Summitt

Chapter Twenty-Two

The day of the trial was bitterly cold. The first shoots of spring, spiky tips of skunk cabbage, were buried under a foot of snow in the bottoms of drained quarries and mica pits. The weather had been unsettling, gray days with clouds like torn and dirty curtains, followed by drenching rain and then sunlight glistening in the trees.

Casper Gideen’s body was shipped back to his hometown of Ahashie, South Carolina. East Chester police had accepted a coroner’s verdict that the deceased met his death “as the result of accidentally self-inflicted gunshot wounds.”

The Selby family attended the service at the Muhlenburg Baptist Church. They sat in the pew behind Lori Gideen and her sons. The Selbys’ floral wreath of field daisies and violets and pussy willows had been chosen by Shana.

On the morning of the trial, Shana was in the foyer when her father came downstairs. She wore a blue sweater, a gray flannel skirt and polished brown loafers. He kissed her cheek and thought that her hair smelled like flowers left in a cold room. She pulled on a coat and gloves while Selby drank a cup of coffee.

“I know Miss Brett filled you in on everything,” he told her, “but remember, the jury is just a group of ordinary, everyday citizens.”

“She told me how normal they were,” Shana said, “except for two of those big women wearing the born-again buttons.”

The jury consisted of seven whites, three blacks and two Puerto Ricans, eight men and four women. Three of the group were on welfare. All but one, at Mr. Kahn, said they believed in a Supreme Being. Their average age was thirty-four and their mean educational level that of eleventh grade.

“The important thing,” Selby said, as they went out to the car, “is to keep in mind there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“You must think there is,” she said, “because you keep telling me that. I know Earl Thomson’s going to swear I’m lying, daddy. And I know Miss Brett is worried about Dr. Clemens, but I think he’s an old fool.”

She had spent a total of three hours with the psychiatrist, meeting with him in Dorcas Brett’s office. According to a court ruling, no tapes had been made of their conversations, and the defense expert’s notes were subject to review by both Dorcas Brett and the Selbys’ doctor, Merwin Kerr.

After the charges were read into the record, Dorcas Brett opened for the People.

In Selby’s opinion, her opening statement had an inconclusive effect. Or at least an ambivalent one. She presented her arguments logically enough, but as far as Selby could tell they failed to generate much sympathy among the jurors. Maybe it was because her manner and appearance were so at variance with the decor, the atmosphere, of Judge Flood’s courtroom, which was colonial in tone — high-ceilinged, spacious, with tall narrow windows, white plastered walls and random-width pine floors. On those shining planks, Brett’s high heels sounded with a light but insistent clatter, an almost irreverent or impertinent sound in a male atmosphere suggested by brass inkwells, rugged beams and a large mural depicting Quaker merchants and Indian chiefs greeting one another with upraised arms on the banks of the Brandywine. Cornfields and turkeys in flight stretched off beyond them to infinite blue skies.

Brett wore a dark skirt with a pale, pleated blouse, wooden bracelets and strings of gold chains. Worse perhaps, to judge from the glances Selby noticed from a large woman in the jury box, Dorcas’s body was trim, her legs shapely and she had what Tishie always referred to with resignation as “Gentile bones,” by which the old lady meant narrow hips and slim wrists and ankles.

The courtroom was crowded, with marshals posted at the exists. Near the witness stand was a roped-off section for the press and TV cameras. A spray of ferns, a crystal carafe and drinking glass stood on Judge Flood’s high bench. His bailiff, a thin black man in uniform, shared a desk below with the court stenographer, a middle-aged woman who wore a green eye-shade.

Shana sat alone at the People’s table, facing the jurors and Judge Flood. At the Defense table were Earl Thomson, Allan Davic and two of his associate attorneys. Behind them in the spectators’ gallery were George Thomson and Dom Lorso.

