Spider Webs

IV The Clerk

Before court resumed the next morning, the judge summoned Court Clerk Eva Foster to his chambers.

The judge was wearing the half glasses that divided his face into two parts contradicting each other. The upper part was the broad intellectual forehead and grave little eyes. The lower part had the puffy cheeks and full pink lips of an older Thatcher.

Eva had on a new knit dress, an unfortunate choice for the occasion.

“Sit down, Miss Foster.”

“Yes, sir.”

The judge studied her over the tops of his glasses, then put his head back and studied her through the bottoms of the glasses to achieve a balanced view.

Finally he spoke. “District Attorney Owen brought his three sons to court yesterday afternoon. The two older boys were quite noticeably — ah, noticing you, or shall I say ogling you?”

“Boys that age will ogle anything that moves.”

“And you do move, Miss Foster. Quite well, if I may say so.”

“Is my work satisfactory, sir?”

“Yes, yes indeed. You’re always right in there pitching, bringing in the evidence, knives, guns, garments, et cetera. Which brings me to the point.”

“What does?”

“Garments. Your garments.”

Eva looked down at her dress, which had cost her a week’s salary and been advertised in Vogue. “You don’t like this dress?”

“I like it fine. It’s very becoming.”

“Then what’s this all about? I fail to see—”

“He saw. Mr. Owen, that is. And what he saw was two of his boys ogling you. So of course, he had to ogle you also in order to determine what they were ogling. Understandable, really. Parental responsibility and all that. At any rate he reached a conclusion.”

“Indeed?”

The top half of the judge’s face seemed to be fighting the bottom half, with the fight ending in a draw.

“Consarn it, Miss Foster, all this ogling wasn’t my idea. I’m just the middleman.”

“What conclusion did Mr. Owen reach?”

“He feels — that is, he opines, believes, whatever — that you do not wear undergarments designed to bind, confine, restrain—”

“I know what ‘bind’ means, Your Honor. ‘Bind’ is what the ancient barbarous Chinese did to the feet of their little princesses. They bound their feet to prevent them from growing normally so the poor creatures were never able to walk. Those barbarians believed that only peasants should find it necessary to walk. It was a cruel, inhumane, dreadful thing to do.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Miss Foster. I am not asking you to bind your feet. I simply want you to wear a bra.”

Eva sat in deliberate silence, looking around the room. It was as contradictory as the judge’s two-part face. Dignified rows of red and gold lawbooks were topped by a stuffed great horned owl with one of its glass eyes missing and a dead mouse squeezed between its claws. The formal mahogany desk was scarred with cigarette burns and scratches from the seashells the judge collected on his morning beach walks. The latest pile of seashells gave the room the pervasive odor of fish.

“The bailiff,” Eva said, “has a potbelly.”

“I’m aware of that, Miss Foster.”

“Have you asked him to wear a girdle?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“A potbelly is not as ogleable — oglible — consarn it, a potbelly is not as seductive as certain other parts of the anatomy. Also, he wears a belt around it.”

“Only to keep his pants up.”

The judge was beginning to regret having brought the subject up. “It would be very difficult for me to ask my bailiff to wear a girdle.”

“You didn’t seem to mind asking me to wear a bra.”

“On the contrary. I hesitated; I weighed the pros and cons; I mulled over it a long time.”

“If you had mulled a little longer, you would have realized that this is clearly a case of sexual discrimination.”

“But it isn’t discrimination. It is simply a recognition of obvious sexual differences. The bailiff’s potbelly is not in the same category as your chest.”

“Cases of sex discrimination can go all the way to the Supreme Court.”

“Oh, Lord,” the judge said. His day had started out so well. The sun was shining; he’d eaten a good breakfast; nobody was mad at him. Now suddenly he was coming up before the Supreme Court on charges of sexual discrimination. “Couldn’t we forget this conversation, Miss Foster?”

“I could if you could.”

“It never happened. Right?”

“Right. But in case it happens again, I shall have no hesitation in bringing the matter to the attention of the National Organization for Women.”

“You wouldn’t by any chance consider a compromise?”

“You mean wear half a bra? That doesn’t sound feasible. In fact, it might have quite the opposite effect of the one you’re seeking by proving to be a turn-on for certain kinky types. Do you understand?”

“Yes yes yes.”

“Also,” Eva said, “you can’t buy half a bra. I would have to buy a whole bra and cut it in two, which would make it impossible to fasten.”

“I didn’t suggest half a bra, Miss Foster. I suggested a compromise, something in the nature of — well, a rather snug-fitting chemise.”

“I haven’t seen a chemise in years.”

“Then perhaps you might choose outer garments that don’t follow so precisely the contours of the human form. Would you consider such a compromise?”

“Oh, yes. I would consider such a compromise blatant discrimination.”

“Very well, the subject is closed.”

“Thank you, sir. And I’ll try to walk out very, very carefully so as not to attract any—”

“Oh, go bind your feet, Foster,” the judge said.

At ten minutes to ten the deputy brought Cully King in from the county jail. In jail Cully wore what the other inmates did, but on trial days he was allowed to dress in his best clothes, navy blue blazer, gray slacks, white shirt and a blue tie which he’d bought in Mazatlán at a waterfront stall. The tie bore the picture of a yacht painted by an expatriate American artist from a picture Cully showed him of the Bewitched. Nobody would have recognized the Bewitched from the painting, but any sailor could see it was a ketch, and the artist insisted it was one of his finest works for a mere twenty-five dollars.

Neither Donnelly nor the DA had arrived yet, and except for the bailiff and a few early court watchers, Cully and Eva were alone.

“We’ll be late starting this morning,” Eva told Cully. “I upset the judge by being right. He can’t stand other people being right this early in the morning, so he’ll probably need time to soothe his ego.”

“I don’t care if he’s late. I’m not going anywhere.” Cully smiled, a rather grave, sweet smile that made him look very young. “Are you going anywhere?”

“Not for a while. I’m taking my vacation at Christmas. I’m not sure yet where I want to go.”

“My islands are very beautiful at Christmas. I would like to be home for the holidays.”

“With your wife and kids?”

“She’s not my wife. We never got married. Maybe they’re not my kids either, but I support them all, so they treat me like a King... That’s a joke. Get it?”

“I got it.”

“Why don’t you ever smile? I thought it was a pretty good joke.”

“Tell me about your house.”

“Not much to tell. Not much of a house. Small, crowded, not too clean when you compare it with a ship. My brother-in-law lives with us. He’s a bum, but he’s a good dancer, and Louise likes to go dancing. Me, I can’t dance unless I’m drunk. Maybe I can’t dance then either, but I do it. I’ll do practically anything when I’m drunk.” He paused for a moment. “If I ever murder anybody, it’ll probably be my brother-in-law. I’ve thought about it a lot.”

“You mustn’t talk like that,” Eva said. “People might overhear and get the wrong impression.”

“Why should they? My brother-in-law has nothing to do with the woman I took on board as cook.”

“Are you still sticking to that story?”

“It’s true.”

“It doesn’t sound true.”

“I can’t change what happened.”

“Mr. King, you must learn how to present yourself as an innocent person. An innocent person doesn’t talk about the possibility of murdering his brother-in-law.”

“All right, I won’t talk about it. I’ll still think about it, though.”

“Listen. What I mean is, you can’t just go around telling the truth. You’ve got to make it sound truer than truth.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No.”

“I think maybe your are.”

“No. I’m trying to help you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Cully lapsed into a puzzled silence. He sat with his hands on the table, rolling a pencil between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand back and forth along the palm of his left hand. Against the lighter skin of his palm the calluses stood out like pebbles on a beach.

Eva liked these hands, which were so different from Donnelly’s, always too carefully manicured, and from the judge’s, gnarled by arthritis, and the bailiff’s, with their pale, puffy fingers, one of them nearly strangled by his wedding band. Cully’s were lean, strong hands you could depend on to get things done, to provide and protect.

She looked down at her own hands, small and thin, and she had a sudden, very disturbing impulse to put one of them in Cully’s and let it lie there.

For nearly a minute her breath caught in her throat, then had to race to make up for lost oxygen. She wondered what was the matter with her and whether she should talk to somebody sensible like Mildred. After years of trial work Mildred had a sixth sense about the guilt or innocence of a defendant. She would know whether or not this man was a murderer.

“I like your dress,” Cully said.

“Why?”

“It’s a great dress. It fits you great.”

“I hate it,” Eva said, “I hate it. I’m never going to wear it again.”

