Summitt

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Mrs. Adele Thomson insisted on attending the last day of her son’s trial. Her husband’s attempts to dissuade her were futile. “You’ll tire yourself out, for no reason,” he’d said. “It’s only a formality. Earl will be home by noon at the latest, the whole business will be over. Wait here.”

But Adele was inflexible, she demanded to be taken to court. It would justify her own suffering and helplessness to witness Earl’s triumph and vindication. His freedom was the only compensation she could imagine that would redeem, or make some sense of, her own bondage.

Their chauffeur, Richard, drove the family to East Chester well before Judge Flood’s courtroom was open to the public. A space behind the defense table, between George Thomson and Dom Lorso, had been cleared for Adele’s wheelchair. Her maid arranged Mrs. Thomson’s silver-blond curls in a corona about her bony forehead and dressed her in a lavender suit with caped shoulders and amply cut sleeves, which puffed out to camouflage her slack arms. Even Adele’s one useful hand was concealed under the plaid, fleece-lined robe pulled over her lap and knees.

By the time the marshals opened the doors, the press section was filled and Captain Slocum had taken a seat beside the bailiff’s desk. Spectators rapidly crowded the gallery.

The principals were seated at their tables — Earl Thomson and Davic, the People’s counsel and Shana — when Judge Flood appeared and the uniformed bailiff commanded the lawfully assembled company to rise and announced that Superior Court Nine was in session, the Honorable Desmond Flood presiding.

His Honor asked the opposing counsels to approach the bench.

“What’s that for?” Adele Thomson whispered to her husband. “Are they talking about Earl?”

“It’s a technicality,” he said.

“I thought this was a public trial. Don’t I have a right to know what they’re saying about my son?”

“There’s no problem. The prosecution is re-calling Earl.

We know about it.”

“I don’t like her talking to the judge in private, like she’s privileged.”

“Dammit, I told you to stay home.”

Her head turned angrily to Dom Lorso. “Fix my robe, can’t you even help me?”

“Sure, sure, Adele.” Lorso’s voice was a soothing murmur. Adjusting the robe around her hips, he pulled it up under her flaccid arms. “Don’t worry, everything’s fixed, it’s all set.”

But the Sicilian, whose instincts were still influenced to a certain extent by the smell of garlic in suspicious places, and by the look of roses on funeral altars and the clink of the priest s censer from which poured coils of incense, knew that only fools and children believed things would turn out the way they hoped and wanted, because it wasn’t always human hands tipping the scales. But as far as Lorso could see with his worldly cunning, the outcome of this trial was as fixed in their favor as anything in life could possibly be.

At the Park Towers last night he’d talked to Judge Flood in the apartment his honor shared with Millie Haynes, whose days as a drum majorette and tumbler were recorded in photographs on Flood’s desk and wall. Millie in short, white boots and silver skirts, her head thrown back. Millie swinging high on bars and trapezes.

To clarify and emphasize their understanding, Lorso talked of the judge’s condo in San Diego, and his boat in the marina, both unpaid for and piling up interest every day. He listed the amounts of Flood’s unsecured notes to the Camden Finance Company. It was a reminder, like the flick of a whip. Maybe not necessary. Flood intended to rule in favor of Davic’s motion to dismiss as soon as the Commonwealth finished questioning Earl.

They knew what was in the envelope of the defense table, the swastika. They’d got everything from Eberle’s tap. They were ready, Davic and Earl both. And Harry Selby was down in Summitt City on a wild goose chase. The trial would be over when, and if, he got back.

But there were always things you couldn’t see or hear or even understand, and they might hurt you for reasons of their own. His grandmother told Lorso that. The old lady thought airplanes were pictures flashed on the sky by jokers, but Lorso believed her about how life was.

They’d done all they could. It better be enough, he thought. Giorgio had nothing left to fight with. Lorso tried to reassure Adele by patting her cold hand, but she flinched away from him. Screw her, he thought. And wished desperately for a cigarette.

Judge Flood had excused the attorneys by then and turned to address the jury. “As you know, the defense and the People rested their cases yesterday. The court was prepared to hear closing statements this morning. But the People have asked to recall the defendant. Certain substantive information — I can’t call it evidence at this time — has come into their hands. The defense has the right to cross-examine, or to call other witnesses. I won’t hold a stopwatch on either the People or the defense. It is the purpose of any trial to give both sides reasonable flexibility. A judicial hearing is not a contest that ends after nine innings or four quarters. We will go on as long as the court is satisfied that new and significant and relevant testimony is being developed and elicited. But I will not tolerate unnecessary or frivolous interrogation, or delaying tactics. I will also rigorously exclude subject matter which should properly be included in counsels’ closing statement. Is that clear?”

“Your Honor,” Davic said rising, “the defense has no further witnesses to call. But we are naturally curious to know why Counselor Brett has so belatedly decided to reopen her own case.”

Judge Flood nodded and filled his glass of water. Glancing at the Commonwealth table, he studied Shana and Dorcas Brett, then said, “We will sit as long as necessary in the interests of justice, Miss Brett. But not one minute for any other reason. That wouldn’t be fair to the defendant or the plaintiff. I want you to present those inconsistencies you say you have discovered, with due promptness. In short, I want you to conclude this business as quickly as possible and get on to your closing statement. The court will direct its close scrutiny to the area of relevance. Clear, Miss Brett?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The clerk then recalled Earl Thomson to the stand. “Mr. Thomson,” Brett began, “you’ve testified that you asked Miguel Santos to pick you up in Muhlenburg after your car was stolen. You called Mr. Santos because you thought your family chauffeur, Richard Gates, was in New Jersey. Correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s right.”

“According to hotel records in Osmond, New Jersey, Richard Gates spent part of the night there and joined your father Saturday morning. Richard Gates checked into his room after midnight. At twelve thirty-five, to be exact.” Brett looked at her notes. “Were you aware that Richard Gates didn’t leave your home in Wahasset until after ten o’clock Friday night?”

