Summitt

Chapter Twenty-Six

Before opening for the defense, Davic apologized to the court for Earl Thomson’s behavior of the day before.

“There are, Your Honor,” he said, “no extenuating circumstances which can or will ever justify a violation of our judicial processes. No pressures are so heavy, no allegations, unfounded or otherwise, so provocative that they may be offered as an excuse for disrespect to the bench or to our legal traditions.”

Judge Flood said, “Mr. Davic, the court notes your apology and the defendant’s contrition. But I warn you, I will tolerate no further displays of temper from him.” Judge Flood liked the sound of that.

“You have my word for that, Your Honor.”

“Will you then call your witness?”

There was a stir of anticipation when the clerk stood and said, “The defense re-calls Mr. Harry Selby.”

“You are still under oath,” Davic reminded Selby after he had taken the stand. “I asked you yesterday what knowledge you had of the defendant or his father prior to the alleged attack on your daughter. I will ask you that again: what knowledge did you have, Mr. Selby?”

“None.”

“You knew nothing of Earl Thomson, his family or his background?”

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Selby, is your conscience comfortable with the charges your daughter has brought against the defendant?”

Brett stood up. “I object, Your Honor. The question is pointlessly subjective—”

“Sustained,” Flood said. “Please come to your point, Mr. Davic.”

“The point, as I emphasized from the outset, is truth.” Davic turned from the bench and studied the jurors. “Truth is the heart of this matter. At the heart of the truth, ladies and gentlemen, is the question of motive.” Then in an almost conversational tone he said, “Mr. Selby, will you now tell us why you are attempting to destroy the good name of the defendant, Earl Thomson—?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

Davic quickly pursued his questioning. “What personal reasons have compelled you to inflict such pain and anguish on him and his family? Why are you attacking this young man who—”

“Objection, Your Honor! The question is haranguing, abusive and presumptive.”

“Sustained.”

“All right, Your Honor, but I intend to produce supportive evidence.”

Davic turned to the defense table, where Royce handed him a cardboard filing case.

“Your Honor,” Davic said, “I will ask the court to identify the following material as Defense Exhibit K.S. 36663864, the United States Army’s referral number for this particular material.”

“The court stenographer will so identify it.”

Several inches thick and bound in a gray plastic, the front cover of the file was stamped with an identifying label. Davic gave each juror an opportunity to read the lettering:

“This document,” Davic then told them, “is the transcript of a U.S. Army court-martial, registered in the Office of the Adjutant-General.”

“Your Honor!” Brett was standing.

“Miss Brett?”

“The prosecution, Your Honor, attempted to obtain the files Counselor Davic introduced. We were told by the Office of the Adjutant-General that the materials were classified and not available.”

“Counselor Davic?”

“I don’t understand. My request for these files was granted as a matter of course.”

Brett said sharply, “Then the material has been mysteriously declassified since our request.”

Flood said, “I will instruct the defense to provide the People with copies of this document. You may proceed, Mr. Davic.”

Selby saw Earl Thomson smile briefly at his father.

“The proceedings of this court-martial,” Davic informed the jury, “were recorded more than a quarter of a century ago in South Korea. The trial was ordered by the commanding officer of a counterintelligence unit of the Seventh Army.

“Specifically, a sergeant was charged with manslaughter and unlawfully administering drugs to enemy prisoners, drugs he obtained by theft. As a result, numerous prisoners died, others suffered permanent brain damage. That sergeant received a dishonorable discharge and was sentenced to five years in a military prison.”

Davic studied each juror deliberately. “The sergeant who disgraced his country and his uniform was Jonas Harold Selby, the father of Harry Selby, who is seated before you now in the witness stand.

“The president of the court-martial that found Jonas Selby guilty of those charges is also present today” — Davic pointed to the gallery behind the defense table — “he is George Thomson, formerly Major George Thomson, Sergeant Jonas Selby’s commanding officer in Korea. I asked Mr. Selby why he set out to persecute and defame Earl Thomson. I think the reasons are now transparently clear. Harry Selby is attempting to avenge his own father’s disgrace and punishment by striking at George Thomson through his son, Earl—”

“Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Davic has made what amounts to a closing statement to the jury.” Brett controlled her voice with an effort. “He is drawing conclusions from evidence the People have had no opportunity to examine. The issue at trial” — Brett raised her voice over Flood’s gavel — “is not a court-martial convened in Korea thirty years ago. The issue at trial is the current violent abuse of a minor child. Is the accused guilty or not? That is the issue at—”

“Miss Brett, you will not tell me what issues are at trial. You will not instruct me on what is pertinent to these hearings. Don’t press me in that fashion again... Mr. Davic?”