Bill Gunther came in swinging his battered old briefcase. He looked as though he had spent the night in a clothes dryer that had twisted his suit, torn a button off his shirt and tumbled his hair. Actually he’d been on the road from Bakersfield since midnight, caught in a dense tule fog which had slowed traffic almost to a standstill. His steel-rimmed spectacles seemed to have brought along a sample of tule fog, and Gunther’s attempts to wipe the lenses clean with his sleeve had been futile.

He pulled a tie out of the pocket of his coat and put it on. Then he ran his hands through his hair, using his fingers like the teeth of a comb. He had needed a haircut at the beginning of the trial, and he still did. The total impression he made was that of a man who had more important and profound things to think about than clothes and grooming.

“It is customary,” Eva said, “to dress at home.”

“I wasn’t at home.”

“I bet you weren’t.”

“In fact, I haven’t been home for so long I’ve forgotten my address. You don’t happen to have it lying around someplace, do you?”

“No. Try phoning your mother.”

“I’m fresh out of mothers.”

He put his briefcase on the table. It gave off a faint but identifiable odor of used underwear and dirty socks, so he transferred it to the floor. Then he turned to Cully.

“How’d things go yesterday?”

“Not so good, I think. Maybe even bad.”

“How bad?”

“That doctor made it sound like I strangled her and punched her in the ribs. It didn’t happen that way.”

“If it didn’t happen that way, they can’t prove it did.”

“Maybe they can if Dr. Woodbridge keeps using words nobody else can understand.”

“Wait’ll Donnelly gets to him. Woodbridge will be using four-letter words like H-E-L-P.”

“You like this man Donnelly?”

“He’s the boss. He pays my rent, buys my beer, so sure I like him.”

“But you’re not his real friend?”

“I don’t even know where he lives.”

“My, my, your memory is feeble this morning, Mr. Gunther,” Eva said. “You can’t remember where you live and you can’t remember where your buddy lives. Did you have a bad night?”

“The worst.”

“You dropped a bundle at your bookie’s.”

“Oh, butt out, Foster. I’m discussing evidence with our client.”

“Then try lowering your voice. Some of these court watchers have twenty-twenty hearing.”

The district attorney came in with his chief investigator, Deputy Bernstein, followed a minute later by Donnelly.

Donnelly looked perfectly groomed as always. His gray silk and wool suit matched the gloss and color of his hair. With it he wore a white shirt, a Harvard tie and a Phi Beta Kappa key. The key was legitimately his, but he was not a graduate of Harvard. Urged by his New England family to go west and stay there, he came to California and enrolled at UC Berkeley. Here, in the less restrictive atmosphere and more equable climate, he flourished.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Donnelly said. “Did you sleep in your clothes, Mr. Gunther?”

“I didn’t sleep in anything.”

“Really? You must tell me about it later. Much later.”

Gunther shrugged, picked up his briefcase and went to his customary seat inside the well but at the railing, away from the counselors’ table.

Donnelly unpacked the papers he had brought, legal pads filled with the letters, numerals and squiggles that passed for writing and a copy of the local morning newspaper with an account of yesterday’s proceedings. It was a fairly accurate report, and Donnelly gave it to Cully to read.

As he read, Cully’s face was impassive, but his hands trembled slightly. “They make it sound like I’m guilty.”

“Tomorrow’s will be better,” Donnelly said. “I think the jury’s getting saturated with medical terms.”

“Why do you think that?”

“They haven’t been taking as many notes as they did previously. They’re ready for simpler language. So am I.”

“All rise, Superior Court in and for the county of Santa Felicia is now in session, Judge Hazeltine presiding.”

It was ten-fifteen.

Eva Foster recorded the time in her notebook, Mildred Noon sat poised at her stenotype machine and Dr. Woodbridge was escorted back to the witness box by the bailiff. The courtroom had the communal warmth of a barn, but the smell was different. This was the smell of people under stress.

The judge watched the bailiff as he returned to his seat, noting that his potbelly seemed to be increasing and his khaki shirt was strained to the limit. He looked like a man whose chest had started to fall down and then was caught in the nick of time by the leather belt of his trousers. A girdle might not be such a bad idea, the judge thought. He took a long, deep breath, swished it around in his lungs for a minute, then exhaled and spoke.

“Mr. Owen having completed his examination of Dr. Woodbridge, we are now ready to hear Mr. Donnelly’s cross-examination. Are you ready for the cross-examination, Mr. Donnelly?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Donnelly took his place at the lectern, facing the witness. His manner and voice were grave.

“Dr. Woodbridge, my name is Charles Donnelly. If, during the course of this cross-examination, any of my questions seem too personal, even hostile, I beg your forgiveness in advance. Any doubts cast will not be on your integrity but on certain conclusions you’ve reached. Although we are on opposing sides in this case, we both are interested in establishing the truth. And in any quest for truth, verbal blows are often exchanged. I regret this, but I must fight for what I believe in. Would you accept an apology in advance, Doctor?”

“Oh, certainly.” Woodbridge felt a tic in the left corner of his mouth. If he’d been alone, it would have expanded into a full smile. He’d known Donnelly for years, and this was one of Donnelly’s favorite tricks, presenting himself to the jury as a Boy Scout who must stoop to dirty tricks in the interest of justice.

“Dr. Woodbridge, you said yesterday that the cause of Mrs. Pherson’s death was asphyxia.”

“I did.”

“Can you give us a short and simple definition of ‘asphyxia’?”

“I can make it short, but I can’t make it simple since a rather complicated process is involved.”

“Short will do.”

“Asphyxia is oxygen starvation due to the obstruction of breathing passages.”

“Can this obstruction of breathing passages be caused by a number of things?”

“Yes.”

“Can you name some, please?”

“Accident first comes to mind, as when a person attempts to swallow a piece of food, usually meat, that is too large and the food gets lodged in his throat. Another cause is disease, such as a tumor or a violent allergic reaction to some food like shellfish which causes the throat to swell. Smothering, another cause, can be accidental, as when an infant gets entangled in its bedclothes, or deliberate, such as a pillow held against the face. Hanging, the use of a ligature around the neck, rope, wire, belt, is a not uncommon method of suicide. Another cause of asphyxia is the use of hands applying pressure to the windpipe and larynx, in other words, strangulation.”

The wail of a siren just outside the windows silenced the doctor, and he shook his head at the futility of trying to compete.

When the siren faded, Donnelly said, “Haven’t you omitted the most important cause of asphyxia, Dr. Woodbridge?”

“Not by intent. I was about to add drowning when I was interrupted.”

“Yesterday afternoon the district attorney emphasized the fact that very little water was found in Mrs. Pherson’s lungs. In most cases of drowning are the lungs filled with water?”

“No. Very seldom.”

“Can you give us, as briefly as possible, the actual mechanism of drowning as when, for instance, a person falls overboard from a boat?”

“The person would begin to fight for his life, probably start yelling for help and thrashing around in the water. During this struggle for survival, water enters the throat and windpipe, causing the mucous membranes to produce more mucus in self-protection. This mucus combines with the water to form a viscous substance rather like soap lather but sticky and tenacious. This may be combined with vomit as well, and the victim strangles on his own body fluids.”

“Can we conclude that the cause of death is not water in the lungs, as is commonly believed?”

“No, it is not.”

“What if the fall from the vessel is not accidental but intentional?”

“Water would still be ingested and the reaction of the mucous membranes would be the same.”

“It is a commonly held belief that a drowning person will come to the surface three times. Is this correct?”

“No. The body might not come to the surface at all and never be recovered. This is especially true in fresh water.”

“Why?”

“The human body is heavier than fresh water.”

“What about salt water?”

“Salt increases the body’s buoyancy. If there is a large amount of salt, such as in the Great Salt Lake of Utah, a person becomes so buoyant that it’s difficult to swim.”

“Does the temperature of the water have any effect on survival time? Strike that... Dr. Woodbridge, you stated yesterday that in your opinion Mrs. Pherson died of asphyxia due to strangulation.”

“I did.”

“You further stated that the strangulation resulted from the use of hands.”

“Yes.”

“You based your opinion on two grooves found on the front of the throat approximately the size of thumbs.”

“That was the main basis, yes.”

“You also stated that these grooves had been made premortem — that is, before death — did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what time Mrs. Pherson’s death occurred?”

“No.”

“Can you tell within an hour?”

“No.”

“Within two hours?”

“Not for a certainty, no.”

“Why not?”

“The fact that the body had been immersed in water about fifty-five degrees makes it difficult to determine the exact time of death.”

