Juice (27 page)

A thought struck him, and he stood up: Where the devil was Harrison?

Arthur Rhein had not spoken to Davis. He had debated coming at all, but had finally yielded to his own curiosity. He had decided also that his presence in the courtroom would be encouraging to Winkelmann. He had been glancing at the door and had seen Farrow come in; unwise, he thought, but not dangerous. The man deserved a little fun.

Rhein knew now that he had been right to be honest with Harrison. Harrison was a realist, a man for whom form was less important than content, and there were too many factors working against him: the widow, and the widow's money, his love for his own family, his job, his affection—Rhein chuckled—for Rhein, and man's distaste for the complicated when the simple is at hand. Harrison had reacted too quickly. He had heeded instinct in a region hostile to instinct. All men did, now and then: with women, or at the card table, or in the stock market. When they felt themselves alone, outnumbered or outmaneuvered, they fell back on instinct and obeyed it blindly. But Harrison was not alone, and Harrison had now remembered that; nor was he outnumbered, and if he had been outmaneuvered it was precisely because he was not alone, because there were other interests than his at stake.

Rhein stirred and looked about him. There was a lovely black-haired girl in the front row. Who were the rest of these people? They looked like local people. Hecklers? Friends of the deceased? Rhein wondered if the widow had come. He looked again at the black-haired girl.

Where the devil was Harrison?

In his chambers Francis Winkelmann donned his robe gloomily. He was prey to a common pessimism: whatever happened, he feared, he would come out the loser. A judge should have no friends, really, but other judges. A judge should have no ambition, no desires, but justice.

An open bottle of cold ginger ale stood on his table. He poured a second glass, drank it off slowly, and waited for the belch. There was still hope, of course. Heaven only knew what Harrison would do. If they had given the man any lawyer, any lawyer at all, but Davis. Rhein had been too clever; outreached himself there. Another lawyer might have been more obtuse, not as receptive to abstractions, to moral emanations. “I've been forced,” Davis had said. “My client's attitude has determined my own course. I can't help that. I'm not omnipotent. I'm only a country lawyer.” Yes; action equals reaction; the ivory ball strikes, and nothing moves, but six balls away another ivory ball spins off into space. I've been forced.

Winkelmann belched. The electric clock told him that it was one minute after eleven. “Yes, yes,” he said aloud, and went to the door. He entered the courtroom, halted briefly—a large audience today—and proceeded to the bench. The courtroom rose; the bailiff chanted; Winkelmann seated himself, and so did the others. Winkelmann saw Rhein; his lips tightened. He glanced down at Davis, and at the state's table, and back at Davis.

He pursed his lips. Where the devil was Harrison?

The Harrisons were parking their car beside a sign:
THIS SPACE FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY
. “We're official,” Joe said. “Take it.”

Helen put the key in her purse and turned to him. From the back seat the children watched them silently.

“Whatever happens,” she said warmly.

He kissed her. “Whatever happens.” To the children he said, “Give the old man a kiss for luck,” and they kissed him together, one on each cheek. “Let's go,” he said.

They walked around the building four abreast and approached the front entrance. There were several people on the steps who stared at them without expression and shifted to let them pass. The four walked on. As they entered the building Joe and Sally dropped back, allowing Helen and David to precede them. A guard of some sort touched his cap.

At the door to Room 101 Helen kissed Joe again, a more lingering kiss. Joe turned the doorknob, and then they were in the courtroom, and he was staring down the center aisle toward Francis Winkelmann. There had been sound and motion a moment before; no one stirred now. Joe closed the door. He saw a stack of camp chairs and walked deliberately to them, opened three, and seated his family. Without speaking to them again he turned and walked the length of the aisle. He saw Mort Weinstein and nodded. Of course, he thought seriously, Mort would be here. Womack. I was going to do something about Womack. He paused, surprised that he had noticed her, to pat Mrs. Newbery's shoulder.

He looked up at Winkelmann. There was something absurd about Winkelmann. “I apologize, Your Honor,” Joe said.

“We had just begun,” the judge said. “Please be seated.”

Joe sat beside Davis.

“Where the hell have you been?” Davis whispered. “Have you seen the papers?”