Earl Thomson leaned comfortably back in his chair, tilting the front legs an inch or so from the floor. His clothes were conservatively informal, a dark sports jacket and a white shirt with a maroon tie. He seemed gravely interested, observing the jurors with courteous attention.

Selby glanced once at Earl Thomson’s hands, but decided it would be easier to concentrate on the proceedings if he ignored those powerful wrists and fingers and the burning images he associated with them.

Allan Davic listened to Dorcas Brett with an intensity that Selby recognized and understood — a player studying an opponent for evidence of tension or nerves.

But there was no uncertainty in Brett’s attitude, which was Selby thought; her manner was perhaps too confident to gain sympathy from the jurors. Who knew?

She spoke rapidly, and at least used no speaker’s tricks, no “charming” mannerisms, framing well-crafted sentences, which were seldom relieved by the simple errors of common speech, broken rhythms, fumblings for words, or any other folksy lapses.

After listening a while, Selby began to see that her formality and crispness came not from overconfidence but from something just the opposite. She was simply nervous.

Brett drew a precise outline of the Commonwealth’s case against Earl Thomson, which included his fingerprints in the garage at Vinegar Hill, and the presence of his car in the driveway there. These facts, together with the defendant’s “as we will show, outright lies to Detective Captain Walter Slocum,” formed the circumstantial basis of the People’s case.

“But this is only the physical evidence,” Brett added. “This evidence is weighable, measurable, but there is still a more conclusive kind of evidence, that of an eyewitness. The plaintiff is that witness. Shana Selby has identified Earl Thomson — without reservation or qualification — as the man who assaulted her, held her against her will and raped her. That young girl had five agonizing hours to memorize every feature of his face, his coloring, his physique.”

In a low voice which carried with arresting clarity throughout the silent courtroom, Dorcas Brett then asked the jurors to return a verdict of guilty as charged on all counts of the indictment against the defendant.

Shana attempted to ignore Earl Thomson, who was staring at her with a seemingly puzzled smile. But a rise of color in her face seemed to betray her awareness of him. Thomson nodded slightly and looked again at the jurors, his manner once more respectful, attentive.

Davic stood up and said, “Your Honor, with the court’s permission, I would like to preface my opening statement to the jury with a general comment.” Without waiting for approval or even an acknowledgment from the bench, Davic went on, “As the court is aware, I haven’t moved that these hearings be closed to the media and public. I’m not presuming Your Honor would have ruled in favor of such a motion, but I want to explain why I didn’t file that motion. While it might have been to my client’s advantage to be spared the inevitable notoriety that accompanies such a public trial, I believe in this instance his interests and the interests of justice will be best served by giving the widest possible publicity to every facet of this case, by turning the most searching spotlight I can on what the prosecution chooses to call evidence. But I would also like to make it clear that I am opposed in principle to invoking those precedents which encourage the exclusion of the public and press from criminal trials. Such precedents take us in a perilous direction — the issue is the asserted conflict between two constitutional rights: the First Amendment’s guarantee of press freedom and the Sixth Amendment’s guarantee of a fair trial, although, as the court is aware, the Constitution nowhere mentions any public right of access to a criminal trial. That notwithstanding, it remains my deepest conviction that the rights of all the people are best served by open hearings and trials.”

During this stretch of self-serving dicta, Davic fixed each individual juror in turn with his eyes, trying to establish his authority over them, each practiced gesture and intonation asserting his claim to their attention and respect.

Davic then walked to the jurors’ box and said in a conversational tone, “We’ve met before, of course, during the selection process. You were good enough to answer our questions and tell us something about yourselves and something about your personal experiences with rapes and assaults, and whether such violations had ever touched anyone in your immediate family or anyone close to you. I want to thank you again for your help in these areas and for contributing your valuable time to serve on this jury.

“I’m not sure I mentioned that I’m a New York lawyer. I am indeed, but I’m also privileged by license to practice here in Pennsylvania. My associates, Mr. Royce and Mr. Kilroy, are members of my firm.