Davic rose. “Objection, Your Honor. At this late date I’d hardly call that a substantive issue.” But it was obvious the attorney was unprepared for Brett’s line of inquiry. It was also apparent Earl Thomson had been caught by surprise. He was openly relieved by his attorney’s interruption.

“I’ll withhold a ruling for a moment,” Judge Flood said. “What is your point, Miss Brett?”

“Your Honor, Miguel Santos, for the first and only time in his many years with the Thomson family, was asked to serve as chauffeur — at about six o’clock on the night Mr. Thomson’s car was stolen. My point is this... why was Miguel Santos pressed into service when the family chauffeur, Mr. Richard Gates, was on duty and available?”

Judge Flood tapped his pencil impatiently against his water glass but said, “Well, ask the witness your question then, Miss Brett. Let’s get on with this.”

“Mr. Thomson,” Brett said, “were you mistaken when you testified that you called Miguel Santos because you thought

Richard was on his way to New Jersey?”

“Obviously I was, ma’am. Our home is rather large. The comings and goings of the staff aren’t announced” — he smiled calmly — “like planes arriving and taking off. Richard was on tap that whole weekend, spoken for, to pick up my father and drive him back from Osmond. I assumed he was gone when I called from Muhlenburg. But even if he was home, I wouldn’t have asked him to change his schedule to accommodate me.” Earl’s voice was confident; after the first uncertain glance at Davic, he had regained his composure. “It may be old-fashioned, Miss Brett, but at cur house my father’s plans rate top priority.”

“In fact, you didn’t know Richard Gates was in his quarters when you called Miguel Santos?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s correct.”

“And the only reason you called Miguel Santos was because you thought Richard Gates was enroute to New Jersey?”

“I object, Your Honor,” Davic said. “This line of inquiry is pointless. People’s counsel is trying to suggest something sinister in the normal, complex operation of any large, busy household.”

“Sustained. Miss Brett, you’ve established an inconsistency, but I see no relevance in it. The witness needn’t answer those last questions. Please get on to something else now.”

“Yes, of course, Your Honor. If the court considers the mistaken testimony of the defendant and a crucial defense witness, Miguel Santos, irrelevant, I won’t try Your Honor’s patience by contending otherwise.”

Brett returned to the table and picked up her notes. Shana looked up and gave her a barely perceptible headshake. They were expecting a call from her father or Sergeant Wilger. It would come to a pay phone in the lobby outside Superior Nine; Brett’s secretary was stationed there. She would give the written message to the bailiff, who had the authority to deliver information and documents to the prosecution and defense while court was in session.

Shana’s negative headshake added to Brett’s tension.

Her job was to stall as long as possible, as long as necessary, in fact, yet not a fraction beyond the point where Flood would have an excuse to dismiss the witness and instruct the jury that the People had failed to prove its case against Earl Thomson.

The defense, she was aware, was relieved by Earl’s controlled response to her questions so far. To gain time, Brett made a pretense of leafing through her casebook, as if searching for a particular item of information. Her small, precise handwriting, in fact, covered dozens of pages; she had spent hours last night checking her notes on the case, examining every deposition, and rereading the complete transcript of the testimony to date.

Ever since Wilger had told her of the bug planted in her office, she had been rethinking her arguments, studying the principals’ backgrounds, and later going through her encyclopedia for military and biographical sketches, using a magnifying glass to examine even the agate type in footnotes, seeking to find delaying facts or incidents that might meet Flood’s test of relevance.

Her lack of sleep was evident; her face was pale and her eyes were shadowed. Her dark suit and bright scarf only accentuated her fragile appearance. She had jogged two miles along the Brandywine at dawn, with one of Wilger’s squads trailing her, but even that exercise and a long, hot shower hadn’t helped. Her nerves felt frayed; they practically ached with tension.

Judge Flood cleared his throat. “Miss Brett?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Dropping her notebook casually, Brett returned to the witness. “Mr. Thomson, you testified, didn’t you, that the name Vinegar Hill meant nothing to you when Captain Slocum asked you about it?”

“Yes, I did.”

“You had never heard of such a place?”

“No.”

As Davic rose, Brett said, “Mr. Thomson, you attended a military college with an excellent reputation, I believe.”

The abrupt change of subject forestalled Davic’s objection. Settling back, he listened warily to the exchanges.

“Yes, ma’am,” Thomson replied. “Rockland’s senior staff is made up of professional soldiers. Most are field grade officers with combat experience.”

“Well versed in military strategy and history then?”

“That goes without saying. They’re scholars, and they know the problems in the field from personal experience.”

“The Taggart family’s military history dates back to our Revolutionary War, does it not?”

“Yes. There’ve been Taggarts in every war America’s fought, drummer boys at Valley Forge, foot soldiers at Shiloh, and officers in both World Wars, the Marne, the Ardennes, Heartbreak Hill and Old Baldy in Korea. The Taggarts are part of all that.”

Thomson’s response, his drum-beat roll call of place names, had been cool, dispassionate, and Davic seemed reassured, Brett noticed; he relaxed and crossed his arms.

“Mr. Thomson,” Brett said, “a famous battle was fought between Ireland and England in the year 1798. The Irish pike-men of Wexford were crushed and destroyed. The Viceroy of Ireland at that time was—”

Judge Flood tapped his gavel. “Excuse me for interrupting, Miss Brett, but can you assure us there is some material point lurking under this welter of detail?”

“I can indeed, Your Honor.”

“Then please get to it.”

“Thank you.” Brett paused and adjusted her blue silk scarf. “Mr. Thomson, the Viceroy of Ireland at the time of that decisive battle in Wexford was Lord Earl Charles Cornwallis who — earlier in his career — was a major general in command of British forces during the colonial Revolution. His army raided American troops in South Carolina and Virginia and was finally besieged and beaten decisively at Yorktown. With Cornwallis, of course, fell the British cause in America.

“There were Taggarts,” Brett said, after a pause, “who fought and died in those battles against General Cornwallis in South Carolina and Virginia and Yorktown.”

Again Flood tapped his gavel. “Your point, Miss Brett. I insist you get to it.”