“Yet you contend that the grooves found on Mrs. Pherson’s throat were made prior to death. How certain are you of this?”

“One hundred percent. Or almost one hundred percent.”

“Almost.” Donnelly spoke the word slowly, letting it hang in the air like a cloud of doubt. “In the field of medicine as in other sciences, new facts are coming to light every day, are they not?”

“Yes.”

“Do you try, Dr. Woodbridge, to keep up with current advances, new theories, new facts, which are printed in various publications?”

“I try. But currently there are so many medical publications that I would have to choose between reading them all and carrying on my own work.”

“Is the special field of cold-water rescues relatively new?”

“I believe so.”

“Have you done any reading on this subject?”

“Not a great deal.”

“Not a great deal. Does that mean a small deal?”

The district attorney got to his feet. “I object, Your Honor. Dr. Woodbridge’s qualifications were well established at the beginning of his testimony. All this prying into what he has or has not read I construe as badgering.”

“I don’t,” the judge said. “Overruled. Repeat your question, Mr. Donnelly.”

“I’ll rephrase it. Have recent studies done in the field of cold-water drowning contradicted some long-held notions?”

“Long-held notions are being shot down every day in almost every scientific field. Can you refer to a specific case, please?”

“One well-publicized case happened last year near Seattle. Two boys were playing on a frozen lake when the ice broke and one of them fell in and was submerged. His companion tried to rescue him, but he, too, fell in and was submerged. The frantic barking of the boys’ dog drew attention to their plight. More than an hour elapsed before the body of the first boy was brought out of the lake. No signs of life were evident, but the paramedics went to work anyway, as they’re trained to do whether or not the task seems hopeless. In this case the boy was revived and actually started breathing on his own. A short time later he died. However, during that long submersion in that icy water he remained alive, his metabolism so slowed that he was in a state of suspended animation. Do you recall this case, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“What was your reaction when you first read or heard about it?”

“I felt very pleased at the resourcefulness of the human body.”

The unexpected answer broke the tension, and a hum of appreciation and amusement drifted across the courtroom. Donnelly was annoyed at losing the attention of the audience, but he realized it was to his advantage, and he pursued the subject.

“Do you remember, Dr. Woodbridge, how long the boy was submerged before being brought out of the lake?”

“I believe it was at least an hour.”

“What was the body’s mechanism that saved him, if only for a short time?”

“The term you used seems to be an adequate description for the layman, suspended animation. The lowering of the body temperature and slowing of its metabolism decrease the brain’s need for oxygen.”

“Are there other such cases on record of people surviving a previously unheard-of time of submersion?”

“Yes.”

“Well documented?”

“Yes.”

“What was the common denominator?”

“The low temperature of the water.”

The tic at the corner of Woodbridge’s mouth picked up its beat. He knew what was coming. He could see it in Donnelly’s eyes and in the way the district attorney had moved forward in his chair, ready to go into action like a runner listening for the starting gun.

“Dr. Woodbridge, could such a thing have happened to Madeline Pherson?”

The district attorney jumped to his feet. “I object, Your Honor. Witness is being asked to speculate. I object further to this whole line of questioning, or shall I say answering, since defense attorney seems to be delivering a medical lecture to the doctor.”

“Witness is not required to answer the question,” the judge said.

“Let me ask a hypothetical question instead,” Donnelly said. “Suppose such a thing had happened to Mrs. Pherson, could not the grooves on her throat and the lacerations and contusions on her body have occurred after her submersion in the water?”

Donnelly didn’t even wait for an answer. None was necessary. He turned a page of his notes as if it were the final page of a book.

Glancing at the wall clock, he saw that it was 11:16, later than the usual morning recess time but early for the lunch break. He decided to ask for the break, allowing the jury nearly three hours to ponder the question Could such a thing have happened to Madeline Pherson?

With forty-five extra minutes for lunch Eva Foster decided to go home. She lived in a three-story Victorian house with her father, Frank, her stepmother, Dora, and Dora’s teenaged son, Pete. Her father had changed jobs many times, and wives four times, but he clung with obstinate affection to the old house in spite of the office buildings and apartments built up around it.

Eva headed for her room on the second floor, avoiding the two steps that creaked and the worn place in the upstairs hall carpet which people were always tripping over. Nobody did anything about the worn carpet. It was as much a part of the old house as the dumbwaiter that moved noisily on its trolley back and forth from the kitchen to the third floor.

In her bedroom she glanced at herself in the full-length mirror attached to the closet door. Then she took off the knit dress, flung it on the patchwork quilt bedspread and put on a loose-fitting cotton shirtwaist. It was a nice, sensible dress, the kind she should have worn in the first place. Every office in the city had one exactly like it walking around with some anonymous female inside.

On her way back downstairs she noticed that the worn place in the hall carpet had two new worn places, one on each side, made by people wanting to avoid the original. Eventually there’d be a whole row of them growing across the hall like fungi.

She found her stepmother in the kitchen, making a salad and watching a game show on television. The show seemed to be a continuous laugh track, interrupted by occasional snatches of dialogue.

Dora’s high, sharp voice pierced the sound track like a stiletto. “What are you doing home?”

“I live here.”

“What?”

“I... live... here.”

Dora turned off the television, frowning as all the jolly people left her life as abruptly as they had entered. She had the kind of blond prettiness people always referred to in the past tense. “You know what I mean,” Dora said. “You didn’t get fired, did you? God knows it’s a contagious disease around this place.”

“I didn’t get fired,” Eva said. “Court adjourned early.”

She opened the refrigerator door and took out a can of tomato juice and an apple.

Dora was watching her suspiciously as if she weren’t quite sure she had been told the truth. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did it adjourn early?”

“It was a technical matter.”

“I wish you’d tell me what’s going on once in a while. My bridge club is coming this afternoon, and they’re dying to hear some inside information about the case.”

“I can’t give you any inside information.”

“Why not? You must have an opinion on whether the man is guilty or not. My goodness, you’re right there.”

“I’m right there now. But I wasn’t right there when the woman died.”

Eva stood at the kitchen sink, drinking the tomato juice and looking out at the liquidambar tree that separated the house from the apartment building next door. In the noon sun its giant leaves shone brilliant orange-red as if they were bursting into vibrant new life. But every year her father reminded Eva gloomily that this was not life but death. And pretty soon the leaves would begin to drop and curl up crisp as taco shells. Then her father would get up early in the morning and rake them into a pile to be crushed into the trash can. Her father was very neat.

“I bet the others do,” Dora said.

“What others do what?”

“The ones who work in the courtroom. I bet they go home and tell their families everything.”

“You can read in the newspaper everything you’re supposed to know.”

“But all the girls in the bridge club will know the same thing, and I won’t have anything extra to tell them.”

“If your friends want to know what goes on in a courtroom, they should come and find out for themselves. It’s a free show.”

Eva peeled the apple and cut it into quarters.

“I turned off the TV so we could talk,” Dora said. “And now you have nothing to say.”

“Not about the case, no. We could discuss the weather.”

“I’ll have enough of that when your father gets home. He’ll tell me what the temperature is in Paris, Bangkok, Hong Kong, you name it. And we hardly ever go further than Los Angeles. It beats me how a man fifty-six years old can want to read the surf reports every night in the paper, the size of the swells, what direction they’re coming from and the intervals between waves. It really beats me, a man who’s never been out of the country or on a surfboard in his life wanting to know the temperature in Hong Kong and the size of the waves at Zuma Beach. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“I haven’t thought about it. What is the temperature in Hong Kong, by the way?”

“Why?” Dora said coldly. “Are you going there?”

“I might.”

“If you didn’t spend all your money on clothes, you could afford to.”

“Maybe I’ll win a free trip. That’s it. You could go on one of those quiz shows you’re always watching and win a free trip to Hong Kong. You wouldn’t want to take the trip yourself because you don’t like Chinamen so you give the ticket to me. And before I even get there, I’ll know the temperature. How does that sound?”

Dora’s plump pink face looked fretful like a disappointed child’s. “I wouldn’t dream of giving you the ticket. Either I’d sell it or I’d take the trip myself, Chinamen or no Chinamen. And speaking of spending all your money on clothes, what happened to your dress?”

“What dress?”

“This morning at breakfast you were wearing a new knitted dress.”

“I changed.”

“I can see that. But why?”

“I wanted to.”

“You must have had a reason for wanting to.”

“I decided it wasn’t suitable for a courtroom.”

“Surely they don’t tell you what to wear.”

“No.”

“Then why not look as attractive as you can? That dress made you almost sexy.”

