The Just And The Unjust (42 page)

'Yes.'

'I don't know what you're doing about it; but it seems there's a misunderstanding, or something. Now, let me tell you the facts. I was there myself two or three minutes after it happened — it was right down beyond here; you could see it from here. Private Lynd, he's the arresting officer, actually saw the cars hit. He was just going to his car — I mean, the patrol car in front of the station.'

'I think Mr. Bunting has the report,' Abner said. 'The inquest is set for to-morrow. Wasn't your man notified?'

'Yes, he was. Now, here's the thing. Somebody was squawking about us holding this Mason for manslaughter.'

'What do you mean, squawking?' Abner said. With a start of cold annoyance the thought came to him that Jesse, leaving no stone unturned in his anxiety to serve and please George Guthrie Mason, had approached the police as well as the district attorney. 'Who is somebody?'

Sergeant LaBarre said, 'Well, if you want to know, we heard it was you, Mr. Coates. We heard you said he ought to have been just charged with being involved in a fatal accident; and you were going to make a complaint higher up.'

Disconcerted, Abner said, 'I don't know who told you that. It isn't what I said.' Jake Riordan wouldn't be likely to go down and gossip at the sub-station; but what he could do and probably had done was make a remark to somebody who told somebody else, who told somebody else. 'What I said was that I would have to see the report and talk to the arresting officer. The J.P., Wiener, told me he didn't think it was Mason's fault. Mason told me the same thing; and said you, or some other officer, said the tyre marks showed the other fellow ran into him. What I said was, if there were no specific grounds for charging him with manslaughter the J.P. should have been allowed to set bail, and there was no reason to jail Mason. If it wasn't Mason's fault, if the other driver caused the accident, your man, your Private Lynd, ought to know better than to charge Mason with manslaughter. I don't know what they do other places; but in this county we're certainly going to squawk.'

'Now, look it,' Sergeant LaBarre said. 'The reason we charged Mason with manslaughter was reckless driving. I can't help what he told you. I mean, reckless in the language of the statute. Means negligently; the absence of care under the circumstances. Right?'

'Yes.'

'While doing that, he accidentally kills a man. That's manslaughter, as far as I know; and that's what we charged him with.'

'Then it was his fault?'

'Sure! Lynd sees this car going a pretty good rate, but not more than fifty, come up the road and take this other car, it's going the same way, just off the left rear corner. Like he's come up to it, and then he saw it too late, and tried to pass, and didn't get by. See? The other car drives into the guard rail on its right and folds up on this other driver, a coloured man, this victim. It was just an old pile of junk; and Mason has this big car, and they can take it; so Mason only bangs his head on the dashboard a little.'

'Sounds to me as if the other driver put his brakes on,' Abner said, remembering the laundry truck when he was driving down town with Jesse.

'No, there were no marks; but Mason's brakes, you could see he slammed them on. First thing Lynd thought was he, Mason, was drunk. But I saw him myself, and he wasn't. So what I am pretty sure of is, he went to sleep; he just nodded off, and woke up too late. That's too bad, but it's his job to stay awake.'

'Did he admit it?'

'No. He said he didn't see the other car until he hit it. Well, now the other car had a reflector on its tail light; and here he is, a clear night, with headlights like they have on a big car, coming up behind on a straight highway — no. Either he dozed off, or he wasn't looking where he was going. Either way, we charge him with manslaughter. Right?'

'If that's how it was, yes.'

'Well, Mr. Coates, I didn't want a misunderstanding about us making an improper charge.'

'If it was that way, it sounds proper to me. I think we'd like to have you come up yourself, to-morrow. I think you'd better be ready to testify.'

'O.K. See you then.'

Abner hung up and looked out at the damp afternoon. Jake Riordan must have told Mason what to say, or what not to say — admit nothing until you saw what the case against you was. That was certainly his right, and good practical advice, too; but Abner could feel a sort of weariness, a distaste of mind — what did the kid mean, the other car ran into him? If the police told him anything about the tyre marks, they told him that they showed that the accident was his, not the unfortunate Negro's, fault.

