Berlin, 18th November 1929
KURT Deschler took his time before asking Dieter Färber his first question. “Herr Färber, it must have been a terrible shock finding your parents in their home in that manner.”
Färber agreed that it had been terrible, and that it was something which would stay with him for the rest of his life. Deschler declared his deepest sympathy for him and continued with his questions.
“You lived with your parents, Herr Färber?”
“Yes.”
Deschler frowned and pointed to one of Meyer’s piles of papers, which Meyer diligently handed to Deschler.
“But I have it here,” said Deschler, pointing to the top paper, “that you were married two and a half years ago. Is this not the case?”
Färber looked confused and, in an embarrassed voice, admitted that he was married but that his wife had left him.
“What is your profession, Herr Färber?”
“I work in the meat factory, bringing in the carcasses from the wagons.”
Deschler nodded.
“That would explain your powerful frame, Herr Färber.”
“You need to be strong to carry in that meat.”
“Your father was also of a strong build, was he not? Being in the same trade,” asked Deschler.
“That is correct,” replied Färber. “Even though he was twenty years my senior, he was a very fit and strong man.”
“So it would have taken a particularly strong man to have been able to...” Deschler made a show of searching for the correct words. “Disable him?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Perhaps not someone with a withered arm?”
“We have already heard from you about that dreadful moment in your parents' house, and I do not wish for you to have to relive it, but can you explain to me when you saw the defendant?”
Färber looked up to the vaulted ceiling and closed his eyes in thought.
“It was as I was about to leave the house. He was at the front door, opening it to escape. I tried to shout but I am ashamed to say that nothing came out.”
“Did the defendant see you?”
“I don’t think so, but he left very quickly.”
Deschler pointed to one of Meyer’s piles of papers. Meyer handed it over. Deschler picked one paper out and handed the rest back to Meyer.
“I have here the description of the defendant that you gave the police. Let me read this to you. ‘A Gypsy with black hair, pulled back into a ponytail. A black moustache, bushy eyebrows above brown eyes, a long nose, pierced ears and swarthy skin. He wore a black leather waistcoat, a patterned kerchief around his neck, a red shirt and black trousers’.”
Deschler handed the paper back to Meyer.
“That is a very convincing description of Herr Weide, don’t you think, Herr Färber?”
“Yes, it is. It is what I saw.”
“But you didn’t mention Herr Weide’s withered arm.”
“I didn’t notice it at the time. He was escaping through the door. It was all so fast.”
“Can I ask you, how did you know he was a Gypsy?”
Färber looked over at the jury and back to Deschler again.
“Well, I suppose I just guessed. He looked like a Gypsy.”
“Yes Herr Färber, your description is an excellent one of a Gypsy. Actually, a very typical description of a very typical Gypsy. How did you know he had a moustache and brown eyes?”
Färber looked puzzled.
“I am sorry, I don’t understand what you mean.”
Deschler’s smile had entirely gone now.
“How did you know what Herr Weide’s facial features were when you were not even certain if he had seen you? Herr Weide would have to be facing you for you to have seen the colour of his eyes.”
“Perhaps he did see me, it doesn’t really matter, does it? He was hurrying to get out of the house,” replied Färber.
“Oh yes, Herr Färber. It does matter. In fact, this whole case rests not on whether you saw someone running from your house, but whether they saw you. For you to be able to determine the colour of someone’s eyes, or the type of eyebrows, or the length of nose, then that person needs to be facing you, with their eyes open. You said that you were ‘unsure’ if he had seen you, but to be able to give such a detailed description you must have been staring into each other’s faces. Would you not agree, Herr Färber?”
Färber began to stumble over his words as he said that he did not know.
“In fact, Herr Färber, I suggest to you that you did not see Herr Weide in your parents' home. I suggest that there was no break-in on that day. I suggest, Herr Färber, that in fact it was you that required the money from your parents to cover gambling debts. The very same gambling debts which had only recently meant the loss of your home and, subsequently the loss of your wife. You chose a Gypsy to blame this crime on, but unfortunately for you, the police found a man fitting your schoolboy description of one; Herr Weide, thereby requiring a trial and full investigation...”
Fuhrmann the prosecutor jumped to his feet and exclaimed, “Your Honour, Herr Färber is not on trial, he is as much a victim as his poor departed parents.”
Deschler continued to talk through the interruption, his voice rising above both Furhmann’s and the judge’s.