“No,” Joe said.

“They were a little rough on you,” Davis said. “Nothing impolite, though. Well! I don't mean to pry, but what do we do?”

“I don't know,” Joe said.

“Take your time,” Davis said. “You've got twenty or thirty seconds. Unless you want another continuance. If so, I suggest an old-fashioned fit of the vapors. You might froth at the mouth.” The judge had spoken. “Yes, Your Honor,” Davis said.

The courtroom was quite still then, for several seconds, as though someone had missed a cue. Joe wanted to turn, to see the faces. Instead, he looked at Davis. The visible world was a lawyer's face. That world had been many things: a dead soldier, a woman's breast, a salary check, a baby, Walter Storch. Now it was a lawyer's face.

Davis' eyes asked him again.

“Guilty,” Harrison whispered.

Davis beamed satanically. He rose. “Your Honor,” he said, “my client pleads guilty to the charge and waives this hearing.”

Winkelmann looked at Arthur Rhein. “I accept the plea,” he said. “The hearing is terminated. I reserve sentence.” He tapped twice on the block of wood, rose, and left the courtroom.

Numbed, Joe heard the babble behind him. He set his elbows on the table and let his cheekbones rest on his fists. Dimly he heard a slap, and then another, and then many slaps. He turned. People were standing. He realized after a moment that they were applauding. Weinstein was applauding. He looked at Helen. She was crying. He smiled at her, at the three of them. Helen touched her fingers to her lips. He nodded. Pearson was clapping too.

“Don't just stand there,” Davis said. “Do something. Bow, or make a speech, or better yet pass the hat. I've probably lost a good fee.” The applause was loud, and Joe's legs were trembling; he hardly heard Davis. Davis was grinning; his eyes were alight, and his nose and jaw seemed longer, more devilish, than ever. Davis was laughing. “You're all right,” Davis said. “A troublemaker and a radical, but you're all right. Come on. The happy ending is not yet. We have work to do in judge's chambers.”

“Ah, yes,” Davis said, “the exercise of power. Any power: money, or guns, or intelligence. You can always rationalize it. Either you find another name for it, or you justify it. In the end you believe that you have done the greatest good for the greatest number, or that power tends to ennoble and absolute power ennobles absolutely.” He laughed; he gestured. “Yet you aren't even furious. Why aren't you furious?”

“I'm shocked and angry,” Rhein said impatiently, “but I'm trying to control myself.”

The four men were in Winkelmann's chambers. Joe was astonished: the clock on the wall read eleven-ten. A window was open, and a warm breeze lapped at them. Rhein had looked once at Joe and not again. Winkelmann was stuffing a pipe and nipping at the ginger ale.

“You're more angry at yourself than at us,” Davis said briskly. “You were a bonehead from the beginning, if I may resort to the vernacular in judge's chambers.”

Winkelmann nodded.

“I was forced to be,” Rhein said coldly.

“Nonsense,” Davis said. “You jumped into it blindly. You called me immediately. Why me? You wanted a name; you wanted to intimidate the law. And now you're in trouble. We have you now. We have you right here.” He cupped his hand and glared.

“Stop it, Jay,” Joe said.

“Of course.” Davis relaxed; his hand fell. “I was only making a point.”

“Arthur did what he thought was best,” Harrison said.

“I did,” Rhein said. “I did what I thought I had to do.”

“And you forced Joe,” Davis said gleefully. “So he did what he thought he had to do. And that forced me. And I forced the judge. And now the judge forces you. Marvelous. Absolute power destroys itself absolutely.”

“The anarchist's dream,” Joe said.

“The beauty of it.” Davis grinned. “Absolute beauty tends to—”

“—to fade,” Rhein interrupted. He turned to Joe. “I'm still angry, but who was that girl you said hello to? She's not with P.A.N., is she?”

“Davis' girl,” Joe said.

“Might have known,” Rhein said. “All right,” he said to Davis. “Now what? What's your price?”

“Do you mean my fee?” Davis asked him.

“Fee! For what? Send your bill to the moral-rearmament people.”

Davis' smile disappeared. “You don't mean that.”