“Let me point out now, as we begin the trial, the People’s attorney has not as yet presented you with any evidence. Her opening statements were only what she hopes to prove. Her charges do not constitute evidence of any kind whatsoever, although she tried to make them sound as if they did. I will refute those charges in due course. But first I want to tell you openly and candidly what I need from you as a jury, and, indeed, what I expect. I need, ladies and gentlemen, a complete and unqualified exoneration and vindication of Earl Thomson. I will not call him the defendant. I’ll dispense with that legalism. My client’s name is Earl Thomson. He is twenty-seven, he has been employed by the Harlequin Chemical Company in a responsible position for more than three years. He graduated with top honors from Rockland Military College in Jefferson, New Jersey. Earl Thomson has, of course, no prior criminal record.” Davic shrugged. “But since his hobby is high-powered cars, I suppose there might be a traffic violation or two that I am not aware of. But that’s it.”

Davic moved closer to the jury box and placed his hands on its burnished wooden ledge. For a moment he silently studied the jurors. “Let me explain,” he said then, “why in this particular case Earl Thomson so desperately needs your unqualified exoneration. In other cases, both civil and criminal, a unanimous and unequivocal verdict isn’t always essential. A hung jury, for instance, is often as good as a not guilty verdict. Because a hung jury simply means that men and women of good character and intelligence couldn’t reach an agreement on the facts. A mistrial may serve the defendant in the same manner, whether it results from a technical error on the part of the prosecutor, or some other irregularity. A reversal of a guilty verdict on appeal — for whatever reason, trifling or significant — also represents a victory for the defense. These inconclusive results tell a person who reads about them in the newspaper or hears about them on television that the issues were so confused and complicated, the so-called facts so contradictory that jurors, with the best will in the world, still found it impossible to say who was right and who was wrong.

“But... in a trial of rape where the charges include kidnapping, torture and other bestial acts, the exact opposite is true.”

Davic slammed his hand down on the ledge of the jury box. “You cannot partially clear Earl Thompson of such charges. You cannot partially cleanse the stains from his reputation and good name. A hung jury, a mistrial, appeals, reversals, another trial with a new judge and a new jury — those will have the effect of branding Earl Thomson just as if you had, in fact, found him guilty on every charge and specification in the indictment. In the gossip and rumor mills of offices and shops and barrooms, people will say... ‘That Thomson character got away with it, beat the rap on some technicality...’ ”

Davic turned and pointed to Earl Thomson. “That young man — and remember, his worst offense is a speeding ticket, he has no prior convictions — that young man will be marked for the rest of his life as a sadist and rapist by any verdict less than a full and complete acquittal on all charges. No halfway measure will suffice. Now you may be saying to yourself, that’s all very well, Mr. Davic, but you can’t just tell us that Earl Thomson needs an unqualified verdict of not guilty. No, Mr. Davic, you’ve got to prove that he deserves it. Well, that is exactly what I intend to do, ladies and gentlemen, just as surely as I stand here before you.

“Consider the People’s attorney’s so-called evidence — fingerprints, photographs, taped interrogations and the like — I will expose that evidence for what it is. A smokescreen to obscure the fact that the Commonwealth in fact has only one piece of evidence to place before you, which is the unsupported identification of Earl Thomson by the plaintiff, Miss Shana Selby.

“So, it is time to consider that young woman. While it is true that she is young, it is also true that she is a woman, with all that suggests emotionally and biologically.

“Now” — Davic turned from the jurors and regarded Shana thoughtfully — “we don’t intend to deny for an instant that this young woman was physically mistreated. Whether she was a voluntary or involuntary participant in that mistreatment is totally irrelevant to our defense. We will stipulate Miss Selby’s physical injuries. Stipulate, as all of you probably know, is a legalism that means ‘admit and concede.’ So in this instance we admit and concede in advance the extent and severity of Miss Selby’s injuries, though I’m sure every bruise and welt on this young woman’s body will be dramatically described and demonstrated to you for maximum shock effect.

