Baby, Would I Lie?

37

Tuesday morning, while Jack was off tightening the noose around the collective Weekly Galaxy neck, Sara was in her usual seat in the courtroom over in Forsyth, Cal on one side of her and Honey Franzen on the other. There was more of an air of expectation in court today, a sense of everyone waiting to be thrilled in some way. As Cal had explained to Sara, Ray was going to testify in his own defense this morning, over the objections of his high-priced defense attorney. “Then why is he doing it?” Sara asked as they waited for Judge Quigley to enter and gavel the crowded courtroom into session.

“He’s got his reasons,” Cal said. “He wants to tell his side of it.”

Good drama, bad move, Sara thought as the judge did come sweeping into the room in her black robe and gavel everybody back into their seats and into silence.

Seated now at her high desk. Judge Quigley looked severely around for somebody to reprimand, found no one, and snapped, “Is the defense ready?”

Warren rose. “We are, Your Honor. The defense calls Ray Jones.”

A stir, and a murmur, and a muffled hubbub — all went through the room as Ray got up from the defense table and went over to the witness seat to be sworn. Judge Quigley rapped again with her gavel. “There will be no disturbances of any kind,” she announced, “or I will clear the court. Mr. Thurbridge?”

“Thank you. Your Honor,” Warren said, and looking only slightly like a man who believes himself to be on a fool’s errand, he approached the sworn-in Ray and the morning began.

Ray started well enough; but of course, it was his own lawyer asking the questions, and those were real easy ones he was tossing over the plate. With Warren’s gentle guidance, Ray at last got to tell his side of the story to a hushed and fascinated courtroom, including fourteen hushed and fascinated jurors. He wanted all present to know that he had never had any kind of sexual or emotional relationship with Belle Hardwick, who was merely another employee in his theater; that he hadn’t driven the red Acura SNX that night; that he’d been home from the theater, absolutely by himself, before 10:30 that night; that he’d been asleep in his bed by midnight; that he had not thrown away any clothing in the last month or so, nor burned any clothing, nor given away any clothing, nor lost any clothing; and that he had no idea who might have been angry enough at Belle to have done all that awful stuff to her. “Though,” he added, while Warren looked just a teensy bit nervous, “it seems to me, when you get into excess violence like that, more likely than not somebody’s been drinking.”

“Do you drink, Ray?” Warren asked. But of course, Sara realized, he had to ask that and not leave the subject to the prosecutor.

“Sometimes,” Ray answered. “Not when I’m working; it throws off my timing. But after a show sometimes, if there’s a little party goin on, a bunch of people kickin back, sure, I like a taste or two. But I’m not a solitary drinker, never was.”

As the testimony went serenely along like that, Sara could see Warren gradually becoming less tense. Ray wasn’t being defensive; he didn’t have a chip on his shoulder; he wasn’t caustic or mean. He was just a reasonable, normal person who happened to be innocent of the charges against him and who would like people to know and understand that.

Warren stretched it out, and Sara could see him doing it and she knew why, but once Ray had told his story two or three times, there really wasn’t much left to say, so there did have to come that moment, about an hour into day three of the trial, when Warren had to step away from his client, flash a nervous smile at the judge, and say, “No more questions. Your Honor.”

Now it was the prosecutor’s turn. Fred Heffner, the Lincolnesque gun from Springfield, was handling interrogation of witnesses, that being a task rather beyond the capacities of the local prosecutor, Buford Delray. (Sara was happy to see Louis B. Urbiton in a privileged seat directly behind Buford Delray. She was happy for Louis B. She wanted his impersonation of a reporter from The Economist to last and last, right up until the dramatic unveiling. Gotcha! Gotcha both, Buford.)

Fred Heffner started small and easy, saying, “Mr. Jones, I want you to know I’m pleased and happy you’ve decided to come forward and tell your story like this. If I tend to go back over one or two details, I hope you won’t mind. It’s my job, you know, just to make sure everything’s crystal-clear for the jury. Okay?”

“Sure,” Ray said. He seemed easy and calm, half-smiling at the prosecutor, unworried. But was he truly the confident, well-prepared witness he appeared to be, or was he a lamb, gullible and trusting, led to slaughter?

