Snow Falling on Cedars (50 page)

‘I am an old man,’ Nels Gudmundsson continued. ‘I do not walk so well anymore, and one of my eyes is useless. I suffer from headaches and from arthritis in my knees. On top of all this I nearly froze to death last night, and today I am weary, having slept not a wink. And so, like you, I hope for warmth tonight and for an end to this storm we are enduring. I would wish for my life to continue pleasantly for many years to come. This final wish, I must admit to myself, is not something I can readily count on, for if I do not pass on in the next ten years I will certainly do so in the next twenty. My life is drawing to a close.

‘Why do I say this?’ Nels Gudmundsson asked, moving nearer
to the jurors now and leaning toward them, too. ‘I say this because as an older man I am prone to ponder matters in the light of death in a way that you are not. I am like a traveler descended from Mars who looks down in astonishment at what passes here. And what I see is the same human frailty passed from generation to generation. What I see is again and again the same sad human frailty. We hate one another, we are the victims of irrational fears. And there is nothing in the stream of human history to suggest we are going to change this. But – I digress, I confess that. I merely wish to point out that in the face of such a world you have only yourselves to rely on. You have only the decision you must make, each of you, alone. And will you contribute to the indifferent forces that ceaselessly conspire toward injustice? Or will you stand up against this endless tide and in the face of it be truly human? In God’s name, in the name of humanity, do your duty as jurors. Find Kabuo Miyamoto innocent as charged and let him go home to his family. Return this man to his wife and children. Set him free, as you must.’

Judge Lew Fielding looked down from the bench with the tip of his left forefinger set against his nose and his chin propped against his thumb. As always he had the air of a weary man; he looked reluctantly awake. He appeared to be half-alert at best – his eyelids drooped, his mouth hung open. The judge had been uncomfortable throughout the morning, annoyed by the sensation that he had not performed well, had not conducted the proceedings adroitly. He was a man of high professional standards, a careful and deliberate, exacting judge who held himself to the letter of the law, however soporifically. Having never presided over a trial of murder in the first degree before, he felt himself in a precarious position: if the jury returned a guilty verdict the decision would be his alone as to whether the accused man should hang.

Judge Lew Fielding roused himself and, pulling at his robe, turned his gaze toward the jurors. ‘This case,’ he announced, ‘now draws to a close, and it will be your duty in just a
few moments to retire to the room reserved for you and deliberate together toward a verdict. Toward that end, ladies and gentlemen, the court charges you to take into account the following considerations.

‘First of all, in order to find the defendant guilty you must be convinced of every element of the charge beyond a reasonable doubt.
Beyond a reasonable doubt,
understand. If a reasonable doubt exists in your minds, you cannot convict the accused man. If there is in your minds a reasonable uncertainty regarding the truth of the charge made here, you must find the defendant not guilty. This is a duty you are bound to by law. No matter how strongly you feel yourselves compelled to act in any other manner, you can convict only if you are certain it is correct to do so beyond a reasonable doubt.

‘Second,’ said the judge, ‘you must keep in mind the specificity of the charge and address that charge exclusively. You have only to determine one thing here: whether or not the defendant is guilty of murder in the first degree, and nothing else. If you determine that he is guilty of something else – of hatred, of assault, of manslaughter, of murder in self-defense, of coldness, of passion, of second-degree murder – none of that will be relevant. The question is whether the man brought before you is guilty
of first-degree
murder. And first-degree murder, ladies and gentlemen, implies a question of
planned intent.
It is a charge that suggests a state of mind in which the guilty party
premeditates a murder in cold blood.
That he thinks about it ahead of time and makes a conscious decision. And here,’ said the judge, ‘is a difficult matter for jurors in cases of this sort. For premeditation is a condition of the mind and cannot be seen directly. Premeditation must be inferred from the evidence – it must be seen in the acts and words of the human beings who have testified before you, in their conduct and conversation, and in the evidence brought to your attention. In order to find the defendant guilty, you must find that he
planned and intended
to commit the acts for which he has been charged. That he premeditated murder, understand. That he went forth
in search of his victim with the conscious intent of committing a premeditated murder. That it did not happen in the heat of the moment or as the accidental result of escalating violence but was rather an act planned and executed by a man with murder on his mind. So once again the court charges you to consider only first-degree murder and absolutely nothing else. You must be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt of one thing and one thing exclusively: that the defendant in this case is guilty of murder in the first degree, premeditated.

