Broken (22 page)

The next morning the courtroom was packed. Tom Simon had gone to a great deal of trouble to make himself look good. He wore a blue suit and his maroon silk tie, contrasted nicely with his tan shirt. Ivan, on the other hand, dressed in his usual gray pinstripe, his jacket hanging loosely from his broad shoulders and the sleeves a smidgen too short.

The jury stumbled around each other in an effort to claim the same seats they had occupied the previous day. The court officer told them that from now on they were to form an appropriate line so that their entrance into the courtroom would be more orderly.

Anna Mae’s beige dress was wrinkled and she had dark circles under her eyes. Back in her cell, a kindly matron had attempted to cover them with makeup. It helped some, but not enough. With her trembling hands clutched under the table she looked at District Attorney Tom Simon. The judge told him to call his first witness.

Jake Jeffrey, a large man with big teeth and no neck, walked to the stand. His tweed jacket, at least one size too small, pulled tightly across his back and wouldn’t button in front. As he was sworn in, he stood as erect as his beer belly would allow and pursed his lips in a self-important smirk that caused Tom Simon to cringe and Ivan Hammerstein to gloat.

After Jeffrey was sworn in and seated, he answered the usual preliminaries, including the fact that he was a bus driver for the Pittsburgh Port Authority.

“Do you remember the defendant boarding your bus last October 14th at approximately 1:05 P.M.?”

“Yes.”

“And what, if anything, did you notice about the defendant?”

“She seemed mad.”

“Mad as in ‘angry?’” Simon looked at the jury.

“Yes.”

“And who did she seem to be mad at?” Simon asked, still looking at the jury.

“Objection,” said Hammerstein. “The witness is stating the defendant’s mood as though it were a fact. Unless he had a definite way of knowing how she felt, this testimony is bogus.”

“The witness, “Simon countered, “said Anna Mae appeared to be mad. He didn’t say it was a certainty.”

“I’ll allow it,” said the judge, then looked hard at Simon. “But make sure your witness understands he is only to testify to what he knows, not what he thinks he knows.”

Simon turned back to his witness. “So what made you think she was angry?”

Jake Jeffery shrugged his massive shoulders.

“Excuse me?”

Jeffery looked at his shoes.

“Answer the question,” said the judge.

He looked up and said, “I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?” asked Simon.

“What you said. I mean that she was mad,” said Jeffery shifting his enormous bulk in the witness chair.

“Was her face red?”

“No.”

“Did she say something to one of the other passengers? Could you hear it in her voice?”

“I ah—no.”

“But when she boarded the bus she was angry.”

“Yes.”

“So whatever made her angry had to have happened before she got on your bus.”

“Yes.”

“You were sure she was angry because you could see it on her face?”

“Objection! This ‘angry’ crap is becoming redundant!”

“Sustained,” Judge Wittier snapped. “Get on with it!”

“What happened when Anna Mae McBride got off the bus?” Simon asked.

Jeffery frowned, “Who?”

Laughter erupted in the courtroom. Wittier slammed his gavel and Simon rephrased the question. “What happened when the defendant,” Simon indicated Anna Mae with a wave of his hand. “What happened when she got off the bus?”

Jeffery leaned into the microphone. “She forgot to pay.”

“Do you know why she forgot to pay?”

“Objection!” said Ivan standing. “This witness could not possibly know if the defendant was angry and he sure as hell couldn’t know why she forgot to pay.”

“Sustained,” said the judge. “And watch your language.”

“What was Anna Mae’s—the defendant’s attitude when you called her back to pay. You did call her back, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did, sir. The Port Authority can’t afford to...”

“Just answer the question,” Simon snapped. And before Jeffrey could forget the question, Simon asked it again. “What was the defendant’s attitude when you called her back to pay?”

“She seemed angry about something.”

Ivan Hammerstein dropped his head on the defense table as though he had passed out. Tom Simon said, “Thank you! No more questions,” and walked back to the prosecution table.

Hammerstein, his head still on the defense table, looked at Anna Mae and said, “Watch this.” He then stood up and walked over to the witness who fidgeted nervously. Ivan, thoughtfully massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, said, “You stated that when Anna Mae McBride boarded your bus she appeared angry?”

“Yes.” Jeffery’s self-important smirk had dissolved into perspiration.

“When was that?”

“Excuse me?”