Eva knew what was coming: It was up to a woman to look as sexy as possible because one never knew when Mr. Right was going to come along. Or even Mr. Half-Right, since a woman who’d reached Eva’s age couldn’t afford to be choosy.

It was Dora’s favorite theme, and she played it like a virtuoso. “You remember that nice Mr. Weatherbe your father brought home from the office for dinner Saturday night? Well, he asked your father about you and sent his best regards. It’s a sign he’s interested in you, even though you sat there like a dead clam all through the meal.”

“How do you tell a dead clam from a live one?”

“Dead or alive, that isn’t the point. Mr. Weatherbe is a very presentable man. He dresses well — that part should certainly appeal to you — he has nice teeth and not a trace of dandruff.”

“How could he have dandruff when he’s bald?”

“His hair is thinning a little on top. You can’t call him bald.”

“I can. I just did.”

“When are you going to get it through your head that you’re no spring chicken anymore. You can’t be so picky. Goodness gracious, what are you waiting for?”

Still standing at the window, Eva watched the liquidambar tree dazzling to death in the sun. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m waiting to fall in love.”

“Fall in love? That’s silly.”

“Why?”

“People can’t expect to just fall in love. They have to go out and look for it, work at it, not sit around the dinner table acting like a—”

“Dead clam.”

“Yes, a dead clam. That’s what I said, and I won’t apologize for it. Mr. Weatherbe’s hair may be thinning a bit on top, but he earns a very good salary. And the fact that he asked after you must mean he’s interested.” Dora stabbed at an oil-slick lettuce leaf. “So you’re waiting to fall in love. I can’t really believe you said that.”

“Believe it.”

“You’re sure you don’t have one of those things they call a father fixation?”

“I doubt it.”

“Let’s hope you’re right. One of my friends was saying the other day how funny it was that Frank had had four wives and through all four of them you were still occupying the same bedroom you had when you were a child instead of going out and getting a place of your own, which you could well afford to do if you didn’t spend so much money on clothes. Not that I object to having you here, but you’d think with all that blabbing you do about women’s independence you might go out and get some place of your own. Why don’t you?”

“Inertia,” Eva said. “All us dead clams suffer from inertia. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring up the subject of Mr. Weatherbe again. He may earn a good salary, but he’s a conceited ass who suffers from logorrhea.”

“What’s that?”

“Look it up.”

“There you go again. Whenever you’re losing an argument, the only thing you can do is flaunt your superior education.”

“I can think of something else to do,” Eva said. “But it wouldn’t be legal.”

She spent the rest of her lunch hour looking in shop-windows, buying an umbrella for Mildred Noon’s birthday and finally going into a bookstore and asking for a map and some literature about the Caribbean islands.

She was a steady customer at the store, and the middle-aged woman behind the counter greeted her by name.

“Going on a cruise, Miss Foster?”

“I might someday.”

“I’ve never been to the Caribbean myself. But I have a friend who took one of those cruises that was supposed to be like the Love Boat on TV. A love boat, my eye. In the first place most of the passengers were women, and the only men on board were the crew.”

“And in the second place?”

“There was no second place. What do you think she went on the cruise for? It was an expensive mistake. She would have done better to join one of those health clubs.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“There at least you’ll be surrounded by men and you can start scouting. It’s amazing what poor judges of character women are. They use their eyes and ears instead of their brains. They might as well say eeny meeny miny mo.”

Eva stared down at the map in her hands. It had begun to quiver, as if someone had opened a door and let the wind in. She felt no draft.

Eeny, meeny, miny mo, catch a nigger by the toe.

Had the woman chosen these words deliberately? She seemed to be looking at her in a peculiar way. Perhaps she knew all about the trial, had even been one of the anonymous court watchers, had seen Cully talking to her, smiling, admiring her dress.

She started to refold the map, but it wouldn’t fold, and the woman took it out of her hands. “Here, let me do it.”

“Thank you,” Eva said.

“Personally I think the best way to meet men — or women either, for that matter — is to buy a dog. People who walk dogs always get acquainted with each other. Have you noticed that?”

“Yes.”

“Actually, I think dogs are a lot smarter than people. When dogs want to get acquainted, they just walk up to each other and sniff around a little, and they’re either friends or enemies right off the bat. Wouldn’t it be nice if people felt free to do the same?”

“I guess so.”

“Aren’t you feeling well, Miss Foster?”

“I’m all right.”

“Maybe you’ve been working too hard. You know, it’s funny, but in all the years you’ve been coming in here I’ve never known what you do for a living.”

“I work for the government.”

“Aren’t you lucky. I hear they have great health insurance coverage. And the pensions! If I could get a pension like that, I’d make a point of living forever.”

“I’ll take the map,” Eva said. “And the paperback on the Virgin Islands.”

“Want me to put them in a bag for you?”

“No, thanks, there’s room in my purse.”

“What a lovely purse,” the clerk said. “What’s it made of?”

“Alligator.”

“I thought alligators were on the endangered species list and people weren’t allowed to use their skins.”

“That used to be true. But now alligators are farmed and the use of their skins is legal.”

Eva paid for the book and map and went back out onto the street.

She arrived in the courtroom ten minutes early, but Cully was already seated at the counsels’ table. Bailiff di Santo stood at the back of the room, talking to a pensioner who divided his time between the courthouse and the library in the next block.

“My game plan is simple,” the old man told Di Santo in a voice that defied walls. “Here today, there tomorrow. The courthouse is livelier, but the seats in the library are more comfortable. These benches in here would bend an elephant’s ass.”

Eva sat down at the table she shared with Di Santo. Cully smiled at her but waited for her to speak first.

“You’re early,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Where do they take you for lunch?”

“Back to the jail. We have our big meal at noon. The food’s okay. There are rumors they put something in it to kind of calm everybody down, but if you’re hungry enough, you don’t care.”

“It wouldn’t be legal for them to do that.”

“Do you think that would stop them?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

Cully shrugged and turned away.

“I have to believe in our judicial system,” Eva said. “I’m part of it.”

“So am I, right now.”

“I keep forgetting. I guess that sounds pretty crazy, but it’s true. When we’re sitting here talking like this, I keep forgetting we’re not two ordinary people having an ordinary relationship.”

“Two people like us could never have an ordinary relationship whichever way the trial turns out. Even if the jury finds me innocent, you’ll never be sure.”

“Yes, I will. I told you, I believe in the system.”

He made a funny sound through his teeth that could have been interpreted as almost anything, a parent hushing a child, the beginning of a curse or a simple exhalation of air.

Eva took the paperback out of her purse and began to read:

“I could have told you anything you wanted to know about my islands,” Cully said. “You didn’t have to buy a book about them.”

“I just happened to see it lying on the counter and picked it up. I’m still trying to decide where to go on my vacation.”

“Books like that don’t always give you the whole truth. They tell about the blue sea but not the lack of fresh water. They describe big, beautiful beaches without mentioning the big, beautiful bugs.”

“How... how big?”

“Size isn’t so important. It’s the real little ones that bite the worst. A woman like you would be better off going to a city like New York to see the shows and the museums and stuff like that.”

“How do you know what a woman like me would like?”

“For one thing you have a very fair skin, which means you don’t spend much time outdoors.”

“My job keeps me inside. I like a lot of things besides art galleries and museums. Boats, for instance. I love boats, and I never get seasick. I’d like to go someplace on a boat someday.”

As soon as the sentence left her mouth, she regretted it. It seemed to fall between them like a wall, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “Why did you say that?”

“Say what?”

“About wanting to go on a boat. Did you mean an ordinary boat or a yacht like the Bewitched?”

“I didn’t mean anything special. I was just remarking that I’ve always wanted to go someplace on a boat or ship, whatever’s going.”

“The last woman I took someplace on a boat didn’t get there. If she had, none of us would be in this courtroom. But here we are. Take a train.” His lips stretched in a caricature of a smile. “You’ll be safer on a train, especially if you don’t pick up strangers in the bar.”

Court resumed at 2:11.

Dr. Woodbridge, back in the witness box, appeared refreshed after the long lunch break. He even managed to give his cross-examiner a friendly nod as Donnelly went to the lectern with his sheaf of papers.

The bailiff, who’d already announced the opening of the afternoon session and returned to his seat, now rose again and quickly approached the bench.

He spoke in a whisper. “One of the jurors is missing.”

“You might have stopped me when I was saying, ‘Let the record show.’ ”

“I didn’t notice. She sits in the back row, number eight, and she’s real little.”

“Name?”

“Mrs. Latham.”

