Chapter 6 privilege
Just after half past eight, the phone rang.Since it was Sunday morning, Bill Chadwick was still sleeping in.He didn't want to answer, but the phone kept ringing.After the bell rang ten times, he got out of bed and went downstairs to the living room.
"Hey?"
"Hi, Bill? I'm Henry."
It was the Henry Carpenter of the street.He knew the man, but not well.
"Hello, Henry," said Chadwick, "don't you sleep in late on Sunday morning?"
"Oh no," said the voice, "I usually go for a run in the park."
Chadwick snorted.This man will, he thought, a restless man.He yawned.
"It's winter, do you have anything to do with me early in the morning?" He asked.On the other end of the phone, Carpenter seemed hesitant.
"Did you read the paper this morning?" Carpenter asked.Chadwick glanced at the shoemat behind the living room door, where his two newspapers lay unopened.
"No," he said, "what's the matter?"
"Have you subscribed to the Sunday Courier?" asked Carpenter.
"No," said Chadwick.There was a long pause on the phone.
"I think you should have a look at today's paper," said Carpenter. "It's about you."
"Oh," said Chadwick, interested, "what did you say?"
Carpenter hesitated even more, his tone distinctly awkward.Apparently, he thought Chadwick should have read the article and could start a discussion with him.
"Well, you'd better see for yourself, friend," Carpenter said before hanging up.Chadwick stared at the buzzing mic and hung it up.Like anyone who hears about himself in a newspaper article but hasn't seen it, he's intrigued.
He returned to the bedroom with the Express and the Daily Telegraph, handed the papers to his wife, and put on a turtleneck and a pair of trousers over his pajamas.
"Where are you going?" asked his wife.
"Go down the street and buy a paper," he told her. "Henry Carpenter says there's something about me in that paper."
"Ah, you're famous at last," said his wife. "I'll go and make breakfast."
There were only two copies of the Sunday Courier left in the kiosk on the corner.It was a thick paper with many supplements written, it seemed to Chadwick, by posers for posers.It was very cold in the street, and he didn't want to search through a lot of columns and subpages. He would rather suppress his curiosity and walk for a few minutes back to his warm and comfortable home to read again.When he got home, his wife had put orange juice and coffee on the kitchen table.
It was only when he started reading the paper that he realized that Carpenter hadn't given him the page number of the section, so he started with the general news section.By the time he drank his second cup of coffee, he had finished reading the news.He skipped the arts section, skipped the sports section, and was left with the color pages and business reviews.As the owner of a small business on the outskirts of London, he chose to read business reviews.
A name on the third page caught his eye—not his own, but a company.The recently defunct company had done business with him and cost him dearly.The article appeared in a column that called itself an "investigative section."
Looking at it, he put down his coffee and opened his mouth wide.
"He can't say that about me," he murmured, "that's not the case at all."
"What's the matter, dear?" asked his wife.Evidently, she noticed the surprised look on her husband's face.He silently folded the newspaper and handed it to his wife so she could read the story right away.She read it carefully, and when she was halfway through, she let out a short gasp.
“It’s horrible,” she said after reading it. “This guy is implying that you’re somehow involved in a fraud.”
Bill Chadwick was already on his feet, pacing the kitchen.
"Not a hint," he said, turning from surprise to anger, "but a statement. The conclusion is self-evident. Damn, I've been fooled by them before and kept in the dark. I trust them to Selling their product. They went out of business and I lost as much as everyone else."
"Does it do you any harm, dear?" asked the wife, with a worried look on her face.
"More than hurt? It's killing me, and it's nothing like that. I've never even met the author of this article. What's his name?"
"Gaylord Brent," said his wife, looking at the byline.
"But I've never met him, and he's never contacted or checked with me. He can't smear me like that."
He used the same phrase when speaking privately with his lawyer Monday afternoon.The lawyer said he too was disgusted after reading the article, and listened sympathetically to Chadwick's explanation about his relationship with the recently liquidated sales company and the truth of the matter.
"From what you have said, it is clear that this article constitutes a preliminary defamation of you," the lawyer said.
"Then they have to retract the article and apologize," Chadwick said angrily.
