Two Stories in English and Dutch

BOSON BOOKS 

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Washed India ink drawing by Herbert Fiedler
"Na Callas bij keyzer, 1959"

"After (a concert with Maria) Callas Café Keyzer 1959"

The drawing is in the collection of the Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam. Permission given by Sabine Frank-Fiedler.

Herbert Fiedler of German/Dutch nationality was born in Leipzig in 1891; he died 1962 in Amsterdam. Further information on his life and work may be found in Dutch, German, French, and English at
http://www.herbert-fiedler.de

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BOSON BOOKS
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The first time I defended him, he came to court in his pajamas. That was also the first time I saw him, as I was appointed to him much too late.

      It wouldn't be completely honest to say that he appeared in his pajamas; maybe I can explain that more precisely. He was my first criminal case. For nothing. That's how you learn. Then it was really for nothing, since you weren't paid anything at all.

      His file listed several previous convictions for violence, embezzlement, theft and receiving stolen goods. If I remember correctly, the penalties amounted to about four years, beginning in the usual way with suspended sentences and combined sentences, first from the juvenile court and later from the police and district court, and then a few charges that were dropped for lack of evidence, acquittal once or twice for the same reason; in short, a man who didn't want to stay in line. I later remarked how typical the combination violence, theft, embezzlement and receiving was.

      When I was appointed to him, he was serving time in Veenhuizen for some prior offense. The charge I had to defend him on was receiving. The district court had acquitted him. The district attorney had appealed. Meanwhile, Riks had been re-arrested for the old offense, so he had the right to a public defender. That's how I got involved in the case.

      It was either in the psychiatric or the probation officer's report, I don't remember which, that he was found to be a case of diminished responsibility. This actually meant that he had no defense against bad company and was always ready for mischief. That alone is not so bad, but if you're in the wrong social class it'll ruin you.

      He was charged with culpably receiving stolen goods or property, one of the most elusive offenses in our criminal justice system. It usually means that a friend rings your doorbell one evening and says: can you keep these outboard motors for me awhile, and then you have to be able to tell by the look on his face or the looks of the objects, or the time he came by, or by your own criminal record, that the motors are hot. Here, too. The evidence was very sketchy indeed, a typical case in which the suspect is obviously guilty, but a conviction would be unfair.

      I didn't have any experience then, as I said: my first criminal case, and I defended with all my might the presumption that Riks was innocent.

      On the day of the trial he had some kind of stomach trouble and was in the Veenhuizen sick bay, or whatever you call that in prisons. Because of an administrative mistake, they only noticed at the last minute that he was supposed to be in Amsterdam at the Court of Appeals, and when the paddy wagon from Assen was waiting at the door, they put two or three stamps on the papers, let him put his suit on over his pajamas, and loaded him into the wagon. The stomach trouble wasn't so bad after all.

      The judges were reviewing the case once again, calmly taking their time as appeals court judges generally do, and were a bit startled when I went at it in my defense as if Dreyfus himself were on trial. Riks also seemed surprised to hear how terribly innocent he was. Looking back, I think that the latter contributed more to his conviction than my defense plea. At least I hope so.

      A friend of mine told me about his first criminal case. He had to defend someone whose case inspired the following opening sentence: 'Your honor, distinguished members of the Court, this is my client's 25th criminal case and my first. We both wish that the situation were reversed.' But I think that was a lie too.

      A few months later Riks phoned me. 'This is Riks,' he said. 'Who?' I said, since that's how the human memory works. He wanted to drop by. When he was sitting in front of me, I found out that through a combination of conditional release, pardons and the deduction of pretrial detention, he did not have to serve the sentence, at least that was how he figured it.

      It's probably about time to tell you what he looked like; Mies thinks so, at any rate.

      He was the spitting image of Danny Kaye, but with his hair combed back without a part, his nose was a little bigger, and he also had that air about him that's typical of those who are neither rich nor on welfare. The pulled teeth had not been replaced. When he laughed, which he liked to do, you saw teeth that were just as interrupted as his life out of jail.

      The reason he came was this: while he was doing time, his wife had gotten involved with someone else, a truck driver he said. Later on the truck driver turned out to be the owner of a fairly large fleet of trucks, and as you know they manage them, but don't drive them.

      When Riks came home—unannounced—after his release, he found the truck driver there and 'beat him up'. I'll get back to that. Furthermore, the next day he cut the tires of the man's car. He had to appear again, but this time he would talk his way out of it without any counsel, he said.