“Your Honor, the bloodied ground where the British overwhelmed and destroyed the Irish pikeman of Wexford” — Brett paused again — “that patch of high ground, Your Honor, was known as Vinegar Hill. General Adam Taggart named his estate on the Brandywine after that historic engagement, where Taggart blood was spilled, as it was at Yorktown and Normandy. I find it curious” — she stared skeptically at Earl Thomson — “that the witness never heard of Vinegar Hill, either from those senior officers and military scholars at Rockland or from his close friend, who flew all the way from Germany to testify for him here, Captain Derek ‘Ace’ Taggart.”

Davic stood to object, but Earl said casually, “I believe it’s a question of context, Miss Brett. I’ve probably heard of a dozen battles between the British and the Irish, but I didn’t connect any of them to the Taggart Place. Derek never mentioned it, by the way. But my interest at Rockland was modern military history, tanks and aerial warfare. Pikemen weren’t my speciality, I’ll admit.”

Davic was still standing, but relaxed again, gratified by Thomson’s frank and reasonable responses. His attitude suddenly gave Brett a clear insight into their weaknesses — the very superiority of Davic’s position was one minus factor, an inevitable overconfidence, and the other was the potentially destructive character of Earl Thomson himself.

“Your Honor,” Davic was saying now, but with a good-humored inflection, “I believe I should object to this digression by People’s counsel. If she is demonstrating she’s done her homework, earned her keep, if you will, fine. But I think we’ve indulged her sufficiently. These military trivia have nothing to do with the issues at trial—”

“Sustained,” Flood said. “Miss Brett, let us consider the history lesson over and done with.”

“Exception, Your Honor.”

“That’s noted.” A line of exasperation appeared around the judge’s mouth. “Get on with your examination.”

“Mr. Thomson” — Brett walked past the witness stand and turned to face both Thomson and the jurors — “you heard the Reverend Oliver Jessup, who is also known as Goldie Boy, describe the man who’d stolen your Porsche, did you not?”

“Yes, ma’am. I did. I also heard Oliver Jessup describe how he blew a kiss at the little girl who—”

Judge Flood sounded the gavel. “The witness will limit his answers to the questions.”

“Sorry, sir,” Thomson’s eyes glinted with confident amusement.

“The thief,” Brett continued evenly, “was described as a middle-aged man with gray hair, a red face and thick glasses. Mr. Thomson, do you have a friend or acquaintance who answers to such a description?”

“I don’t think so, ma’am. To the best of my knowledge, I don’t.”

“Have you noticed anyone of that description following you about lately?”

“Can’t say that I have, ma’am.”

“Would you like to think about that answer a moment? That gray-haired, red-faced man with thick glasses obviously knew a good deal about your comings and goings. He also knew how to operate your sophisticated automobile. Do any of the mechanics who service your car fit the description Oliver Jessup gave the court?”

“No... the Porsche is checked regularly in Jenkintown. The mechanic’s from Stuttgart, his name is Gunther, he’s about twenty-five and he had blond hair and blue eyes—”

“But this gray-haired automobile thief,” Brett persisted, “must have known you were going to be at The Green Lantern that Friday afternoon. And he also must have felt pretty sure he wouldn’t be interrupted in the act of stealing your car. Aren’t those logical assumptions, Mr. Thomson?”

“Objection, Your Honor. People’s counsel knows her questions are improper. She has no right to ask the witness to make assumptions about anything at all.”

“Sustained. Miss Brett, you assured me that you had relevant and substantial information to introduce. So far you haven’t demonstrated anything of the sort.”

“I can only ask the court’s indulgence,” Brett said. “The man described by Oliver Jessup is guilty at least of grand theft auto. He may also be a kidnapper and rapist. I believe it’s reasonable and substantial to inquire into the accused’s knowledge of that phantom thief and pervert, that sodomist and rapist who is apparently invisible to everyone but the God-fearing eyes of Goldie Boy Jessup—”

Davic was on his feet shouting before Brett finished. “Your Honor, she cannot be allowed to impugn the sworn testimony of the Reverend Jessup. Her sarcasm is improper. Her use of the word ‘phantom’ is derisive and insulting.”

“Sustained. The stenographer will strike the references to a phantom thief.”

“Your Honor,” Brett said. “I apologize for that intemperate remark. But Mr. Davic has repeatedly insisted that Shana Selby mistakenly identified Earl Thomson. If Shana’s attacker was, in fact, this gray-haired, red-faced man we’ve been told about, I’d think Mr. Davic would be very grateful for that information.”

Judge Flood said, “I’ll ignore your sarcasm, Miss Brett. But I am becoming impatient. I don’t need to remind you that the defense is under no burden to prove anything. The true perpetrator is properly of no consequence or relevance to them. For the last time, Miss Brett. If you have meaningful points to make, you must do so without any further delay.”

Assuming a mildly chastened manner, Brett returned to her table. But no dissembling was necessary when she noticed Shana’s white face and the message the bailiff had placed on Brett’s casebook. The note had Wilger’s initials on it. Her spirits sank to ground zero at the one-word message: “Nothing.”

Brett knew she had stalled as long as it was safe and prudent to. The information about the Thomson’s chauffeur, the background from the Britannica on Vinegar Hill, even her inquiry about the phantom thief, had been smokescreens to buy time and delay her main thrust at Thomson.

But she wasn’t done yet; so long as she was the lightning rod for the emotional atmosphere in these proceedings, she felt sure Davic would give her all the rope she needed, enough to hang her, in fact. His confidence was based on the information they’d got from Eberle’s wiretap. They knew exactly what was in the white envelope on her table, and Earl Thomson was prepared for it; his responses would have been carefully designed and rehearsed to explain just how Shana Selby had come into possession of that blood-streaked swastika.

Davic would allow her to inquire in “safe” and “unemotional” areas, where there was no chance of a spark to set Thomson off. He seemed composed and at ease now, but beneath his unruffled manner, Brett could sense a dangerously strained anger and hostility.

