The Luck Of Ginger Coffey (24 page)

"Wait a minute, sergeant," Coffey said. "Couldn't we settle this here — it was all an accident. A mistake."

"Now, put all what's in your pockets in this bag," the sergeant interrupted.

"Ah now, wait sergeant —"

"And take your tie off."

"Ah, sergeant, ah now, listen, I'm an immigrant here, I didn't know it was any crime —"

"And give me your belt."

"Sergeant, did you hear me? Listen — I'm a married man with a little girl. Ah God, you've no right to enter a thing like that in the record/'

"Prends-lui" the sergeant said to the jailer. "Numero Six."

The jailer took him in the back and led him down a flight of stairs. A detective was coming up. They stopped to let him pass. The detective, a fat young man with a crew cut and a mustache almost as large as Coffey's, stopped and said: "Le gars, cquil a fait, lui?"

The jailer laughed. "A fait pisser juste dans la grande porte du Royal Family Hotel"

"Oh-hoh!" the detective said, grinning at Coffey. "What's de matter? You don' like the English, eh? Or the Royal Family? Or maybe you just don* like the hotel?"

"What — what do you mean?" Coffey said. "What does he mean?" he asked the jailer.

"Move your ass," the jailer said. He pushed Coffey towards the last flight of steps, led him along a corridor and unlocked the door of a cell. There were two men sleeping inside. Coffey, undignified, holding up his trousers with both hands, made one last appeal to justice. "Listen to me," he said. "Please, will you let me speak to the sergeant again?"

"Don' piss on de other boys in here," the jailer said, shoving him in. "Dey won' like it."

The cell door shut. The lock turned. The jailer went back upstairs. Sick, Coffey let his trousers sag as he groped for and found a bench. He sat down, hearing the harsh cough of his cellmate. The cell was clean but stank of beer or wine or something. Or, was it he who . . . ? He did not know. One floor above him he heard the policemen walking about, talking, laughing at an occasional sally or bit of horseplay. Up there, just one flight of stairs, men were free. While down here — Oh God! Childish memories of being shut in a closet, of calling out to playmates who had run away, of beating on the door, unan-

swered: these swam in on him now, making it impossible to say Chin up, Steady as she goes, or any of the rest of it. Ever since he could remember he had read of prison sentences in secret dread. Jail. Yes, they could send him to jail. O God, he prayed. . . .

O Who? What did God care, if there were a God? Or was it God who had pulled the rug out, once and for all, who had now decided to show him once and for all that he had been a lunatic to have hopes, that his ship would never come in, that he had lost his wife and child forever?

Steady. Steady as she goes, he told himself. Don't panic. Steady on there.

But it was no good. Upstairs, the policemen broke out another round of laughter. He put his face in his hands, his lower teeth biting into the hair on his upper lip. Ah no, no, there was no sense blaming a God he could not believe in, there was no sense blaming anyone. Vera was right. He was to blame. If he had been content with his lot at home, he would never have come out to this cursed country. If he had never come out here, he would not have lost Veronica to Grosvenor; Paulie would not be running around with young hoodlums older than she. If he had not come out here, he would not be a proofreader with no hope of advancement, he would not be in jail tonight. Why hadn't he gone straight home? Whose fault was it he was drunk? His fault.

Yes, his fault. What a bloody fool he had been giving that wrong name and address. They had put his belongings in a bag but if they looked in his wallet they would crucify him. He should call out now, go upstairs, apologize, get a lawyer, tell them his real name . . .

He went quickly to the cell door and peered out of the small Judas window at the corridor. The window was thick-glassed, with a wire netting grille. He could see no one. He stepped back, trying to peer sideways down the

corridor and, as he did, he saw his own face, angled in the reflection from the glass pane. He stared at that sad impostor, at that hateful, stupid man. Yes, look at you, would you? You that promised you would drop out of sight. You that would do a far, far better thing, look at youl What sort of man would call out now, what sort of man would disgrace Veronica and Paulie because he was afraid of being locked up?

He stepped back into the darkness of the cell again. He could not bear to look at that hateful, stupid man. He was not that man. He was Ginger Coffey who had given a false name to protect the innocent and now must take his punishment.

He sat down, his trousers loose around his hips. It was dark. He was afraid.

But oh! He knew something now, something he had not known before. A man's life was nobody's fault but his own. Not God's, not Vera's, not even Canada's. His own fault. Mea culpa.