Getting to the bottom of things like that was impossible. You just had to take the practical view that a man always lied on his own behalf, and paid his lawyer, who was an expert, a professional liar, to show him new and better ways of lying. Abner remembered a passage his father was fond of quoting from a life of Chief Justice Parsons, or someone like that, about the plaintiff who brought action against a neighbour for borrowing and breaking a cooking pot. Advice of counsel was that the defendant should plead that he never borrowed the pot; and that he used it carefully and returned it whole; also, that the pot was broken and useless when he borrowed it; also, that he borrowed the pot from someone not the plaintiff; also, that the pot in question was defendant's own pot; also, that plaintiff never owned a pot, cooking or other; also, that — and so on, and so on.

Beyond the screened windows, the afternoon seemed to be brightening a little, as though the rain were over; and Abner, rousing himself, went back to the courtroom and resumed his seat. Harry glanced at him casually and winked. Bunting was still cross-examining Howell; and the jury, tired of sitting still, and tired of hearing the same thing, looked restless.

Restless, too, in the rising semi-circle of gloomy benches, singly or in groups of three or four, sat eighty or ninety spectators. There was plenty of room lower down, but many of them were content to sit well back. Abner knew a few by name, and a good many more by sight — there was old John Hughes, generally called Grandpa, who always attended court, hardly missed a day in the last five or six years. He received a small pension of some kind, and had nothing else to do. At Harry Wurts's urging, Grandpa had been elected an honorary member of the Bar Association; but if the intention was to have some fun with him, it failed. He came to the yearly dinners, and though he ate everything offered to him, and even got quite drunk, he could not be persuaded to make a speech. Grandpa was very deaf and did not try to hear when spoken to. He simply nodded a little, smiled a little, grunted a little, and watched brightly—at first glance, you might think with the detachment of a philosopher; but it was soon apparent that the gleam in his seventy-year old eyes was only the aimless curiosity of a baby. Even Harry ended by letting him alone. Grandpa probably had little or no idea of what was going on this afternoon; but the strange faces kept his eyes busy, and the activities down in the well of the court beguiled him; and when he went home to supper he would probably feel that he had passed a pleasant afternoon.

What the others felt was harder to guess. Abner supposed they felt that same devouring curiosity that brought people, often in crowds, to stand staring at the scene of an accident or a crime hours or even days after it happened. (What did they hope to see? What did they want?) Many of those present now had been present since the opening of the trial. The oak benches were as hard as iron to their buttocks; they did not know these people who were on trial; they could hardly hear what was being said; they did not understand the procedure of the court well enough to follow the drama if it could be called one; but still they sat. They looked thirstily, drinking it in, slaking their indescribable but obstinate and obscene thirst. They looked, but never quite their fill, at Howell and Basso who were probably (terrible and titillating thought!) going to die; at Leming, who took his drugs before breakfast; at the widow of a murdered man, the whilom sharer of his bed; at Susie Smalley, the lewd object of what lewd passions; at Judge Vredenburgh in his robe whose word was law; at the clerks serving some purpose they did not know under the bench; at the jury, whose word was life and death; at the attorneys making their assured gestures, familiars of the solemn mystery in which, all jumbled together, the just entered into judgment with the unjust.

Bunting said, 'Now, then, Stanley, you knew Zolly was to be killed when you took him out that night, didn't you?'

Howell said, 'I never knew'. He was feeling the strain. His water-slicked hair had long ago dried and some strands of it toppled forward, so he kept pushing them back. 'You told me you knew, didn't you?'

'You are wrong there.'

'You told me in the presence of Mr. Coates and Mr. Costigan that you knew Zolly was to be killed when you took him out that night, didn't you?'

'No,' said Howell. 'You are wrong. No.'

As a matter of fact, Bunting was right. Abner had heard Howell say it. Bunting said, 'That isn't true?'

'That positively isn't true.'

'You didn't say it?'

'No.'

