Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 552 Court Opening Day!

Westminster, London, the chamber of the House of Commons.

Home Secretary William Harcourt stood behind the podium, his hands resting on the edge of the stage, delivering his speech with measured intonation—

"I must emphasize again that all actions taken by the Ministry of the Interior are based on the need for law and order. This is not targeted at any particular class, much less at ordinary citizens."

This targets illegal acts, and specifically, clear and concrete illegal acts.

Liberal MP Charles Bradlaw stood up: “Mr. Minister, you say this is not targeting civilians. Well then, please take a look at this list.”

He held up a piece of paper and read aloud: "James Adams, dockworker, one pound and ten shillings a week; Sean O'Mara, dockworker, one pound and eight shillings a week; Mary Carter, seamstress, twelve shillings a week; Joe Harris, carpenter's apprentice, nine shillings a week..."

He read out eight names, eight professions, and eight meager income figures.

After reading it aloud, he put down the paper and looked at Harcourt: "These people, Mr. Minister, are what you call 'lawbreakers.' Their only 'law' was accepting ghostwriting services from a French writer last year, and then saying a few words this year that 'he's a good person.'"

According to the indictment, this constitutes "seditious speech" and "collusion with foreign agitators."

The council chamber was quiet, with only a few people in the back whispering among themselves.

Harcourt's expression remained unchanged: "Mr. Bradlaw, before the law, profession and income are not grounds for exemption. A duke and a dockworker, if they commit the same crime, will be tried in the same way."

This is precisely where the justice of British law lies!

Bradlaw raised his voice: "Justice? Then tell me, why are these arrests being made in the early hours of the morning? Why are the police banging on doors, yelling, and handcuffing people in front of children?"
If this is a fair legal process, why can't the summons be issued during the day, forcing them to report to the police station themselves?

Harcourt paused for a few seconds; this was a difficult question to answer.

But he still found a reason: "The urgency of the case dictated the method of execution. The police believed it was necessary to quickly apprehend the suspect in order to prevent evidence from being destroyed or collusion."

Bradlaw sneered: "Evidence? What evidence? What did they say? Is there a written record? Or is it just 'alleged'?"
Mr. Minister, we are arresting civilians late at night based on 'alleged' statements, and then prosecuting them for 'sedition'—

I'd read about this tactic in reports about Russia and heard about it in Prussian police operations. But I never imagined I'd see it in Britain.

These words were too harsh. A buzzing sound filled the council chamber.

Spencer Cavendish (the Marquess of Hatington), in the Conservative front row, stood up: "Mr. Bradlaw, are you implying that the actions of the British government are equivalent to those of an absolute regime?"

Bradlaw turned to him: “I am stating the facts. Arrests in the early morning, vague charges, prosecution of civilians—can you deny these facts, Mr. Cavendish?”

Cavendish said, "I don't deny the existence of procedures. But I question your interpretation of these procedures. The police arrest suspects according to the law, the Attorney General files charges according to the law, and the courts will try them according to the law—that's the rule of law."

The rule of law, sometimes, doesn't seem gentle. It doesn't treat murderers gently, it doesn't treat thieves gently, and it doesn't treat those who attempt to destabilize the country gently.

Bradlaw stared at him: "Destabilizing the country? Saying 'that Frenchman is a good man' is destabilizing the country? Mr. Cavendish, by that standard, half the gentlemen in your club should be in jail—"

They were complaining last night about the government's Egypt policy, saying the prime minister was "weak and incompetent." Isn't this also destabilizing the country?

Cavendish blushed. Someone in the chamber chuckled, but it was quickly silenced by the Speaker's gavel.

"Order! Order!"

Harcourt seized the opportunity to regain control of the conversation: "Gentlemen, let's not stray from the point. The point is not the timing of the arrest, nor the remarks of a few individuals."

The key question is whether foreign forces are inciting hostility towards our system and monarch through literary works or personal influence.
Is there a group of Britons, whether willingly or unwillingly, who have become tools of this incitement? If so, is the government obligated to take action?

He surveyed the chamber: “I believe so. I believe the majority of you here also believe so. This is not political persecution; it is national dignity.”

He finished speaking and sat down. Applause rang out from the government section, but it was sparse and not very enthusiastic.

This issue has been resolved, but the meeting continues.

Other members of parliament began asking questions about Egypt, Ireland, and the budget. But the rifts created by the "civilians' lawsuit" were already clearly visible.

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London's newspapers were also completely divided.

Conservative newspapers, represented by The Times, and pro-cabinet media continued to defend the government.