But Allan Davic was content to rest on the doubts he’d created. Brett attempted in her redirect to establish that Selby had had no information about the details of his father’s court-martial, and no knowledge of George Thomson’s part in it. But when she finished her examination it was obvious from the reactions among the jurors that certain sensitive scales had definitely tipped against the credibility of the People’s case.

At the recess Selby walked to the underground parking lot where he’d left his car. A slender man with rimless glasses joined him a few minutes later.

“It’s a small world, isn’t it?” Burt Wilger said, and handed Selby a folded newspaper. “Emma Green’s address is on a piece of notepaper clipped to the sports section. She probably won’t talk about Earl Thomson. If she tells you to kiss off, I wouldn’t crowd her. I’d say she’s gun-shy.”

“She learned that from Captain Slocum, I guess.”

Wilger shrugged, put a toothpick in his mouth and chewed on it, then said, “Well, Selby, cops come in all shapes and sizes. All of them don’t shit chocolate ice cream and spend their spare time teaching civics in ghettos.”

“Who’s leaning on Brett now? Is that Slocum, too?”

“She tell you about it?”

“My daughter did,” Selby said. “She heard you talking.”

“I don’t think it’s Slocum.” Wilger spat the toothpick from his mouth. “It’s some characters from New York, that’s all I got. I picked up one of their calls to Brett. They mentioned somebody named Toby Clark. Brett clammed up on me, wouldn’t talk about it. The name mean anything to you?”

“No. Who are the New York people working for?”

“Who knows? Davic maybe. Or Lorso, or Thomson himself. There’re two of them. Brothers. Ben and Aron Cadle. Might’ve been that pair that tried to hit Brett the other night. Lucky you were there. If you wonder why I owe you, by the way, that’s it. She’s good people.”

“Let me ask you something,” Selby said. “Maybe you can’t give a civilian a straight answer, but at least you can tell me if I’m wasting our time—”

“Stop being so damned hard-nosed. Try me.”

“Do you believe my daughter’s telling the truth?”

“Goddammit, I helped make Brett’s case, didn’t I?”

“Do you think she’ll nail Thomson?”

“I got a very cracked crystal ball about things like that, Selby.”

“Captain Slocum perjured himself, didn’t he?”

“You said that. I still work for him, remember?”

“Somebody used a ton of pressure to get hold of my father’s court-martial,” Selby reminded him. “That’s the kind of weight she’s up against.”

“You want it straight, I don’t think Brett’s got a prayer.”

Selby opened the door of his station wagon and dropped the newspaper on the passenger seat. He hesitated a moment, and then said, “We’re still in the game, Wilger. We’re holding some cards. Goldie Boy Jessup is on the hook to perjure himself. They’re paying him for it.”

“How’d you find that out?”

Selby hesitated again, then told Wilger what Goldbirn had heard from the Florida police — that the preacher was being given title to land on the Jersey shore near Avalon.

Wilger whistled. “Pretty expensive real estate for saving sinners.”

“Let me ask you another question,” Selby said. “If you were going to lie under oath, to perjure yourself, what’s the first condition you’d insist on?”

“If I was in a position to make demands, which I probably wouldn’t be, I’d make sure I couldn’t ever get caught. That’s a bottom line.”

“But somebody’s got to lie about Thomson’s fingerprints at Vinegar Hill.”

“Right. Somebody’s got to lie about those prints. Somebody will lie, Selby. Unless they come up with some bullshit explanation, Thomson’s dead. Davic’s got to prove to the jury those prints were in the garage at that farm either before or after your daughter was raped.”

“Then somebody else has also got to lie — will lie — about the time Thomson came home that night.”

“What’s your point, Selby?”

“That whoever tells those lies under oath has got to be damn sure it’s perfectly safe. That no other area of the case will blow up in his face. But it wouldn’t be enough simply to tell a prospective perjurer he’s got nothing to worry about” — Selby studied the detective — “you’re the pro, Wilger. Am I right?”

“Sure... you’d have to prove it.” Wilger shrugged; his expression had become deliberately neutral. “But you’re talking about finding that proof, the heat the defense is using, and why they’re scared shitless to let this trial take its legal course. It could mean a numbered account somewhere, any kind of blackmail material... that means running informants, digging into the sensitive places, surveillance in relays. So try to understand, Selby, I’m a working stiff. I sign in and out of Division, run a shift, fill out case sheets, daydream about a pension... Slocum can nail my ass to the floor if he wants to.”

