LAST NIGHTS EVIL by Jonathan Craig. When.

l arrived at our house, which is in a rural area some eight miles from the rest of the fa~~l)ty d>ml11~nity, I was not surprised to find that my wife's car was not in the garage. I( " l:;.::> . -~'''' .. At least she hadn't entertained him - whoever -he was - in the house, I \n refiected as I got back into my own car and restarted the eng Ine. But then, Lucitle was a very pruocri'rit~&yng woman, as well as a very pretty one and, in th~2e!plouafc most of my colleagues, much too young at nineteen to be married to a decidedly .~ unexc{t~n~ professor twenty-three years her oonie:r. ~(tJn'47J(l}" . I'd driven the two hundred and ninety miles from the sta~e apital, where I'd gone to address the State Historical Society, in four hours, slitl~~ my car through the 'jJIGJ>"C>C near-zero cold of the December night even faster than I normally drove it. Just before I'd left the capital, I had been interviewed by the Riverton Sentineion the subjectof the town's early myths and legends, and I had been most anxic:ius to get home and read the printed account of the taped interview, which the reporter had assured me would run to a full page. In allh'Qn(;$tv, if not reading my"own words in print has always beenoneof my.cniefdelights. But my eagemess to read the Sentinel was not the major reason for my hurried retum from the capital, and after buying a copy of the paper in town I had driven straight home. I had, you see, told my wife that Iwould remain in the capital ovemight, a quite behevable lie in view of the bitterly cold weather and the icy conditions on the roads. - -- ~-- -~-- -.~ _ Now, at a few minutes past midnight, I knew that the chances were very great that LucilIe - or, rather, they - would be in either one of the two places: the old sl~fee<" quarries, or the city dtfhl1J~either spot enjoyed any local popularity as a lover's lane, but both were almost exactly six and a half miles from our house. When I had first become suspicious that Lucille was seeing someone else during my absence - because I had found lipstickless dgarettes in the ashtray of her car - I had conducted a small experiment. By keeping a careful record of the mileage readings on the odometer of her car, I had discovered that her romantic journeys were invariably of a round-trip distance of thirteen miles. Since the quarries and the city dump were the only two places six and a half miles from our house where one could park a car for any length of time with a reasonable assurance of privacy, the trysting spot seemed almost certain to be one or the other. ,fs it happened, it was the dump. The tiny white coupe was parked on the frozen midway between a pile of still smouldering garbage on one side and an enormous mound of what appeared to be freshlyg~Qosite<:l refld.~_on the other. A setting not altogether conductive to the tender emotio~it would seem; but then, perhaps very young love was not blind but lacked a sense of smeli as well. In any case, the car was well hidden; anyone not looking for it would not have seen it at all. I cut my car's engine, coasted the last forty feet, and got about three yards behind my wife's. They had the engine running forwarmth and the left rear quarterwindow was cracked a couole of inchss- for- air - -- - ~- I had no real plan in mind, but since whatever developed might well entail considerable physical effort on my part, I removed my overcoat, with the anxiously awaited copy of the Sentinel in the right-hand pocket, folded it carefully and laid it on the seat. Then I approached the coupe and quietly opened the door on the driver's side.
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They were sitting in the raked bucket seats as decorously as one might think, . their heads against the cylindrical headrest - my wife and a rather thin, most unhandsome graduate student whose name, I seemed to recall, was Bolander. Both were sleeping soundly, and the over warm car smelled strongly of martinis, the latter having unquestionably once resided in the small vacuurn bottle which seemed in imminent danger of sliding from my wife's lap. In the pale wash of moonlight, tnelr faces had the troubled innocence of srnall children; also like children, they had gone to sleep holding hands. I stood looking at them for fully half a minute; then closed the door and leaned an elbow on the top of the car, watching the shredded winter clouds drifting across the face of the moon, as bleak as winter sky as I could remember. No Iover's rnoon, that, I refJected vaguely as I reached for a cigarette; nothing there to inspire the love songs of my own youth; nothing but a cold, disinterested witness to an inconsequential happening in the middle of a smouldering city dump. Surprisingly, I felt nothing at all. I was cold, but I felt no emotion. But later, once I got home an settled down in my chair to read the Sentinel's account of my interview, I suddenly teil into such an excess of self-castiqation that it was only by a determined and prolonged exercise of will that I was able to dissuade myself from driving back to town for another copy of the paper. 1Was still very muchupsetwhert the phone rang at five a.m. It was Harry Benson, the chief of POlice, a friend of mine since high school, Aterrible, a tragic thing had happened, he told me. My wife and a young man had taken their lives in a suicide pact at the city dump. They had taken a discarded vacuum-sweeper hose from among the refuse, connected their car's exhaust pipe with a partly opened window, and packed the space around the hose with newspaper. Then they had, apparently, had a few tarewell drinks together while they waited for the eng ine to ftll the tiny car with carbon monoxide and death. When I hung up, I was still very angry with myself. To have carried it off so perfectly, and then to mar it by using the wrong section of the Sentinel- the section containing the interview I had been so very anxious to read - was enough, I should think, to upset anyone.