"In principle yes," said the lawyer. "I think that as a first step it would be best for me to write a letter to the editor on your behalf, explaining that we believe you have been defamed by an employee of the newspaper, requesting that the article be retracted and An apology. Of course, the letter of apology should be published in a prominent place."
In the end, they did.A fortnight passed without a word from the editorial offices of the Sunday Courier.In the past two weeks, Chadwick had to endure the strange eyes of several of his employees, avoiding as much as possible those who had business contacts with him; two contracts that were expected to be signed were also ruined.
Finally, the lawyer received a reply from the Sunday Courier.The letter was signed by a secretary on behalf of the editor, and its tone was polite refusal.
The reply stated that the editor had seriously considered the lawyer's letter representing Mr. Chadwick and was planning to publish Mr. Chadwick's letter in the letter column, but the newspaper had the right to edit the letter.
"In other words, to change the letter beyond recognition," Chadwick said after sitting down with the lawyer again. "It's a refusal, isn't it?"
The lawyer thought about it and decided to tell the truth.He had known the client for many years.
"Yes," he said, "rejection. I've only dealt with this kind of thing once before with a national newspaper, but this letter is a fairly standard response. They're not willing to publicly state a retraction, let alone Said I apologized."
"So what do I do?" Chadwick asked.
The lawyer had an idea. "Of course, there are newspaper associations," he said. "You can complain to them."
"What will they do?"
"They can't deal with much either. Most of the complaints they accept are innocuous objections caused by newspaper negligence in publishing or journalists' false reporting. They will avoid defamation complaints and kick the ball to the courts. Anyway, At best they point fingers."
"Won't the Newspaper Association demand a firm retraction of the article and an apology?"
"Won't."
"Then what else can I do?"
The lawyer sighed. "I'm afraid the only option is to go to court and sue for defamation in the High Court and seek damages. Of course, if the court does issue a subpoena, then the newspaper may prevent the matter from escalating, so it may publish the apology you are asking for."
"can you?"
"Maybe, maybe not."
"But they should. It's a very straightforward case."
"To tell you the truth," said the lawyer, "there is nothing simple and clear in defamation cases. On the one hand, there is practically no libel law. Or, it falls under customary law. Over the centuries, there have been many .these precedents may be open to different interpretations; and your case, or any case, differs in some subtle detail from previous precedents."
"On the other hand, people will also dispute your mental state and thinking state at that time, that is, in a specific situation, whether a person's perception is clear or ignorant, do you understand what I mean?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Chadwick, "but of course I don't have to prove my innocence?"
"Actually, that's what you're going to do," said the lawyer. "Well, you're the plaintiff, and the newspaper, the editor, and Mr. Gaylord Brent are the defendants. You don’t know it’s unreliable when it’s not. That’s the only way to show that you’ve been insinuated and slandered.”
"Are you advising me not to sue?" Chadwick asked. "Do you really want me to accept that guy's unverified lies? Do you really want me to ignore my own business and not file a complaint? "
"Mr. Chadwick, let me tell you frankly. Sometimes we lawyers are advised to encourage our clients to sue this and that because we can make a lot of money doing so. It's actually quite the opposite, It is usually friends, wives, colleagues, etc. of the litigant who encourage him to sue. Of course, they do not have to bear the litigation costs. For laymen, a good lawsuit is as interesting as eating bread and watching a circus. The cost, that's all too clear."
Chadwick carefully considered the issue of legal fees, which he had rarely considered before.
"How much will it cost?" Chadwick asked quietly.
"It will destroy you," said the lawyer.
"I thought everyone was equal before the law in this country," Chadwick said.
"In theory, yes. In practice, it's often very different," said the lawyer. "Are you rich, Mr. Chadwick?"
"No. I only do a small business. Doing business these days is like walking a tightrope. I may go bankrupt at any time. I have worked hard all my life, and I can barely make ends meet. I have my own house, car, clothes, and a self-employed A pension, a life insurance policy and a few thousand pounds in savings. I'm just a normal guy."
"That's what I mean," said the lawyer. "In today's society, only rich people can sue rich people, especially in defamation cases. A man may win a lawsuit, but he must pay his own legal fees. A single A lengthy legal battle, not including appeals, could have cost ten times the amount awarded."