The jury, obliged to choose between Howell and Bunting, chose Bunting, of course. When they were charged to disregard Howell's confession if they thought it had been obtained by force they would understand why Bunting had been so careful to let them know that Howell had told him much the same story, and by Howell's own admission, told it freely. This was a nice piece of work. The jury might not realize it; but Bunting was now testifying, yet in a way that those who did realize what he was doing could not challenge. Calmly, disarmingly, calling him by his first name, Bunting was sewing Howell up so tight he would never get out. Abner looked at Kinsolving, grave and reflective beyond the sheriff. An F.B.I. man must feel relief when he found a country district attorney who knew his business. Abner saw George Stacey bend to the side and speak to Harry; but Harry rolled his eyes, shrugging silently.

Bunting said, 'Now, Stanley, after Zolly was killed, did you ever go out on any job with Bailey and Basso?'

Jerking himself forward, throwing off his resignation, Harry half-arose. He said, 'I object to any questioning of this defendant as to any offences other than the one for which he stands trial.'

Bunting turned patiently, and Judge Vredenburgh said, 'That would be the general rule. This witness has testified, however, that he was afraid of Bailey.' He turned back the pages of his notes, the lamplight brightening on his bent face. 'Yes. While he did not definitely say so, he implied that the reason that he accompanied them was that.'

'Exactly, sir,' said Harry with alacrity. 'There can be no doubt that he acted only through fear.'

'The doubt, or lack of doubt, belongs to the jury, Mr. Wurts,' Judge Vredenburgh said. 'We will agree that the witness may have feared Bailey, that he may have thought, if he refused to go with them, that his own life would be in danger.'

'It seems to me a strong presumption, your Honour.'

'It is one that the Commonwealth is entitled to attack. I think it would be greatly weakened if the Commonwealth showed that Howell continued to associate with Bailey. I take it that such evidence would be admissible for that purpose, at least.'

Bunting said, 'It is also offered for the purpose of showing the jury what kind of men these were.'

Judge Vredenburgh nodded. 'Showing their character; on the question of punishment, if that should arise. Yes.'

Harry Wurts said, 'Well, sir, I object.'

'Overruled.'

Bunting said, 'Didn't you go with Bailey and Basso a few nights after the killing of Frederick Zollicoffer, before Bailey went away to hide, and attempt to steal a car —'

'If your Honour please,' George Stacey said, 'I desire to make an objection to that question on behalf of the defendant Basso, for the reason that Mr. Wurts assigned for the previous objection; and for the further reason, that though there may be exceptions to the other rule, this is a misuse of that exception by the Commonwealth to throw something into the jury box that has no right there. Therefore, I object.'

'I think I understand you, Mr. Stacey,' Judge Vredenburgh said, 'but suppose this defendant testified that he was afraid for his life while he was with Bailey; and then suppose that the Commonwealth were to show that he continued with him in other affairs. Wouldn't that throw doubt on the genuineness of his fear, very serious doubt?'

George Stacey blushed. 'My objection, sir, on that point is this,' he said. He paused a moment, collecting himself with a doggedness Abner admired. Abner could remember such painful moments of his own during his first years of practice, when, on his feet, every eye bent on him, and the Court waiting, confusion scattered his thoughts in all directions and he could not catch the one he wanted.

'The reason was,' George said, 'the reason he was in fear that night, was because they were involved in the disposal of Zollicoffer, who was in their custody and alive. They were now returning him. The testimony of the witness was that he was under the impression that Zollicoffer was to be released.'

Judge Vredenburgh resumed the minute movements of shaking his head. 'That would be a matter of argument, but not a matter of law.'

'That is true, sir,' George Stacey said, 'but I will make my objection.'

'No. You may have an exception.'

Abner guessed that George's point, unfortunately left out, was that Howell and Basso feared Bailey under the particular circumstances of that evening; and the fact that they did not fear him so much under different circumstances did not mean that their fear had not been genuine. George, back in his seat beside Basso, sat tense, undoubtedly going over — how well Abner remembered! —' what he had said, trying to show himself that it could have meant what he intended to say. Abner felt like standing up and straightening it out for him.

Bunting said, 'You and Basso went on this attempted robbery, this garage job, with Bailey, didn't you?'

'No,' said Howell.

He produced the word with furtive suddenness. It made Abner think of a poor card player boggling an instant, so that his desperation was betrayed; then making an asinine lead and fatuously pluming himself on the general surprise. 'You didn't?' said Bunting. 'No.'