Anatomy of a Murder (14 page)

Read Anatomy of a Murder Online

Authors: Robert Traver

BOOK: Anatomy of a Murder
11.5Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“You're sure of that?”
“A woman does not mistake these things, Paul. I still ache from the man; I did not want him; I was … . Surely you understand all this … .”
“Go on,” I said, nodding.
“He was like a raging beast. I did not fight any more. In the first place I couldn't any longer; anyway it seemed better to have this awful nightmare over with. I lost all track of time. All I recall is that suddenly he wasn't at me, that Rover was back beside me, that the car was moving once again. I must have partly fainted. All I wanted then was to get away from this madman. It seemed as though he wanted to rend something; to tear it apart.”
“Did either of you speak? More than you have recounted, I mean?”
“No, no other words were spoken. Barney was breathing deeply, almost like a dying man, a hideous guttural noise between a sob and a moan. It was the eeriest sound I have ever heard and was in a way—this may sound terribly odd to you—one of the worst parts
of my experience. It was as though he was about to cry, to break down … .” She shook her head. “I still hear it at night.”
“Go on,” I said.
“Finally we were out on the main road. Then I saw we were again nearing the locked gate. I grabbed for the door and got it partly open at the same time that Barney grabbed for me. I couldn't get out. He wanted to take off my sweater … . Then he wanted me to totally undress. We'd try it that way, he said. He was like a madman, all the time plucking away trying to rip off my sweater. By this time the car had to stop or it would have hit the gate. I somehow again opened the car door and Rover leapt out. His flashlight was still burning. Barney still had hold of me. ‘He's going to kill me,' I thought. I suddenly gathered myself and somehow wrenched away from him and ran. I could see Rover with his light running furiously back and forth between an opening in the fence. I ran towards him, towards the light.”
“Did you get through the fence?”
“I don't really know. Barney was suddenly upon me. He tripped me and kicked me and then fell on me. Then he started hitting me with his fists, hard, all over my face and body, repeatedly. I swear he was trying to kill me. I felt myself fainting, I was nearly out. That was when I screamed. I screamed two or three times with all my might. Suddenly I discovered that I was alone, running, following Rover and his light, running towards our trailer. I tripped and fell and got up again—I don't know how many times—but always I kept running toward the light.”
“You saw no more of Barney?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “No. I never laid eyes on him again—alive or dead.”
“Go on,” I said.
“As I got to the door of our trailer Manny was just coming out. He seemed only half awake. He told me later he'd dreamed I was screaming and woke up. I fell into his arms.”
I looked at my watch. “Do you want a rest?” I said. “Maybe to smoke or walk the dog?” If she didn't, I did.
“No, no,” she said, and then she smiled. “But perhaps you do.”
“I think I'll take a five,” I said. “In the meantime you can collect your thoughts.”
“If you do this to me Manny will kill you,” Laura Manion had said. And she had been right; she had known her Manny and Barney hadn't. Barney had “done that” and Manny had had the guts, all right; he had marched out and killed Barney. The reaction had been as starkly primitive and elemental—yes, and as inevitable—as holding one's hand over an open fire: perforce the hand would be burned. If Manny had been insane that night then Barney himself must have been stark raving mad. In fact the certainty that something bad would happen to him if he raped Laura Manion cast the biggest doubt on her story. What in hell did Barney Quill
think
would happen to him if he did but half of what she claimed? Had the man been trying deliberately to destroy himself? Who was this guy Barney Quill? What was
his
trouble? I saw I still had lots and lots of work to do; that there were still many baffling questions in this weird case.
“Manny will kill you,” she had said. The fateful phrase buzzed like a gnat in my ears. And as the defense lawyer I didn't pretend to like it. But my hands were tied; there was nothing I could do about it; the fatal words had been uttered. I shook my head. Lawyers were something like actors, I reflected: their range was limited by the play; they had to take the script as they found it; they dared not change the words or tinker with the dialogue. When they did they became either ham actors, on the one hand, or else shysters. What Laura Manion had said was natural enough, Heaven knows, but I was sure that if I had been writing the script I would not have let her say what she had said. For one thing, in one breath didn't it take a lot of wind out of the sails of our insanity plea? Didn't this revealing warning she had given Barney tend rather to stamp the act as a deliberate killing done in a fit of murderous retribution and revenge, just as she had predicted? And had she told the police what she had told Barney? Perhaps even more important, had she told
Manny
what she had told Barney? Had she in effect suggested to her husband that he go out and dispatch the doomed and waiting Barney? Well, I would find out very soon.
“Laura,” I said, beside her in the car once again, “did you tell the police about warning Barney that Manny would kill him if—if he ‘molested' you, as our family newspapers love to call rape?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I told the police everything that happened,