"The big newspapers, the big publishing houses have taken out huge insurance against damages for libel. They can afford elite lawyers in the West End, and even the most expensive royal counsel. When they face a— —with all due respect—they'll break him down when he's a little guy. A little sleight of hand and a case can drag on for five years. During that time, the legal bills for both sides will pile up again and again, and the mere preparation of the case will It will cost tens of thousands of pounds. In the future, lawyers' fees will skyrocket, not to mention lawyers with young assistants, which will have to add money."
"How much will it cost?" Chadwick asked.
"If it is a lengthy lawsuit, after several years of preparation, not counting the possible appeal, it will cost at least tens of thousands of pounds," the lawyer said, "this is not the end."
"What else?" Chadwick asked.
"If you win the case and get damages and an award of court costs paid by the defendant—that is, the newspaper—then you're covered. But if the judge doesn't award court costs—of course, they Only do this in the worst cases - you still have to pay your own legal costs. If you lose, the judge can even order that you not only have to pay your own legal costs, but also pay the defendant's legal costs. Even You win, and the newspaper can appeal the case. You may have to spend double the fees for that. Even if you win the appeal, if there is no judgment on court costs, you will go out of business."
"Also, there will be blame. Two years later, people have long since forgotten the original newspaper article, and it will be brought up over and over again in court, and there will be a lot of additions and defenses. Although you are suing , but the legal advisers of the newspaper will continue to slander the reputation of you as an honest businessman for the benefit of the client, and pour a lot of dirty water on you, some of which cannot be washed away. There are too many people who have suffered this kind of loss. Won the case, but discredited. All arguments in court need not be substantiated, they can be printed and released to the public.”
"What about legal aid?" Chadwick asked.Like most people, he had only heard about it, never investigated it.
“It’s probably not what you think it is,” the lawyer said. “To get legal aid, you have to show that you don’t have property. That doesn’t apply to you. In any case, you won’t get legal aid for a defamation case.”
"So I'm dead anyway," Chadwick said.
"I'm sorry, very sorry. I could have encouraged you to pursue a protracted and expensive legal battle, but I truly feel that the best way I can help you is to point out how dangerous and deceitful this kind of thing is. There are many people who litigate on the spur of the moment and end up regretting it for life. Some of them never recover from the emotional and financial burden of years of litigation.”
Chadwick stood up. "You are very sincere, and I thank you," he told the lawyer.
Later that day, he rang the Sunday Courier from his office and asked to speak to the editor.A female secretary answered the phone and asked for his name.He announced his name.
"What business do you want with Mr. Buxton?" she asked.
"I wanted to make an appointment with him, to meet him in person," Chadwick said.
There was a pause on the line, and he heard the sound of an intercom call.Then the secretary called back.
"What do you want to see Mr. Buxton about?" she asked.
Chadwick explained briefly that he wanted to meet with the editor to share his thoughts on the things about him mentioned in Gaylord Brent's article two weeks earlier.
"I'm afraid Mr. Buxton cannot be in his office," said the secretary. "Perhaps you could write a letter, which he might consider reading."
She put down the phone.The next morning, Chadwick took the Tube to central London and appeared at the front desk of the Courier building.
Under the watchful eyes of a tall, uniformed doorman, he filled out a guest sheet, writing down his name, address, who he was going to meet, and why.After the reception list was taken, he sat down and waited.
Half an hour later, the elevator doors opened, and an elegant, slender young man stepped out, reeking of aftershave.He raised an eyebrow at the doorman, who nodded in Bill Chadwick's direction.The young man came and Chadwick stood up.
"I am Adrian St. Clair," said the young man, pronouncing his last name "Sinclair." "Mr. Buxton's personal assistant. What do you want?"
Chadwick explained the article signed by Gaylord Brent, saying that he wanted to explain to Mr. Buxton himself that the reports about him in the article were not only untrue, but threatened him and might destroy lose his business.St. Clair expressed regret, but was unmoved.
"Oh, yes, I can see you're worried about it, Mr. Chadwick, but I'm afraid you won't be able to see Mr. Buxton. He's a busy man, do you understand? I ... er ... know a little A lawyer has consulted with the editor on your behalf."
"Wrote a letter," said Chadwick, "replying from a secretary. It said that a letter might be considered for publication in the Letters column. Now, I ask him to at least hear me first. opinion here."
