment

Put the crimes below in order of seriousness, Decide on the punishment you think a person guilty of eachcrime should get.

Nine people were asked what punishment they would give people guilty of the above crimes. Listen andanswer these questions:

a) Which crime is each person talking about?b) Which speaker does not refer to one of the crimes above?

Listen again and answer these questions:a) What punishment do the speakers suggest?b) Which punishment do you agree with? Do you disagree with any of them? Why?

4

I' J (

l;(iClf lAC

v~C\ftl\

I ,'" C! \Jr 1(;.

!...CC--

47-3·

READINGPre-reading taskYou will read three extracts from autobiographies written by Charlie Chaplin (the comedian), MuhammadAli (the boxer) and Laurie Lee (the writer and poet).

Questions1. In which year did the events described take place?2. Do you get the impression that it was a happy childhood? How well-off was bis family?3. Was his upbringing in a town or in the country?4. Wbich members of his family does he mention? 'W'hatis bis attitude towards them?

J

5. 'W'hatforms of transport does he mention? 'W'hatis the purpose of this reference?6. Are there any aspects of his childhood that you feel he would like to recreate?7. Summarize the theme of your extract in one phrase or sentence.

1 / r=-a.,,~e -'"f""C':'

London was sedate in those days.The tempo was sedate; even the horse--drawn tram-cars alongWestminster Bridge Road went at asedate pace and tumed sedately on arevolving table at the terminalnear the bridge. In Mother's prosperous days we also lived in Westminster Bridge Road. Its atmospherewas gay and friendly with attractive shops, restaurants and music halls. The fruit shop on the corner facingthe Bridge was a galaxyof colour, with its neatly arranged pyramids of oranges, apples, pears and bananasoutside, in contrast to the.solemn grey Houses of Parliarnent directly across the river.This was the London of my childhood, of my moods and awakenings: memories of Lambeth in thespring; of trivial incidents and things; of riding with Mother on top of a horse-bus trying to touch passinglilac-trees ~ of the many coloured bus tickets, orange, blue, pink and green, that bestrewed the pavementwhere the trams and busses stopped - of rubicund flower-girls at the corner of Westrninster Bridge,making gay boutonmeres, their adroit fingers manipulating tinse1and quivering fem - of the humid odour offreshly watered roses that affected me with a vague sadness - of melancholy Sundays and pale-facedparents and their children escorting toy windmills and coloured balloons over Westminster Bridge; andthe rnaternal penny stearners that softly lowered their funnels as they glided under itoFrom such trivia Ibelieve my soul was born,

2The last days of my childhood were also the last days of the village. I belonged to that generation whichsaw, by chance, the end of a thousand years' life. The change came late to our Cotswold valley, didn'treally show itself tili the late 1920s; I was twelve by then, but during that handful of years I witnessed thewhole thing happen.Myself, my family, my generation, were born in a world of silence; a world of hard work and necessarypatience, of backs bent to the ground, hands massaging the crops, of waiting on weather and growth; ofvillages like shipsin the empty landscapes and the long walking distances between them; of white narrowroads, rutted by hooves and cart-wheels, innocent of oil or petrol, down which people passed rarely, andalmost never for pleasure, and the horse was the fastest thing moving. Man and horse were all the powerwe had - abetted by levers and pulleys. But the horse was king, and almost everything grew around him:fodder, smithies, stables, paddocks, distances, and the rhythm of our days. His eight miles an hour was thelimit of our movements, as it had been since the days of the Romans. That eight miles an hour was lifeand death, the size of our world, our prison.This was what we were born to, and all we knew at first. Then, to the scream of the horse, the changebegan. The brass-lamped motor-car came coughing up the road, followed by the clamorous charabanc;the solid-tyred bus climbed the dusty hills and more people came and went. Chickens and dogs were theear1ysacrifices, fallingdemented beneath the wheels. The old folk, too, had strokes and seizures, faced byspeeds beyond comprehension. 111enscarlet motor-bikes, the size of five-barred gates, began to appear inthe village, on which our youths roared like rockets up the two-minute hill, then spent weeks makingrepairs and adjustments.