Rhein sighed. “Of course not. I keep my word, everybody knows that. I wish you'd done as much. What I mean is, how do we settle all this?”

“This discussion may be unethical,” Davis murmured. “I'm not sure I should be a party to it. Certainly not with Honest Joe Harrison in the room.”

“Go to hell,” Joe said. “I've still got troubles, you know. Outside this room.”

They were silent until Davis said, “Yes. I'd forgotten, and I apologize. Judge, what would you have done to Harrison without all the juice?”

“Juice?”

“The influence. The maneuvering. The chain of command.”

“Ah. Well, let me see. You've never been in trouble before?”

“A speeding ticket in about 1949,” Joe said. “That's all.”

“Established citizen, home owner, taxpayer, fairly prominent man. How much had you drunk?”

“A couple,” Joe said. “I wasn't drunk. At all. I was careless. Negligent. Stupid.”

“You weren't drunk?” Rhein said.

“No.” Joe smiled. “But I could still say I was. Don't come up with any new ideas.”

“That's right,” Rhein said. “You don't like my ideas.”

“How fast were you going?” Winkelmann asked.

“Well over the limit. There's a sign that nobody ever pays attention to; you have to slow from fifty-five to thirty-five for about a quarter of a mile. I was around fifty.”

Winkelmann nodded. “I'd have found you guilty, sentenced you to a year in the county jail, and suspended sentence.”

“You ass,” Davis said to Rhein.

“We almost never send a man to state prison unless there's an obvious felony, or he has a record,” Winkelmann went on. “By the way, I'd have revoked your license for a good long time. Maybe permanently. But we steer clear of the state prison if we can.”

“You idiot,” Davis said to Rhein. “I'm an idiot, too, because I might have told you all this that first day. But you were fairly firm; and I couldn't pass up the chance to watch it work out. And maybe I like the exercise of power myself.”

Rhein smiled for the first time. “Exercise it, then. Get us out of this mess.”

“I did, last night,” Davis said. “But as long as there was the chance that Joe might change his mind, I couldn't bring myself to step in. The trouble was—” he rubbed his chin in slight, but obvious, embarrassment—“that I was feeling a little guilty. Because I hadn't spoken up right away. So I had to work it out.” He grinned again. “As I said, I was forced.”

“You're still forced,” Rhein said. “Get on with it.”

“It's easy,” Davis said. “You're worried about subornation of perjury. About all your friends. Right?”

“Of course not,” Rhein said. “What are you talking about?”

“Well played,” Davis said. “Shall I state it hypothetically?”

“Never mind,” Winkelmann said. “We're all damned by now anyway.”

“So we are,” Davis said with interest. “Well, suppose the witnesses were right: suppose that Joe was on the right side of the street, under the speed limit, with a green light—but drunk. Then what?”

“You're out of section one ninety-two now,” the judge said. “It isn't just an accident any more. You're in—”

“Three sixty-seven E,” Davis finished. “Drunken driving. The penalty?”

“The same. It could go higher, of course; but the man's character and reputation count just as much, so it would be the same.”

“I see,” Rhein said.

“Sure you see,” Davis said. “We'll leave the charge where it is, in section one ninety-two, with the sentence as the judge outlined it: Harrison is guilty, the penalty is a year in county jail, and the sentence is suspended. All right, Judge?”

Winkelmann nodded gloomily.

“There, there,” Davis said. “Buck up.” He turned to Rhein. “Now, if the judge should change his mind and try to open the case again to get at you for subornation of perjury—”

“Don't be silly,” Winkelmann said. “I never want to hear Harrison's name again.”

“Bravo!” Davis said. “But if you should—if an access of civic virtue should subvert your better judgment—Joe can plead guilty just the same, and get Rhein's hirelings off the hook, by claiming he was drunk. Nobody would take the word of a drunk against three witnesses. Therefore, no perjury. Therefore, Harrison guilty.”

“And you would do that?” Rhein asked Joe.

“After all the pains you've taken for me?” Joe said. “I don't see how I could refuse.”

Davis laughed brightly. “So the judge is hogtied. Of course Joe could still make trouble, and so could I.” He shook his head in dazed delight. “Isn't this a hell of a way to do business?” He cackled. “Government by law!”