St. Clair smiled faintly. “I have explained that this is not possible,” he said. “The best we can do at the moment is write a letter on behalf of the editor himself.”
"Can I see Mr. Gaylord Brent himself, then?" asked Chadwick.
"I don't think that's going to work," said St. Clair. "Of course, if you or your lawyer still want to write a letter, I'm sure our legal department will routinely consider it. Otherwise, there's nothing I can do to help you." .”
The doorman led Chadwick outside the turnstile.
He ate a sandwich lunch in a café off Fleet Street.While eating, he kept thinking.In the afternoon, he sits down early in a reference library in central London, which specializes in contemporary archives and newspaper clippings.He pored over the files of recent defamation cases and found that his lawyers were not exaggerating.
One case shocked him greatly: a middle-aged man who had been seriously defamed in a book by a fashionable author sued and won, for £30,000 in damages, with the publisher at his expense .But the publisher appealed, and the appeals court quashed the original award, leaving each party to bear its own costs.The lawsuit was fought for four years, and the plaintiff, who was facing bankruptcy, brought his case to the House of Lords.The House of Lords corrected the Court of Appeal decision and re-awarded him damages but not costs.He won back £30,000 in damages, but the cost of litigation five years later was £45,000.The publisher's legal costs were similar to his, totaling £75,000 in losses, but the bulk of this sum was insured.Although the plaintiff won, his life was ruined.During the first year of the lawsuit, he was photographed as a brisk sixty-year-old man.Five years later, due to the entanglement of cases, mental stress and high debts, he became scrawny, haggard and inhuman.His reputation is restored, but he dies bankrupt.
Bill Chadwick decided not to let that happen to him.He went to the public library at Westminster Abbey, picked up a copy of Halsbury's Code of England, and sat down in the reading room.
As his lawyer said, there is no statute for libel like the Road Traffic Act, but the Libel Supplement Act of 1888, which gives a generally acceptable definition of defamation or defamation:
Defamatory speech, generally speaking, is speech that disparages another person and is intended to induce normal-thinking people in society to degrade that person when evaluating him, or to avoid others, or to expose him to hatred, contempt, or ridicule, or to cause has been defamed or libeled in the course of his official, professional, occupation, trade or business.
Well, at least that last part is for me, Chadwick thought.
His lawyer's lectures about the courts swirled in his head. "In court, all pleas need not be substantiated, but can be printed and published." Is that true?
The lawyer is right, the 1888 Act makes that clear.Whatever is said in court can be reported and published, and journalists, editors, printers and publishers don't have to worry about being accused of libel, as long as the reporting is "fair, timely and accurate."
This rule, Chadwick thought to himself, must be to protect judges, witnesses, police officers, lawyers, and even defendants, so that they dare to tell the truth without thinking about the outcome of the case.
Anyone who speaks, no matter how insulting, slandering, slandering or slandering it is, has the right of immunity as long as it is defended in court; anyone who accurately reports, prints and publishes the above-mentioned words also has the right of immunity.This immunity is known as "absolute privilege".
On the subway ride back to the suburbs, an idea slowly crept into Bill Chadwick's mind.
After four days of searching, Chadwick finally discovered that Gaylord Brent lived in a fashionable side street in Hampstead.On the following Sunday morning, he came to the street.It was estimated that the newspaper reporters would not go to work on Sunday, and he hoped that the Brent family would not go to the country for the weekend.He climbed the steps and rang the doorbell.
After a while, an amiable-looking woman of about thirty-five or sixteen opened the door.
"Is Mr. Brent at home?" asked Chadwick, adding quickly, "about his article in the Sunday Courier."
It was not a lie to convince Mrs Brent that the visitor was a man from the Fleet Street newspaper.Smiling, she turned and called "Gaylord" into the foyer, then turned to face Chadwick.
"He'll be right here," she said, and walked across the room in the direction of the child's voice without closing the door.Chadwick was waiting there.
A minute later, Gaylord Blunt himself appeared at the door.He was elegant in light linen slacks and a pink shirt, and he was about forty-five or sixteen.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Mr. Gaylord Brent?" asked Chadwick.
"yes."
Chadwick unfolded the newspaper clipping he was holding and leaned closer.
"About this article you wrote in the Sunday Courier."