“Well, that’s the People’s privilege, if they really want to exercise it. But I ask you to remember, as you listen to testimony describing the physical abuse Miss Selby suffered, I want you to please keep in mind that we have never denied those injuries. We have no reason to. No reason whatsoever. Because our contention, which we will prove beyond any doubt, is that while Shana Selby was injured — and we regret that she was, needless to say — Earl Thomson was not the man who inflicted those injuries on her. It follows, therefore, that Miss Selby is mistaken, or that she is deliberately lying.”

Davic walked to the defense table. “If she is mistaken, it is our hope to convince her of her error in the course of this trial. If Miss Selby will admit she has made a mistake, I can assure her we will accept her word for that and extend our forgiveness and even our understanding. But if she is lying, and persists in those untruths, that is another matter. Because it will be obvious that she is lying for personal reasons or out of deep psychopathic compulsions — or because she is being forced to lie by someone who has an ulterior motive to destroy Earl Thomson’s character and reputation by these malicious accusations...

“Therefore — to protect Earl Thomson from the possibility of such a conspiracy — I will ask the court’s permission in these hearings to broaden the areas that normally define the parameters of permissible inquiry.” Davic placed a hand on Earl’s shoulder, “When I have completed my defense, I honestly believe you will find it not only your duty to clear this young man’s name and character — but also your privilege to do so. Thank you very much for your attention.”

After rapping his gavel to silence a murmur in the courtroom, Judge Flood settled back in his chair and glanced at the jurors.

“Mr. Davic was correct in advising you that opening statements do not constitute evidence. In such statements the attorneys have the opportunity to tell you in narrative form the basis of the case they will present. Such expositions — and they will occur again at the close of the case — are only promises of forthcoming evidence and exhortations for you to believe that evidence.”

After a glance at his writing pad, Judge Flood said, “I would like now to amend a statement I made during the process of jury selection. In the voir dire process I examined several of you as to what you might have heard or read about this case. I told you we would all be greatly surprised by a prospective juror who claimed he knew nothing of this case — such an admission would suggest that said juror never looked at a newspaper or television, never made small talk at work or on lunch breaks. We were not looking for jurors who are blind and deaf to the world around them, but for men and women who might preserve a reasonable impartiality despite pretrial publicity.”

After pausing, the judge continued with a smile. “I don’t think justice and a little humor are mutually exclusive. When I advised you that a stupid, careless jury, a negligent one, even, might be considered a defendants’s best ally, I was, of course, indulging in exaggeration. But the Appellate Division might consider those comments unwise... those high justices are notoriously solemn. What I meant was this: in criminal cases, conviction is based on proof of guilt beyond any reasonable doubt. This is to guarantee — as far as is humanly possible — that any mistakes made by the jury will not harm the defendant but will, in fact — as is appropriate and fair — benefit him. I want to be certain that what I said was not misconstrued, I want it understood that it had as its intent to make the serious point I have just described.”

Judge Flood then nodded to his bailiff, who stood and called for the People Sergeant Remus Ritter of the Muhlenburg sheriff’s station.

Dorcas Brett’s first series of witnesses, including Ritter, developed the chronological, factual foundation of the People’s case against Earl Thomson. Sergeant Ritter was followed to the stand by Harry Selby, who recounted — in answer to Brett’s questions — the action he had taken on learning that his daughter had been kidnapped, and his subsequent attempts to find where she had been taken that night. Trooper Milt Karee then gave his account of the sheriff’s investigation, the times of the various procedures and so forth. Counselor Davic waived cross-examination but reserved his rights to question both witnesses later.

The People then called, in order, Nurse Edith Redden and Dr. Merwin Kerr.

The restless sounds in the courtroom died away as the nurse responded to Brett’s questions. “I removed her clothes, yes. They were bloody and her shoes were wet and dirty with mud. I didn’t handle them any more than necessary because I knew the pathology lab would be going over them for evidence.