“Well, all we can do is wait.” The judge raised his voice and addressed the audience. “One of our jurors has apparently lost her way to the courthouse. Rather than declare a recess I will simply ask you to wait a few minutes for her arrival. Until that time you are free to converse among yourselves.”

Nine minutes passed before an elderly gray-haired woman came bustling into the room. Her hair was uncombed, and the neat, prim front she’d presented the preceding sessions of the trial had disappeared. She wore a grease-stained nylon jacket with “Olympics ’84” across the back of it and a pair of soiled denim slacks with the right leg folded up to mid-calf.

The judge frowned at her over his glasses. “You’re late, Mrs. Latham.”

“Yes, sir. My grandson’s bicycle had a flat tire.”

“And how did that affect you, Mrs. Latham?”

“I was on it.”

The judge consulted his bailiff in a whisper, then spoke to the elderly woman again. “You live at One fourteen Gaviota Avenue?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you rode a bicycle all the way down here?”

“Had to. My car was stolen from the jury parking lot this morning. When I went out to drive home for lunch, there it was, just an empty space where I’d left my car. It’s un-American to have your car stolen right next to the courthouse with the police station a block away. The place must have been crawling with cops and deputies and judges and bailiffs, and right in front of all their noses someone breaks into my car and hot-wires it and drives off.”

The district attorney’s objection was loud and immediate. “Your Honor, I protest any further remarks on the part of this juror in open court, and I request a consultation at the side bar.”

Both counsel and the court reporter gathered on the right side of the judge, who swiveled his chair around to face them.

The district attorney explained his objection. “Her remarks indicate a possible bias against law officers and may constitute grounds for her dismissal.”

“Nonsense,” the judge said. “She’s mad. You’d be mad, too, if you had to ride a bicycle all the way from Gaviota Avenue.”

“I feel that the least you can do, Your Honor, is to question her in chambers and ascertain whether she will be able to render a fair and impartial verdict.”

“If that’s the least I can do, I’ll do it. I always do the least I can. Have you any further instructions for the bench, Mr. Owen?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Go and sit down.” He tapped the gavel lightly. “Court is recessed for five minutes. Jurors may retire to the jury room except for Mrs. Latham. Mrs. Latham, I will see you in chambers.”

Mrs. Latham was beginning to enjoy her first taste of the limelight. She was a very tiny woman, accustomed to being ignored in shops, pushed to the end of the line in grocery stores and seeing only the back of the person in front of her at parades. She followed the judge out of the room, trying to straighten her hair as she walked.

“Please sit down, Mrs. Latham.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you prejudiced against police officers, Mrs. Latham?”

“Not until this morning when I went out to get in my car and it wasn’t there.”

“Previous to that, you never had any grudge against officers of the law?”

“No, sir. I never have. I’m a true blue American, top to bottom.”

“Do you feel any resentment over being asked to serve on this jury?”

“Oh, no. I haven’t anything else to do.”

“Did you report your stolen car to the police?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you satisfied with their response?”

“They were polite, but they didn’t give me much hope.”

“It’s not police business to offer hope. You’ll have to go to a church for that.”

Mrs. Latham was allowed to continue as Juror No. 8.

The long delay in the start of the afternoon session prompted Judge Hazeltine to make an apology which turned out to be a still further delay. He derived a certain satisfaction from this. He wasn’t going any place, so he didn’t care how long it took to get there. And it was quite pleasing to see the district attorney grimly crossing his arms on his chest and Donnelly white-knuckling the sides of the lectern.

“Shakespeare wrote eloquently of the events and conditions which make life difficult to bear. Among these he listed:”

“What was true several hundred years ago is true today. The judicial process is long and slow. And as many judges in many courts have done before me, I proffer an apology... Mr. Donnelly, you may continue your cross-examination of Dr. Woodbridge.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Donnelly said, “for bringing Hamlet’s soliloquy to our attention.”

“Oh, was that Hamlet? I thought it was Lear. You see, at one time or another I memorized all the soliloquies of Shakespeare. It hardly mattered who said what. The memorization was a form of punishment back in the days when schools were schools and not diploma factories. If a student was caught chewing gum or talking out of turn, he was forced to stay after school and memorize a soliloquy. Yes, now that I think of it, I believe it was Hamlet. The slings and arrows speech, right?”

Mildred Noon leaned toward the judge and said with only the slightest movement of lips and larynx, “Do you want me to put all this in the record?”

“Why not? I’m saying it, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but you may not want to be reading it in the transcript.”

“On the contrary. This trial needs a touch of class. Why must everything be downgraded to the lowest common multiple?”

“I don’t know. But—”

“Slings and arrows, Mildred. Slings and arrows. Now back to work.”

So back to work it was, and everything was put on record. Mildred had a vague hope that the printed word might help obscure the fact that the judge had spent more of his lunch hour drinking than eating.

Donnelly said, “May I proceed now, Your Honor?”

“Certainly. I told you that before.”

The judge settled back in his chair, the district attorney unfolded his arms and Donnelly released his grip on the lectern and picked up one of the papers from the sheaf in front of him.

“Dr. Woodbridge, you have stated that Mrs. Pherson, in your opinion, died of manual strangulation. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Your use of the word ‘opinion’ suggests that given the same set of circumstances, another person might come to an entirely different conclusion. Is this possible?”

“It’s possible that different pathologists might reach somewhat different conclusions. But I believe they would all have to agree that strangulation was involved in Mrs. Pherson’s death to some extent.”

“ ‘To some extent.’ Is that what you said?”

“Yes.”

“Your use of the phrase seems to be a backing down from your original statement that Mrs. Pherson died of manual strangulation, does it not?”

“I modified my original statement by making it clear that it was my opinion.”

“Are you by any chance suggesting that pathology is not an exact science but an interpretive one, involving opinions instead of facts?”

“It is both, I believe.”

“Comparing pathology with mathematics, for instance, when mathematicians are confronted with the numbers two and two, there is unanimous agreement that they add up to four, is there not?”

“Yes.”

“No difference of opinion is involved, no ifs, ands or buts?”

“No.”

“Would you therefore call mathematics an exact science?”

“On such a simple level I would also call pathology an exact science. When a group of pathologists is confronted with a cadaver, there is unanimous agreement that it is a dead body.”

The audience purred with amusement. The sound reminded Donnelly of the tortoiseshell cat that lay across the foot of Zan’s bed, purring in its dreams, oblivious of everything but itself.

Irritation sharpened Donnelly’s voice. “You are the first pathologist to take the stand, Dr. Woodbridge. Do you think there will be others?”

“I’m sure there are others scheduled.”

“Do you think they’ll agree with your opinion about the cause of Mrs. Pherson’s death?”

“I object,” the district attorney said. “Witness is being asked to form a conclusion without any foundation.”

“Sustained.”

“I withdraw the question,” Donnelly said, satisfied. It had already been answered.

“On what do you base your opinion that manual strangulation was involved in Mrs. Pherson’s death ‘to some extent’?”

“First, there were the grooves left on her throat by thumbs.”

“In your opinion, left by thumbs. What else?”

“Broken bones in the larynx. This is not a matter of opinion or interpretation. A broken bone is a broken bone.”

“These bones which define the larynx, how would you describe them?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Are they large or small bones?”

“Small.”

“Are they strong, sturdy bones?”

“No.”

“Are they fragile?”

“Quite fragile, yes.”

“Are these bones often damaged in victims of strangulation?”

“Both their position and composition make them vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable to pressure?”

“Yes.”

“Pressure of any kind?”

“Yes. But in this case, as in others like it—”

“You have answered the question, Dr. Woodbridge.”

“Am I not allowed to qualify my answer?”

“Since you’ve qualified most of your other answers, you might as well qualify this one as well.”

“I move that remark be stricken from the record,” the district attorney said. “Once again counsel is trying to harass and intimidate the witness.”

“Strike it,” the judge said. “Kindly refrain from further lapses of this nature, Mr. Donnelly.”

“I’ll try, Your Honor.”

“In my court you get no brownie points for trying. Succeed.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Dr. Woodbridge, how many bodies of strangulation victims have you autopsied?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Can you give us an approximate figure?”

“I could give you a more specific figure if you will give me a more specific time period. Do you mean, since I have been employed in Santa Felicia County?”

“I’ll limit the question to that time.”

“Then my answer is, maybe a dozen.”

“And did these bodies have marks on the throat like those found on Mrs. Pherson?”

“Similar.”