Gaylord Brent looked at the clipping but didn't touch it.There was a look of confusion and exasperation on his face.
"This was about four weeks ago," he said. "What's up?"
"Sorry to bother you on Sunday morning," said Chadwick, "but it seems like it's a risk we all have to take. You see, in this article you've defamed me, defamed me quite a bit. .It caused pretty serious damage to my business and social life."
The look on Brent's face was still confused, but quickly turned to anger.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.
"Oh, sorry. My name is Bill Chadwick."
Upon hearing the name, Gaylord Brent finally understood and flew into a rage.
"Listen," he said, "you shouldn't have come to my house to complain. There are normal channels, you have to get your lawyer to write..."
"I wrote it," said Chadwick, "and it's no use at all. I'd like to see your editor, but he won't let you. So I'll have to go to you."
"It's abominable," protested Gaylord Blunt, who was about to close the door.
"Look, I have something for you," said Chadwick gently.Brent's hand, which was about to slam the door, stopped.
"What?" he asked.
"This," Chadwick said.
He raised his right hand, clenched his fist, and hit Brent's nose firmly but not particularly viciously.This punch could not break the bridge of the nose, nor could it damage the cartilage of the nasal septum, but it made Gaylord Brent take a step back and let out a cry of "Oh...".He covered his nose with his hands, and with tears streaming from his eyes, he began to suck the first stream of blood that came out of his nose.He glared at Chadwick, as if he was facing a madman, and slammed the door shut.Chadwick heard footsteps receding in the hall.
He found the policeman on the corner of Heath Avenue, a young man idly enjoying the freshness and peace of a weekend morning.
"Officer," Chadwick said, coming up to him, "you'd better come with me. A local resident has been attacked."
The young policeman came alive. "Assault, sir?" he asked. "Where?"
"Only two streets away," said Chadwick, "follow me please."
Without waiting for the police to ask any more questions, he used his index finger to signal the police to follow, then turned around and walked briskly back along the original road.Behind him he heard the police talking into the collar radio and the clack of boots.
The officers caught up to Chadwick around the corner of the street where Brent lived.In order to stop the police's questioning, Chadwick still walked quickly, and at the same time told the police: "It's here, officer, No. 32."
The door was still closed when they arrived.Chadwick gestured.
"Here," he said.
The policeman stopped, gave Chadwick a questioning look, stepped up the steps, and rang the bell.Chadwick also stepped up the steps and stood with the police.The door opened, and Mrs. Brent cautiously emerged from behind it, her eyes widening when she saw Chadwick.Before the police could speak, Chadwick spoke first.
"Mrs. Brent, may the officer speak to your husband?"
Mrs. Brent nodded and hurried back into the house, from which the two visitors could hear whispering. The words "police" and "that person" were faintly discernible.A moment later, Gaylord Brent appeared at the door.He held a damp dishcloth to his nose in his left hand.Behind the dishcloth, he made a constant sniffling sound.
"What is it?" he said.
"This is Mr. Gaylord Brent," said Chadwick.
"Are you Mr. Gaylord Brent?" asked the inspector.
"Yes," said Gaylord Brent.
"A few minutes ago," said Chadwick, "Mr. Blunt was deliberately punched in the nose."
"Is this true?" the policeman asked Brent.
"Yes." Brent nodded, staring at Chadwick over the dishcloth.
"I get it," said the inspector, who didn't really get it. "So, who did it?"
"I did it," Chadwick said beside him.
The policeman turned to him with a look of disbelief. "What did you say?" he asked.
"I did it. I hit him on the nose. A normal attack, right?"
"Really?" the policeman asked Brent.
The head behind the dishcloth nodded.
"May I ask why?" the policeman asked Chadwick.
"Well," said Chadwick, "I can't explain it until I get to the police station."
The police looked a little overwhelmed.At last he said, "Well, sir, then, you must follow me to the police station."
At this moment, a patrol car came to Heath Street, which was called by the same policeman five minutes ago.The officer briefly exchanged with the two uniformed men in the car, then climbed into the back of the car with Chadwick.In less than two minutes, the police car sent them to the local police station.Chadwick was handed over to a sheriff on duty.He stood still, listening to the young policeman explain to the sheriff what had happened.The sheriff, a middle-aged man with experience and patience, was eyeing Chadwick with interest.
