On the evidence of the witness who inhabited the flat beneath the defendant's the judge had no hesitation but to refer the defendant for psychiatric evaluation. The charges of malicious damage to property and disturbing the peace were dropped on compassionate grounds.
The judge had reached the decision after questioning the witness thoroughly and allowing his tape recording of the events leading to the arrest to be admitted as evidence.
Judge: Had you ever spoken to the defendant?
Witness: No, I just saw him on the stairs occasionally and often at church on Sundays. I thought he was a good man.
Judge: So, you say it was the raised voices coming from the flat above that drove you to finally fetch the police.
Witness: He played a lot of Wagner too, real loud... but it was mostly the voices that done my head in. They went on day and night, two men and a woman... always angry, quarrelling. I am an old man... I began to get afraid. I mean I had no idea who was up there. I told the landlord but he took no action. So I decided to record the rumpus in case I needed evidence.
Judge: And the night in question when you phoned the police...
Witness: Yes. Everything went ballistic. Furniture, books, all sorts of things were being hurled out his window, sounds of things smashing, lots of shouting and roaring... awful bloody racket... I had no choice. People in the street were running for their lives.
The Judge then played the tape recording:
Voice 1: Look at the state of this flat! Why don't you clean it up for crying out loud. What if you were to have visitors?
Voice 2: I don't get any visitors.
Voice 1: You should have stayed where you were, four meals a day, your own rooms, a maid,... you wanted for nothing, Patrick. And the best of company too.
Voice 2. I was sick listening to those old, dead farts. All they ever talked about was sex and money.
Voice 3: Yea, now look at you. You call this freedom? You grow a beard because you can't even be bothered shaving. You feed off canned beans and crisps. You are living in a pigsty! Why don't you try to be a man for chrissakes!
Voice 2: Leave me alone!
Voice 1: Wash the dishes.
Voice 2: You wash them!
Voice 1: May God forgive you for talking to me like that!
Voice 2: Better still.. let Him wash them! They're His dishes aren't they? He made them. Let Him wash them! What's it got to do with me?
Voice 3: It's all such a sinful waste, in my opinion. If only I'd had the chance you had... You were a brilliant scholar, brains to burn. You could have taught at Oxford.
Voice 2: That's right. Brains to burn... and now I'm burning them... if you would shuttafuck up preaching at me.
Voice 1: Language, Patrick...
Voice 2: Fuckfuckfuck..fuckityfuck... there! And double treble fuck! Aaaaaaaahhhhhh!
Voice 3: Now you are a big man, are you? Why have you quit going to church?
Voice 2: I'm never going there again! Never!
Voice 1: Gone the whole nine yards have we?
Voice 2: Same bloody thing over and over and over as if God couldn't manage a day without them. Hocus pocus is what it is. I will burn the joint down one of these days and blame it on the Muslims.
Voice 1: You can't do that Patrick!
Voice 2: Why not?
Voice 3: You are the parish priest.
(Sounds of breaking glass, shouting and furniture being smashed.)
After a course of electro-convulsive therapy Fr. Patrick is reported to be doing well and is at peace with himself.
He is blessed with four square meals a day once more... and has somebody to clean his room. And his mum and dad visit him every Sunday after church... without fail.