everything I could recall that was said and done. Wasn't that all right?”
“Yes, of course.” I proceeded calmly. There was no use in my uselessly scaring her. “And did you also tell Manny what you'd told Barney?” I held my breath as I awaited her answer.
“Yes, he was the first one I told,” she replied.
My heart sank. This could be a serious development in the case, not only marring the effectiveness before a jury of our claim of insanity but possibly the even more important question of whether a reputable psychiatrist would now ever find insanity at all, in view of it. Well, I had better get all the bad news at once.
“And did you also tell the police that you had already told Manny?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied, and my spirits sank even lower. “I told Manny about it on the way driving in to the jail. The officers undoubtedly heard me and anyway I told them again later.”
My spirits soared and I could almost—but not quite—have hugged her. “You mean,” I said, “that the
first
time you told Manny was
after
the shooting?—not before?”
My mounting concern and sudden relief had been totally lost on Laura. “Why, yes. I never thought of telling him before,” she replied easily. “I guess I was afraid, too, that Manny would do just what he did do. I knew the man … . Anyway, things happened so fast … .”
“What were you wearing that night?” I said, veering abruptly away from this troublesome subject. “Were you dressed as you are now?” Looking again, I was somehow hopeful she wasn't. But then, hadn't she already mentioned wearing a sweater?
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I had on a sweater, one very much like this”—I winced inwardly—“and a skirt and a slip and panties.”
“Any girdle?” I inquired hopefully.
“Heaven's no,” she said. “I never wear the things.”
“These … panties that Barney tore off—who has them now? The police?”
“I've never seen them since. We gave the ripped skirt to the police. The next day the police drove me and Rover in to the spot—they apparently determined it by some fresh tire bums nearby on the grass where Barney had evidently turned around, and also by the way poor Rover whined and carried on at that place” (she reached over and affectionately patted the dog as she spoke), “but they never found my panties though they scoured the woods all around
the place. All they found were my glasses—still intact, thank goodness.”
“Glasses?” I said. “You mean to tell me you were wearing glasses through all this?”
“No, not wearing but carrying them in their case. I'd been holding them in my hand and in the struggle with Barney when I first tried to get out of the car I must have dropped them.”
“Why aren't you wearing them now?” I said.
“Well, right now I'm afraid I still need my dark glasses.” She laughed her rich chuckling laugh. “Anyway I only use them for reading or anything close up. I had used them to play pinball that night.” She again laughed. “I'm surely glad they found them—I can't even read a headline without my glasses.”
“Glasses!” I mused. Another small score for our side. It was going to be hard at best, I saw, to tone down this concupiscent-looking creature, but I would have to make the try. However she might despise wearing a girdle she was damned well going to have to wear one at the trial. I'd have to remember to tell her.
“I seem to recall that you or your husband mentioned something about moving your trailer,” I said. “What was all that about?”
“I've moved our trailer from the tourist park in Thunder Bay down to a small private trailer lot in Iron Bay,” she said. “First of all, I wanted to get away from that—that place”—she paused—“and also get away from the tourists and curiosity seekers. Ever since that night they have surrounded the place, almost day and night, it seemed, as though I were some kind of two-headed monster. I was in a state of siege. Every time I dared go out the door, there they were, owlishly staring at me or boldly asking that Rover and I pose for their cameras. Some were even bold enough to want to discuss the details of the case with me. I've never seen such an exhibition of morbid prying curiosity.” She shook her head.
“The price of fame, madam,” I said. “But you haven't seen anything yet. Just wait till the trial. You will discover that morbid curiosity is not confined solely to tourists. It's the nature of the human beast, I'm afraid.”
“You—you think the trial will be crowded?” she inquired anxiously.
“Solidly,” I said. “The case has everything. Rape, murder. Even a little dog.” But I saw the look of “courtroom fright” overtaking her again so I swiftly changed the subject. “Did you tell the police substantially the same story you have told me, up to now?”
She nodded. “Yes, practically the same.” She shrugged and laughed. “I had to. That's the way it was.”
“Well,” I said. “You have told it very well, well and effectively. It has the ring of truth. I only hope you can do as well in court.”
“Thank you, Paul,” she said. “I'll certainly try.”
“There's one more thing—an important thing.”
“What's that?” she said.
“You understand of course that when we're in court during the trial the prosecutor will get to question you when I am done?”
“Yes, I supposed that he would. They always do in the movies, don't they? Wagging their fingers and all?”
“Well, he may try to shake your story, or confuse you, or try to bring out things that we might not ourselves particularly like to bring out. I cannot now predict what they might be. But do you follow me?”