"Who was that man you hit?" he finally asked.
"Mr. Gaylord Brent," said Chadwick.
"Don't like him, do you?" asked the officer on duty.
"Yes," said Chadwick.
"Why did you ask this policeman to surrender?" asked the sheriff.
Chadwick shrugged. "It's the law, isn't it? When something happens that breaks the law, you have to report it to the police."
"That's right," agreed the Sheriff, and turned to the officer again. "Is Mr. Brent seriously hurt?"
"It doesn't look heavy," said the young policeman, "just a little bump on the nose."
The sheriff sighed. "Address," he said.The police gave him the address. "Wait here," said the sheriff.
He retreated to the back room.Gaylord Brent's home number was not listed in the phone book, but the sheriff looked it up anyway.He dialed that number, and after a while, he came back.
"Mr. Gaylord Brent doesn't seem to want to sue you," he said.
"That's not the point," Chadwick said. "Mr. Brent, this is not America. The fact is that there has clearly been an assault that violates the laws of the country, and it's up to the police to decide whether to prosecute. "
The sheriff gave him a disgusted look.
"Oh, do you know anything about the law, sir?" he said.
"Learned a bit," said Chadwick.
"Don't you think we don't understand?" the sheriff sighed. "Well, the police may decide not to prosecute."
"In that case, I have no choice. I would say, if you guys don't sue, I'm going to go out there and hit him again," Chadwick said.
The sheriff slowly pushed a complaint form toward him.
"Then sue," he said. "Name?"
Bill Chadwick gave his name and address and was taken into the guard room.He declined to make a statement, saying only that he would explain his actions to the magistrate in due course.His words were recorded by a typist, and he signed them.He was duly charged, and bailed by the Sheriff on his own £100 bond, to go the next morning to the magistrates in North London.Then he was allowed to leave.
The next day, he showed up on remand.The hearing lasted two minutes.He declined to enter a plea, knowing that such a refusal would be interpreted by the court as a request for acquittal in due course.He was remanded in custody for two weeks on a further £100 bail.Mr Gaylord Brent was not present as it was only a remand hearing.This remand is based on an ordinary assault prosecution, so the report in the local newspaper is only as big as a piece of dried tofu.Nobody in Bill Chadwick's neighborhood read the paper, so it went unnoticed.
In the week leading up to the trial, several anonymous telephone calls were made to the news editors of the major daily, evening and Sunday papers in and around Fleet Street.
In each call, the caller revealed to the news editor that Gaylord Brent, the Sunday Courier's star investigative reporter, will appear in North London court next Monday in connection with an assault; the case is being investigated by police In suing Chadwick, it would be far more rewarding to send its own reporters than the Newspaper Association's legal reporting team.
Most of the editors went to check the court's hearing list for the day, and Chadwick's name was indeed on it, so they arranged for their own reporters.Although no one knows what to expect, they all hope for the best.Fleet Street trade friendships have long since existed in name only, just as there has been no genuine solidarity in the trade union movement.
Bill Chadwick's bail expired at ten o'clock sharp in the morning, and he was in court awaiting a summons.The trial began at a quarter past eleven, and as he stepped into the dock, he took a quick glance at the press box to make sure it was full.He noticed Gaylord Blunt, who had been called in as a witness, sitting on a bench in the hall outside the courtroom.According to British law, witnesses cannot enter the courtroom until they are called to testify. Only after the testimony is completed can they sit in the back of the courtroom and attend the rest of the trial.So Chadwick was slightly surprised by that.He decided to get out of this predicament by not pleading guilty.
The justice of the peace suggested that the defendants in the case have a professional lawyer before the trial, but Chadwick refused, explaining that he would represent himself.The justice of the peace shrugged and agreed.
The prosecutor cited the facts of the case, or those known, which raised some eyebrows when he mentioned that it was Chadwick himself who had been in Hampstead that morning to report the attack to Constable Clark.He then called for police officer Clark to be summoned.
The young officer swore first and then described the evidence of the arrest.Thereafter, Chadwick twice declined the opportunity to cross-examine.Officer Clark stepped back and took a seat in the back row.Summon Gaylord Brent now.He stepped onto the witness stand and took the oath.Chadwick stood up in the dock.