“It would have been much better that this go as an unsolved crime, especially at this time of uncertainty while the police have much more on their plates with communists and fascists fighting in the streets!”
Finally, Judge Koehler’s voice rose above the melee.
“Herr Deschler! You will desist! Herr Färber is not on trial; this is conjecture on your part!”
Deschler apologised and sat down, while Judge Koehler indicated to the jury that they should ignore the last few statements from Deschler and asked the stenographer to strike them from the record. But the damage was done. Meyer was in awe of Deschler’s ability to manipulate the witness and the jury, twisting the story to fit his needs. He had given the jury everything that he had told Meyer they required, even an alternative suspect.
Once everything had calmed down again in the courtroom, Judge Koehler asked Deschler if he had any more questions. Deschler pushed himself back up on his stick.
“No more questions, your Honour, and no more witnesses. The defence rests.”
Fuhrmann did not follow with any questions. Meyer looked over at the prosecution bench to see Fuhrmann sitting back in his chair, flicking through the contents of a cardboard folder. Meyer was sure that Deschler had won the case and had expected to see the prosecutor furious, especially with that final ambush at the very end of the trial, but he seemed serene, possibly even resigned to the loss of the case.
Meyer sat back in his chair as if winded by a blow to the stomach. He turned his head to see Deschler’s reaction and was surprised to see calm placidity across his face. Meyer could not understand how Deschler was able to accept the verdict.
The jury had been out for two hours before returning with a majority verdict which found Prala Weide guilty of the murder of Herr and Frau Färber but not guilty of theft. The judge read out the verdict of the jury and then dismissed the court to be reconvened in four weeks’ time, at which point he would give sentence.
Prala Weide’s face had not changed when the verdict was read out. It was as if he was not in the least surprised to be found guilty. Even with Herr Deschler’s defence, which Meyer had thought was masterful, even though Herr Deschler had shown that there was no real evidence against him and had provided the jury with a possible alternative suspect, he did not seem surprised.
“I don’t understand,” said Meyer, quietly, as the court rose and Judge Koehler left the courtroom.
“What don’t you understand?” It was Deschler. Meyer had not realised that he had spoken out loud.
“I thought we were certain of winning,” he replied.
Deschler’s normally stern look softened.
He had noted Meyer’s use of the word ‘we’ when talking about the loss of the case. Not ‘you’ but ‘we’.
“Help me pack up and carry these papers back to the office,” said Deschler. “You say you don’t understand the verdict? It is quite simple. We didn’t have much of a chance of winning this case, right from the beginning.”
Meyer started collecting the piles of papers and returning them to their cardboard boxes.
“What do you mean, Herr Deschler? How is it possible that we didn’t have a chance from the very beginning?”
“It is very simple, Herr Meyer. Our client is a Gypsy. The victims were from an old Berlin family as, of course, is their son. Our jury is made up of middle class Berliners. Who should they find guilty? Even if they suspect that Dieter Färber may actually have killed his parents, they would never find him guilty if the alternative is a Gypsy. Unfortunately for Prala Weide, he is a ready-made suspect, a ready-made scapegoat.”
Meyer piled two boxes on top of one another. “Then what is the point, Herr Deschler? If we can’t make a difference to the outcome of a case because of the inherent prejudice of a jury, then why do we even try?”
Deschler placed another box on top of the two that Meyer was already holding. “Because, Herr Meyer, without all of this,” he said, gesturing at the courtroom around him. “There would only be the mob. The mob dragging the first person to be accused to the nearest lamp-post and hanging them there, without any recourse, any investigation, or any attempt at justice. In Germany, we don’t hang people from lamp posts, we don’t arrest and send people to prison without first having evidence and a trial. When that happens in any civilised society, then that society has become corrupt.
“So, Herr Meyer, even with the prejudices of a German jury to contend with, we are in a much fairer society than most. And we do win. This was always going to be a difficult case, but do not lose heart, I have won such cases before and Prala Weide will be able to appeal. He may be going to prison today, but at least he will not be losing his life.”
Meyer nodded, but he felt that he had so many questions to ask Deschler, so much to learn about this career that he had chosen. He had not expected to be on the losing side that day, and he was surprised by Deschler’s attitude to the loss. For a man whose temper was never far from the surface, Deschler had been incredibly calm at the result.
Meyer followed Deschler out of the courtroom, being careful not to drop or spill the contents of his boxes.