Well, we’ll see, won’t we? Fred Heffner said, “Now, Mr. Jones, I noticed in your testimony a little earlier this morning, in referring to what happened to the late Belle Hardwick, you used the phrase”excess violence.” Do you recall using that phrase?”

“In connection with drinking, yeah.”

“In connection, I believe, with the death of Belle Hardwick. You considered her manner of death to be, in your words, “excess violence.” Isn’t that so?”

“I think we can all agree on that part,” Ray said with a little grin.

Fred Heffner didn’t grin back. Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Can we? What is your definition, Mr. Jones, of excess violence?”

Lifting himself wearily to his feet, as though he really was above this sort of foolishness, Warren said, “Objection, Your Honor. This is just some sort of semantic game. Everyone in this court knows what Ray Jones meant.”

“Well, I’m not sure we do,” Fred Heffner said. “That’s why I’d like Mr. Jones to tell us, in his own words, what he had in mind with that phrase.”

Judge Quigley, smiling upon the prosecutor, said, “I think that’s a legitimate question. The phrase was introduced by the defendant; he should certainly expect to have to answer as to what he meant by it.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Fred Heffner said, while Warren shook his head at the folly of humankind and resumed his seat. Fred Heffner turned back to Ray, saying, “Let me try to make it easier for you, Mr. Jones. I take it you were saying that some level of violence is acceptable, until it reaches a point you—”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Warren said, on his feet again. “The prosecuting attorney is putting words in the witness’s mouth that are clearly not anything he said or meant or implied.”

“Your Honor,” Fred Heffner said, “all I’m asking the witness to do is define his terms.”

“Then I think,” the judge said, “we’ll let him do so.” Gazing down at Ray without love, she said, “Mr. Jones?”

Ray directed his answer straight to her. “Your Honor, I’m not in favor of violence at all. If I wanted to knock this prosecutor here down,” he said, still looking at the judge but pointing at Fred Heffner, who smirked, “that would be a bad thing to do; I’m not condoning it. If I hit him and he went down, that would be a bad thing, but it’s what I wanted to do and I did it. Now, if all I want to do is knock him down and I start hitting him with chairs and desks and microphones and all sorts of stuff, that’s excess. Anyway, that’s always what I thought the word meant. Whoever killed poor old Belle there, they killed her three or four times, according to what I read. If I call that excess, I don’t mean I think it would’ve been all right if he just killed her once. I’m against violence, all kinds of violence. I’m a musician, not a boxer.”

Bravo, thought Sara, taking sides for just a moment. You’re not just a musician; you’re a songwriter, and that was a good song. Well done.

Judge Quigley seemed to think so, too, reluctantly. “Thank you, Mr. Jones,” she said, and she looked over at Fred Heffner, who, during Ray’s answer, had gone back to the prosecution table and found a photograph, which he now held. “Mr. Heffner, are you satisfied?”

“Indeed I am. Your Honor,” Fred Heffner said, approaching the witness. “In fact, that was very eloquent, Mr. Jones. What you say about Belle Hardwick having been killed several times seems to me a pretty accurate description of what happened on the night of July the twelfth. This is a picture of the victim’s body after it had been taken from the water.”

“I’ve seen it,” Ray said, not taking the picture.

“Take another look at it,” Fred Heffner suggested. “Go ahead. Take it.”

Slowly, with evident revulsion, Ray took the photo and looked at it. From back here, Sara could see only that it was a glossy eight-by-ten, and in color. She felt that was probably all she wanted to know about that particular photograph.

“Are you looking at the picture, Mr. Jones?” the prosecutor asked.

“Yeah,” Ray said, his voice heavy, “I’m looking at it.”

Leaning toward Ray, lowering his voice but still clearly audible throughout the courtroom, Fred Heffner said, “Tell me, does she look like a pizza to you?”

As though he’d been hit by a cattle prod, Ray jumped in his seat, glared, and threw the photograph at the prosecutor. “You cocksucker!” he yelled. “That song doesn’t have a goddamn thing to do with it!”