“Miss Selby had tried to clean herself up before I got there, yes. She had splashed some water on her face. But it was so beaten and swollen, it was almost black in places... and her right hand, it had a deep cut in it. She was crying so hard, I couldn’t talk to her. She was bleeding from between her legs, but I knew Dr. Kerr was on the way, so I just got her into a clean nightgown and into bed. And I cleaned the wound in her hand and put a dressing on it.

“—no, she didn’t say anything about who had done this to her. I made her as comfortable as I could and then Dr. Kerr asked her about what had happened and she told us about the car hitting her and the man... the alleged rapist. I gave all that information to Milt, to Trooper Karec.”

Dr. Merwin Kerr’s testimony was clinical and impersonal, his delivery restrained as he spoke of Shana’s loosened teeth, the “penile assault” that had ruptured her hymen and the membranes of her vaginal orifice, the blows that contused her cheekbones, the rope burns on her wrists and ankles, the presence of semen in her anal aperture. The cold, detached tones only emphasized the horrors.

Davic listened thoughtfully but again deferred cross-examination. But when Dr. Kerr was excused, he called Trooper Milt Karec.

“Trooper Karec, there are a few points you might clarify for us. Specifically, a clearer understanding of the time certain things happened. The Selby girl was first reported missing around six or six-thirty on that October afternoon. Correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Her bicycle was discovered on Fairlee Road about two hours later. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir, we thought that—”

“Forgive me, Trooper Karec, but I’d prefer to ask these questions in my own way. I’d like you to bear with me, please. You assumed that Miss Selby might have been struck by a car and driven by the motorist to a nearby hospital, is that it?”

“Yes, sir, that’s what we were hoping had happened.”

“Much later that night,” Davic went on, “early the following morning rather, the Selby girl was brought home by her father from a housing park known locally as Little Tennessee or Little Tenn. Is that correct, Trooper?”

“Yes, sir. But meantime we’d had our squads out checking back roads and school parking lots and—”

“Forgive me again, Trooper. Were you notified immediately when the Selby girl was returned home?”

“No, sir, we didn’t know anything about that for almost an hour.”

“How were you advised of that fact?”

“Sergeant Ritter had been checking the Selby place every half hour or so to see if they’d got a call or anything. Around one-thirty, Mrs. Cranston told him the kid was back, had been for an hour or more. Said with all the excitement, they’d forgot to call us.”

“What did you do then?”

“Trooper Jimson and I drove over to question her.”

“That was routine procedure?”

“You better believe it, sir. Sergeant Ritter gave us the call direct, didn’t patch it through Central. Told us to roll on a Code Three, red lights and siren.”

“When you got to the Selbys’, did you question Miss Selby?”

“No, sir. Mr. Selby wouldn’t let us talk to his daughter, wouldn’t even let us see her.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“He said he didn’t want any cops talking to her... he meant any men, I believe.”

“Did you explain to Mr. Selby why it was essential that you speak with his daughter?”

“You’re damned — sorry, sir, you better believe we did. Told him we needed a description of the perpetrator and the car to put out APBs and set up roadblocks.”

“Did Mr. Selby then change his mind?”

“No, sir. He called Sergeant Ritter and told him he wanted a nurse to look at his daughter. Wouldn’t let me or Jimson go near her, never mind we’re both family men.”

Karec then explained that he had waited with Trooper Jimson in the Selby driveway until the nurse and the doctor had treated and questioned the plaintiff. Nurse Redden then provided them with a description of the car and the assailant.

“Trooper Karec, is Nurse Redden a trained police investigator?”

“She’s a fine nurse, sir, a fine woman.”

“That wasn’t my question. The nurse’s description of the alleged perpetrator and vehicle — were they as exact and helpful as you would expect from a trained police officer?”

“I object, Your Honor.”

“Overruled. Witness will answer.”

