Summitt

Chapter Thirty-One

Judge Flood sounded his gavel with deliberate emphasis and instructed the People to make no further inquiries into the accused’s knowledge of Jonas Selby.

“The young man was not born at the time of that trial in Korea,” Flood said. “It’s inconceivable those events have no bearing on him now. Miss Brett, please go on to something else.”

“Exception, Your Honor. With respect, the People have a right to examine evidence which was introduced by the defense for the sole purpose of ascribing a felonious motive to the plaintiff’s father. If the court-martial of Jonas Selby was ruled pertinent to the defense, I hold that it must be pertinent to the People.”

“Miss Brett, it is not your place to hold on points of law in relation to my rulings.”

Brett’s answer was to drop the Rockland yearbook into a wastebasket.

During the recess, she had scrubbed her hands and combed out her hair. A few drops of water still glistened at the temples. She had polished the tips of her bone-colored pumps and dabbed cologne at her wrists. As she studied the witness, her manner was now openly skeptical.

“Tell me, Mr. Thomson, do you have any theories to explain the continued disappearance of your car?”

“Theories? No, ma’am.”

“You told us it was a distinctive automobile. You told us you were sure it would turn up. Are you surprised it hasn’t?”

“No, ma’am. Whoever ripped it off probably stripped it for parts or got rid of it.”

“Did you get in touch with Porsche owners’ clubs around the country? Did you advertise for information about your stolen car?”

“I didn’t think it would do any good, ma’am. So I didn’t bother.”

“Have you offered a reward for its return?”

“No... no, I haven’t.”

“Mr. Thomson, this may be only a matter of grammar or usage” — she stopped and watched him — “but do you realize we’ve been talking about your car in the past tense?”

“What does that matter?”

“It matters because it suggests you believe that car doesn’t exist anymore. Is that the fact of the matter—?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Thomson, you told Captain Slocum that you did not know Shana Selby or anyone in the Selby family. The tapes were played in this courtroom only a few days ago. You remember your statement to Captain Slocum?”

“Sure. I didn’t know the girl who got so hysterical at Longwood. So I certainly didn’t know her family.”

“In regard to your testimony about those events, did you see Shana Selby shoved to the ground?”

“No, I didn’t. That weird character with her started the trouble and got decked. I think she knelt down to help him up.”

“You didn’t see anyone strike her or push her?”

“No, ma’am.”

“But you observed a man coming to her assistance?”

“Well, yes, I saw that much.”

“You observed that man help Shana Selby to her feet?”

“Yes.”

“Then you ran away from him?”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t run away from her father.”

Brett walked from the stand and stood with her back to the plaintiff’s table. “I remind you that you are under oath, Mr. Thomson. I will now ask you to explain two things. How did you know the name of that stranger at Longwood? How did you know his relationship to the plaintiff?”

Earl made a dismissing gesture with his hand. “Well, everybody knew that—” But he stopped there, a curiously numb expression appearing on his face.

Brett remained motionless. Earl moistened his lips and clenched his hands. Brett said, “Would you like time to think about it, Mr. Thomson?”

“I don’t need any favors.” He spoke quietly, the words carefully enunciated. “Everyone knew,” he began, but stopped again, staring at his tight fists. “Everybody heard how he sent his daughter over there to say I raped her.”

“At that time, how did you know that man was Harry Selby?”

“I assumed—” Earl shrugged and looked at Brett, his eyes sharpened by anger. “Maybe I saw a picture of him somewhere. Do you remember every man you ever saw in your life? Every man you may have—”

Flood’s gavel cut him off. “Mr. Thomson, you will answer the People’s questions in a responsive manner.”

Brett said, “Mr. Thomson, on three occasions you referred to Mr. Selby as the girl’s father or her father. I’ll repeat the question: How did you know — at that time — that he was Harry Selby or that he was Shana’s father?”

“I don’t know.” Earl’s voice was rising. “The girl called his name, maybe, or he yelled something to my friends about being her father.”