Thirteen Shortly after dawn someone in a nearby cell began to beat on the door and call out in French. This woke everyone up. The jailer came downstairs, unlocked the cell and led the prisoner out. One of Coff ey's cellmates wiped his nose on his sleeve and said: "They never learn/*

"What d you mean?"

"They'll take him up in the back room now and tire him a bit."

"Oh?" Coffey went to the cell door and listened. He could hear no sound upstairs. He heard his third cellmate say: "You bother them, they tire you, that's right. Just keep quiet is the best."

Several minutes later the jailer brought back the man who had been shouting. The man held both hands over his stomach and his face was pale. After he had been locked in again, he could be heard retching. Coffey's cellmates exchanged nods. One said: "In Bordeaux they beat the shit out of you whether you bother them or not. Minute you get in, they fix you."

"Where's Bordeaux?" Coffey asked.

"Provincial jail. What are you up for, Jack?"

"Ah — I was taking a leak in the open last night and the police found me."

"Avag,eh?"

"A vag?" The word was familiar. "No, it wasn't that they called it. Indecent exposure, it was."

His cellmates exchanged glances. One of them coughed. "Well/* he said. 'Td rather it was you, not me/'

At eight o'clock a bell rang. A jailer came down to the cells, called a roll from a typewritten list and ordered the prisoners to line up at their cell doors. Several other policemen appeared. The prisoners were marched upstairs and CofFey, with three other men, was put in a waiting room. There was a policeman in the room. One of the prisoners begged a light.

"NO TALKING!" shouted the policeman.

At eight thirty-one, Coffey and three others were taken to the back door of the police station. A van was backed into the alley, its engine running. A policeman helped them up, a second policeman handed the driver a list and the doors of tfye Black Maria were locked. There were already two prisoners in the van and it stopped at three police stations in the next half hour. By the time it reached a courthouse somewhere in the harbor area, the van was crowded with men and smelled of alcohol and sweat. They were disembarked in a yard and, as they waited to be marched away, Coffey saw a newspaper kiosk in the street outside, its walls plastered with tabloid headlines. One of them read:

CADI SENTENCES "FOUL EXPOSER" MERCY PLEA REJECTED

Suffering J! Better they sentence him to jail than Paulie ever read the like of that. This was his fault. Everything was his fault. He must pay for it himself.

"Right," said a warder. "MARCH!"

One of the prisoners, an old man, said: "Is there a toilet inside? I need to go to the toilet/'

The warder turned and bellowed as though struck: "NO TALKING IN THE CORRIDORS."

They were marched downstairs and locked up.

Above the judge there was a large crucifix. The Christ figure seemed to recline, head to one side, as though trying to catch the half-audible mumble of the clerk of the court.

"Criminal Code . . . Statute . . . Section . . . Said Gerald MacGregor . . . night of ... premises . . . did indecently expose himself — as witness . . ."

A lawyer, arriving late, entered the courtroom and hurried up the aisle, shaking hands with his colleagues. The reporters on the press bench were reading a newspaper called Le Devoir: they did not appear to have paid attention to the charge. The judge, a florid man who might have been mistaken for a bookmaker, was having trouble with his Parker pen. He signaled a court functionary, who went through the door leading to the judge's chambers. A detective-sergeant came in and stood beneath the judge, waiting. The clerk of the court finished his mumble and sat down. The judge unscrewed his Parker pen, and noticed the waiting detective-sergeant. The sergeant stepped forward and whispered. The judge looked at Cof-fey.

"Swear the accused," he said.

Coffey was sworn in. The judge said: "Now — is your name Gerald MacGregor?"

CoflFey looked desperately at the crucifix over the judge's bench. The Christ figure lent an ear: waiting.

"I warn you," the judge said. "No one by the name of MacGregor lives at the address you have given. Do you still say that is your name?"

In terror, Coffey looked at the detective-sergeant. Vera and Paulie? —must protect . . . "Yes, Your Honor," he said.

"All right/' The judge nodded to the sergeant. "Bring your witness in."

The sergeant signaled to a court attendant and the court attendant went outside. In her best blue coat, her eyes downcast, Veronica was escorted to the bench. She was sworn in. Her eyes met Coffey's, then flittered towards the press bench. The reporters were taking notes now. She gave her name and address.

"Is this man your husband?"

"Yes."

"What is his given name?"

"James Francis Coffey."

"You may stand down. Clerk, read the charge again in the name of James Francis Coffey."

