Cross-Examination
Mr. B paused and took a drink of water. The court was steeped in blue-gray afternoon light. It was past four.
“So,” Judge Hardcastle said, “what happened next?”
The CLF team burst into loud expostulations. How could they expect to get a fair hearing if people got caught up in the actions of the novel?
“Heaven forbid people actually enjoy the reading experience!” Lonquist said acidly.
The judge flapped his hands. “It is getting late. We will continue tomorrow morning. Nine a.m. Yes, yes, the transcripts will be sent.”
Mr. B stood before the judge could sweep out. “Your honor, about my wife—”
“Pamela is happy in Herland,” Mr. Hatch said to the judge and to Mr. B. “She gets along well with the women there. She’s learning the language and finding her talents.”
“Has she asked for me?”
“Not as much as she used to,” Mr. Hatch said. The judge supposed the young psychologist meant to be comforting.
Mr. B sagged. “If I cannot see my wife, may we at least write each other? I have always found comfort in her letters.”
The judge hesitated. It wasn’t an unreasonable request, and the man looked so beleaguered. The CLF team seemed to hold its breath. Finally, reluctantly, “I’m afraid not,” the judge said. “This hearing will reach a conclusion soon. In the meantime, it is best to keep things as they are.”
He tried not to dwell on Mr. B’s strained, gray face as he left the courtroom. Characters could become extremely likable. But ultimately, a judge had to decide on the law.
Chapter 4: Day Four
Committee for Literary Fairness v. Mr. B
Mr. B sat in the courtroom, his head in his hands.
He wasn’t used to depending on other people’s judgments. He wasn’t used to being judged. He didn’t think the hearing was going well, and he couldn’t figure out a solution.
“We should offer the judge money,” he said to Mr. Shorter.
“It won’t work. It’s considered bribery.”
“It’s considered bribery where we come from.”
“Yes, but it’s not overlooked here. We could get a summary judgment against us. Don’t worry. The judge isn’t unsympathetic.”
“I think the judge regards us all as one step away from performing animals.”
Mr. Shorter laughed. “I’d say we have more entertainment value than the folks across the aisle.”
“I’d rather just get on with my life.” Mr. B groaned and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve never been without her for so long,” he said, then grimaced and frowned at the windows.
“I’m sure Mrs. B is putting up a fuss in that other novel.”
Mr. B certainly hoped so. But even if she was, he doubted anyone would listen. It wasn’t as if these people understood character.
That ridiculous college professor, for example, was currently trying to reprimand the young, romantic girl. Personally, Mr. B would try flirting with her, but the man just blathered on about himself.
“So,” Mr. B heard the ridiculous man say, “I guess you’re one of those young ladies who adores authors like Jane Austen.”
“Sure,” Deborah said.
“I will grant, she is an important female writer.”
“Walter Scott believed no author matched Jane Austen at describing ordinary life and personalities.”
“Yes. Well. Won’t you admit though that despite her importance to women’s literature, Austen was mired in middle class values?”
Mr. Shorter leaned over to Mr. B and said, “What kind of gallantry is that man employing?”
“He isn’t,” Mr. B said, rubbing his temples. “He’s Polonius.”
“I like middle class values,” Deborah said.
“Of course you would say that,” the professor said in an irritated voice. Apparently, the professor didn’t like being contradicted.
And Mr. B was against female free-thinkers?
The professor said snippily, “I bet you wish you were Elizabeth, hmm, being chased by that handsome Darcy?”
“Not really,” Deborah said. “A lot of women do read books that way. And men too. Sort of what would I do? But I like to explore the author’s characterizations. Like Mr. B is way more of a homebody than most people picture him. Of course, he served in Parliament, but I think that was just out of a sense of obligation.”
Mr. Shorter snorted, but Mr. B couldn’t disagree. Except that a home without Pamela wasn’t much of a home.
“I’m sure Mr. B is quite conservative in his politics,” the professor said in the tone of voice he’d used to impugn Mr. B’s wealth.
“You could ask him,” Deborah said.
There was a short silence. Mr. B smiled to himself. The professor was a coward. He probably gravitated to female scholars because they were less trained in rhetoric and therefore easier to bully.
Deborah said, “Or Leslie Quinn. She might know.”
Some female scholars, that is. Mr. B laughed out loud. He glanced over his shoulder.
The professor was crimson. He didn’t look at Mr. B but hunched his shoulders and glared at Deborah, who was trying not to giggle. “I suppose progressive thinking is too much to ask from computer-obsessed students.”
Mr. Shorter muttered, “These CLF folks aren’t the most tolerant people.”
Mr. B agreed. At the CLF table, the other interferer, Dr. Matchel, was telling the psychologist (whose bumbling but inept goodwill reminded Mr. B of Williams), “You need to let Pamela get acclimated to Herland.”
“I have to evaluate her.”
“Every day?”
“She’s stopped asking to see Mr. B.”
Dr. Matchel said, “But she still spouts off religious twaddle.”
“We can’t just override her state of mind,” the psychologist said. “We have to introduce her to modern ways of thinking, not brainwash her.”
Mr. B groaned and pressed his forehead to the table.
“We could kidnap her back,” he muttered to Mr. Shorter.
“They can find characters anywhere,” Mr. Shorter said. “Pamela is an open book to them.”
* * *
Judge Hardcastle swept in, prepared to adjudicate. He waited for his clerk to get settled, for the audience members and CLF team to stop muttering. At least the fictionals were ready to begin.“Yesterday’s testimony ended with Mr. B sending a servant to ask Pamela to return. I assume the servant reached her?”
“Yes,” Mr. B said.
The judge said, “This hearing requires that we discover what happens next.” He sent a quelling glance towards the CLF table. He wouldn’t be badgered into not caring about the novel’s plot, not by these academic hotheads. “Did she return?”
“She did.”
Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Pamela’s Abduction
Week 7 (continued)
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| Bloodletting instrument |
I woke to late morning light. Mrs. Jewkes was standing by my bed, arms akimbo.
“Well, she’s here,” she said. I gazed at her blurrily. “Pamela,” she said. “And in quite a taking because I didn’t wake you earlier. I told her—”
“She came back?”
“Yes, and I wouldn’t let her wake—”
“Already?”
“They drove all night at her precious command. And she’s been up two hours, fretting.”
“Ask her to visit me,” I said. “Or I could visit her.”
“You must stay abed, sir. I’ll tell her if you stay abed.”
“Don’t urge her,” I said, remembering certain passages from Pamela’s letters. Mrs. Jewkes took my commands possibly more seriously than any servant ever has.
She rolled her eyes as she turned away. I didn’t bother to rebuke her. I sat up and combed my fingers through my dark scarecrow hair. I heard feet in the passage.
“Is she come?” I said, and “Yes,” Pamela said.
She looked tired but happy. She came over to the bed and took the hand I held out. I kissed her wrist.
She said, “I’m sorry you’ve been ill.”
“I can’t be ill while you are with me,” I said. Yes, I know, but remember, I was feverish.
She sat beside the bed. I leaned back and watched her talk about the inn she’d stayed at on Sunday, Thomas’s arrival with my letters, her decision to return, the ride back, and her insistence that she, Robin, and Colbrand keep going after sunset. I watched her smile to herself as she talked, watched her eyes gleam as she reflected. I held her hand until I fell asleep.
I got up around noon. I wanted to make sure the servants understood Pamela should be treated like a guest, not a prisoner. She could go where she liked, even town; my carriage was at her disposal. I also told Pamela that Williams was free from gaol. I thought she should know.
“We’ll take a ride tomorrow,” I told her and went back to bed. I didn’t dream at all that night.