“The truth is,” Brett said coldly, “you knew Harry Selby and recognized him on sight, didn’t you? Wouldn’t you prefer to ease your conscience now and tell us how you knew him? And everything you know about Jonas Selby?”

“Objection, Your Honor! Objection.”

“Sustained.” Flood rapped his gavel.

But Earl’s voice was rising again. “I’ll answer your question, ma’am. Don’t think I’m afraid, don’t ever think that. I don’t want pity from anybody.”

“Your Honor, if you please—”

Earl’s powerful voice overrode Davic’s. “Pity and charity, they’re the virtues of traitors, of faggots and cowards. You’re like that, miss, coddle broken-winged sparrows, let the eagles die. Heroes are comic-strip figures to you. You’d destroy your country for the worst at the expense of the best. Your hero’s Don Quixote, a bungling fool to laugh at—”

The gavel sounded to no purpose, marshals stared at the bench for instructions.

“Or you’d prefer Dante of the Inferno, the impotent observer of death, a voyeur in hell—”

“Mr. Thomson.” Judge Flood struck the gavel so hard that it started a ringing tremor in his crystal carafe.

“You hate men with guts enough to act because they make you realize your helplessness, because they—”

Davic was at his side now, and when Earl tried to rise the lawyer gripped his arm and forced him back into the witness chair.

“Your Honor,” Davic said, “I must ask for the court’s understanding. My client is under a severe emotional strain. I believe that justice as well as decency would be served by a recess of these hearings until tomorrow morning. It’s a cruel burden, as I’m sure Your Honor knows from his long experience on the bench, for a witness to be forced to defend himself — as Mr. Thomson has — against charges that practically deny him membership in the human race, that strike at the very core of his honor and self-esteem.”

Judge Flood motioned to Brett to approach the bench. “You’ve heard Mr. Davic’s request. What do you say, Miss Brett?”

“I agree that a brief recess might be in order, Your Honor. But the defendant is in a responsive mood and willing to testify. This is an opportunity the People have a legitimate right to pursue. My examination was designed to get at the facts in a logical sequence, and within a contained time reference.”

“I understand, Miss Brett, but nothing will be lost, I assure you, by adjourning until tomorrow morning.”

Judge Flood sounded his gavel and interrupted whatever else Brett had begun to say by standing and stepping down from the bench.

“All rise,” the clerk said.

The late afternoon sunlight streamed across the Quaker and Indian murals, almost masking Counselor Davic’s now more relaxed expression.

Brett returned to the plaintiff’s table and smiled for Shana’s benefit. She noticed a sheet of memo paper on her legal pad.

“A court officer left it there,” Shana told her.

After reading the brief message, Brett looked away and said quietly, “Something’s come up, Shana. I’ll have Sergeant Wilger run you home, okay?”

“Sure.”

The message requested an immediate meeting with People’s counsel on an urgent matter. It was initialed by East Chester’s chief of detectives, Walter B. Slocum.

Brett paced her office with her arms crossed tightly in an effort to control the tremor in her hands. On her desk was a sheaf of typewritten yellow pages, undated and unsigned. Next to them were Xeroxed copies of arrest reports, a magistrate’s booking sheet, detectives’ summaries, letters written on university stationery and a small stack of news clippings.

Captain Slocum came in and settled himself comfortably in her visitor’s armchair, smiled and propped a large Gucci loafer against the side of her desk. Unwrapping a cigar, he said, “It’s the time of day to relax, Miss Brett. If I was home now I’d probably be watching the news and having a beer or even something a little stronger.”

Lighting his cigar, the captain savored a mouthful of heavy smoke, allowing it to drift slowly around his moist and slightly parted lips. “Would you like a drink by the way? A little touch to smooth the edges after a long, hard day?” Rolling the cigar between his lips, he studied her with an appraising smile.