‘You were selected as jurors in this case,’ Judge Lew Fielding continued, ‘in the belief that each of you could, without fear, favor, prejudice, or sympathy, in sound judgment and clear conscience, render a just verdict on evidence presented in conformity with these instructions. The very object of our jury system is to secure a verdict by comparison of views and discussion among jurors – provided this can be done reasonably and in a way consistent with the conscientious convictions of each. Each juror should listen, with a disposition to be convinced, to the opinions and arguments of the other jurors. It is not intended under the law that a juror should go into the jury room with a fixed determination that the verdict shall represent his opinion of the case at that moment. Nor is it intended that he should close his ears to the discussions and arguments of his fellow jurors, who are assumed to be equally honest and intelligent. You must, in short,
listen
to one another. Stay objective, be reasonable.’

The judge paused and let his words sink in. He let his eyes meet the eyes of each juror, holding the gaze, momentarily, of each. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he sighed. ‘Since these are criminal proceedings, understand, your verdict – whether guilty or not so – must be a unanimous one. There is no call for haste or for anyone to feel that they are holding up the rest of us as you deliberate. The court thanks you in advance for having served in this trial. The power has gone out and you have passed difficult nights at the Amity Harbor Hotel. It has not been easy for you to concentrate on these proceedings while you are worried about
the conditions of your homes and the welfare of your families and loved ones. The storm,’ said the judge, ‘is beyond our control, but the outcome of this trial is not. The outcome of this trial is up to you now. You may adjourn and begin your deliberations.’

At three o’clock in the afternoon the jurors in the trial of Kabuo Miyamoto filed out of the courtroom. Two of the reporters tipped their chairs back precariously and sat with their hands clasped behind their heads, speaking casually to one another. Abel Martinson handcuffed the accused man, then allowed his wife to speak to him once before urging his prisoner toward the basement. ‘You’re going to be free,’ she said to Kabuo. ‘They’ll do the right thing – you’ll see.’

‘I don’t know,’ her husband replied. ‘But either way, I love you, Hatsue. Tell the kids I love them, too.’

Nels Gudmundsson gathered his papers together and slid them into his briefcase. Ed Soames, in a generous mood, kept the courtroom open to the public. He understood that the citizens in the gallery had no warm place to go. Many of them sat languidly along the benches or milled in the aisles discussing the trial in hushed and speculative tones. Ed stood with his hands behind his back beside the door to Judge Fielding’s chambers in the obsequious pose of a royal footman, watching everything impassively. Occasionally he checked his watch.

In the gallery Ishmael Chambers mulled over his notes, looking up every now and again to take in Hatsue Miyamoto. Listening to her testify that morning he’d been keenly aware of his private knowledge of this woman: he’d understood what each expression suggested, what each pause signified. What he wanted, he realized now, was to drink in the smell of her and to feel her hair in his hands. It was all the more acute for not having her and wanting, like the wish he had to be whole again and to live a different life.

Philip Milholland’s notes were in Ishmael’s front left pants pocket, and it was just a matter of standing up, crossing over to Ed Soames, and asking to see Judge Fielding. Then bringing the notes out and unfolding them, and watching the look on Soames’s face, then taking them back from Soames again and pushing his way into the judge’s chambers. Then Lew Fielding blinking down through his glasses, pulling the candelabra on his desk a little closer – the flickering taper dancing left and right – and at last the judge peering over his glasses at him as the weight of Philip Milholland’s notes began to press against his mind.
The freighter began its dogleg at 1:42. Carl Heine’s pocket watch stopped at 1:47.
It spoke for itself.

What was it Nels Gudmundsson had said in closing?
‘The counsel for the state has proceeded on the assumption that you will he open, ladies and gentlemen, to an argument based on prejudice … He is counting on you to act on passions best left to a war of ten years ago.’
But ten years was not really such a long time at all, and how was he to leave his passion behind when it went on living its own independent life, as tangible as the phantom limb he’d refused for so long to have denervated? As with the limb, so with Hatsue. Hatsue had been taken from his life by history, because history was whimsical and immune to private yearnings. And then there was his mother with her faith in a God who stood at the wayside indifferently while Eric Bledsoe bled to death in the surf, and then there was that boy on the deck of the hospital ship with the blood soaking his groin.