      He had already moved in with the truck driver's wife, and she told him that I had handled her divorce—also pro bono—for which she had sued her husband because he was carrying on with Riks's wife. Pure coincidence.

      In short, would I also handle his divorce. That was OK. I had myself, as they say, appointed to him, and started the divorce proceedings.

      As everyone will understand, this was the start of a close friendship.

      Riks had a rich imagination and a lot of nerve. He was much too optimistic and cheerful, that's why he was always caught. He was a great storyteller, with a heavy Amsterdam accent, and if he saw that you were enjoying his stories, that inspired more elaborate descriptions. His first fight with the truck driver, which was in fact repeated later, got more violent and bloodier each time he told about it. More furniture was destroyed, the truck driver had more injuries, the fight lasted longer, the truck driver even fought back harder, because there was more glory in victory over a strong opponent than in punishing the coward of the previous versions. The previous versions were more honest, though, because he was genuinely upset over his wife's unfaithfulness and the betrayal by the cowardly intruder, who stole the wife of someone in the slammer. It was really a punishment, and not a fight. But OK. He did not let the truth get in his way.

      Aside from what he obtained from crime, he did all kinds of odd jobs. Demolition, selling wood, moving, transportation, and sometimes he had a real job.

      When I got married, I was able to get an attic floor in the Pijp and I asked if he would help me fix it up. That was right up his alley, especially taking things apart and moving. My wife was immediately on the right wavelength with his humor, and his stories were more violent, bloodier and colorful than ever.

      Moving? His brother had the type of van in which French prisoners are transported. This was used for moving. The stairwell was too small for the easy chair of an aunt from Purmerend, so when the stairwell did not get any bigger after banging, ramming and cursing, the chair went back to the aunt. An antique oak desk was rebuilt to such an extent by banging, ramming and cursing that it did go through.

      Demolition? He built a cooking area over the stairwell. A shower was broken out in such a way that we could look right into the bathroom of the lady downstairs, from whom we had rented the attic.

      During the operation, when we took a coffee break, he told us that one evening he had done some renovation on the Nieuwe Prinsengracht. After he had broken everything out, they came and asked him if he had a residence permit, building permit, demolition permit etc. No, what for, sir? Do I need one? Then I'm done here, go finish it yourself. The inspector went in to inspect the building. Five minutes later he came out, white as a sheet, since it had dawned on him how dangerous the building was, everything having been removed that was put in for the sake of safety and support, and said: if you just see to it that everything's back in order in a week.

      The truck driver's wife helped us, too. She earned a living by doing outwork for some textile company and helped us to lay the carpet, remnants of an old carpet that had been in the family.

      At that time Riks worked in a screw factory. This was evident from the fact that he could get hold of all kinds of screws, nuts, bolts, hooks and other means of attachment. Culpably receiving stolen goods and property.

      I had a sign made with my name and 'advocaat en procureur' on it, and he hung it downstairs on the wall next to the staircase. When he had put in the last screw he said: 'Look, that will never come off.' I said: 'And if we move?' He said: 'Then we'll take it right off again.'

      He talked a lot about his childhood, but he was not very explicit. He had hardly known his mother; he said that his father had remarried a rich Spanish woman. His imitation of the accent and mannerisms of the woman was entertaining but not convincing.

      After the move I didn't see him again for a few years. My practice, I had started my own firm, was expanding slowly but surely. I came in contact mainly with dealers in junk and old metal, in whose circles I acquired a certain reputation. One warm morning in May he called me up. He was in trouble and asked if I could come by, since he was sick. I climbed three flights of stairs, in Oud West, and rang the bell. The truck driver's wifeI'll call her thatopened the door. A cramped place in an upper story, two rooms and a kitchen. Flowers on the table, some books on a dresser. In the room there was a playpen. In the playpen was a child who was the spitting image of Riks, like a 15-cent postage stamp is the same as the one for two guilders. Only the color and size are different. It might be better not to call her the truck driver's wife any more. Riks was sitting there, again in his pajamas. His problem was that he had to pay child support, while the truck driver refused to pay any support for his own children, although the truck driver's children were fed, clothed and sheltered by Riks.

      Since that was unfairwhich Riks didn't likeI had to do something about it.

      I went to battle again, although at that time I was not handling many child support or similar cases any more, and we finally managed to get things settled. The proceedings I had to conduct were livened up and supported by some acts of violence on Riks's part, but that did not amount to anything, since the truck driver was too afraid to report them and the neighborhood police sided with Riks.