“I’ve got a bottle for medicinal purposes in my office. Suspects go into shock sometimes. I have to be prepared for that. Or we could drive out to a place I like on the river. Seafood joint, make hot canapes with oysters and ham, very tasty. Bartender also knows how to build a very solid martini, uses dry sherry instead of vermouth. It makes a difference. Adds a sweet tartness. No reason why we shouldn’t combine a bit of pleasure with business. Right?”

Still smiling, the captain nodded at the documents on Brett’s desk. “You took a look at them, I guess.”

“Yes, I have.”

“They kind of speak for themselves, don’t they?”

“As much as any anonymous accusation does, Captain.”

“In most cases, your point would carry some weight, but the photostats of the operative reports are signed, Miss Brett.” Slocum blew a streak of smoke at his leather loafer, watched it swirl about the decorative brass links. “I’m just a cop, Miss Brett. Never mind my rank. I’m the muscle, you’re the brains. But while we’ve got different roles to play, there’s a need for teamwork between the muscle and brain in a department like ours.” (He actually chuckled, she thought with disgust.) “I used to try to explain that to my little girl when she was learning to ride horseback. If you point a horse for trouble, he’ll damn sure take you there. If you’d put us in the picture of the Thomson case to start with we could’ve worked together. But you went your own way, all brain, no muscle. Now we got ourselves a problem.”

Slocum nodded at the material on her desk. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Brett, that the horse has the bit in his mouth now, and you’re just hanging on for dear life?” He smiled. “Just a manner of speaking, you realize.”

Brett sat down in her swivel chair. Her back was to the window and she either felt or imagined a draft of icy air. Her shoulders were cold, and so was her spine, the coldness went all through her, from her neck down to her ankles. A sharp pain tightened her stomach muscles. Her mouth was dry, and she was experiencing the self-fullfilling fear that she would stutter when she tried to explain the documents Slocum had delivered to her office.

“Would you tell me how you got them?” she said, and to her relief her voice sounded cool and assured, even casual.

“They came direct to my office, addressed to me personally. Copies were also sent to Mr. Lamb and to Mr. Davic.”

“No sender’s name, no return address on the envelope, of course.”

Slocum shrugged. “Of course. But the envelope was postmarked in Philadelphia last night at seven thirty-five.”

Brett picked up the letter that had accompanied the various photostated documents. “This was typed on an old machine,” she said, “by someone who misspelled simple words like ‘various,’ drops the i, and ‘annual,’ only one n, but does perfectly fine with ‘accusatory’ and ‘judicious’ and ‘inflammatory.’ A clever fellow pretending to be dumb. Do you know anyone who fits that description, Captain?”

Slocum laughed softly. “About half the politicians I’ve ever done business with, Miss Brett. But people like that understand teamwork. They know that muscle and brain make a good combination. Like I told my little daughter, the horse will take you places, but sometimes it’s not where you’d like to be. Brains can make intelligent decisions, I’ll grant you. Or sensible ones. But muscle puts ’em to work. Let’s get down to business. You look scared, Miss Brett. But there’s no need to be... According to these reports you accused a man named Toby Clark of trying to rape you. That incident happened when you was just a kid in college. It was in the gym, right?”

“In the women’s dressing room.”

“You’d been in the pool. Alone. There was no one around but you and this Toby Clark. No other witnesses.”

“The gym was locked up while I was swimming,” Brett said. “Toby Clark had hidden himself in the locker room.” She moistened her lips and resisted the impulse to light a cigarette. “I’m sure you haven’t found Toby Clark, Captain. Or did you even look for him?”

Slocum laughed. “Why should I bother looking for him? That’s all ancient history so far as I’m concerned. I’m just interested in how this could affect the Thomson case.”

“I was waiting for you to get to that.”

“I’m a realist, Miss Brett. Don’t hold it against me. You had Toby Clark arrested. You accused him of trying to rape you.”

“Among other things, Captain.”