“When did Anna Mae McBride get on your bus?”

The bus driver looked desperately at Tom Simon.

“You don’t know the exact day?”

“I can’t remember the exact day.”

“But you do remember that she seemed angry.”

“Yes.”

“How many people who get on your bus seem angry?”

Jeffery shrugged his shoulders.

“How many?”

Jeffery was silent.

“Answer the question,” said Judge Wittier.

“I don’t know how many people are angry when they get on the bus!” Jeffery stared at the lock of black hair hanging over the tall defense attorney’s forehead. “I have to watch the traffic! A good bus driver always keeps his eyes on the road!”

“That’s very commendable,” said Ivan, then waited until Jeffery squared his shoulders and smiled at the jury. “How many people forget to pay their fare?”

Jeffery looked back at Ivan. “I don’t know.”

“How many people who forget to pay their fare are just thinking about something else, maybe even something pleasant?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you mean that you don’t know what they’re thinking about?”

“No. I mean. I don’t know.”

“So you really don’t know what they’re feeling. Is that correct?”

“Objection,” shouted Simon. “He’s trying to confuse the witness.

“Overruled,” said Wittier with a slight smile.

“You are an intelligent man, Mr. Jeffery,” Ivan said. “You have to take some pretty difficult tests in order to qualify for a position with the Port Authority, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And it is possible that the defendant forgot to pay her fare because she was in deep thought, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s possible,” said Jeffery.

Hammerstein brushed the hair off his forehead. “No more questions.”

It was noon. Judge Wittier called for a lunch break. Forty-five minutes later the jury filed back into the courtroom in an orderly manner. The next witness was sworn in.

“Please state your name,” said the bailiff.

“JD.”

“Your full name.”

“Jeremiah Dakin Jones.”

The bailiff held out the Bible. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.”

“You may be seated.”

In one sweep, JD propped his crutches against the Judge’s bench and swiveled himself into the witness chair. Tom Simon approached him.

“Jeremiah Dakin,” said Simon, smiling. “An unusual name.”

JD didn’t answer. He looked around for the black District Attorney, Lester Young, who had talked to him a month before. Young had been easy to talk to and JD had talked freely, feeling he could rely on Lester Young not to twist what he said. JD looked at Tom Simon. He saw coldness, and malice in those eyes.

“Jeremiah,” Simon began, “may I call you JD?”

“Mr. Jones,” said JD.

“Pardon me?”

“I said, call me Mr. Jones.”

Simon bristled. “Mr. Jones. What is your relationship to the defendant?”

“We’re friends,” said JD.

“Before we get into the friendship, I’d like to ask you a few questions about yourself.”

“Shoot!”

“If I’m not being too personal, Mr. Jones, would you tell the jury how you acquired your tragic disability?”

“Some crazy doctor cut off my leg.”

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Jones that you were fighting for our country in Vietnam when you stepped on a land mine?”

“I sure as hell stepped on something.”

There was laughter in the courtroom and Tom Simon waited patiently until it was quiet.

“Isn’t it true,” said Simon, “that you, in fact, crossed the 17th parallel and were running along a rice paddy south of Dong Hoi to rescue a fallen comrade?”

“Is that where I was? Shit! I thought I was in Georgia.”

More laughter.

“Mr. Jones,” said Judge Wittier, “Stop trying to be cute and just answer the questions.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” JD, aware that the district attorney was trying to evoke the jury’s sympathies, was determined to hinder his efforts any way he could.

“Isn’t it true,” said Simon, “that you have been awarded a Bronze Star for your bravery?”

“Yes,” said JD. He hadn’t mentioned the medal to Lester. Simon had done his homework.

“I think it’s marvelous that a young man like yourself would volunteer to fight for his country,” said Simon.

JD looked at Hammerstein. Why was he just sitting there? Isn’t he going to stop this line of questioning? Hammerstein made no move to object. JD looked back at Simon and his self-assured, smug demeanor. JD knew that look. It reminded him of someone—someone he didn’t like.

“I was drafted,” said JD, willing to bet that the prosecutor already knew that and was stupid enough to think that JD would try to enhance his image by agreeing that he volunteered.

But Simon wouldn’t let the hero thing go. “And to think you actually risked your own life to save another soldier.”

JD stared hard at the district attorney’s hair. Something was odd about that color and it was way too thick.