If, she thought, she could casually lead Earl into areas he was confidently prepared for, into those safe and predictable havens where even Davic might not perceive the dangers, then — she decided grimly — she might use the only weapon available to her, a weapon not in her hands but in Earl Thomson’s own violent compulsions.

Gently, she thought, as she faced the witness. Let him run smooth and easy until he has the bit in his teeth, until the spurs of fear struck him...

“Mr. Thomson,” she said, “the afternoon you were in The Green Lantern, you wore a distinctive ornament about your neck, did you not?”

“If you say so, ma’am, I’ll take your word for it.”

“According to Ellie May Cluny, the waitress at The Green Lantern, you were wearing such an ornament. Would you like the court stenographer to read Miss Cluny’s testimony?”

“No, I’ll take her word on it, too, ma’am.” Earl shrugged, smiled. “I frequently wear things like that, medals, emblems or chains around my neck.”

Earl was completely at ease, and so was Davic. They were both prepared for this line of inquiry; they seemed almost eager to harmlessly defuse the prosecution’s anticipated bombshell.

Brett picked up the envelope, which contained the broken chain and swastika. Davic and Thomson tensed themselves pleasurably for her next question. Captain Slocum relaxed at the bailiffs table, watching Brett with an expectant smile. They waited with assured and nearly sadistic anticipation for her to trip the wire that would spring the trap.

They expected the swastika now. They were ready for it. And when Brett would finally ask, as ask she must, when and where Earl Thomson had lost that pendant emblem, she knew his rehearsed answers would dismiss this last shred of Commonwealth evidence. As the fingerprints had been explained, as Shana’s identification had been discredited, so the lost swastika would somehow be innocently accounted for.

Brett caught them all by surprise by dropping the envelope and returning to the stand. She said, “Mr. Thomson, are you familiar with the area at the intersection of Fairlee Road and Mill Lane?”

“In a general way.” Earl Thomson looked quickly to Davic, who was rising. “I’ve driven by there.”

“The Selbys’ home is on Mill Lane near Fairlee,” Brett said. “Isn’t it a fact that you’ve driven there at night on more than one occasion—”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“—since Shana Selby was kidnapped and raped?”

“Objection! People’s counsel is making damaging insinuations. An adverse effect on the jury could be created by any answer my client gives. The answer to both questions is: what difference does it make? What possible point is there in my client’s knowledge of where the plaintiff lives? Or whether he has driven by that intersection since her alleged accident?”

“Sustained. The jury will ignore the People’s last inquiry.”

But Earl Thomson said unexpectedly, “I’d like to add something if I may, sir.”

The last exchange seemed to have tipped the defendant’s careful emotional balance; his voice was loud and unrestrained. “Yes, I drove over to Mill Lane one night a month or so ago, I’ve got no reason to hide it or deny it. I’m sitting here like a fish in a barrel, everybody taking shots whenever—”

“Your Honor!” Davic overrode his client. “I don’t want Mr. Thomson to discuss the matter. The issue raised by the People’s counsel is extraneous—”

Earl Thomson ignored this. “Don’t I have a right to talk, Your Honor? Implications have been made and I’d like to clear them up.”

Dom Lorso leaned forward and said in a bitter whisper to Davic, “Goddammit, can’t you put a cork in him?”

Davic murmured behind a well-manicured hand, “No, Mr. Lorso, I can’t.”

“Very well, Mr. Thomson,” Judge Flood said. “The court will hear your clarification.”

Thomson said, “I did drive to Fairlee Road one night last month. I stopped and got out of my car. The lady here must know that or she wouldn’t have asked. I’m not so ignorant of legal techniques. Maybe someone saw me there, got my license, I’m not denying I was there. I never have. I was trying to visualize what happened. It wasn’t morbid curiosity.”

To Brett’s surprise, Earl Thomson’s voice had become effectively and firmly assertive. “Someone stole my car and deliberately ran down a girl riding a bicycle. I’ve been accused of that, and of kidnapping and raping her. I went back to see if I could find something the police might have overlooked. I wanted to get the feel of the place, the mood of the woods and the sky and the terrain, the angle of Fairlee Road where it curves past Mill Lane, the incline of the shoulders. In military science, that kind of appraisal is called the ‘sense of the battlefield.’ That may sound strange to some of you, but the opponents of Napoleon Bonaparte were intimidated by what they called his eye of battle. He saw what others didn’t. I can also tell you that General George Patton, one of America’s finest commanders in World War II, had the same gift. In his memoirs it’s reported that he actually saw the ghosts of Roman centurions on the battlefields of modern France. In the Ardennes when his Third Army raced to relieve Bastogne, Patton observed in the fog—”

Lorso reached forward and jabbed Davic in the back. “For Christ’s sake!” he hissed at him. “Do something.”

But Adele Thomson’s eyes shone with pride. “It’s beautiful, it’s true,” she whispered.

When Thomson at last finished, Brett asked him quietly, “And were you successful in your search, Mr. Thomson? Did you find any evidence, or glimpse some truth the police had overlooked?”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t. But I went there to help them, and for no other reason.”

Brett nodded thoughtfully and walked to the plaintiffs table and picked up the envelope containing Earl’s swastika. Her eyes went to the closed rear door of the courtroom and the immobile marshals. Her time was running out. She had to work on the knife-edge of the present.

She opened the envelope and unwrapped the sheets of tissue paper from the silver swastika and links of chain. A soft stir of whispers drifted through the courtroom. Flood tapped for order.

“Mr. Thomson—” She held up the swastika by a link of chain; the silver crosses glistened in the clear light. “Is that what you were wearing at The Green Lantern?”

“Yes, it is,” Earl said. “You can see it’s got my initials on it. I’d about given up hope of ever seeing it again.” His smile was bland.

Davic rose. “Your Honor, if the object the People’s counsel is displaying is meant to be a Commonwealth exhibit, I ask that she identify it. But if the exhibit is part of this case, it should have been available to the defense during discovery proceedings months ago. Since it wasn’t, we’ve got to ask where it’s been all this time.”