The recent indictment of 32 civilians is not aimed at the common people, but at specific illegal acts.

These individuals have repeatedly and publicly praised a foreign agitator and spread his subversive ideas over the past year.

The law does not discriminate based on a defendant's profession or income—this is the cornerstone of the rule of law.

We understand public concerns about the methods of arrest, but police sometimes have to act swiftly and decisively when carrying out demanding tasks. What matters is the outcome: the illegal act is stopped and the offender is brought to trial.

We urge the public to trust the judicial process, that the courts will adjudicate according to the law, and that justice will be served.

What's needed now is not emotional criticism, but respect and patience for the legal process.

Meanwhile, Manchester's Guardian, whose stance has always leaned towards the common people, ran a front-page headline: "This is a trial of the class!"

When a dockworker who works twelve hours a day and earns one pound and ten shillings a week is charged with “seditious speech”, we have to ask: what exactly did he say?
According to the indictment, his “crimes” include: in July of this year, he wrote in the Star that “Mr. Bond is a good man” and that “Captain Jack Sparrow is more interesting than the Navy.”

Is this "incitement"? Is this "subversion"?
If so, then half of Manchester's workers should be in jail—they complain every day about low wages, long hours, and harsh bosses.

According to this standard, any expression of discontent can be defined as "incitement"!
Even more worrying is the issue of the jury. Who will judge these defendants—workers, vendors, apprentices?
Are they gentlemen who have never set foot in the slums, never experienced hunger, and never worried about their children's school fees?
The law proclaims "equality for all," but when the judge and the judge live in two different worlds, this equality is merely a lie on paper.

The workers' publication "Voice of Labor" devoted two full pages to detailed information about the arrested individuals, along with interview transcripts from their families:

“The police arrived at three in the morning, banging on the door and dragging my husband out of bed. The children were terrified and cried.”

“They said he was an agitator. I asked him what he was agitating? They said he said things he shouldn’t have said in the bar. What things? They wouldn’t say.”

“My father is 67 years old, has arthritis, and has difficulty walking. They also put him in handcuffs.”

The writing is simple and unsentimental, yet all the more powerful.

Its circulation was not as large as The Times, but its target readers were workers, peddlers, and artisans—the same kind of people who were arrested.

The report spread rapidly among these groups, so while fear was spreading, anger was also building.

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In 1882 Britain, the process of a criminal trial was lengthy.

After the defendant is summoned or arrested, enters the police station, applies for bail, and the case is submitted to the magistrates' court, the indictment will be revised repeatedly.

Because there are dozens of people being sued, it is necessary to merge or split the defendants.

The list will be finalized only after repeated consultations between the Ministry of the Interior and the Attorney General.

For the 32 civilian defendants, this was the most agonizing stage.

Although their lawyers secured bail for most of them within a week, they remain restricted from moving around and prohibited from speaking to the media.

Everyone lost their jobs, and some families had been evicted by their landlords, leaving their lives hanging in the balance.

Fortunately, someone suddenly gave them a subsidy of £10, and the Labour Association provided them with temporary accommodation, so they didn't have to sleep on the streets.

Otherwise, in Britain, without a fixed place to live, sleeping on the streets is no different from death.

The patrolling police will take them to the detention room and submit them to the magistrate for "vagrancy".

After a hearing lasting only a few minutes, homeless people are usually sentenced to "forced labor," and then workshops and correctional facilities in prisons can enjoy free labor.

Homeless people have no human rights. They are given the most tiring and dangerous jobs, while having no guarantee of food or rest.

When they see the sun again, they are usually already corpses.

Norman McLeod, the former editor of Good Words, had nothing to worry about, having previously rejected Lionel's suggestion that he go to Paris.

He still lives in his country villa, where he only needs to greet the police officers who come to patrol every day.

As a member of London's high society, he lost nothing from the lawsuit; on the contrary, his reputation grew even more.

Several literary journals have already extended invitations to him, hoping that he can become the editor-in-chief or special advisor of the magazine.

His indictment was repeatedly revised, and no one was willing to sign it, so it was left to drift in the river of procedure, like a ship that would never reach its destination.

The indictment against the commoners was finalized in just one month under pressure from the royal family, and the date for the first court hearing was also set.
April 1882, 11.

Soon, the court day arrived. Today, 12 people stood in court at the Central Criminal Court in London, located on Newgate Street, next to St. Paul's Cathedral.

Before dawn, "Old Jimmy" and Sean O'Mara were woken up by the police.

They were the only two people who were not granted bail.

(Second update, thank you everyone, get some rest, goodnight.)
(End of this chapter)