She nodded.
“What I want to impress upon you,” I continued, “is to at all times tell the truth. I think that so far you have been, but Mitch—I mean the prosecutor—may try to draw things from you, possibly new things, that in your natural confusion or desire to help you may feel are better to hide or soft-pedal—or even to lie about.” I paused. “Don't do it. When in doubt tell the truth. It's the best little confounder of clever cross-examination in the business. I know whereof I speak. Now I'll try to keep Mitch from roaming too far afield, but the latitude allowed in cross-examination can be deadly and Mitch may nevertheless try to give you a bad time.”
Laura shook her head. “Why should he try to do that to me? And he looks so open and frank—so nice and kindly, too.”
“He may try it to shake or cast doubt on your story of the rape. The brutal fact of this rape is his big problem in this case and he will know it. Don't you see, Laura, if he can keep pecking away at you and lower your guard and get you to tell some silly little untruth on some minor point, and then later in rebuttal or in some other way demonstrate that little lie of yours to the jury—if he can do that, then maybe he can cast a doubt on our big truth—the bitter and otherwise unescapable truth of the rape. Don't you see? It's one of the oldest tricks in the law.”
“Yes, I see, Paul. But why should he try to shake my story on the rape? He already
knows
that I told the truth—he has his own lie-detector test to tell him that.”
I laughed, a little cynically, I'm afraid. “Dear woman,” I said, “a
lawyer in court trying to win a big case is like a newspaper man sitting on top of a big scoop—he's not to be trusted. Never. At such times a lawyer would betray his own grandmother. So help me, I've done it myself. In fact I used to be quite a little bearcat at the business.”
She shook her head. “How utterly sordid,” she said. “I—I thought the law was above that … . How can a lawyer possibly try to twist and pervert what he already knows to be the truth?”
“We lawyers quickly develop a protective scar tissue to take care of that,” I said. “It's all rather simple. It is our lofty conviction, hugged so dearly to our hearts, that our cause is basically just and right and that those on the other side are just a pack of lying and guilty knaves.” I shook my head. “It's merely the same old dilemma of man in a new guise: that supposed noble ends can ever justify shabby means. Mitch will tell himself—and with considerable force —that even if Barney
did
rape you, it gave Manny no legal justification to kill him. So the man must be guilty. From there it's only a small jump, a mere breeze, to convincing himself that the ultimate truth or falsity of the rape doesn't really matter. Don't you see?”
“I'm afraid I do,” Laura Manion said, nevertheless shaking her head dubiously.
I was growing afraid that I had told her too much too early and had maybe built up in her what lawyers call “court fright,” the legal version of mike fright or camera jitters in the amiable world of radio and television. But it had to be done; it would be no easier if I sprung it on her just before the trial; and this way she could perhaps at least have time to ponder and learn to live with her burden.
“Don't let the prospect get you down, Laura,” I said. “All you have to do is open those big eyes of yours wide and tell the truth. I can see that comes naturally to you anyway, and here we must make sure that nobody tells any small untruths so that we can protect our big truth. I hope I can cuff the prosecution all over the lot with
that
. So let's not weaken our rape story to gain any small temporary triumphs.” It was refreshing, I reflected, that legal strategy and the truth could occasionally walk gaily hand in hand.
“Thank you, Paul,” she said, touching my arm briefly. “I'll open my eyes real wide and just let the truth flow out.” She paused and smiled. “You really want to win this case, don't you?”
“Didn't you know, madam,” I said, laughing, “that I too am convinced
of the justice and right of our cause? The prosecution is nothing but a pack of lying scoundrels. You see, it's an occupational disease of us lawyers.” I glanced at my watch. It was nearing the lunch hour. And I could see Mister Cool padding restlessly up and down his cell, peering anxiously out of his sooty window, drilling my back with his smoldering dark eyes.
“Speaking of your big wide eyes,” I continued, “I want you to go find a photographer today and have your black eyes photographed in all their glory. And all your bruises, too. They've faded out some even since yesterday. To make sure have him take at least two shots of each pose. When this thing's all over, I'll give you a set to place among your souvenirs. Better go to Tom Bennett; I'll phone him first. I don't want him playing up your bruises—they scarcely need that—but I also don't want him to go artistic on us and play them down. As a class these picture men have a weakness that way; they seem to want to make everyone come out looking like week-old albino rabbits. I'm a Mathew Brady man myself. And don't you go and try to look glamorous.” I got out of the car. “Then come back over here when you're done. I want to hear the rest of your story.”

Other books

First Comes Marriage by Mary Balogh
Highland Honor by Hannah Howell
The Berlin Connection by Johannes Mario Simmel
Widows' Watch by Nancy Herndon
Storm of the Century by Stephen King
The Golden Gypsy by Sally James
The Rebel’s Daughter by Anita Seymour
Brown Skin Blue by Belinda Jeffrey