Autobiography

sitting in the public area of the local court. The
big question now was whether the prisoner was
going to be charged with murder,
manslaughter or killing in self-defence. I was
sure in my own mind from what I had seen
that it wasn’t murder. But was it
self defence or was it manslaughter? I really
didn’t know.
There he was, sitting in the dock no longer
looking like a tramp. He was now clean-shaven
with clean bandages on his stump, staring into
space. The clerk of the court stood up, looked
at him and said, ‘You have been charged with
…’
‘Please, please, not murder,’ I was whispering
to myself.
If it was murder I knew I would have to
ultimately own up and tell what I had
witnessed; facing the consequences in my
personal life of being in an apartment that I
really shouldn’t have been in. I could not let
this man be charged with murder, get
sentenced to death – still the penalty for
murder at that time – and do nothing. My
hands were sweating.
I felt sick.
‘… the murder of Kenneth Cunningham. How
do you plead?’ The reply was hardly audible.
‘Guilty.’
No, no, surely not! There were gasps around
the courtroom. A man who I assume was his
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