“You’ve made several points, Counselor,” Judge Flood observed, “but no objection. So we’ll take your points in order. Miss Brett, do you intend to introduce that object as a Commonwealth exhibit? If so, would you define it for the record?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Brett raised the swastika so the jury could examine it. “This emblem was the symbol of a political party in Germany before World War II. It is a decorative or symbolic ornament in the form of a cross with equal arms, each of which has another arm turned at right angles to it. The object is silver. It has the initials E.T. on the reverse side of the cross of one arm, a date on another, November 9, 1938. The clerk will identify the object as People’s Exhibit Three.”

Brett put the swastika on the exhibit table, placing it between the photograph of Earl’s license plate and the cards identifying his fingerprints from Vinegar Hill.

Then she said, “Mr. Thomson, did you remove that — necklace on the night you showered before dining with your mother?”

“Yes, I did. I took off my watch, as I’ve already told you, and my rings, and what you refer to as a necklace.”

“You couldn’t have lost that object while you were driving from The Green Lantern to your home?”

“Of course not. If I had, I’d have mentioned it to Santos.”

“But you didn’t tell Santos you’d lost your thirty-five-thousand-dollar automobile, did you, Mr. Thomson?”

“That’s different. I’ve explained often enough that I didn’t think the car was stolen. But a piece of personal jewelry, I’d have missed it right away.”

“Because of its value?” Brett asked.

“For whatever reason, I don’t see what difference it makes.”

“Does the date on the emblem have a sentimental or emotional significance for you, Mr. Thomson?”

Davic, Brett noticed, was reluctant to object. Earl’s voice was mild, but a potential violence seemed close to the surface of his smile... “Miss Brett, I’m sure you know the significance of that date, November 9, 1938. It commemorates an event in Germany called Crystal Night. I’m not sure of the details, but it was some sort of national event. I asked a jeweler in Philadelphia to engrave that date with my initials but he refused to do it. He told me that Crystal Night had offensive memories for him. Like a Japanese in this country might remember Pearl Harbor, I guess. So I got someone else to do the job. There’s nothing illegal about that.”

“Then this emblem,” Brett said casually, “couldn’t have been what you were searching for on Fairlee Road?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

Earl shrugged. “No. As you yourself said, it couldn’t have been.”

Davic seemed relieved by his client’s apparently calm response. He said, “Your Honor, Mr. Thomson has admitted that People’s Exhibit Three belongs to him! But since he also admitted that he lost that object, I respectfully ask you to instruct the People to tell us where they found it. Or how it came into their possession.”

Brett said, “If I may anticipate His Honor’s instructions, that object was worn by the man who kidnapped, tortured and raped Shana Selby. She tore it from his throat the night he attacked her. It is Shana’s blood, dried and blackened, that is still visible on those crosses—”

Davic’s objections cut across Brett’s final words. “I object to the hearsay, Your Honor, and to the incriminating, baseless insinuations...”

“Sustained.” Flood sounded his gavel for silence. “The hearsay is not admissible. The jury will ignore it.”

“But, Your Honor,” Brett protested, “you have already told Mr. Davic he may re-call the plaintiff for further examination.”

“But I cannot allow you to paraphrase what Miss Selby herself is best qualified to tell us.”

“All right, Your Honor, but how can my paraphrase be defined by Mr. Davic as an incriminating insinuation? I’ve stated that Shana Selby ripped that insignia from the throat of her attacker. By the sworn testimony elicited by Mr. Davic from his own witness, the Reverend Oliver Jessup, that attacker was a gray-haired, red-faced man with thick glasses. Is Mr. Davic casting doubts on his own witness? If not, how could the accusation possibly incriminate the dark-haired, young man without glasses now seated in the witness stand?”

“Your Honor,” Earl Thomson said, “if it’s not out of order, I’d like to make a point here.”

With noticeable tension, Davic said, “Your Honor, it is not in my client’s best interest to respond to any of these inquiries. He is eager to cooperate, which is commendable. But I must instruct him to remain silent. Also, the gray-haired man described by the Reverend Jessup would seem not to have been the plaintiff’s attacker — he was more correctly her companion.”

“I’d still like to straighten this out, Your Honor.” Earl’s tone remained amiable but persistent. “I’m a pretty fair judge of what’s in my best interest, after all. That’s something every soldier learns, if he intends to survive combat.” He smiled pleasantly. “Miss Brett is reluctant to call her exhibit by its proper name. I think her confusion begins right here.”

George Thomson leaned forward and spoke sharply to Davic. “Can’t you get a recess, for Christ’s sake?”

“I wouldn’t risk it. It’s safer to let him finish.”

“You better be goddamn sure, Davic.”

“We can destroy Miss Brett with two questions. I’m sure of that. But it’s not safe to cut your son off. I’m even more sure of that.”

Earl Thomson was saying in pedantic tone, “The young lady representing the prosecution doesn’t seem to know what to call the object she’s identified as an exhibit. Once she referred to it as a pendant, then as an emblem, in another instance, a necklace and finally as an ornament. I wonder if she knows what its real name is, or if she’s afraid or embarrassed to use it. Or perhaps she’s shrewd enough to simply let the jury’s imagination work overtime. That is a swastika, ladies and gentlemen,” Earl said, pointing at the gleaming silver crosses. “A swastika. Miss Brett is well aware, I think, that people tend to regard anyone wearing that insignia as some kind of racist or anti-Semite. But that isn’t true, philosophically or historically. The fact—”

“Mr. Thomson,” Judge Flood interrupted him, “you asked the court’s permission to make some point or other. But I fail to perceive any pertinence in these comments.”

“If you’ll indulge me for just another moment,” Earl said courteously, “I’d like to explain that the swastika per se is not ugly or obscene. It dates back to Greek mythology. It’s been used as a religious and heraldic device in India and in Finland. Great Britain, in fact, used a swastika on postage stamps it issued in Hong Kong some years ago. I’m trying, Your Honor, to make the good people on this jury realize that because I owned and wore a swastika — its more proper name is a gammadion, by the way, a cross made of four gammons — because of that I don’t have any particular interest in concentration camps or all the Jews who reportedly died in them.”