“Marks on the throats of maybe a dozen victims of strangulation similar to those found on that of Mrs. Pherson, who, in your opinion, died of manual strangulation. Is that right?”

“Well, I—”

“Or fairly right? Or even a little bit right?”

The district attorney was on his feet again. “Once more this witness is being badgered.”

“You have been warned previously, Mr. Donnelly,” the judge said. “Continued disregard of the court’s warnings could result in contempt charges, a fact of which you must be aware.”

“Yes, Your Honor. But I don’t consider what I said to be badgering.”

“In this courtroom, Mr. Donnelly, it’s what I consider that’s important.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge frowned. He had an itch between his shoulder blades which was impossible to scratch, even if he hadn’t been on the bench, and an itch inside his head as well, caused by the change in Donnelly. In previous trials Donnelly had gotten away with murder — in every sense of the word — by remaining scrupulously polite, smoothing the edges of even his sharpest questions with “if you please,” “by your leave,” “begging your permission.” He was like an expert skater gliding across the ice so quickly it didn’t have time to break. That was changed now, not a great deal but enough to be apparent to someone who’d seen him in action previously. He was still skating, but there were cracks in the ice.

Donnelly continued his cross-examination. “Dr. Woodbridge, I would like at this point to examine another of your opinions — that is, that Mrs. Pherson’s bruises were inflicted before death. You stated your belief that the bruises were premortem, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Occurring before death?”

“Yes.”

“Is it possible for bruises to occur postmortem, after death?”

“When the heart has stopped pumping blood through the vascular system, the blood will obey the laws of gravity and settle in the most depressed areas of the body and the surrounding skin will appear bruised.”

“Then your answer is yes?”

“A qualified yes.”

“Is it possible for the bruises on Mrs. Pherson’s throat to have occurred after death?”

“I don’t see how it would—”

“I didn’t ask whether you saw how. I asked if it was possible.”

“It’s possible but not probable.”

The doctor’s tic had become more noticeable and almost as regular as the tick of a clock.

“Suppose we accept the idea that the bruises occurred before death,” Donnelly said. “How long before death?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could the bruises, in fact, have been on Mrs. Pherson’s throat before she even came on board the Bewitched?”

“It’s possible.”

“Can you think of anything to rule this out?”

“Well, for one thing, she was seen by a number of people, at the hotel, in her suite, in the bar, at the desk, as well as by the crew of the Bewitched And none of them, to my knowledge, has mentioned seeing such bruises.”

“Now, without bothering the clerk to bring back some of the pertinent exhibits, could you indicate on your own throat the relative position of the bruises on Mrs. Pherson’s throat?”

“How do you want me to do that?”

“With your thumb and forefinger.”

“They were approximately here.”

“Let the record show,” Donnelly said, “that Dr. Woodbridge is indicating two areas underneath the collar of his shirt.”

The doctor’s hand dropped back into his lap like a wounded bird.

“Do you have any bruises on your throat, Dr. Woodbridge?”

“No.”

“Would I be able to see them if you had?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They would be covered by my collar.”

“Do you know what Mrs. Pherson was wearing when she left the hotel?”

“No.”

“What was she wearing when you first saw her?”

“Nothing.”

It was a simple word, stating a fact already known to the audience, but it had a curiously shocking effect. There were sharp intakes of breath and uneasy stirrings, as if the woman had been stripped of her clothes before their eyes.

“Under what circumstances is an autopsy routinely performed?”

“When a person who has not previously been ill is found dead, or when there are obvious signs of violence, either self- or other-inflicted.”

“When a victim of violence is brought into your lab, what is the initial procedure?”

“Certain steps are taken which will help the police identify the victim.”

“Such as?”

“The body is measured and weighed, fingerprints are taken, and, of course, photographs.”

“Were these things done in the case of Mrs. Pherson?”

“Yes.”

“And what were the measurements of her body?”

“I’ll have to consult my notes.”

“Please do.”

The neat sheaf of papers Woodbridge had brought into the courtroom the previous day was now beginning to look as crumpled and untidy as the doctor himself. “Do you want me to read my original notes or the somewhat amplified and edited version of my secretary?”

“Whatever’s shorter.”

“ ‘The body is that of a female Caucasian, well cared for, age approximately forty, blue eyes, brown hair, five feet two inches in height, a hundred and nine pounds by weight.’ ”

“Then she was a small woman?”

“Smaller than average, yes.”

“Before you make any actual incisions in the body, are other tests done?”

“Blood samples are taken.”

“For what purpose?”

“To determine whether the person was suffering from acute or chronic disease.”

“Anything else?”

Woodbridge threw a glance at the district attorney which was neatly intercepted by Donnelly. He ran with it.

“Dr. Woodbridge, was one of the tests performed in order to establish the presence of alcohol in Mrs. Pherson’s bloodstream?”

“Yes.”

“What was the result?”

“Point-one-four percent.”

“What does this mean?”

“That she’d had a few drinks.”

“It’s been well established that the woman was drinking. What is important for the jurors to know is how much.”

“I can only give you the figure my tests indicated.”

“Very well. I have here, Dr. Woodbridge, a chart issued to clarify the actual meaning of a blood alcohol test. Will you please examine this chart, Doctor? It consists of only a single page.”

Donnelly took the page to the witness box and stood while the doctor read it. About four minutes passed. During this time there was no noise in the room, but the silence seemed to be filled with vibrations. It was the kind of silence peculiar to a courtroom, a pulse of expectation.

“Are you familiar with this chart, Dr. Woodbridge?”

“Not this particular one. I’ve seen others like it.”

“Can you explain its purpose to the jury?”

“The chart shows how many drinks a person of a certain size must consume over a certain period of time in order to reach a certain level of blood alcohol.”

“Then body size is a determining factor in the test results?”

“Yes.”

“Will you please study the chart and see if the figure point-one-four percent occurs?”

“It’s here.”

“What does this indicate in terms of body weight and drinks consumed and in what time period?”

“It shows how much alcohol will be found in the blood of a person weighing a hundred twenty pounds who has consumed six drinks within a period of two hours, each drink consisting of one ounce of eighty-six-proof alcohol, such as those served in a bar or restaurant, or a twelve-ounce bottle of beer.”

“At what alcohol level is a person legally drunk in the state of California?”

“Point-one-zero percent.”

“For those of us with short memories will you please repeat Mrs. Pherson’s weight?”

“A hundred nine pounds.”

“And her blood alcohol content?”

“Point-one-four percent.”

“The chart in front of you indicates some of the behavioral results of various blood alcohol percentages. Can you tell us how the chart describes the behavior of people with point-one-zero percent — that is, legally drunk?”

“Their inhibitions and judgment are seriously impaired.”

“What about point-one-five percent?”

“The behavior pattern is not given for that particular figure.”

“Then what is the next figure?”

“Point-two-zero percent.”

“And how does a person behave at this level?”

“Point-two-zero percent indicates a probable problem drinker who is not fit to drive for up to ten hours after the last drink.”

“And Mrs. Pherson was probably in between these two, factoring in her body weight of a hundred and nine, eleven pounds lighter than the hundred-twenty-pound example. Is that correct?”

“Very likely.”

“Would you say Mrs. Pherson was drunk?”

“This chart is based only on averages and there is—”

“And her inhibitions and judgment seriously impaired?”

“No doubt there was some degree of impairment.”

“And would you say that a person unaccustomed to drinking might have more severe behavioral reactions than someone who drinks regularly?”

“This is not my field of expertise.”

“I’ve spent most of the day trying to locate and pin down your field of expertise and getting equivocal answers like ‘maybe,’ ‘to some extent,’ ‘possibly,’ ‘in my opinion’—”

“I object,” the district attorney shouted. “Such an acrimonious and malicious statement is inexcusable.”

“Strike the defense counsel’s remarks,” the judge said. “Once again I am reminding you, Mr. Donnelly, that you are an attorney in this case, not the judge. You might mull over the following facts: In the county of Santa Felicia there are five Superior Court judges and seven hundred and seventy-five attorneys.”

“I didn’t know that, Your Honor.”

“Once in a while I get lucky and come across something you don’t know, Mr. Donnelly. Have you any more questions for this witness?”

“I would like to continue after a brief recess.”

“Recess of fifteen minutes is hereby declared.”

The judge and jury and most of the spectators left the room. Eva would have liked to stay behind and talk to Cully, but he was deep in conversation with Donnelly, so she, too, went out into the corridor.