Wilger removed his glasses, then polished them with the end of his tie. “Good luck over in Jersey. I’ve gone as far as I can, Selby. Do me a favor and forget where you got Emma Green’s address. Okay?”

Selby nodded and got into the car. Wilger closed the door for him with a soft click of finality.

“Thanks, Sergeant.”

“Take care, friend. It’s a cold world.”

After turning off the old Baltimore Pike, Selby drove through Philadelphia and crossed the George Washington Bridge on his way to the town of Jefferson, New Jersey...

In Superior Court Nine, Allan Davic prepared to continue his attack against the foundation of the People’s case against Earl Thomson. He instructed Flood’s clerk to call, in order, Elbe May Cluny, Charles Lee, Miguel Santos and finally the accused’s mother, Mrs. George Thomson.

A waitress in The Green Lantern, Ellie May was in her twenties, solemnly pretty with a full bosom and attractive legs. She made a good witness.

Earl Thomson, she testified, had been in the Lantern around five o’clock that Friday afternoon back in October. Ellie May pointed to Earl and identified him; that was the man she’d served some beers to while he was waiting for Charlie Lee. Ellie May knew Charlie Lee; he worked at a mushroom house in Hockessin, over in Delaware.

On cross-examination, Brett asked how, after several months, Ellie May could identify Earl Thomson so positively. Very few white people came by the Lantern, Ellie May answered. Mr. Thomson naturally stood out. He was dressed cool, too, good jacket, nice sports shirt and a shiny kind of chain necklace and ring, and a watch he kept studying.

He’d talked to Ellie May about buying a gun from Charlie Lee. But Charlie Lee called and told her they’d had a flush — a “flush” was an overnight sprouting of mushrooms that had to be picked right away. She’d put Earl Thomson on the phone.

“Miss Cluny, did you know that Earl Thomson’s car was stolen while he was in The Green Lantern?”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t.”

“After the call from Mr. Lee, what did Mr. Thomson do then?”

“He seemed kind of pouty.”

“ ‘Pouty’?”

“Kind of mad, ma’am.”

“But what did he do?”

“He just left, ma’am. Threw down some money, and went out.”

“Miss Cluny, is The Green Lantern’s phone private?”

“No, ma’am, it’s a pay phone. Bartender answers it, calls for whoever it is.”

“Anyone in The Green Lantern can use that phone, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But Mr. Thomson did not return and use that phone?”

“No, ma’am, he didn’t.”

“Have you seen or talked with Mr. Thomson since that Friday afternoon last October?”

“No, ma’am, I haven’t.”

“Thank you, Miss Cluny.”

Charlie Lee was a stocky, middle-aged black man, dressed in a blue suit with a denim shirt and black tie. His testimony was simple and direct: he owned a Parker shotgun and wanted to sell it. Mr. Earl Thomson answered his newspaper ad and they agreed to meet at The Green Lantern. But the mushrooms had flushed a day early, and he had to break the date. Ellie May told him the white man was there, called him to the phone. He’d explained about the flush to Mr. Thompson, told him he had to work.

“Mr. Lee, did Mr. Thomson make another appointment with you at that time?”

“No, ma’am, he didn’t.”

“Did you suggest one?”

“Sure, ’cause I wanted to sell the shotgun. But he told me to forget it, like he was disgusted, and hung up.”

“You had no further contact with him since that time?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Did you sell your shotgun to someone else, Mr. Lee?”

“No, ma’am. I still got it.”

“Well, I hope you find a buyer, Mr. Lee. Thank you.”

The attention of the jurors sharpened when Miguel Santos was called to the stand. The testimony of Adele Thomson’s therapist was crucial to the defense structure and it was obvious Davic intended to shore it up as firmly as possible.

Santos was attentive, his voice determined, earnest, anxious. His eyes followed Davic with obedient interest. A film of sweat shone on his broad, smooth forehead.

The Cuban’s nervousness seemed to stem from an immigrant’s pride at participating in such important official proceedings, plus a fear of failing to live up to whatever was expected of him; his attempts to be responsive and cooperative were painful in their eagerness, but seemed to make a favorable impression on the jurors.

On cross, Brett asked, “Mr. Santos, do you have a valid United States driver’s license?”

“No, miss, I don’t.”

“How long have you been in this country, Mr. Santos?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Santos, are you a competent driver? A good driver?”