"Your Excellency," he said in a clear voice to the justice of the peace, "I have considered it over and over, and I wish to change the plea to plead guilty."
The justice of the peace glared at him.The public prosecutor, who had stood up for verification, sat down again.On the witness stand, Gaylord Brent stood silently.
"I see," said the justice of the peace. "Are you sure, Mr. Chadwick?"
"Yes, sir. Absolutely."
"Mr. Cargill, do you have any objections?" the magistrate asked the prosecutor.
"No objection, sir," said Cargill. "I presume that the accused does not dispute the facts I have just enumerated."
"There's nothing in dispute," Chadwick said from the dock. "It's all true."
The justice of the peace turned to Gaylord Brent. "I'm sorry to trouble you, Mr. Blunt," he said. "It doesn't look like you're here to testify now. You can leave, or you can sit at the back of the courtroom."
Gaylord Brent nodded and left the witness stand.He and those in the press box nodded to each other, and sat in a seat in the back row, next to the policeman Clark who had finished his testimony.The judge spoke to Chadwick.
"Mr. Chadwick, you have pleaded guilty from pleading guilty. This of course means that you admit to assaulting Mr. Brent. Do you still want witnesses to testify against you?"
"No need, sir."
"If you wanted to, you might be able to call witnesses, or give evidence yourself to mitigate the guilt."
"I don't want a witness, sir," said Chadwick. "As for mitigation, I want to make a plea in the dock."
"It is your prerogative and right," said the magistrate.
Chadwick stood now, speaking to the magistrate, and he produced a folded newspaper clipping from his pocket.
"Mr. Magistrate, Mr. Gaylord Blunt published this article in his newspaper, the Sunday Courier, six weeks ago. I would be very grateful if you could read it."
A usher stood up from the lawyer's table, picked up the clippings, and walked to the justice of the peace's seat.
"Does this have anything to do with our case?" asked the justice of the peace.
"I assure you, sir, it is very relevant."
"All right," said the magistrate.He took the newspaper clipping handed over by the messenger and quickly read it.看完后，他把剪报放下来，说：“我明白了。”