He looked at Hatsue again where she stood in the midst of a small group of Japanese islanders who whispered softly to one another and peered at their watches and waited. He examined her knife-pleated skirt, the blouse she wore with long darts through the shoulders, her hair bound tightly to the back of her head, the plain hat held in her hand. The hand itself, loose and graceful, and the way her ankles fit into her shoes, and the straightness of her back and her refined, true posture that had been the thing to move him in the beginning, back when he was just a child. And the taste of salt on her lips that time when for a second
he had touched them with his own boy’s lips, clinging to his glass-bottomed box. And then all the times he had touched her body and the fragrance of all that cedar …

He got up to leave, and as he did so the courtroom lights flickered on. A mute kind of cheer went up from the gallery, an embarrassed, cautious island cheer; one of the reporters raised his fists into the air, Ed Soames nodded and smiled. The gray, sullen hue that had hung over everything was replaced by a light that seemed brilliant by comparison to what had gone before. ‘Electricity,’ Nels Gudmundsson said to Ishmael. ‘Never knew I’d miss it so much.’

‘Go home and get some sleep,’ answered Ishmael. ‘Turn your heater up.’

Nels snapped the clasps on his briefcase, turned it upright, and set it on the table. ‘By the way,’ he said suddenly. ‘I ever tell you how much I liked your father? Arthur was one admirable man.’

‘Yes,’ said Ishmael. ‘He was.’

Nels pulled at the skin of his throat, then took his briefcase in his hand. ‘Well,’ he said, with his good eye on Ishmael, the other wandering crazily. ‘Regards to your mother, she’s a wonderful woman. Let’s pray for the right verdict in the meantime.’

‘Yes,’ said Ishmael. ‘Okay.’

Ed Soames announced that the courtroom would remain open until such time as a verdict was reached or until six
P.M.,
whichever came first. At six he would let the gathered court know about the current status of things.

In the cloakroom Ishmael found himself beside Hisao Imada as they both struggled into their overcoats. ‘Many thanks for giving to us a help,’ Hisao greeted him. ‘It make our day much better than walking. We have our many thanks to you.’

They went out into the hallway, where Hatsue waited against the wall, her hands deep in her coat pockets. ‘Do you need a ride?’ asked Ishmael. ‘I’m going out your way again. To my mother’s house. I can take you.’

‘No,’ said Hisao. ‘Thank you much. We have made for us a ride.’

Ishmael stood there buttoning his coat with the fingers of his one hand. He buttoned three buttons, starting at the top, and then he slipped his hand into his pants pocket and let it rest against Philip Milholland’s notes.

‘My husband’s trial is unfair,’ said Hatsue. ‘You ought to put that in your father’s newspaper, Ishmael, right across the front page. You should use his newspaper to tell the truth, you know. Let the whole island see it isn’t right. It’s just because we’re Japanese.’

‘It isn’t my father’s newspaper,’ answered Ishmael. ‘It’s mine, Hatsue. I run it.’ He brought his hand out and with some awkwardness slipped another button into place. ‘I’ll be at my mother’s,’ he told her. ‘If you want to come speak to me about this there, that’s where you can find me.’

Outside he found that the snow had stopped – only a few scattered flakes fell. A hard winter sunlight seeped through the clouds, and the north wind blew cold and fast. It seemed colder now than it had been that morning; the air burned in his nostrils. The wind and the snow had scoured everything clean; there was the sound of snow crunching under Ishmael’s feet, the whine of the wind, and nothing else. The eye of the storm, he knew, had passed; the worst of it was behind them. And yet there was still a blind chaos to the world – cars turned front first to the curbs, abandoned where they had skidded unpredictably; on Harbor Street a white fir fallen against the snow, its branches snapped off at splintering angles, some of them piercing the ground. He walked on and found two cedars across the road, and beyond that the town docks were mostly swamped and under water. The outermost pilings had broken loose, the wind had shoved against the outside piers, and two dozen boats had piled up against one another and finally up onto the sunken piers, where they listed against their mooring ropes.