“Stop him,” George Thomson said to Davic.

“They’ve lied about a lot of things in that war, of course.” A faint tic pulled at the corner of Earl’s mouth. “They’ve lied about me during this trial too. She lied” — Earl nodded toward Shana — “she lied when she claimed she got my gammadion the night she was hurt.”

With a sudden tension, he went on, “You’ve lied, too, Miss Brett, and we know that. About things that happened to you, or the other way around.”

“Your Honor,” Davic said, raising his voice now. “I ask you to consider the ordeal my client’s been through these past few months.”

Flood sounded his gavel. “Mr. Thomson, the court has allowed you ample latitude. I will now ask you a two-part question, which Miss Brett has delayed asking: Where and when did you lose that pendant which you wore at The Green Lantern, and which you’ve heard described as People’s Exhibit Three?”

“Your Honor, please forgive me.” It was Davic who was stalling now, obviously hoping to ease Thomson’s spiraling anxiety. “May I ask one concession? That the court’s questions be put singly to my client to give him time to consider his answers seriatim.”

“Very well, Mr. Thomson, let’s start with the first one. When did you lose that object?”

Davic’s interruption gave Thomson a saving respite; his expression cleared, the glaze of unreason faded from his eyes, his expression became thoughtful.

“It was a Sunday morning,” he recalled, “six or eight weeks ago, cold but sunny. I wore a cardigan over a flannel shirt.” He nodded at the exhibit table. “I was also wearing that swastika.”

Brett could not stop him now, interrupt or object for any reason whatsoever. She looked at the clock and the closed doors of the courtroom. As she did she caught a glance from Captain Slocum, a look of complacence. There was no malice or triumph in the captain’s expression; this is how it is, his cold eyes told her, this is the way it’s played, you lose, lady.

Thomson was saying, “Two cadets from Rockland were with me, Richard Knarl and Willie Joe Bast, both good friends of mine. I’m sure they’ll remember what I was wearing that morning.”

Brett stood helplessly beside Shana and waited for the final blows. “And where was it you lost that swastika?” Judge Flood said.

Earl replied promptly. “At Longwood Gardens, Your Honor, on the day of that exhibition of Grand Concourse automobiles. Dick and Willie Joe and I went there together. There was an interruption when the girl’s father arrived, but we’ve been through that.” Earl smiled at Brett. “Somehow or other,” he continued, “the chain broke or was pulled loose when my motorcycle swerved into the side of the greenhouse. When the doctors were checking my eye at the hospital, I realized the chain and swastika were gone, they were on the ground somewhere back at Longwood.”

“You reported that loss?” Judge Flood asked.

“I guess I was in too much pain at the hospital to mention it to the nurses or the doctors. But I remembered it after my father drove me home. He reported it to Captain Slocum. Mr. Lorso also called Lieutenant Eberle.”

The double rear doors of the courtroom opened. The marshals turned and nodded at Sergeant Burt Wilger. Harry Selby was beside him.

“I was still angry and shaken up,” Earl Thomson added, “but I knew if we didn’t start looking for my gammadion, there was a good chance somebody could find it and walk off with it.”

Sergeant Wilger approached the bailiff’s desk and gave the officer a narrow, oblong package with a note in Selby’s handwriting taped to it. The detective ignored Slocum’s hard, inquiring glance. Meanwhile, Harry Selby took his seat behind the plaintiffs table. Brett and Shana didn’t notice; they faced the witness stand.

Earl Thomson was staring with bold challenge at Brett. “If your arithmetic is as good as mine, you’ll see that I lost that swastika at least six weeks after Miss Selby claims she got her hands on it.”

The bailiff crossed behind the press section and placed Wilger’s package and Selby’s note on the plaintiffs table.

“And,” Thomson continued, “if your geography is good, Miss Brett, you’ll realize I lost that necklace and swastika” — no one at the defense table had as yet noticed Selby — “at a time and place where the people who’ve brought charges against me could very easily have found it and, in fact, very probably did find it. Or someone could have picked it up and sent it to them to get me involved in their snake’s nest of lies—”

Flood rapped for order. “You’ve answered my questions, Mr. Thomson. I’ve granted you more flexibility than strict procedure usually permits, but I think the jury is entitled to know something of the emotional pressure you’ve been under. But you will refrain from any further elaboration.” He glanced at Brett. “Does People’s counsel have any further questions?”

Brett stood motionless, reading the note the bailiff had brought to her table. Her expression was puzzled. “May I ask the court’s indulgence, Your Honor? I need a few moments...”

“Very well.” Judge Flood looked to the defense table. “Mr. Davic?”

“If it please the court, how much longer must this young man’s ordeal be drawn out? If any one fact has been made abundantly clear in this hearing, it is that the prosecution has failed to make even a shadow of a case against Earl Thomson.”

Davic continued to speak, but the words were sounds without sense to Selby, vibrations without meaning, because his consciousness of reality was still blurred and distorted by the film he had watched in the projection room in Komoto’s pornography shop in Philadelphia.

... A black boy played and laughed with youngsters on a green lawn, diamond-bright with drops of water. A blond child in pigtails sprayed them with a hose.

The air in Komoto’s screening room was close, the glow from the screen glinted on the sweat on Wilger’s forehead.

... Sergeant Hank Ledge appeared in the foreground of the screen, striding toward the playing children. Raising the .45 caliber automatic, he fired twice, the sounds of the shattering reports disrupting the laughter of the children and the soft, hissing spray of the water. Dookey Barrow’s first screams were hoarse and astonished. The pain did not pierce instantly, although the right side of his face flamed with blood. The little girl laughed and splashed him with water. Crying, knowing like a dumb animal that he was mortally hurt, Dookey ran in circles until his stumbling feet found a graveled pedestrian walk leading into the shopping arcade...