Sitting on a bench directly under the QUIET, COURT IN SESSION sign was a middle-aged, grim-faced man wearing a black suit. He had on dark glasses, mirror-coated to reflect the images of other people and obscure his own. It was not the first time Eva had seen him sitting in the same spot, sometimes talking, sometimes with his head bowed as though he were praying or counting the tiles in the floor or simply listening to what everybody else was saying. He never went in or out of the courtroom.

As Eva was about to pass him, the man rose and approached her, holding his arms rigidly by his sides.

“Miss Foster?”

“Yes.”

“I have watched you in court, so I know who you are.”

“I haven’t seen you there.”

“Oh, no. I’m not allowed to go inside. But when the door opens, I look in to see what’s going on.”

“Why aren’t you allowed inside?”

“I was subjoined as a witness. They tell me it’s common practice to keep witnesses away from the courtroom before and even after testifying. But it’s very unfair. I want to be in there hearing what they’re saying about her. I want to be able to stand up and tell everybody what a good woman she was, a good, God-fearing woman.”

“You’re — are you her husband?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll get a chance to speak when your turn comes, Mr. Pherson.”

“That’s not soon enough. I hear people talking in the corridor, so I know what’s going on inside there, the vilification, the lies. She never drank, never touched a drop of liquor in her life. And God knows she’d never go into a bar by herself and pick up a man, a black man. Lies, lies, a crazy quilt of lies patched together by that murderer.”

“Please lower your voice, Mr. Pherson, or the bailiff will ask you to leave.”

He stared at her as if for a minute he’d forgotten she was there, a person, not a blank wall to bounce words against. “You’re his friend.”

“The bailiff and I have known each other for a long time, but that doesn’t—”

“No, the other one, the black man. I’ve seen you talking to each other before court begins, leaning towards each other, smiling, very friendly, very cozy. What do you whisper in his ear?”

“I never whispered anything in his ear.”

“I’ve seen you whisper in that black ear of his. Back home we have a mushroom called a tree mushroom, and it looks like a black ear, and it’s shiny, slimy.”

“Hanging around the corridor like this isn’t good for you, Mr. Pherson.”

“Well, I’ll give you something to whisper in his slimy black ear. Tell him — tell him that if he’s found innocent, he won’t be free, never, ever. I’m going to get him. If he tries to run away, I’ll track him down no matter how far and fast he runs.”

“I think you’d better go home and rest, Mr. Pherson.”

“My home is far away.”

“Where are you staying while you’re in town?”

“The Biltmore. I have a room on the beach. At night I lie awake and listen to the sea, where he threw her after he violated and strangled her.”

“None of that has been proved.”

“It has to me. He drugged her with liquor and took her down to that boat and ravished her, then stripped her of her jewels and threw her overboard. I’ll get him for that. I’ll get him if it takes the rest of my life. Tell him. Tell him for me.”

The sympathy she’d felt for him at first was beginning to dissipate. “Delivering death threats to a defendant is not part of my job, or anyone else’s around here.”

“I tried to tell him myself, but the deputy wouldn’t let me near him. I wrote him a letter at the jail, but I don’t think he got it.”

“The mail there is censored. A threat like that wouldn’t be allowed through.”

“Then it’s up to you.”

He put his hand out and touched her arm. Its coldness almost instantly penetrated the thin fabric of her sleeve, and she took a step back as if to evade the touch of death.

“I think you should go home to Bakersfield, Mr. Pherson, and wait there until the district attorney is ready to put you on the stand.”

“He’s ready now. I’m going to be next.”

“Then you’d better start calming down. Do you have any kind of tranquilizer to take?”

“My wife and I have never believed in chemical dependence.”

“A lot of your beliefs may be shot full of holes before this is over. If I were you, I’d use all the help I could get.”

He took off his glasses, and for the first time she saw his eyes, dark and bitter and rimmed with red.

“You’re talking to me as if I were a silly old fool. I’m not a silly old fool, Miss Foster. And I meant what I said. I’ll get that black bastard if it takes the rest of my life.”

He returned to the bench and his original posture, head bowed, hands folded. But she knew now he was neither praying nor counting floor tiles. He was planning. And he wasn’t a silly old fool; he was a dangerous man.

She went back into the courtroom. The bailiff was standing beside the window, talking to a young woman who’d been hired by the local television station to do sketches of the defendant and judge and jury since cameras were not allowed.

Cully was sitting at the counsel’s table, alone.

He appeared to be in a good mood. “How are things in the outside world?”

“The same.”

“That bad?” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Hey, that’s a joke. There’s no law against smiling once in a while.”

“What at?”

“At me.”

“I don’t smile unless I feel like it. Women used to be expected to smile all the time in order to feed a man’s ego, but no more.”

“Why not?”

“Women realized that we are just as important, even aside from procreation, as men. We are just as intelligent, just as skillful, and what we may lack in strength we make up for in endurance.”

He seemed stunned by her barrage of words. “Hey, wait a minute. I didn’t ask you to smile at me that way. I got a lot of women who’ll smile at me that way. What I meant — I only meant it wouldn’t hurt you to laugh a little when I make a joke.”

“All right. Ha-ha.”

The oak door of the courtroom opened with the languor and ponderous combination of weight and justice. A man peered inside, identifiable as a tourist by his Bermuda shorts, Panama hat and Japanese camera slung around his neck. He kept the door open long enough for Eva to catch a glimpse of Pherson pointing a long, skinny finger in her direction. Cully’s back was to the door, so he didn’t see Pherson and wouldn’t have recognized him if he had.

“Her husband is here,” Eva said.

Cully looked genuinely puzzled. “Whose husband?”

“Mrs. Pherson’s. He’s going to be testifying against you.”

“How can he testify against me? He doesn’t know me.”

“He knew his wife. He’ll say she never drank and she was the last woman in the world who’d go into a bar and pick up a man.”

“It’s what she did.”

“He’ll never believe it. At least he’ll never admit it. Isn’t that just like a man? If he admitted his wife would do something like that, he would consider it a reflection on him, and people might think he wasn’t giving her what she wanted.”

“Maybe he wasn’t giving her what she wanted.”

“So you did, I suppose?”

“I offered Mrs. Pherson a chance to try out as a cook for the race to Honolulu because she said she knew a lot about French cuisine and that’s what Mr. Belasco likes.”

“She probably never cooked a meal in her life. The Phersons had a housekeeper and a maid, according to the transcript of the preliminary hearing. That transcript is available to you. Haven’t you read it?”

“I tried. It was too full of lies, bad things I never did. I am not like that man in the transcript. I am me, I think I am a nice person. I wouldn’t do bad things like that.”

“Tell it to Mr. Pherson.”

“Did he — you know, talk much about me?”

“Enough.”

“What did he say?”

“He wants you punished.”

“How?”

“Any way at all so long as you end up dead.”

“So he wants me dead.” Cully’s voice showed no surprise or fear, only a kind of weary bitterness. “They all do. Look at them.”

By this time the spectators were coming back into the courtroom. The bailiff propped the door open and stood by as they returned to their seats, the artist with her sketchbook, the crime reporter from the local paper, tourists accidentally caught up in the excitement, an entire class of seventh graders with their teacher, retired white-collar workers and housewives seeking to kill an afternoon or a man.

Cully had twisted around in his chair to look at them. Now he turned back to face the table.

“They all want me dead,” he repeated.

“Not all of them. In every trial the court watchers are divided in opinion. Some of them are on your side.”

“How can you tell?”

“There’s a lot of body English used in a courtroom, nods, smiles, grimaces, frowns.”

“That lady in the front row, is she drawing a picture of me?”

“She’s been doing pictures of all the people connected with the case.”

“I saw her staring at me during recess.” He seemed to have forgotten Mr. Pherson and all the others who wanted him dead. He looked pleased and slightly embarrassed. “I wonder if she’d let me see it when she’s finished.”

“She might not even be drawing you.”

“I bet she is. That’s why she stayed during recess, to study my features because all she can see of me while the trial is going on is the back of my head. Do I look all right?”

“You look... fine.”

“Should I turn around and let her see me better?”

“No. No, I think she’s seen you.”

So have I, Eva thought.

She had seen a child-man, naive, self-centered, crude, who could forget that he was on trial for his life at the prospect of seeing a sketch of himself. She felt a rush of blood up the side of her neck into her head. Conflicting emotions expanded and contracted her veins and beat on her temples.

“Miss Foster, could you try and fix things so I get to see the picture? I mean, if it’s nice. I don’t want to see any ugly picture of me. If she thinks I’m guilty, she might draw me ugly. I’m not ugly, am I?”

“No.”

