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long explanation of his position. The New Zealand Government needed to ship its aliens to other shores, so that it would be a country fit for white settlement . . . Upwards of 100,000 people were dependent upon the Asiatic alien for staple food products . . . The enemy was tampering with the food supplies, polluting the source from which the country derived its strength . . .
    Donald tried to concentrate. He’d always enjoyed Terry’s speeches, but this time his mind started to drift. Terry’s short statement was full of polysyllabic words and contorted legal statements. It was too long.
    â€˜I did murder one Chinaman, presumably Joe Kum-yung,’ Terry was saying, ‘but the murder was committed to test the law relating to the protection of aliens . . .’
    Donald examined the Chief Justice’s face. How would he interpret this? At least, as a fellow member of the Anti-Chinese League, His Honour hated the Chinese too.
    â€˜As it is naturally impossible for people of two distinct races to possess the same characteristics, therefore it is equally impossible for the laws of the people of one race to govern those of another.’
    Well, well, well . . . Donald stabbed his pad with his pencil.
    â€˜As the laws representing one race cannot be applied to people of another race, therefore it is unlawful for people of two or more distinct races to dwell together in the same country.’
    Mmmmm . . .
    â€˜Therefore, there cannot be a law according protection to or in any way recognising the presence of unnaturalised race aliens in British possessions.
    â€˜In reply to the charge that I killed this alien,’ Terry paused, looked at Donald, the jury, ‘the Chinaman, being a race alien, is not a man within the meaning of the statute.’
    Donald closed his eyes. Opened them again. There were few men he’d met who could match Terry’s charisma or indeed his powers of rhetoric. Of course he agreed that decisive action was required. But the audacity of the man!
    As the Chief Justice summed up, Donald gripped his pencil. The law applied to every human being in New Zealand, His Honour said. There was no answer to the charge.
    God! Here was the Chief Justice, fellow hater of the Asiatic element, having to protect Chinamen!
    The only possible question, His Honour said, was whether the prisoner knew the nature of his act and was responsible for his actions. Donald’s knuckles, his fingers, turned white. There was no evidence of mental aberration, the Chief Justice continued, and the prisoner himself plainly contradicted it. He paused, surveyed the courtroom. Therefore, it was the duty of the jury to find the prisoner guilty.
    Donald wanted to jump up and shout, ‘This is an honourable man. You know that, Your Honour. You agree with his position. I’ve seen you at the meetings . . . He’s a Briton. A gentleman . . . Perhaps a little misguided . . .’ Why the devil had Terry denied any mental incapacity? Surely it could have been sunstroke? Why did he refuse counsel?
    Terry caught Donald’s eye as he was led away, head held high, emotionless.
    The jury retired. Donald sighed and took out his pocket-watch. Seven minutes to one. He stood up and glanced at the gallery, at the crowd of spectators. There, behind that woman with the outrageous hat, the grapes and the pineapples and the fiddly blue ribbons – damn it, if he’d had to sit behind her, he would have given her an earful – as she moved, behind her, suddenly he saw Robbie. The boy was wagging again, but for once Donald didn’t mind. He would have done the same himself, had he been in his shoes.
    He went out into the breezy blue-eyed day, lit a cigarette and walked from Stout Street into Whitmore, from Ballance into Lambton Quay and back to the main entrance on Stout. He took a piss, then hurried back towards the courtroom.
    The jury returned at 1.25