“The presence of Earl Thomson’s fingerprints at Vinegar Hill,” Davic was saying, “were proved to have been placed there on a casual social occasion weeks before the alleged attack on the plaintiff.”

As Flood frowned, Davic added, “Your Honor, I know you instructed me not to touch on areas which I intend to include in my closing statements. But if it won’t try Your Honor’s patience, I would like to briefly mention that...”

... on the screen in Komoto’s shop, Selby recognized Spencer Barrow, the youngster who had leaped so high and exuberantly to catch a pass from him on that distant autumn afternoon. He was at first base when Sergeant Ledge appeared in the film, striding from the outfield. The black bulk of the AS was like an extension of the sergeant’s big band.

The pitcher threw a strike. The crowd cheered. At that instant, Sergeant Ledge fired a single shot, which blew away the top of Spencer Barrow’s cranial vault. The other players stared in mild bewilderment at the body sprawled on the baseline. They turned to the umpire for a decision. Spectators seemed eager to hear his ruling. They crowded around him, gesturing and talking. The umpire blew his whistle, raised his hand, shouted, “Play ball!”

A camera picked up Jarrell Selby running from the woods behind the baseball diamond. Another camera had zoomed in as young Selby lifted Dookey Barrow from a graveled walk. The images dissolved to a young girl in leotards drinking from a fountain in the mall. Music was playing, the arcade was brittle with cool sunlight, streaming with shoppers...

“The identification of Earl Thomson by Miss Selby,” Davic said, his tone theatrical, “has been discredited by the testimony of a disinterested witness.”

... Jarrell Selby and Dookey Barrow appeared in the mall. Haggard expressions, bloody clothes. Holding the dying boy in his arms, Jarrell carried him through the crowds. He shouted for help at the people around them, but it was as if a thick wall of glass stood between them. No one paid attention to him or the bleeding figure in his arms.

At the end of the arcade, Sergeant Ledge waited for them...

“This tissue of lies and innuendos,” Davic announced to the jury, “which we have exposed, were designed to avenge the plaintiff’s father, Jonas Selby, against George Thomson.”

Brett by then had read the note. She unwrapped the cassette the bailiff had delivered and turned slowly until she met Selby’s eyes.

“Your Honor,” Davic continued, “the defense moves at this time that the court direct the jury to dismiss all charges against Earl Thomson and free him unconditionally.”

“Miss Brett,” Judge Flood said, “I must ask you again, before I rule on the defense motion, do you have any further questions to ask before I discharge the witness.”

... A small breeze stirred Jarrell Selby’s brown hair. His expression was perplexed, then despairing, his burden suddenly intolerable. Holding the boy close, he lowered himself to his knees among the shoppers in Summitt City’s arcade. Sergeant Ledge raised his automatic and killed Jarrell Selby and the dying boy he was holding with two deliberately spaced shots...

They had torn apart the inside of Komoto’s shop trying to find the cassette. After it seemed hopeless, after Wilger called East Chester to tell Brett they’d found nothing, Selby noticed that Komoto was watching them with a detached smile. Also, he noticed that Komoto’s hands were no longer trembling; when he’d poured himself coffee earlier, the spout of the ceramic pot had almost tipped over the cup.

“Petey, you’re not as good a businessman as I thought,” Selby said. “You should have at least listened to my offer.”

“But I’ve got nothing to sell you.”

“No.” Selby shook his head, Wilger watched him with sudden interest. “The fact is, Petey, we could never top an offer from Thomson. He could double it, and I’m sure he promised you he would. We’ve been wasting our time.”

“I know nothing that would help you, truly.”

“Maybe. But I don’t see why your wife should suffer because you’re after the top dollar. I should tell you, we’re working with Senator Dixon Lester and he’s already opened Thomson’s safety deposit box.”

“I know nothing of that, believe me.”

“The senator is willing to put a rocket under immigration.” Selby glanced at Wilger. “I think you should call Maria-Encarna and give her a couple of hours head start. We’ll wait here with you, Petey” — he looked at his watch — “until she’s on a Greyhound out of town. Then we’ll call the senator.”

“You’re a bleeding heart idiot,” Wilger said. “Why the hell do her any favors?”

“Why not, Burt? She’s not involved. If she splits now, she’ll be a jump ahead of Immigration. A bus to Indianapolis, say, then she can drop down to Houston. I’ve got a friend in Brownsville, Texas, a Mexican, one of the first soccer players they brought up to our league as a place-kicker. He’ll look after her, keep her until it’s safe to make a run for it.”

Wilger picked it up. “If she starts right away, keeps her mouth shut and stays out of sight, she could be over the border in two or three days.”

Komoto cleared his throat. He smiled, but not enough to show his strong, white teeth. “Maria won’t believe you, she won’t leave.”

“Angel Ramirez owns a bar and a souvenir shop,” Selby told him. “He’s a good man, lots of guts. He didn’t know anything about contact football, but he tried his damndest. Got his lights shot out a few times. He’ll look after her.”

“Maria-Encarna never hurt anyone in her life.”

“That’s why she’s getting a break. Ramirez knows coyotes, he’ll get an honest one to take her across the border into Matamoros. Find her a job, too. Can she do anything that doesn’t require a partner?”

They stared at Komoto. He blinked his eyes.

“Poor goddamn beaner, she’ll understand why you had to pull the chain on her, Petey. Sure she will...” Wilger picked up Komoto’s phone and began dialing. “It’s business, that’s all.”

Komoto blinked again. “Would you care for coffee now? Please put the phone down. Maria-Encarna would not understand, she has no head for business. She leaves that up to me.”

“Hang up, Burt.”

The Summitt City film, Komoto revealed, was locked away in his office safe.

“Miss Brett?” Judge Flood’s voice was insistent. “You have heard the defense motion to dismiss the charges against the defendant. Do you have any question before the court rules?”

As she returned to the witness stand, Brett said, “Yes, Your Honor, I have several questions to ask the witness.”

Holding the cassette in front of her, she paused and watched Earl Thomson react to the stenciled words. He stiffened in the chair, his strong hands tightening on its arms. The tic began to pull at his mouth again.