“Oh, yes, I drive all kinds of trucks, cars, in Cuba. Very good.”

“Then when Mr. Thomson called you on that occasion we’re talking about — early Friday evening, October sixteenth — you weren’t worried about driving over to Muhlenburg to pick him up? Is that correct?”

“Si, yes, correct.”

“It didn’t bother you to be asked to drive fifteen miles at night through rush-hour traffic? That didn’t worry you at all?”

“No, miss. I drive very well.”

“You were not concerned about not having a driver’s license?”

Santos shrugged uncertainly. He looked for help to Davic, who stood and said, “Your Honor, many Cubans who fled the present regime there are political refugees. Naturally they don’t have official papers. It’s difficult for them to obtain U.S. drivers’ licenses. That isn’t Mr. Santos’s fault.”

“Your point is well taken, Mr. Davic. The question is irrelevant in any case. Go on, Miss Brett.”

“Mr. Santos, how long have you worked for the Thomson family?”

“Seven years, ma’am.”

“In that time were you ever asked to serve as a chauffeur for Earl Thomson?”

“No... I don’t think so, miss.”

“Do you mean ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ Mr. Santos?”

“I mean no, miss.”

“Then you must have been surprised when Earl Thomson asked you to drive to Muhlenburg and pick him up. Were you surprised?”

“A little.” Santos shrugged. “But I am there at the house to work, you know, miss. I do what work is there, what I’m asked.”

“Then you were not surprised at Mr. Thomson’s request?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

“Judge Flood,” Brett said, “I’m trying to establish that the actions Miguel Santos took that night were of an unusual nature, an unprecedented nature. Surely the jury is entitled to a clarification of these unique circumstances.”

“Miss Brett, I have sustained defense counsel’s objection. I’d appreciate it if you’d get on to something else now.”

Brett again took the stocky Cuban over the events of that particular Friday night — a second time and a third. With each repetition, it became increasingly obvious that Santos’s testimony had been carefully committed to memory; his answers were a word-for-word duplication of his testimony to Davic on direct examination.

Santos had been in his quarters above the garage when Thomson had phoned from Muhlenburg. This was five-thirty — “or maybe a little after.” Mr. Thomson asked Santos to drive over to Muhlenburg. The chauffeur, Richard, was not home — he was in New Jersey with Mr. Thomson, Mr. George Thomson. Santos had left immediately in a family car. Santos described the route he’d taken that night with mechanical accuracy, listing without hesitation a stream of street names and route numbers. But Brett gained little by establishing that Santos’s account seemed to be memorized; his methodical delivery strengthened his credibility with the jury because it appeared so in keeping with his character. The Cuban obviously was the sort of person who would have to be certain of his facts before he would put a hand on a Bible and swear to them.

“Mr. Santos, where did you pick up Mr. Thomson in Muhlenburg?”

“In front of a diner. He told me where he would be. The Bellflower diner.”

“He was waiting outside?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Who drove home then, Mr. Santos?”

“He did. Mr. Thomson.”

“Did he tell you his car had been stolen?”

“No, miss.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“About what, miss?”

“About what happened to his Porsche Turbo 924?”

“No, miss.”

“Weren’t you curious?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Santos, what time did you and Earl Thomson arrive at the Thomson home?”

“Seven o’clock, just about seven.”

“What time did you go to bed that night?”

“Maybe ten, ten-thirty o’clock.”

“Did you have dinner after you returned from Muhlenburg?”

“Yes.”

“Did you eat alone?”

“In my room. Yes.”

“You stayed alone in your room until you went to bed?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Santos.”

The defense then called Mrs. George Thomson, but Judge Flood ordered a half-hour recess to give the TV technicians time to set up and test their equipment and remote hook-up to her home.

Adele Thomson wore tiny pearl earrings and a blue bed jacket with a microphone clipped to a quilted lapel. Her maid had brushed her tight, vibrant curls into a soft crescent around her fragile forehead; they were like a small, shining halo against the white bedstead and pillows.

Her image was brought to the courtroom on a large screen set up beside Judge Flood’s bench. It was immediately obvious that her appearance created a favorable and heightened emotional impact on the court and the jury; her motionless body provided a touching contrast to her resonant voice and lively, intelligent eyes. She seemed intent on testifying clearly and accurately, her manner suggested an eagerness to cooperate and, more important for its effect on the jurors, a gallant indifference to her physical helplessness.