She went to a front seat and sat down. She looked up at him and her fingers fluttered in a tiny, surreptitious greeting. She was afraid.

"Now, Coffey," the judge said. "Why did you give a false name?"

"I — ah — I didn't want my wife and daughter mixed up in this, you see."

"I do not see," the judge said. "You have heard the charge. Have you any idea of the gravity of this charge?"

"Well, no, Your Honor. You see — I mean, I wanted to avoid — I mean, it wasn't their fault. I didn't want them to be worried."

"This charge," the judge said, "carries a maximum penalty of seven years in prison/'

Coffey looked at Veronica. She seemed about to keel over. Seven years.

"Well, Coffey? What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I — I'm an immigrant here, Your Honor, and I've not

done very well getting settled. My wife . . ." He stopped and looked at Veronica, who lowered her head, not answering his look. "My wife and I had agreed to separate unless I did better. I'd promised her that unless I got a certain promotion, I'd let her go back to — I mean, leave me. And I promised she could take my daughter as well. So last night, I didn't get the promotion, and so . . ."

He could not go on. He stood, looking down at her, looking at the white nape of her neck beneath the hairline of her new short haircut. The judge said: "What's all this got to do with perjuring yourself ?"

"Well, I'd lost them anyway, Your Honor. I didn't want them to suffer any more for what I'd done. So I thought of a false name . . ."

The judge looked at the sergeant. "Is the prisoner represented by counsel?"

"A pas demande" the sergeant said.

"This case is being tried in English/' the judge said, testily.

"Sorry, sir. He didn't ask for a lawyer/'

The judge sighed. He put both halves of his Parker pen together, screwed them tight, then laid the pen down. "How do you plead?" he said to Coffey. "Guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty, Your Honor."

"Very well. Call the first witness."

Constable Armand Bissonette, Radio Mobile Unit, Station Number 10, took the stand. Following the witness's testimony, he was cross-examined by Judge Am6dee Mon-ceau.

His HONOR: "Was there anyone else in the street at the

time?" WITNESS: "Not so far as we could see, sir."

His HONOR: "Then no one witnessed the act except the

police?" WITNESS: "Maybe there were people inside the hotel lobby

who saw it."

His HONOR: "Did you actually see any people?" WITNESS: "No, sir."

His HONOR: "And the doorway was dark?" WITNESS: "Yes, but there were lights in the lobby, inside

the door."

His HONOR: "Were those lights visible from the doorway?" WITNESS: "Yes, if he had looked in, he would have seen

that it was a hotel lobby. But he was on the wine, sir.

He could hardly see straight." His HONOR : "He was intoxicated?" WITNESS: "He's a wino, sir. I smelled the wine off him." His HONOR: (To accused) "What did you have to drink?" ACCUSED: "Your Honor, I had some glasses of wine. It was

a sort of a mixture of sherry and Coca-Cola. I didn't intend to get drunk." His HONOR: "You're Irish, by the sound of you. Is that an

Irish recipe?"

[LAUGHTER] His HONOR: "If that didn't make you drunk, it should have

made you ill. Were you ill?" ACCUSED: "Yes, Your Honor. I felt a bit dizzy. And I had

been waiting a long time for the bus." His HONOR: "How long?" ACCUSED: "More than twenty minutes, sir. Maybe half an

hour." His HONOR: "Half an hour? Well, I can see you're not a

native of this city. Half an hour is not a long time here." [LAUGHTER]

Coffey looked at them: the judge grinning at his witticism, the lawyers looking up to laugh with the bench, the

spectators lolling back in their seats like people enjoying a joke in church. Seven years in prison and yet they laughed. But why not? What was he to all these people except a funny man with a brogue? Not a person; an occasion of laughter. His whole life, back to those days when he ran past the iron railings of Stephen's Green, late for school, back through the university years, the Army years, the years at Kylemore and Coomb-Na-Baun, through courtship, marriage, fatherhood, his parents' death, his hopes, his humiliations — it was just a joke. All he was this morning, facing prison and ruin, was an excuse for courtroom sallies. So what did it matter, his life in this world, when this was what the world was like? Unsurely but surely he came to that. His hopes, his ambitions, his dreams: what were they but shams? Only one face in that courtroom suffered with him, knew him as more than a joke, was one with him on this awful morning. One face, which fifteen years ago in Saint Pat's in Dalkey had turned from the priest to look at him and say "I do."