S5~,

DUSK
written by HECTOR HUGH MUNRO - SAKI (1870-1916)

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_NORMAN~RTSBY sat on a seat in the park. Hyde Park Comell with its noise of traffic, lay immediately to his right. It was about thirty minutes pa_st~ on an ~arly March~g, and dusk had fallen heavily over the scene, dusk with some faint moonlight and many street lamps. There was a wide emptiness over road and sidewalk, and yet there were many figures moving silently through the half-light, or sitting on seats and chairs. The scene pleased Gortsby and suited his present feelings. Dusk, in his opinion, was the hour of the defeated. Men and women, who had fought the battle of life and lost, who hid their dead hopes from the eyes of the curious, came out in this hour, when their old clothes and bent shoulders and unhappy eyes might passed unnoticed. On the seat by Gortsby's side sat a rather old gentleman with a look of defiance that was probably the last sign of self-respect in a man who had stopped defying successfully anybody ar anything. As he rose to go Gortsby imagined him returning to a home where he was of no importance, or to some uncomfortable lodging where his ability to pay his weekly bill was the beginning and end of the interest which he caused. His place on the seat was taken almost immediately by a young man, fairly well dressed but scarcely more cheerful than the other. As if to show that the world went badly with him, the newcomer threw himself into the seat with a cry of displeasure. 'You don't seem in a very good temper,' said Gortsby. The young man tumed to him with such a look of frankness that Gortsby felt that he must be very carefu1. 'You wouldn't be in a good temper if you were in the difficulty I'm in,' he said; 'I've done the silliest thing I've ever done in my life.' 'Yes?' said Gortsby calmly. 'I came here this aftemoon, meaning to stay at the Patagonian Hotel".' continued the young man; 'when I got there I found it had been pulled down some weeks ago and a civem! thea~ put up in its place. The taxi-driver told me of another hotel some way off and I went there. I just sent aletter to my family, giving them the address, and then I went out to buy some soap - I hate using the hotel soap. Then I walked about a bit, had a drink and looked at the shop s, and when I came to tum my steps back to the hotel I suddenly realized that I didn't remember its name or even what street it was in. There's a difficult situation for a man who hasn't any friends or relations in London! My family won't get my letter until tomorrow, and so I can't ask them for the address; meantime I'm without money, came out with about a shilling, which went in buying the soap and getting the drink, and here I am, wandering about with twopenceJn my pocket and nowhere to go for the night.' There was a pause after the story had been told. 'I suppose you think I've told you an impossible story,' said the young man presently with anger in his voice. 'Not at all impossible,' said Gortsby. 'I remember doing exactly the same thing once in a foreign capital; and on that occasion there were two of us, which made it

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more remarkable. Luckily we remembered that the hotel was on a sort of canal, and when we found the canal we were able to find our way back to the hote1.' The youth looked happier. 'In a foreign CIty, I wouldn't mind so much,' he said; 'one could go to one's Consul and get the necessary help from him. But here in one's own land one is in greater difficulties. Unless I can find some good many to accept my story and lend me some money, I seem likely to spend the night by the river. I'm glad, in any case, that you don't think the story quite improbable.' 'Of course,' said Gortsby slowly, 'the weak point of your story is that you can't show me the soap.' The young man sat forward hurriedly, felt quickly in all the pockets of his overcoat, and then jumped to his feet. 'I must have lost it,' he murmured angrily. 'To lose a hotel and a cake of soap on one afternoon suggests great carelessness,' said Gortsby, but the young man scarcely waited to hear the end of the sentence. He went away down the path, .his head held high. 'lt was a pity,' thought Gortsby; 'the going out to get some soap was the one thing to make me believe the story, and yet it was just that little detail which ruined ito If he had provided himself with cl cake of soap, he would have been a clever man.' With that thought Gortsby rose to go; as he did so an exclamation escaped from his lips. Lying on the ground by the side of the seat was a smal1 packet which could be nothing else but a cake of soap, and it had evidentIy fallen out of the youth's pocket when he f1ung himself down the seat. In another moment Gortsby was running along the dark path in search of the youthful figure in a light overcoat. He h~ Qearly given up the search when he caught sight of the young man standing doubtful1y on the edge of the road. He. turned round suddenly with an unfriendly face when he heard Gortsby calling. 'The important thing to prove the truth of your story has been found,' said Gortsby, holding out the cake of soap; 'it must have fallen out of your pocket when you sat down on the seat. I saw it on the ground after you left. You must excuse my disbelief; but now the soap is found, and in may lend you apound ...' The young man quickly removed any doubt by pocketing the money. 'Here is my card with my address,' continued Gortsby;'any day this week will do for returning the money, and here is the soap - don't lose it again; it's been a good friend to you.' 'Lucky thing, your finding it,' said the youth, and then with a word of thanks he f1ed in the direction of Knightsbridge. 'Poor boy! He nearly wept, ' said Gortsby to himself. 'I'm not surprised; the relief from his difficulty must have been very great. It's a lesson to me not to be too clever in judging by circumstances.' As Gortsby went back past the seat where he had met the young man, he saw an old gentleman looking under it on all sides of ito Gortsby recognized the old man who had sat there before with him. 'Have you lost anything, sir?' he asked. 'Yes, sir, a cake of soap.

45 .

---'----.:: '.22.G .

THE OPEN WINDOW BY SAKI (H. H. MUNRO) In this story a very imaginative young lady of fifteen plays an amusing trick on o chance visi tor to her aunt's house. As you read, watch closely how smoothly she conducts herself. The story is told with a charm and grace that is characteristic of this English author (18701916), who commonly wrote under the pen name of Saki. "My aunt will' be down presently, Mr. Nuttel, " said a very selfpossessed you must try and put up with me." Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve undergoing. -1:> \"o::i.uf3" o \-. st.. 'u..G-V . / meantime young lady of fifteen; in the

10

duly flatter the niece of the moment than ever whether these formal cure which he was supposed to be

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"I know how it will be," his sister said when he was preparing to migrate to his rural retreat; "you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from ,moping. I shali just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice." Framton wondered whether Mrs. Stappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction, came into the nice division. "Do you know many of the people round here?" asked the niece, when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion. "Hardly a soul," said Framton. "My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know.isorne four years age, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here." He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret. 'Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?" pursued the self-possessed young lady. "Only her name and acdress," admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Stappleton was in the married ot widowed state. An indefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation. ____uHl!r great tragedy happened just three years ago," said the child "that would be since your sister's time." "Her tragedy?" asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place. "You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon," said the niece, indicating a large French window that open ed on to a lawn. ' "lt is quite warm for the time of the year," said Framton; "but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?" "Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day's shooting. They never came back. In crossing themoor to their favourite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the_dreadful part of it." Here the child's voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly.human. "Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back some day, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronie, her youngest brother, singing, 'Bertie, why do you bound?' as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on stilI, quiet evening like this, lalmost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window - er She broke off with alittle shudder. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance. "I hope Vera has been amusing you?" she asked. "She has been very interesting, " said Framton. "I hope you don't mind the open window, " said Mrs. Stappleton briskly; "my husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting, and they always come in this way. They've been out for snipe in the marshes today, so they'll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. 50 like you n1enfolk, isn't it?" She rattledon cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds and the prospect for duck in the winter. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic; he was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coineidenee that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary. ".,",vc;]., .ie.. 'The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature-of physical exercise," announced Framton, who laboured under the tolerably wide-spread delu sion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. "On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement," he continued. "No?" said Mrs. Stappfeton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert altention - but not to what Framton was saying. "Here they are at last!" she cried. "Just in time for tea, and don't they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!" Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The child was staring out through the open window with dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung in his seat and looked in the same direction.

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In the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window; they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. Atired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse young voice -c)lanted out ..J;J of the dusk: "I said, Bertie, why do you bound?" "'i> ,Z'" Framton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall-door, the graveL drive, and the front gate weredimly. noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to turn into the hedge to avoid imminent coliision. "Here we are, my dear," said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window; "fairly muddy, but most of it dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?" "A most extraordinary man, Mr. Nuttel, " said Mrs. Stappleton; "could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of good-bye or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost. " "I expect it was the spaniel," said the niece calmly; "he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him enough to make any one lose their nerve. " Romance at short notice was her speciality.

Find the words and phrases in the text which mean the following:
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LAW AND ORDER, CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

Study and practice
Below you see the story o ~n extraorclinary case in British legal history. The affair started in 1949, and was finally closed in 1966. At the moment, there are a number of gaps in the story. Use the words below to complete it.
t

confessed

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cu~

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senteiiC6:f -droilDed

-Ht>g.~<;.en,
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The story began when aman called Timothy Evans was cl (('es +etd for the murder of his wife and baby. He was CJ.t..(). \q~ with the double murder, but a short time later one of the charges was d \ O ppeol \J and he was -k I ed for the murder of his daughter only. During the ' .~ \ GJj Evans accused the man whose house he had been living in, John Christie, of the erimes, but no attention was paid to him. The (>-1 found Evans ~ v:et-q and he was 's."tA khC ("o( e to death. An " v\ P pe qj was tumed ~own ~hd he was (? \( e c.v.l.c.d in 1950. Some time later, more wom~n's bodies were discovered in Christie's house: two, three, four, five, six. John Christie was the police's chief s:u S jX.C T and he started a nationwide hv tA t for him. He was soon C\W\Cille:"dPd . Alleged stcdeW\~ \-S by Christie while he was in \ eu.(' +od.~l east doubt on the Evans hanging. When he went to CO\) r tChristie [rf l~'c.d that he had murdered Mrs Evans, but in private it was said that 'he co f C_:M..d to that crime. His '{J( etA of insanity with regard to other murders was rejected and he was CO" v \ C A of killing his wife. Soan afterwards there was an <2..'4' into the e o<: e c u h o lA of Timothy Evans. The J 1uci ql -) decided that justice had been dane and Evans had been righdy hanged. It was in'1966 that another Gvt'1 \l\l \\ I tr,' el was set up. This time it was decided that Evans had probably been i \!It\oCCA.~+- \l \.~~d he was given a free f~( d O[A Better late then never, as they say.

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Quiz Nowa quiz on same points of law - English style. The answers may well be different in our country. 1. 2. 3. 4. Is it a crime to try to kill yourself? !\lQ. Is it illegal to help somebody to commit suicide? <"s Can you be executed for murdering apoliceman? iV' .Jo'''~ LoVl'1HiC J If, after a murder, all the victim's relatives plead: 'Please, don't prosecute!' can charges against the suspected culprit be dropped? t\Jo. 5. If two armed thieves break into a house, guns in hand, and one of them shoots and kills the house-owner, is his accomplice guilty of murder? No 6. If I surprise an intruder in my lounge at night stealing my millions, do I have alegal right to assault him with a weapon? No 7. If I set a trap - a fifty-kilo weight just above the front door - for any burglars who might try and enter the house, am I breaking the law? ~e ~ 8. After a divorce or legal separation, can a wife be required to pay alimony to her ex-husband? ~es 9. If I premise to marry my girlfriend and then change my mind shortly before the wedding, can she take me to court? N o 10. If you said to your teacher in the middle of one of his lessons: <Youdon't know the first thing about teaching!' could he / she brlng a civil action against you? ~~.s

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.

12. If, as a defendant (ar the accused), I am not satisfied with the way my barrister has handled my defence, can I sue hiro? No 13. If you were in my house - uninvited - and the ceiling, which had had a large erack in it for same time, caved in and broke your leg, would it be a good idea to consult your solidtor? 14. Can a person suspected of and charged with rape be allowed bail? ~

JeJ'

Practice 1 There are many crimes and offences apart from the few mentioned above. Explain, define ar give examples of the offences listed below. blackmail - \J~'(,v..o, fraud - f f j'ev61. rq . ~iC&.. ' ith VIO ence -"''''$I-e..", o{..;""""-c"~" kiid napptng - OlT' muggmg - ro bb ery w1 vi I arson . FW(c ~ drug peddling - jK ef 00: eF O~~ .~. 'c p:::;,>\ro.o.. trespassing -orvteA''''''''J \ \J . espionage - spying Sp I \J~to" L. \~vc.<M..U '1lf'~,einans Iaug h ter -1J\ls~o '""" Lu.,ne..l--<?v'~ Sh op lifti ng - .. ,1."" \J "-ltl.0' 4- ~ smuggling - \::::l.IvrY'CC-~G<AJtreason - ve-ee.\-z.,d.~ q forgery - IL,\\10 Of ""~ hijacking _~IU> 0."'0'" '6\J'.o tbigamy . JuoieN.!.hlo " obscenity - y\~,ddtO-O ro"c~rV'~c.. t.J-J baby- or wife-battering.obi-ldAsco 2.CoS\C'f.i'bHbery and corruption - W\ltc \ ~ (vP'71~ ~ conspiracy _v~()\-e,(,?O\v;e...>M Q petty theft - sl'~~~ o-

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counterfeit money, a ransom, state secrets, pornography, a store detective

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heroin, c~tra~and, ,v,,",C"Z]C

hostages, a trai or,

COURTS
~c\"W"f{C ""~

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Court is a govemment institution that settles legal disputes, administrates justice, decides the legal guilt or . ~e.I."L"~f1 . 'lo\' c;c. ~ z...'>' . innocence of persons accused of cnmes and sentences the gUilty. The word court may refer to a judge alone ar to a judge and jury aCJM~~together. Courts differ in their jurisdic~on, i.e. authority to decide a case: a) trial courts (various types of cases) - pt\l VILe:' b) appeal courts (the losing side has the right to appeal) z.o2-w. rrll&< J ,o' ~v.:! OJ ' c) civil courts (settle disputes involving people's private relations with one another - civil suits in which an individual or organization sues another individual ar otganization. Most ciY,ildecisions :'i" <,!'rv-'o tiCi1 s-e-(" do not involve a prisan sentence, though th~ may be ordered to pay damages. d) Criminal courts (deal with actions considered hannful to society. In criminal cases, the govemment takes legal action against an individual. Sentences range from probation and fines to imprisonment, and, in some states, death. :et;' Z-vc# ' .suDCV tir'"
1

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HOW CRIMINAL

COURTS WORK

Crime is a wrong against the comrnunity, for which punishment is prescribed. To establish guilt, it must be proved not only that the act was done but that it was done with MENS REA. (a guilty mind), i.e, an intention to do the act, Most persons arres~ed on suspicion of a crime appear before a judge within 24 hours after the arrest. In cases involving miner offences the judge conducts a trial and sentences the guilty. In more serious cases he decides whether to keep the defendant (the accused person) in prison Gail) or to release hiro on ball. He may appoint a state-paid defence attorney (publie defender) to represent a defendant who cannot affotd a lawyer. In a case ~volvJW~ a serious crime, the police give the evidence on the suspect's guilt to a government attorney, a pro~eUtor, who presents the evidence at a preliminary hearing to judge ar to jury, on which the judge will decide whether there is a probable cause (good reason for assuming) that the defendant committed the crime (whether the evidence justifies bringing the case to-a trial). If the

'Jeri

!~~l\lC(

evidence is considered sufficient, there will be a formal accusation called indictment against the suspect. ~ij'.n~\X""h<"~V The defendant appears in a court. If he pleads guilty, the judge pronounces the sentence. Many defendants plead guilty rather than go to trial, in return for a reduced charge or a shorter sentence (plea bargaining). If the accused pleads not guilty, the case goes to trial. The defendant may request a jury trial or a bench trial, w~~l~As a trial before a judge. The jury (a body of 12 persons, unanimously reaching a verdict - eligibleJperions, anyone on a jury list must serve if summoned) or judge must decide if the evidence presented by the prosecutor ptoves the defendant guilty beyond any reasonable doubt. If not, the defendant must be acquitted (found not guilty). If the defendant is found guilty, the judge pronounces a sentence. Convicted defendants may take their case to an appeal court, but prosecutors may not appeal an acquittal, because a person cannot be put in double jeopardy for the same crime.

DEFENDANTS'
1.

FUNDAMENTAL

RIGHTS

2. 3. 4. 5.
6.

The defendant is presumed innocent until he/ she is proved guilty. The prosecutor must ~f;';t'tRecharge hel she is making against the accused. Proof must be beyond all reasonable doubt. The hearing must be in public. Witnesses must give their evidence in the presence of the accused and the accused must be allowed to question them when they have given their evidence. Once the court comes to a decision whether to acquit or convict, the defendant can never again be charged with the particular offence.

Below are some extracts from court cases. In all of them a silly question is asked. Why is it silly? 1. 'And the youngest san, the 20-year-old, how old is he? 'Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a pulse?' 'No.' 'Did you check for blood pressure?' 'No.' 'Did you check for breathing?' 'No.' 'So then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy?' 'No.' 'How can you be so sure, doctor?' 'Because his btain was sitting on my desk in a jar.' 'But could the patient have sti11been alive, nevettheless?' 'It is possible that he could have been alive and practising law somewhere.' 'Was it you or your younger brother who was killed in the war?' 'You say the stairs went down to the basement?' 'Yes.' 'Did they also go up?' 'Now, doctor, isn't it true that when a person dies in his sleep, he doesn't know about it until the next morning?' 'Were you present when your picture was taken?'

2.

3. 4.

5. 6.

In the courtroom
1. The words and phrases in the box are all connected the headings below. 1. J criri'ies punishments people
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to the theme oflaw. Put the words under one of

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legal processes

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2.~
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words and phrases from 1 to complete these sentences

.

a) What is the difference between the two? Well, slander is when you say something about someone which isn't true. A;1sd is when you publish it, and that's when people generaliy take action. b) If a person is on trial for murder the press can't tefer to them as 'the murderer'. They have to say '-1 it-.e..... cl. ccu ,sJ '. c) You are guilty of
cl) You
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when you didn't kill the victim deliberately.

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someone if you want to claim money from them because they have
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harroed you in some way. ~\c. W0\',q v1 '-'F,VCNf""""'CC e) The jury has to listen to the case, " and then re +-Jr c, J.ecd c+ f) A "U<i:Z""'~ Pc.v-~cmeans that you don't actualiy have to go to prisan unless you commit another crime. g) , (J:JU ~ SeQ ' is amore formal term for a 1egaladviser, h) Co .... tJ sCI.l<:6n be anything from teaching kids to p1ayfootball to cutting the grasso u ., Obvious1y, it's not paid. 3. Listen to three conversations, Which of the crimes from 2, above, are the speakers talking about?

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Test yourself 1. Look at the sentences below. Which of the three conversations from 3, above, do they come from? a) The verdict we returned was unanimous - guilty. .2:J b) That's a 1esson I won't forget in a hurry. 1c) The best person to ask is Fred MacIntyre. Il d) It was fascinating, seeing how the court works. ::) e) It's been almost three weeks since they published the article. 1\ Crime and punishment Put the crimes below in order of seriousness, Decide on the punishment you think a person guilty of each crime should get.

Nine people were asked what punishment they would give people guilty of the above crimes. Listen and answer these questions: a) Which crime is each person talking about? b) Which speaker does not refer to one of the crimes above? Listen again and answer these questions: a) What punishment do the speakers suggest? b) Which punishment do you agree with? Do you disagree with any of them? Why?

47-3

READING
Pre-reading task
You will read three extracts from autobiographies written by Charlie Chaplin (the comedian), Muhammad Ali (the boxer) and Laurie Lee (the writer and poet).
Questions

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.
1

In which year did the events described take place? Do you get the impression that it was a happy childhood? How well-off was bis family? Was his upbringing in a town or in the country? Wbich members of his family does he mention? 'W'hatis bis attitude towards them? 'W'hatforms of transport does he mention? 'W'hatis the purpose of this reference? Are there any aspects of his childhood that you feel he would like to recreate? Summarize the theme of your extract in one phrase or sentence.
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London was sedate in those days. The tempo was sedate; even the horse--drawn tram-cars along Westminster Bridge Road went at asedate pace and tumed sedately on arevolving table at the terminal near the bridge. In Mother's prosperous days we also lived in Westminster Bridge Road. Its atmosphere was gay and friendly with attractive shops, restaurants and music halls. The fruit shop on the corner facing the Bridge was a galaxy of colour, with its neatly arranged pyramids of oranges, apples, pears and bananas outside, in contrast to the.solemn grey Houses of Parliarnent directly across the river. This was the London of my childhood, of my moods and awakenings: memories of Lambeth in the spring; of trivial incidents and things; of riding with Mother on top of a horse-bus trying to touch passing lilac-trees ~ of the many coloured bus tickets, orange, blue, pink and green, that bestrewed the pavement where the trams and busses stopped - of rubicund flower-girls at the corner of Westrninster Bridge, making gay boutonmeres, their adroit fingers manipulating tinse1and quivering fem - of the humid odour of freshly watered roses that affected me with a vague sadness - of melancholy Sundays and pale-faced parents and their children escorting toy windmills and coloured balloons over Westminster Bridge; and the rnaternal penny stearners that softly lowered their funnels as they glided under itoFrom such trivia I believe my soul was born,
2

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!...CC--

The last days of my childhood were also the last days of the village. I belonged to that generation which saw, by chance, the end of a thousand years' life. The change came late to our Cotswold valley, didn't really show itself tili the late 1920s; I was twelve by then, but during that handful of years I witnessed the whole thing happen. Myself, my family, my generation, were born in a world of silence; a world of hard work and necessary patience, of backs bent to the ground, hands massaging the crops, of waiting on weather and growth; of villages like shipsin the empty landscapes and the long walking distances between them; of white narrow roads, rutted by hooves and cart-wheels, innocent of oil or petrol, down which people passed rarely, and almost never for pleasure, and the horse was the fastest thing moving. Man and horse were all the power we had - abetted by levers and pulleys. But the horse was king, and almost everything grew around him: fodder, smithies, stables, paddocks, distances, and the rhythm of our days. His eight miles an hour was the limit of our movements, as it had been since the days of the Romans. That eight miles an hour was life and death, the size of our world, our prison. This was what we were born to, and all we knew at first. Then, to the scream of the horse, the change began. The brass-lamped motor-car came coughing up the road, followed by the clamorous charabanc; the solid-tyred bus climbed the dusty hills and more people came and went. Chickens and dogs were the ear1ysacrifices, falling demented beneath the wheels. The old folk, too, had strokes and seizures, faced by speeds beyond comprehension. 111enscarlet motor-bikes, the size of five-barred gates, began to appear in the village, on which our youths roared like rockets up the two-minute hill, then spent weeks making repairs and adjustments. 3 I remembet the summer of 1956, School was out, and my brother Rudy and I were roaming the streets all day and we'd come home hungry. My father was somewhere across town painting signs and we looked

~---

down the streets every few minutes hoping we'd see ~ird come with a bag of groceries, maybe hamburger l...V!.f:f1~__ ~ and hot dogs. Maybe, if she spent all her ~ chicken and potatoes. Usually she kept only enough for bus fare to go to work the next day for some white lady in the HigWands I never met. She' d get up early in the morning, walk four blocks to catch a bus, ride up where the white folks lived, dean house, dean toilets, cook food, take care of babies - all for four dollars a day. Sometimes she came home too tired to cook. There was seldom enough money for Rudy and me to have bus fare for school, not both of us at the same time, This is the real reason why I began to race the bus to schooI: But since my ambition was to be the \V'orld Heavyweight Champion, I could say I wasn't racing the bus because I didn't have any money, I was running to get in fight condition. We never owned a car that was less than ten years old, or even new tires for it. The neighbors could at least buy new tires. Daddy's tires kept blowing out. If we had gotten any money, it wouldn't have gone for cars ar tires. It would have been used to fix the house. The rain was coming in through the roof and walls; for four years the toi1et needed a new flush unit; for eight years the front porch had been falling apart. The construction man told Dad it would cost two hundred dollars to have it propped up temporari1y. That was too much, so we lived w-ith a front porch ready to fall any day. Most of the dothes we got came from Good \V'ill, including th~ secondhand shoes that cost maybe one or two dollars. My father had become an expert at cutting our cardboards and putting it in the bottoms. Now and then there would be a new shirt, and once I remember Daddy buying a cheap little suit forme to wear to church and Sunday Schoo1.

,Questions for discussio~

'-------------------_.- - 1. In your opinion, which extract: is most factual? !:? is most nostalgic?-L - most poetic? 1/ about change? Z. about memories? ;( _I- IS' -Oi a bout poverty. 1.. out oovertv? /.~- (/- o What is Muhammad Ali's father's'job? Who do you think Bird is? Can you guess the occupations of Laurel Lee's and Charlie Chaplin's parents? \X'hat does Laurie Lee mean bv the following? , ,'on.e . .::;"t"(L-.-i y., c~c."o<~t _11 .. _" tvQJe "'ne \j the end of a thousand year's life -h AO ,~C[t ~t;v . t he crops... Le ~ r, A/:ICJ, "..:/ 0,1-0' <"rops SC) + h't) <"l"~ eJ <>od "''''''rtL I\~T ,--,"TL """( ~_t~ " I han ds massagmg waiting on weather and growth 1--h ~ n.ecd ed 300d .,,;ce, f;-,,,, ( a OP( d (JIOwM \-0 t2:vc. and almost never for pleasure bcc,,!~ of d ,i,., '.0+ {:OI {..Mand more people came and went ... f'l?op& Sf-<:' (1:.J +o ~ov-.~'hich words tell us Laurie Lee's attitude to life before and after the arrival of the motor car? Use your imagination to saywhat you think were the sounds and the smells of the three men's chi1dhood.
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2. 3. , .. ... ... .. , ... 4.

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5.

Vocabulary
Find the words in the texts that mean the same or similar to the following: a. b. c. d. e. calm
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went smoothly

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f.
g.

h.
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speed -~fo free of mone~ worries OSf"-r00.s carefree :i'Olh unimportant tJ itl \ OQ V to scatter things about L--o ks {{6vJ (of complexion) ruddy handling cl. d (Oltband for decoration -!- ;tr0;.

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m. fingering, touching n. lined c.rof,s O o. helped ctbcfM p. food for horses -r:o&cIa ( q. blacksmith's workshop S'fI1ltC"eJ' r. enclosure for horses next to the stable s. nOlsy c CCtn1or('u..\ t. mad delric,ded

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shaking d.y,veJ'r/ taking, carrying