Karec was eager. “No, sir. The Selby girl was scared out of her wits. Nobody can blame her, but she told Edith things like the man was tall and dark and that the car was shiny and that it was warm and quiet inside it. She should have asked the kid if by dark she meant he was a black guy or a Puerto, and tried to get some—”

“Objection, Your Honor!”

“Sustained. We can’t speculate on what facts might have been developed in a hypothetical interrogation.”

“Yes, Your Honor... Trooper Karec, from the time you arrived at the Selbys’ home, from that moment until you finally put Nurse Redden’s sketchy descriptions of the alleged rapist and his car on the police network — how much time had been lost by then?”

“I’d say more than three hours, sir.”

“In addition, you weren’t notified immediately when the girl was returned home?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Trooper Karec, even if this alleged rapist had obeyed every posted speed limit to the letter, couldn’t he have driven hundreds of miles from the scene of the crime during those four hours?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained. We won’t admit that speculation.”

Davic nodded deferentially to the bench, but he was pleased the jury had heard the question. “Tell me this then, Trooper. Wouldn’t you say, as a professional, that someone — or let’s just say circumstances — conspired, unintentionally or otherwise, to give that alleged and vaguely described criminal a long headstart on you and your fellow police officers?”

“Objection, Your Honor!”

“Sustained.”

“Thank you, Trooper Karec. I have no more questions.”

Brett said, “Just one thing, Trooper. When Mr. Selby told you he didn’t want you to interrogate his daughter, do you remember all the reasons he gave?”

“Like I testified, ma’am, he told us he didn’t want policemen talking to her. He wanted a woman, a nurse for that.”

“Mr. Selby had still another reason, I believe.” Brett paused. “Do you remember what it was?”

“Well, I think Mr. Selby told us his daughter wouldn’t even talk to him. Maybe he figured we couldn’t do any better but—”

“Thank you, Trooper Karec. No further questions.”

“The witness is excused.”

At the defense table, Davic briefly nodded to Brett, with an accompanying smile that he made certain the jury saw. A gracious gentleman, this fellow... even if he was from New York...

After the luncheon recess Dorcas introduced the Commonwealth’s physical evidence against Earl Thomson. The defendant’s fingerprints from the garage at Vinegar Hill were presented as People’s exhibits, together with photographs of his red Porsche. After dates and times had been corroborated, and the authenticity of the fingerprints established, Captain Slocum was called to the stand to identify the taped interrogations of Earl Thomson. The tapes were played in open court and the exchanges between Slocum, Lieutenant Gus Eberle and the defendant, Earl Thomson, were linked to the People’s chain of evidence.

Captain Slocum made an excellent witness, forceful, assured and professional. His expensive clothing enhanced that image, adding to an overall impression of poise and authority.

Counselor Davic did not defer his cross-examination of Slocum. His impatient manner — more than impatience, it was closer to a caged ferocity — made it clear he could hardly wait to get at this smoothly plausible detective. But he was careful to begin in a disarmingly courteous manner.

“You’ve been a police officer how long, Captain?”

“Twenty-three years and nine months, sir.”

“And your associate, Lieutenant Gus Eberle, has an almost equal amount of experience, I understand?”

“Yes, sir, the lieutenant’s been with my division for fourteen or fifteen years at least, came right up through the ranks.”

“Then in the course of a routine investigation involving a stolen car, it could be assumed that you and the lieutenant, would know what you’re doing. Is that a fair assumption, Captain?”

Davic’s tone had abruptly turned caustic. Slocum seemed puzzled by it.

“When you put it that way, sir, it sounds like you’re damning us with pretty faint praise. Yes, we know what we’re doing, sir.”

“Good, excellent. Now we’re going to replay the section of the tapes that were introduced in evidence by the prosecution. After that, I’ll have more questions about you and your lieutenant.”

The bailiff turned on the machine and Earl Thomson’s recorded and metallic voice sounded in the courtroom.