“Mr. Jones, you said that you and Anna Mae McBride were friends.”

“We are.”

“Were you always friends?”

“No.”

“How long have you known the defendant?”

“About eight years.”

“And eight years ago you were friends with her cousin, Stanley Lipinski, were you not?”

“I was.”

“And was the defendant, Anna Mae McBride, living in the same house as her cousin, Stanley Lipinski?”

“Yes.”

“And the murder victim, Walter Lipinski, was Stanley’s father, was he not?”

“Yes.”

Simon continued the questions until the Lipinski household members were clearly placed under the same roof. Then he said, “Now think back, Mr. Jones, to Friday, August 11, 1965—to Stanley’s sixteenth birthday party.”

JD frowned, exaggerating deep, deep thought. “Got it!”

Judge Wittier lifted his half-glasses to his white hair and turned to look down at JD, disapproval clear on his face. Tom Simon loosened his silk tie, walked back to the prosecution’s table to check his notes, then asked from a distance, “Who was at that party?”

“Excuse me?”

“I asked you,” Simon said in a louder voice, “Who was at Stanley’s sixteenth birthday party?”

JD shrugged. “Miscellaneous entities.”

“That’s enough!” roared the judge. “Mr. Jones, if you cannot control your urge to make a mockery of this most serious murder trial, you’ll be cited for contempt of court. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Now answer the question!”

“There were a lot of different people at that party,” said JD.

“Could you name a few?” asked Tom Simon.

“Objection,” said Ivan Hammerstein, standing. “Relevance?”

“Counselor,” said the judge to Simon, “Just where are you going with this?”

“I intend to demonstrate to this jury, Your Honor, that Miss McBride is not the sweet, soft spoken girl the defense will claim she is.”

“Well get on with it,” snapped the judge.

“What about my objection?” asked Hammerstein.

“Overruled. Sit down.”

“There was an incident between the defendant and someone at that party, was there not, Mr. Jones?”

“Yes.”

“Will you please tell the jury what happened?”

“Well…there was this nerd that tried to put the make on Anna Mae and she cussed him out.” JD saw a blush in Tom Simon’s cheeks that wasn’t there before. “Stanley kicked the shit out of him. That’s all that happened.”

“All?” said Simon dryly. “Didn’t the defendant, Anna Mae McBride, fly into a rage? Didn’t she use every swear word in the book? Wasn’t she totally out of control? Didn’t she...”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.”

“I apologize Your Honor,” said Simon with fake humility. “If the jury will please excuse the profanity,” Simon continued, “didn’t she call this young man, George Siminoski—who happened to wear glasses. Didn’t the defendant, Anna Mae McBride, call him, among other repulsive names—a four-eyed fuckin’ pervert?”

“Yes.” said JD. He studied district attorney; the weird way he walked when he paced back and forth, the way he frowned, the way his forced smile wasn’t reflected in the cold animosity in his eyes. Who was this guy? And what did Tom Simon have against him?

“Answer the question,” said the judge.

“What question?”

“Ask it again, counselor,” said Judge Wittier.

The district attorney sounded as though he was making an effort to keep his voice even and businesslike. “Didn’t Anna Mae McBride call George Siminoski...” JD saw Simon gulp. “…an idiot ass-hole?”

“Yes. She did call him that. The guy was a creep. She was just a kid. Thirteen, I think. And that geek cornered her in the hallway and tried to feel her up.”

At this point JD was blatantly staring at Tom Simon’s face. The district attorney averted his eyes then turned and walked back to the prosecution’s table. After taking a few deep breaths he turned back to the witness, calmly asking, “On a scale of one to ten, how angry was the defendant? Ten being the angriest.”

JD did not want to answer that question.

“Remember, you are under oath,” said Simon.

JD looked over at the trembling girl in the beige dress. She stared back at him—a vacant look in her eyes.

“Answer the question,” said the judge. “On a scale of one...”

“No one could blame her,” JD said softly. “She was a ten.”

The judge then stated that it was getting late and that the examination of Jeremiah Dakin Jones would continue the next day at nine o’clock. JD manned his crutches and hopped down from the witness stand. He passed the sheriff whose automatic pistol rode high on his hip, then paused at the prosecution’s table where he took one last long look at District Attorney Tom Simon and said under his breath, “Oh, my God!”