“Mr. Thomson,” Brett said, “is it still your sworn testimony that you had no knowledge of any member of the Selby family prior to the attack on the plaintiff? You’re under oath, remember.”

Dom Lorso turned slowly and looked at Harry Selby. The Sicilian’s face was impassive. He studied Earl Thomson, his expression bitter. Picking a fleck of tobacco from his lower lip, he glanced at George Thomson.

“There was another way to handle it, Giorgio. I told you that all along.”

Thomson nodded, staring at the cassette in Brett’s hand. “Maybe I should have listened, Dom,” he said.

The two men looked at each other in silence.

“What is it?” Adele demanded. She was frightened by their sudden silence. Her head swung between them, the blond curls trembling like the petals of a flower on a withered stalk.

“We’re beaten, Adele,” her husband told her.

“What’s happening?”

“I just told you.” Thomson smiled wearily. His tone was almost indifferent, as if he were discussing the fate of figures in a landscape. “You heard Dom. There was another way, but we didn’t take it...”

“But you promised me, George. You swore my son would be safe, that you’d protect him. You lied—”

Flood rapped to still her furious whispers.

“Mr. Thomson,” Brett warned the witness then, “it is my duty to inform you that concealing knowledge of a capital crime constitutes a felony of similar gravity.” Brett held the cassette in front of Thomson. “Now. Do you have knowledge of this film? And information relating to events that occurred in Summitt City, Tennessee, on October 17 last year?”

“Objection, Your Honor. She hasn’t given the witness time to answer her first question.”

“I’ll repeat it then,” Brett said. “Mr. Thomson, is it still your sworn testimony that you had no knowledge of the Selby family prior to the attack on the plaintiff?”

“I don’t think you expect a yes or no to that question,” Thomson said. “I’m sure that would disappoint you.”

“Mr. Thomson,” Judge Flood said, “I remind you—”

But Thomson ignored him. “You’d like the chance to dispense some Christian forgiveness and mercy first, wouldn’t you? But I’ll have to disappoint you there, Miss Brett, and my father and Captain Slocum. Because forgiveness is the Christian decadence that perverts justice.” His eyes were bright. He was obviously savoring this moment, a new excitement evident in his expression. “I embody an idea, a principle, that insists that the elitist decision is the only valid legislator in human affairs. Rule by the best. I acted to save the truth. Everyone else lied to save—”

“Your Honor...” Davic had been shouting through most of Thomson’s tirade. “Your Honor, my client is under no obligation to volunteer...” A quiver of panic entered his voice. “Mr. Thomson may invoke the Fifth Amendment, Your Honor. He can and will refuse to answer any further questions on the grounds that such answers might tend to incriminate him.”

Judge Flood sounded his gavel. “Miss Brett, you know that the defendant cannot be requested to place himself in jeopardy. His attorney has already stressed that.” Turning to Thomson, he said, “You have the right to remain silent on the advice of your counsel. While you consider your position, the court has a question for People’s counsel. Miss Brett...”

“Your Honor?”

“Is the film on that cassette relevant to the charges and specifications in the indictment against the defendant?”

Brett paused. “They establish, Your Honor, the continuing inconsistencies in his testimony—”

“That would seem to be an evasive answer, Miss Brett. I’ve told you I would not admit inconsistencies unless they were substantive and relevant, or were probative of deliberate perjury. And as far as the cassette is concerned, I’m not going to admit it as evidence in this case, nor will I permit any further questions about its contents...”

During these explanations, Selby became aware of the growing tension around him. It was like the weight that settled in the air before the first storm clouds appeared, a charged tension that was usually shattered by rumbles of distant thunder or a sudden lightning flash.

Selby was something of an authority on tension... he had experienced those areas of human response a good deal more than the average person. He had been conditioned for years to the provocative cadence of snap counts and referees’ whistles and the sudden warning roar from packed stadiums.

It was the breaking point of those moments that professionals could usually predict and defend themselves against. Amateurs tended to be caught off-balance. But there was a dangerous equipoise in such situations that experts recognized — the compression of emotional elements beyond given flashpoints. There they burst and erupted in spasms of violence.

But with all Selby’s experience, he missed the breaking point of the trial, because it came from an unlikely source and spiraled with irrevocable pressure in three unpredictable sequences.

Earl Thomson interrupted Flood’s discourse to Brett by suddenly shouting at Shana, “You claimed I hated you, you swore that under oath, but that was wrong. I hated something close that I couldn’t—”

As the marshals moved from their posts, Earl pointed at Shana. “I didn’t hate you. I disciplined you. I controlled you because I had to. You were a diversion, a tactic—”

His voice broke like a child’s, but it rose above the hammering of Flood’s gavel. “You didn’t know what I hated, why I had to hate it.” He was shouting frantically. “Nobody asked me that, nobody thought of that...”

Turning around quickly, Shana said to her father, “Help him, please, I don’t care, can’t you do something, help him?”

Selby was so stunned by her outbreak of compassion for this miserable young man’s pain, that he didn’t immediately identify the object shining dully against Adele Thomson’s plaid robe. His peripheral vision was usually automatic, inherited from anticipating a thousand blind-side blocks, but he wasn’t aware of what was about to happen until he saw the shocked glaze in George Thomson’s eyes.

There was a gun in Adele Thomson’s fragile hand. Dom Lorso was close enough to strike the gun aside, deflect the barrel from pointing directly at George Thomson. But he said in a tired voice, “It’s better this way, Giorgio, better for all of us. You know that it is...”

Selby threw himself over the railing in front of his daughter and Brett, but the Sicilian sat motionless, his eyes lidded in his gray face, and watched Adele Thomson fire three shots which struck George Thomson just below his heart and sent him crashing backward, already dying, into the arms of the shocked marshals. The bailiff reached Mrs. Thomson then and took the gun from her withered fingers.

Selby held his daughter and Brett close to him and listened incredulously to the sound of Earl Thomson’s sudden laughter threading in a senseless counterpoint through the roaring confusion in the courtroom.