“在这篇文章里，”查德威克说，“盖洛德·布伦特对我进行了恶意中伤和严重诽谤。您可以看到，阁下，文章涉及销售某样产品的一家公司面临破产，在罚没抵偿过程中，该公司的一些合作伙伴遭受损失。不幸的是，我也是这些商人中的一个，与其他人一样上了那家公司的当。我与许多人一样都曾经相信该公司很可靠，产品也信得过。实际上，我也因此蒙受了损失，但那是因为我自己的错误。但在这篇文章中，突然间我遭到了毫无根据的指控，被含混地污蔑为共犯，这个人在动笔之前甚至都没好好作过调查。”
法庭上响起一阵骚动，然后安静下来。之后，记者席上的人们开始在本子上疾书起来。
公诉人站了起来。“阁下，这对于减轻罪责真有必要吗？”他苦着脸问道。
查德威克插话了：“我向您保证，阁下，我只是解释本案的背景情况。我感觉到，如果能明白这事的原委，您就能更准确地对案件作出判决。”
治安推事盯着查德威克看了一会儿。
“被告的话有道理。”他承认说，“继续进行。”
“谢谢您，阁下。”查德威克说，“好，假如这个所谓的调查记者在写这篇垃圾文章之前稍微屈尊与我联系一下的话，我就会把我所有的档案资料、财务报表和银行账单都拿给他看，由此可以毫无疑问地证明，我与其他投资者一样，都是受误导上了当的，而且损失惨重。虽然通过电话号码簿和业务指南都可以找到我，但他根本不想与我联系。这似乎表明，这个自以为是的记者隐藏着恶毒和狂妄的用心，热衷于道听途说，不愿去调查事实……”
盖洛德·布伦特气得脸色通红，他从法庭后边站了起来。“请听我说……”他喊道。
“肃静，”传达员吼道，他也站了起来，“保持法庭安静。”
“我理解你的愤怒心情，查德威克先生，”治安推事严肃地说，“但我很想知道，这与减轻罪责有什么关系。”
“阁下，”查德威克谦恭地说，“我只是希望唤起您的正义感。当一位守法的、过着平静生活的人突然打了另一个人时，弄清楚他这种反常行为的动机，肯定很有必要。这一点，我认为，应该会影响审判者对本案的判决吧？”
“那好，”治安推事说，“解释一下你的动机，但请注意用词。”
“好的，我会的。”查德威克说，“这篇充斥着谎言的文章出现在貌似严肃的报纸上后，我的生意受到了严重影响。很显然，我的一些商业伙伴不明真相，不知道盖洛德·布伦特先生所谓的真相揭露不是来自于深入的调查，而只是出自酒醉后的胡说八道，于是他们倾向于相信这种诽谤。”
盖洛德·布伦特在法庭后面已经按捺不住了，他用胳膊肘碰了碰身边的那位警察。
“他不能这样公然扯淡，是吧？”他咬牙切齿地说。
“嘘。”警察说。
布伦特站了起来。“阁下，”他大声说，“我要说两句……”
“安静。”传达员喊道。
“如果还有人在法庭上捣乱，我就把他轰出法庭。”治安推事说。
“因此，阁下，”查德威克继续说，“我很纳闷，一个不了解情况而又懒得去核实的小丑，凭什么能躲在一家大报的法律权力和雄厚财力的保护伞下，居高临下地诋毁一位他不屑见面、老实厚道、操劳终生的小人物呢？”
“对付诽谤还有其他办法的嘛。”治安推事评论说。
“确实如此，阁下，”查德威克说，“但作为一位法律人士，您一定很清楚，当今社会很少有人能顶得住一个国家级大报的巨大压力。所以，我带着事实和文件，还有那篇他们搞错了也不屑改正的文章，想找编辑解释，他却拒绝见我，永远不会见我。于是我想见盖洛德·布伦特本人。由于他们不让我在他的办公室见他，我只好到他家去了。”
“去打他的鼻子？”治安推事说，“你也许遭到了严重诽谤，但暴力永远解决不了问题。”
“天哪，不，阁下，”查德威克惊讶地说，“我根本不是去揍他的。我是想跟他理论，要求他核对证据。我认为这会使他明白，他写的东西与事实根本不符。”
“哦，”治安推事饶有兴致地说，“动机终于来了。那你到他家去请求他了？”
“我确实是这么做的，阁下。”查德威克说。他清楚，和公诉人一样，他在被告席上发言前未经宣誓，因此不会受到盘问。
“那你为什么不和他理论呢？”治安推事问道。
查德威克的肩膀垂了下来。“我试过，”他说，“但他用与报馆同样的方式对待我，蔑视我、不理我。他知道我是一个小人物，微不足道，无法与强大的《星期日信使报》抗衡。”
“后来呢？”治安推事问道。
“我承认我当时是冲动了，”查德威克说，“我干了不可原谅的事：我打了他的鼻子。在我的一生中，就那么一瞬间，我失去了理智。”
说完他就坐了下来。
这位朋友呀，治安推事心里想道，就像飞上半空的玩具飞机一样失去了控制。他不禁想起几年前有一次，他因为在其他法庭上作出的某个判决，受到媒体粗暴无礼的对待。他当时气极了，事后一切也都证明，他当时的判决没有错。现在，他大声宣布：“这是一起非常严肃的事件，法庭应接受你的申诉。即便你那天上午从家里去汉普斯特德时，心里没有诉诸暴力的想法，可是，你确实在布伦特先生的家门口打了他。以社会公德论，我们不能允许一个公民随便去打国家级报纸记者的鼻子。罚款一百英镑，外加五十英镑诉讼费。”
在比尔·查德威克填写支票的时候，记者席上已经空无一人，他们都急着去打电话和叫出租车了。从法庭的台阶走下来时，他感觉到有人抓住了他的胳膊。
他转过身来，发现盖洛德·布伦特站在他面前，已经气得脸色发白、浑身颤抖。
“你这个混蛋，”记者说，“你不可以在法庭上胡说八道。”
“我其实可以，”查德威克说，“在被告席上时，是的，我可以。这叫作绝对特权。”
“可我不是你说的那种人。”布伦特说，“再说，你也不能这样诽谤一个人。”
“为什么不能？”查德威克温和地说，“你不就是这么做的嘛。”
Notes:
Notes: