My Autobiography by Charles Chaplin (most read book in the world TXT) 📕

there was a panel of twenty-four to choose from, each side having the right to object to six of them in order to select a jury of twelve. Members of the jury are interrogated and under terrific scrutiny from both sides. The procedure is that the judge and the attorneys question a juror as to his qualifications for judging the case without bias, with such questions as: has he read the papers, has he been influenced by them or acquired any prejudice as a result of reading them, and does he know any person connected with the case? This was a cynical procedure, I thought, since ninety per cent of the Press had been piling up antagonism against me for fourteen months. The questioning of a potential juror takes about half an hour, in which time both prosecution and defence attorneys send their investigators scurrying to get information about him. As each potential juror was called, Giesler made notes and slipped them to his investigators, who immediately disappeared. Ten minutes later the investigator would return and slip Giesler a note with the information: John Dokes, clerk in haberdashery store, wife, two children, never goes to movies.’ ‘We’ll keep him for a while,’ whispered Giesler. And so the selecting went on, each side dismissing or accepting a juryman, the Federal Attorney conferring in whispers with his investigators; every once in a while Tippy Gray would look over at me with his usual smile.

After eight of the jury had been chosen, a woman entered the jury-box. Immediately Giesler said: ‘I don’t like her.’ He kept repeating: ‘I don’t like her – there’s something about her I don’t like.’ As she was still being questioned Giesler’s investigator handed him a note. ‘Just as I thought,’ he whispered after reading it; ‘she has been a reporter on the Los Angeles Times! We must get rid of her! Besides, the other side accepted her too quickly.’ I tried to study her face, but I could not see very well, so I reached for my glasses. Giesler quickly grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t put on your glasses,’ he whispered. I got the impression that she was immersed in herself, but without my glasses it was all indistinct. ‘Unfortunately,’ said Giesler, ‘we have only two objections left, so we had better hold her for the time being.’ But as the selecting went on he had to use up our last two objections on two who were obviously prejudiced against me, and he was forced to accept the lady reporter.

Listening to the legal abracadabra of both attorneys, it seemed to me a game they were playing and that I had little to do with it. And in spite of the absurdity of the charges there lurked in the back of my mind the possibility that I might be railroaded – but I could never quite believe it. And occasionally I had a thought about the future of my career, but now that was chaotic, remote. I put it out of my mind – I could think of only one thing at a time.

As with all trouble, one cannot be consistently serious about it. I remember at one time the court was having a recess to discuss a legal point. The jury had left, the attorneys and judge had retired to an ante-chamber, while the audience, a photographer and I were left in the courtroom. He was waiting to catch me in an off-beat pose. As I put on my glasses to read, he snatched up his camera and I snatched off my glasses. This got a laugh from those left in the courtroom. When he put down his camera, I put on my glasses again. It was a game of cat and mouse, played good-naturedly, he snatching up his camera and I snatching off my glasses – and the audience enjoyed it. When the court reassembled, of course, I took them off and assumed my serious demeanour.

The trial went on for several days. Because it was a Federal case, Mr Paul Getty, Joan Barry’s friend, was forced to appear as a witness, as well as two young Germans and others. Paul Getty had to admit to his friendship with Joan Barry in the past and that he had also given her money. But what was important were those letters she had written to me, apologizing for all the trouble she had caused and thanking me for my kindness and generosity. Although Giesler tried to put these letters in as evidence, the court objected. But I did not think Giesler was insistent enough.

Evidence came out in the trial that on one of the nights before she broke into my house, she actually slept all night in the apartment of a young German, who on the witness stand was forced to admit it.

Being the centre of all these sordid facts was like being put into public stocks. But the moment I left the courtroom all was forgotten and after a quiet dinner with Oona I would fall into bed exhausted.

Besides the tension and worry of the trial, there was the boring routine of getting up at seven in the morning, then having to leave immediately after breakfast because it was an hour’s drive through Los Angeles traffic, and to be strictly on time, ten minutes before the court opened.

At last the trial came to an end. Each attorney agreed to two and a half hours in summing up. I had not the faintest idea what they could talk about for all that time. To me it was all clear, cut and dried: the government case had collapsed. And of course the possibility of facing twenty years if I were found guilty on all counts never entered my mind. The judge’s summing-up I thought could have been less vague. I tried to see what impression it was making on the lady of the Times, but her face was averted. When the jury was sent out to deliberate she filed out of court,