Her account was simple and straightforward... Earl had stopped by her room around seven o’clock on the night in question. She was certain of the time. Two clocks, one electric, the other solar-powered, were in clear view of her bed.

Earl was dining with her that evening. After looking in to say hello, he’d gone off to shower and change. He returned fifteen minutes later. They had a glass of wine and watched the end of the news. Dinner had been prepared; Earl set up trays and served.

Davic asked if she could have been mistaken about the time. Had she taken any medication before Earl arrived? Was it possible she’d been drowsy or confused?

Adele Thomson replied firmly in the negative. She had taken no medicine, cough syrups or alcohol (except the single glass of wine) that night. She volunteered that she did take medication on occasion, both for pain and to help her sleep. Prescription drugs — five milligram Valium and Dalmane. Actually she hadn’t taken anything that night. With a smile, she said, “Imagine taking a sleeping pill when you’re expecting your son for dinner.”

They had talked and watched television until ten-thirty or eleven o’clock. Then Earl went off to his own room.

“Then it’s your sworn testimony, Mrs. Thomson,” Davic said, “that your son was with you from seven o’clock until approximately eleven o’clock on that Friday night last October sixteenth?”

“Yes. That’s what I’ve told you, Mr. Davic, that’s right.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Thomson. I know this has been an ordeal for you. I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

Brett began her cross-examination by assuring Mrs. Thomson that if she wanted to pause or rest at any time, that would be satisfactory to the prosecution.

“Thank you, but I don’t require any special consideration. I’m not a hothouse flower, Miss Brett, regardless of what you may think. I can be as strong as I need to be, particularly in circumstances like these.”

“Mrs. Thomson, when your son stopped by your room for the first time on that night in question — before he showered and changed — did you notice what he was wearing?”

“No, I don’t believe I did.”

“Was his hair damp?”

“I think it was. Yes, I’m sure it was. It had started to rain, as I recall.”

“Were his garments wet, Mrs. Thomson?”

“I suppose they were. Does it matter?”

“Did you notice if his shoes were muddy?”

“No, I would have noticed that.” Adele’s frail hand gestured to her carpets. “Everything here is white, you see. He would have tracked dirt all over the place.”

“Mrs. Thomson, did your son always shower and change before dinner?”

“Well, I surely encouraged him to. Any mother would understand that, Miss Brett. I wasn’t always successful, of course, particularly when he was young—”

“When your son returned to your room, what was he wearing, Mrs. Thomson?”

The question seemed to surprise Adele, her hand plucked at the cord of the microphone. “I’m not sure.”

“You don’t remember what he was wearing?”

Adele Thomson’s voice rose. “Are you suggesting I was in no condition to know what he was wearing? That I wasn’t even sure of the time. Is that what you’re getting at?”

“Mrs. Thomson, you testified you had taken no medication that night. I have no reason or intention to question that.”

“My son was wearing—” Adele was frowning. “He was wearing — I remember quite clearly — slacks, gray flannels, and a sports shirt with short sleeves. But he wasn’t wearing his watch, or any jewelry. I do recall the details, you see. He’d taken a shower and hadn’t bothered to put them back on. But there’s no doubt about the time, my clocks are very dependable. You can have them checked if you wish.”

“Mrs. Thomson, did your son tell you Miguel Santos had driven him home that night from Muhlenburg?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you his car had been stolen?”

“Of course he didn’t.”

“Why do you say ‘of course,’ Mrs. Thomson?”

“You wouldn’t understand, and it would probably be a waste of time explaining.” Adele’s voice was strained. “Earl would never worry me about such things.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Thomson, for laboring the point. When did you learn your son’s car had been stolen?”

“I have no idea.”

“He never mentioned it to you?”

“He’s my son!” Adele’s voice was rising again. “He would never frighten me, or worry me about such things. I’m his mother.”

“Forgive me again, but why would it frighten you to know his car had been stolen?”

“It would destroy a... mood. He would never upset me like that. He loves me, don’t you see? Why are you trying to hurt him?”

Adele closed her eyes, but not before the camera lights caught the glitter of her tears. Davic gripped Earl Thomson’s arm and forced him back into his chair.

Brett said, “Your Honor, I regret any distress I may have caused the witness. I have no further questions.”

As she walked to the plaintiffs table, Brett’s eyes fell on the empty chair in the gallery behind Shana. Harry Selby hadn’t come back to the courtroom since testifying that morning. His absence was a reminder of his presence... of him... to her, she realized, as Judge Flood announced the lunch recess.