My Autobiography Charles Chaplin (best books to read ever TXT) 📖

As we left the courtroom Giesler whispered discreetly: ‘Today we can’t leave the building until a verdict is given, but,’ he added optimistically, ‘we can sit outside on the balustrade and get a little sun.’ This subtle information gave me a feeling of a sinister omnipresence quietly tightening its grip around me, reminding me that for the moment I was the property of the law.

It was now half past one and I surmised that a verdict should be reached within twenty minutes at the most. So I thought I would wait before telephoning Oona. But an hour elapsed! I telephoned her that the jury were still out and that as soon as I heard the verdict I would let her know.

Another hour passed and still no verdict! What was causing the delay? It should not have taken them more than ten minutes – they could only arrive at a not-guilty verdict. In the meantime Giesler and I sat outside on the stone balustrade, neither one of us commenting on what was causing the delay, until Giesler was compelled to look at his watch. ‘Four o’clock,’ he said casually. ‘I wonder what’s holding them up?’ This brought us to a calm open discussion as to what possible points in the case could have delayed them.…

At a quarter to five the bell rang to announce that the jury had reached a verdict. My heart gave a leap, and as we entered the building Giesler hastily whispered: ‘Whatever the verdict is, don’t show any emotion.’ Passing us, racing up the stairs to the courtroom, breathless and excited, was the prosecuting attorney with his assistants cheerfully racing up after him. Tippy Gray was the last, and as he passed us he glanced grinningly over his shoulder.

The courtroom filled quickly and was packed with tension. For some reason I was calmly composed although my heart was thumping in my throat.

The clerk of the court hammered three taps, which signalled the judge’s entrance, and we all stood up. When everyone was settled again, the jury entered, and the foreman handed a document to the clerk of the court. Giesler sat with his head down, staring at his feet, muttering nervously under his breath: ‘If it’s guilty, it will be the worst miscarriage of justice I have ever known!’ and kept repeating. ‘This will be the worst miscarriage of justice I have ever known!’

The clerk of the court now read the document, then tapped with the gavel three times. In the intense silence he announced:

‘Charles Chaplin, Case 337068 Criminal… On the first count –’ (there was a long pause) ‘not guilty!’

A sudden scream came from the audience, then a sudden silence as they waited for the clerk to continue. ‘On the second count… not guilty!’

The audience broke into a pandemonium. I never knew I had so many friends – some broke through the partition rail and hugged and kissed me. I caught a glimpse of Tippy Gray. The grin had left his face and he wore a blank expression.

Then the judge addressed a few words to me: ‘Mr Chaplin, your presence will no longer be required in the court; you are now free.’ Then he offered me his hand from the bench and congratulated me, so did the prosecuting attorney. Then Giesler whispered: ‘Now go over and shake hands with the jury.’

As I approached them, the lady whom Giesler had mistrusted stood up and extended her hand, and for the first time I got a close look at her face. It was beautiful, glowing with intelligence and understanding. As we shook hands she said, smilingly: ‘It’s all right, Charlie. It’s still a free country.’

I could not trust myself to speak; her words had shattered me. I could only nod and smile as she continued: ‘I could see you from the window of the jury-room pacing up and down, and I so wanted to tell you not to worry. But for one person we would have come to a decision in ten minutes.’

It was difficult not to weep at her words, but I just grinned and thanked her, then turned to thank the rest. All of them shook hands heartily but one woman, who held a look of hate. I was about to move away when the foreman’s voice said: ‘Come on, old girl, loosen up and shake hands!’ Reluctantly she did so and I thanked her coldly.

Oona, who was four months pregnant, was sitting at home on the lawn. She was alone and when she heard the news over the radio she fainted.

We dined quietly at home that evening, just Oona and I. We wanted no newspapers, no telephone calls. I did not want to see or speak to anyone. I felt empty, hurt and denuded of character. Even the presence of the household staff was embarrassing.

After dinner Oona made a stiff gin and tonic and we sat together by the fire and I told her the reason for the delayed verdict and about the lady saying that it was still a free country. After so many weeks of tension there was an anti-climax. That night I reeled off to bed with the happy thought of not having to get up early in the morning to attend court.

A day or so later, Lion Feuchtwanger said humorously: ‘You are the one artist of the theatre who will go down in American history as having aroused the political antagonism of a whole nation.’

*

And now the paternity case which I thought had been disposed of by the blood-test loomed up again. By adroit finagling another lawyer, influential in local politics, was able to reopen the case; by his tricky device of transferring the guardianship of the child from the mother to the court, the mother’s agreement was not violated and she was able to keep the $25,000. So now the court as guardian was able to sue me for the support of the child.

In the first trial the jury disagreed, much to the disappointment of my