“... no, Captain, I’m sure I’ve never been there. I’m positive. Vinegar Hill, you say?”

“That’s right, Earl” The voice was Slocum’s. “It’s a farm, a small one, a dozen acres maybe. It’s on Dade Road, near Brandywine Lakes.”

“I’ve never heard of it, Captain.”

“How about the Rakestraw Bridge?” This was Lieutenant Eberle’s voice, low and rasping. “You know that bridge, Earl? It’s covered, got one of them old-style wooden roofs over it.”

“Maybe, I don’t know—”

“So your statement,” Captain Slocum interrupted, “is that you don’t know anything about Vinegar Hill, and that you’ve never been there. Is that it, Earl?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you, Captain. I don’t know the place, I was never there and I don’t know how my car got there. Whoever stole it probably—”

“Hold it.” Eberle’s growling voice broke in. “We’ll get to that later. You know some people who live near Fairlee Road named Selby?”

“Selby? No, Lieutenant, I don’t.”

“You know where Fairlee Road is?”

“I have an idea. Near Muhlenburg, isn’t it?”

“You ever drive over Fairlee Road, Earl, around Little Tenn or Mill Lane?”

“I don’t believe so. My car was stolen in Muhlenburg, though, if that means anything, but—”

The captain interrupted him again. “Earl, do you know a young lady named Shana Selby?”

“Shana Selby? No, should I?”

“No reason you should, Earl, but on the other hand, there’s no reason you shouldn’t. We have good cause to believe that girl was taken to Vinegar Hill in your car and very seriously assaulted.”

“Hell, Captain, my car was reported stolen. I was having a beer in a bar called The Green Lantern when it happened. It was late in the afternoon. But I was home a half hour later having dinner right here with my mother. Look, late as it is, you can wake her up and talk to her if you want. But when you find out who ripped off the Porsche, maybe they can tell you about that girl — what’d you say her name was?”

Davic snapped off the tape machine. He clenched his hands and stared at Slocum. “Tell me this, Captain. Why did you and Lieutenant Eberle go to Earl Thomson’s home in the middle of the night and attempt to intimidate him with those irrelevant and slanderous insinuations—?”

Brett instantly objected and Judge Flood sustained her.

Listening to the subsequent charges, countercharges and legal rulings, Selby couldn’t help believing that he was witnessing the trappings of a charade... He hoped not, but the judge and Davic did seem somehow mannered, rehearsed... He wanted not to believe that. But...

“You gave Earl Thomson no advance warning, Captain?” Davic was now pressing. “Not even the courtesy of a phone call before getting him out of bed — when was it, one-thirty in the morning?”

“No, sir, we decided that—”

“I know what you decided, Captain. You just decided to scrap any paragraph of the Constitution that didn’t meet with your—”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.”

Davic drew a deep breath. “Captain, Earl Thomson’s car was stolen several months ago, correct?”

“Yes.”

“The theft was duly reported at that time. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then why... why, Captain Slocum, did you and your lieutenant seize on the pretext of a stolen car investigation to interrogate my client about a rape case and an alleged victim named Shana Selby?”

“We were exercising” — Slocum paused and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief — “what I’d term a discretionary caution—”

“In regard to what, Captain? A car had been stolen. You had news of that fact. You then interrogated Earl Thomson about the details and the locale of a rape case, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was he a suspect in that case?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why, Captain, did you ask him about Vinegar Hill? Or about Shana Selby?”

“We were looking for... links.”

“Captain, will you agree you have violated my client’s civil rights?”

“No, because—”

“Will you admit” — Davic was raising his voice — “that you have abused your authority?”

“Your Honor!” Brett raised her voice too. “It isn’t my place to remind Mr. Davic that this isn’t a playpen for his tantrums. This is a court of law and—”

“Sustained. Mr. Davic, you will observe the proprieties and... and not badger the witness.”