3I remembet the summer of 1956, School was out, and my brother Rudy and I were roaming the streets allday and we'd come home hungry. My father was somewhere across town painting signs and we looked

~---

down the streets every few minutes hoping we'd see ~ird come with a bag of groceries, maybe hamburgerl...V!.f:f1~__ ~and hot dogs. Maybe, if she spent all her ~ chicken and potatoes. Usually she kept only enough forbus fare to go to work the next day for some white lady in the HigWands I never met. She' d get up early inthe morning, walk four blocks to catch a bus, ride up where the white folks lived, dean house, deantoilets, cook food, take care of babies - all for four dollars a day. Sometimes she came home too tired tocook.There was seldom enough money for Rudy and me to have bus fare for school, not both of us at the sametime, This is the real reason why I began to race the bus to schooI: But since my ambition was to be the\V'orld Heavyweight Champion, I could say I wasn't racing the bus because I didn't have any money, I wasrunning to get in fight condition.We never owned a car that was less than ten years old, or even new tires for it. The neighbors could atleast buy new tires. Daddy's tires kept blowing out. If we had gotten any money, it wouldn't have gone forcars ar tires. It would have been used to fix the house. The rain was coming in through the roof and walls;for four years the toi1et needed a new flush unit; for eight years the front porch had been falling apart. Theconstruction man told Dad it would cost two hundred dollars to have it propped up temporari1y. That wastoo much, so we lived w-ith a front porch ready to fall any day.Most of the dothes we got came from Good \V'ill, including th~ secondhand shoes that cost maybe one ortwo dollars. My father had become an expert at cutting our cardboards and putting it in the bottoms. Nowand then there would be a new shirt, and once I remember Daddy buying a cheap little suit forme to wearto church and Sunday Schoo1.

,Questions for discussio~'-------------------_.- - - --

1. In your opinion, which extract:is most factual? !:?is most nostalgic?-L - -is most poetic? 1/is about change? Z.is about memories? ;( _I- IS'. bout oovertv? -Oi (/- olS a out poverty. 1.. /.~-

2. What is Muhammad Ali's father's'job? Who do you think Bird is? Can you guess the occupationsof Laurel Lee's and Charlie Chaplin's parents?

3. \X'hat does Laurie Lee mean bv the following? , t :

• J I ~t _11 .. _" ••• tvQJe "'ne, .. the end of a thousand year's life -h AO ,~C[t ~t;v

h d . h Le ~ r, A/:ICJ, "..:/ 0·,·1-0' <"rops SC)... an s massagmg t e crops... I\~T ,--,"TL """( ~_t~ " I... waiting on weather and growth 1-- h ~ n.e·cd ed 300d .,,;ce, f;-,,,, ( a OP( d

.. , and almost never for pleasure bcc,,!~ of d ,i,., '.0+ {:OI {..M-

... and more people came and went ... f'l?op& Sf-<:' (1:.J +o ~ov-€.-

4. ~'hich words tell us Laurie Lee's attitude to life before and after the arrival of the motor car?5. Use your imagination to saywhat you think were the sounds and the smells of the three men's

chi1dhood.

,'on.e ..::;"t"(L-.-i y., c~·c."o<-\j

"''''''rtL· c (' --1-(,;. '<+ h't) <"l"~ eJ <>od(JIOwM \-0 t2:vc.

VocabularyFind the words in the texts that mean the same or similar to the following:

a.b.

calm .r;;;ed0l lespeed -~fofree of mone~ worries f OSf"- r00.scarefree rr.elo.v- :i'Olhunimportant tJ itl \ OQ Vto scatter things about L--o ks {{6vJ

(of complexion) ruddyhandling cl. d (Olt-

band for decoration -!- ;tr0;đ.

shaking d.y,veJ'r/taking, carrying

L went smoothly (j(.dem. fingering, touching r=»»n. lined c.rof,s Oo. helped ctbcfMp. food for horses -r:o&cIa (q. blacksmith's workshop S'fI1ltC"eJ'r. enclosure for horses next to the stable l""t,Jd.oc~I

s. nOlsy c CCtn1or('u..\

t. mad delric,ded

c.d.e.f.g.h.1.

J.k.

----------~------~~~