“Yes, sir. I’m a hundred and one. Whatever you give me.”
“Nothing at all in your own defence?”
“No, Your Honour.”
I stood up at the back.
“Your Honour — please. You can’t send this man to prison.”
“Madam, sit down or I will have you removed.”
I would not.
“I’ve lived next door to him thirty years. I know why he was taking those things.”
Bertie turned round. “Eunice. You promised.”
“I know, love. I can’t let you go to jail for it.”
I said to the judge: “He made me promise never to tell anybody what I saw. I’ve kept it months. I can’t do it any more.”
Then I got the paper out of my bag.
ITEM 1. THE LIST.
One sheet, from the pad he keeps by his telephone, folded into four.
In his writing, which has been going for about two years and which slopes down the page now.