“I apologize, Your Honor, I apologize to the court and to the jury. It is my sincere intention to conduct myself with decorum. But at the risk of your displeasure, I must state that I am here in your courtroom for one purpose, and that is to fight for justice for my client...” Davic turned from the witness stand and dismissed Slocum with a gesture, saying, “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

The jury, it seemed to Selby, was favorably impressed by Davic’s defiant and emotional attitude. Glancing at Brett, he saw a tension in her face as she spoke quietly to Shana, touching her arm, a quick gesture to reassure her.

Selby now decided what he’d suspected all along — the scales of justice in this old courtroom, with its solid pine floor smelling so cleanly of good, rubbed-in linseed oil, had been carefully tipped from the start against his daughter.

He decided to do something about it.

The insurance agent, Jay Mooney, lived on a residential street near East Chester’s slums, the stretch of ancient row houses and tar-paper shacks that bordered the Brandywine.

“They’re not bad neighbors,” Mooney said, leading Selby into his overheated living room. A twenty-four-inch color TV glowed from a corner, coughing out bursts of canned laughter and applause. An upright typewriter rested on a card table surrounded by a clutter of dusty business stationery and insurance forms. What was left of Mooney’s dinner, crusts of pizza and several empty beer cans, were on a coffee table. A single fly walked around on the flakes of tomato-flecked dough.

“We do just fine here with our dusky friends along the river.” Mooney snapped off the TV set. “Sit down, Harry. Failure creates sympathy, and we’re all failures at this end of town. Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thanks, but you go ahead.”

“Well,” Mooney said, “since you insist.”

He returned from the kitchen with a large glass filled with whiskey and water. Seating himself at the coffee table, he waved at the fly crawling around the pizza crumbs. “I can guess why you’re here, Harry, so maybe I can save us both some time. I was in court this afternoon, heard Slocum’s testimony. Nice little gavotte the pair of them danced, wasn’t it? Not subtle, but effective. So you’re back for some more help from the old lush, is that it?”

“That’s right, Jay.”

Mooney took a long pull from his drink without taking his eyes from Selby. The soft paunches under his eyes were the color of oysters. From the street sounded motorcycles and children shouting. After another long drink Mooney set the glass down. His eyes, glinting in deep rolls of fat, were not-friendly.

“You want a name now, is that it, Harry? You want to involve me up to my ass, right?”

“Just tell me where I can start checking,” Selby said. “I won’t mention you, Jay, that’s a promise.”

“You obviously feel I should help you because it’s the decent thing to do.” The whiskey had made Mooney’s speech deliberate. “Which means you don’t think my life is worth much of a shit one way or the other. Therefore, I’m pleased to tell you I don’t know one goddamn thing more than I’ve already told you. Earl Thomson got in some trouble with a girl when he was at school over in New Jersey. Some other students were mixed up in it. Captain Slocum rode like a knight errant to the rescue.”

With the flat of his hand, Mooney struck at the fly crawling around the pizza tray. The blow shook the table and shattered a few soggy crusts, but the fly flew off and alighted on the dark television screen.

“I’m not getting involved,” Mooney said, “and that’s final. In a few hours, kids outside will be playing transistors and there’ll be a dozen motorcycles racing up and down in front of my house. My agency in East Chester is being phased out of business by the home office in Dayton, Ohio. You won’t believe it, but I still want to go on living. If I talk to you, the odds on that could go way down. So do me a favor and get the hell out of here, Harry. You’ll get no more help here.”

“Okay, I’ll forget this conversation.” Selby stood and walked to the door. “And I’m trusting you’ll forget it, too, Jay.”

“You’re a damned fool,” Mooney said. “I could score points by picking up the phone and getting to the right people before you’re halfway down the steps.”

“Good night, Jay. If you were thinking about doing that, you wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

Selby left Mooney’s house and walked along the noisy street to his station wagon. Mooney stood in his open door and called after him, “Don’t do this, Harry. You know I’m no good. Don’t trust me, for Christ’s sake, you sonofabitch...”