“Yeah. There was a scuffle, I gather. Rolling around in the locker room had to raise a bruise or two.”

“There were bruises, as you put it.”

“But the thing is,” Slocum said, and he was no longer smiling, “you charged Toby Clark with trying to rape you, and then dropped the charges. But that change of heart came too late to help Toby Clark. He was fired from his job at the school. Never mind the nice letters some professors wrote for him, or that he was cleaning up the locker room like he was paid to, picking up after rich little bitches, when you strolled in and peeled off your bra and G-string—”

“It took considerable investigative work to assemble those records, wouldn’t you say, Captain? Police reports, newspaper clippings, copies of the magistrate’s hearing?”

“That’s not the point, Miss Brett.”

“What is the point, Captain?”

“As a lawyer, you sure must know the answer to that. Everybody on that jury was questioned by you and Judge Flood and Davic about their personal experiences with rape cases. All the women were asked if they’d ever been victims, the men whether it had happened to their wives or daughters, nieces or cousins. Any prospective juror with experiences like that would sure as hell have been disqualified on the grounds they’d bring their fear or prejudice into the case against Earl Thomson... But nobody asked you, Miss Brett, about your personal experience with rape or attempted rape, and you didn’t volunteer that information, did you?”

“That’s not required of counsel.”

“I’ll take your word on that. But I know what Davic plans to do with this information. Tomorrow morning he’ll move to disqualify you. Mr. Lamb is aware of all this. He wants to talk to you now. He’s in his office.”

“Davic’s motion has no legal validity,” Brett said. “He knows that, and so does Mr. Lamb.”

Slocum turned his hands up in an innocent gesture. “Like I said, you’re the brains, I’m just the muscle. But all the brains in the world can’t stop Davic from filing. If Flood dismisses the motion, fine. But the jury is going to know that the woman prosecuting Earl Thomson for rape also accused one Toby Clark of trying to rape her, and then thought better about it.”

“The charge was true. It was a question of proving—” Her tongue felt like a wad of cotton in her mouth. Her spine seemed frozen solid. She wanted to throw something into Slocum’s blandly smiling face, but, ridiculously, she thought, most desperately of all she wanted not to light a cigarette. A trial of will or courage, an inquisitor’s test of innocence.

She put the pack in her desk drawer and locked it.

“You see,” Slocum said, “if you stay on the case the jury will be wondering if Earl Thomson’s life might be wrecked just like Toby Clark’s was, because the rape charges turned out to be nothing but some horny kid’s imagination working overtime.”

He knocked a length of ash into Brett’s clean ashtray, but his aim was off... the ashes missed the tray and scattered a film of gray flakes over the photostatic reports on her desk.

“Sorry about that.” Slocum stood and smiled at Brett. “My wife’s always getting on me about spilling ashes when I’m watching TV. We’ve got a rug, it’s Oriental, and she’s particular as hell about it.” He stopped in the doorway. “If you happen to come down with a cold tonight, a fever, say, I’m sure the police surgeon could get your assignments canceled, arrange a few weeks of recuperative leave.”

“I don’t feel a fever coming on,” Brett said.

“These things hit pretty sudden. My kid used to argue with me about that. She’d come in soaked from riding, but didn’t want to rest up, miss school. The important thing, Miss Brett, is that nothing hurts the Thomson case. Right? If you step aside, it could be all to the good. Otherwise Davic files first thing when court convenes. I’ll see you in Mr. Lamb’s office. We need your decision tonight, so he can assign a back-up deputy. It’s been a long day, everybody wants to get home. Don’t keep us waiting.”

When the door closed, Brett put the back of her hand against her forehead. Her skin was cool and dry as ash. She looked at the photostats on her desk and tried to fight back her memories, and her tears.

After a moment she drew a deep breath and dialed the Selbys’ home. No matter what she decided, she owed an explanation to Shana. If a new counsel for the People against Earl Thomson had to be appointed, Shana must be prepared for it.