“She might even draw me good-looking. Do you suppose she might draw me good-looking?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’d sure like to see that picture. Could you fix it for me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to.”

He blinked, as if someone had shone a sudden light in his eyes. “You sound funny, like you have something against me.”

“The only person I have anything against is myself.”

“Then why won’t you do a simple thing like asking the lady if I can see the picture? I might want to get copies made to send back home to my wife and kids.”

“You said — you told me you weren’t married.”

“I call her my wife; she calls me her husband; the kids call me Papa. It’s easier that way and no harm done.”

“No harm done, is that what you think?” All her blood seemed to have accumulated in her head, leaving her lower limbs numb and her hands cold and clammy. She leaned toward him and said in a hoarse whisper, “Take your goddamn picture and shove it.”

He looked bewildered, and she felt somehow that she had injured a defenseless creature who didn’t understand what he had done wrong.

“Listen,” she said. “It’s just that I can’t do anything like what you asked me to. It’s not allowed.”

“No, that’s not the reason. It’s because you hate me. Why?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You sound like it.”

“Look, you and I aren’t even supposed to be talking to each other, let alone about things like love and hate.”

“I never said anything about love.”

“I meant emotions, feelings in general. I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Cully said.

Donnelly and Gunther had come in, and Gunther stopped in front of Eva’s table and slung his briefcase on the polished surface.

“Foster, you look guilty. What have you been doing, plotting to overthrow the government? Yes? No?”

“None of your business.”

“I’d like to be in on it. I’m bored. My soul cries out for a little excitement.”

“Tell it to shut up.”

“Mr. Gunther,” Donnelly said, “kindly remember that Miss Foster is inclined to interpret such personal remarks as sexual harassment.”

“Have I been harassing you sexually, Foster?” Gunther said.

“No.”

“Has anyone?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t really mind if they did, would you, Foster?”

She looked up at the two men. They both were smiling.

So was Cully.

Before the warning buzzer sounded the end of the recess, District Attorney Owen talked to his witness at the bottom of the spiral staircase leading to the clock tower.

Owen was reluctant to criticize the older man, but for the sake of his case he felt he had to.

“You weren’t very sure of yourself up there,” Owen said. “In fact, you let Donnelly push you around.”

“I did the best I could.”

“All that stuff about cold-water drowning, you never mentioned any of it to me.”

“It’s a relatively new field.”

“I think you should have told me. It would have given me a chance to be better prepared. In a case like this surprises can be disastrous...”

“It seemed unlikely that Donnelly knew about or would try to use this cold-water rescue stuff.”

“What are the chances that Mrs. Pherson died the way he suggested, after she was in the water?”

“My guess is one in a million.”

“Then it didn’t happen?”

“No.”

“Why are you so positive now when you were so hesitant on the stand?”

“I’m not under oath. And I’m not facing Donnelly.” A gust of cold air circled down the spiral staircase, and Woodbridge shivered. “It’s his righteousness that scares me. He comes riding in on a white horse to rescue an underdog, some Mexican or black or prostitute, and he doesn’t care how much shit the horse scatters or whose fan it hits.”

The fifteen-minute recess which stretched to half an hour had apparently agreed with Donnelly. He took his place at the lectern, this time without notes except for a single sheet of yellow paper from a legal pad. He watched almost benevolently as Woodbridge returned to the stand.

“Dr. Woodbridge, I would like to call your attention to people’s exhibits numbers seventeen and nineteen. Miss Foster, are those available?”

“Right here, sir.”

Number 17 was a picture of the right profile of Madeline Pherson, showing only her head. Number 19 showed the left profile.

“Did you have occasion to examine Mrs. Pherson’s ears, Dr. Woodbridge?”

“Yes.”

“Was there anything peculiar about Mrs. Pherson’s ears?”

“Not peculiar, no. I saw that they’d both been pierced for earrings.”

“Is there any tearing of the flesh such as might be caused by someone yanking earrings off during or after the commission of a crime such as robbery or murder? It’s a not uncommon injury among victims of violence. To repeat the question, was there any evidence that Mrs. Pherson’s earrings had been forcibly removed?”

“No.”

“What do you deduce from this?”

“That she took them off herself.”

Over the district attorney’s objection, Woodbridge’s answer was allowed to stand.

“To pursue an entirely different line of question, Dr. Woodbridge, can you tell us the state of your health?”

“My health?”

“Yes. Do you have good health, fair, bad?”

“Fair.”

“Are you suffering from any chronic condition which might interfere with the performance of your job?”

“I believe my job performance is satisfactory.”

“I will repeat the question and ask you to give a more responsive answer. Do you suffer from any chronic physical ailment which might impair your ability to perform your job?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You are not sure?”

“The only way I can answer that without going into detail is to say that I am qualified to do my work properly.” Donnelly approached the witness stand. “Will you take this piece of paper and hold it out two or three feet in front of you?”

“I object, Your Honor,” Owen said. “I see no purpose in this line of questioning, no relevance to this case.”

“The purpose and relevance will emerge in a moment, Your Honor,” Donnelly said. “If you will direct the witness to do as I requested—”

Before Donnelly could finish the sentence and the judge could rule on the DA’s objection, Woodbridge stretched out his hand, took the piece of paper and held it at arm’s length. Then he turned his head away as if he didn’t want to see what was happening to the paper. It was shaking, slightly at first, then increasing to the point where the paper crackled.

“Are you nervous, Dr. Woodbridge?” Donnelly said.

“No.”

“Your hand is trembling. Is there any reason for this?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us what that reason is?”

Owen folded his arms across his chest in a gesture of self-defense, afraid something was going to happen but not knowing what it could be.

The judge knew. “Mr. Donnelly, is it necessary to pursue this line of questioning?”

“I believe that Dr. Woodbridge’s answer will have some bearing on his previous testimony. I need not remind Your Honor that the phrase ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ is of great importance in a criminal trial.”

“That’s right, Mr. Donnelly. You needn’t remind me.”

“Then may I repeat the question to Dr. Woodbridge?”

“Go ahead.”

“Dr. Woodbridge, you stated a minute ago that you were not nervous,” Donnelly said. “You have participated in many criminal prosecutions and have established a reputation for coolness and composure. Why are your hands trembling now?”

The doctor’s answer was slow and almost inaudible. “I have Parkinsonism.”

“Will you speak a little more loudly so the jurors are sure to hear you?”

“I have Parkinson’s disease.”

“Would you explain what that is?”

“It is a degenerative disease affecting motor function — that is, body movements.”

“Are these movements involuntary?”

“Yes.”

“The medical term for this is resting tremor, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have akinesia or bradykinesia — that is, slowness of movement?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you also have an increase of rigidity?”

“Yes.”

“Speech difficulty?”

“Sometimes.”

“What causes all this?”

“They don’t know why people get Parkinsonism.”

“What I meant was: What causes the symptoms?”

“A lesion in that part of the brain that controls body movement.”

“Can this lesion of the brain cause confusion?”

“It may cause what is mistaken for confusion because it sometimes affects the ability to control speech.”

“Does this lesion of the brain impair the ability to think, to make judgments, to assess facts?”

“No.”

“Are you being medicated for your disease?”

“Yes.”

“Does the medication impair you in any way? Does it cause confusion or uncertainty?”

“No. No. I am not confused. I can think—” He crushed the sheet of paper and threw it on the floor. “I can think per — I can think perfect — perfectly. My mind... very clear.”

The district attorney’s objection and the judge’s gavel sounded simultaneously.

“Court is adjourned until tomorrow at ten o’clock,” the judge said. “The jury is admonished not to discuss this case with each other or anyone else and not to read or watch any news coverage pertaining to this trial.”

Woodbridge stepped down from the stand, wiping his face with a handkerchief. He confronted Donnelly at the lectern.

“You son of a bitch.”

“Sorry,” Donnelly said. “But I didn’t cause your illness, I merely brought it to the attention of the jury in the defense of my client.”

“How far will you go to defend a client?”

“Any distance the law allows.”

“Well, before you ride that white horse of yours too far,” Woodbridge said, “make sure it’s a Thoroughbred.”

He walked away, and Donnelly watched him. He didn’t know exactly what Woodbridge meant by the white horse, but he didn’t care. He had made his point.

In the minds of some of the jurors, perhaps all of them, there would be a reasonable doubt. “Beyond a reasonable doubt” and “to a moral certainty” were the most important words in the instructions the judge would give the jury before it began deliberations.

The moral certainty part would be more difficult. What it basically amounted to was a gut feeling whether a defendant was innocent or guilty.

Gut feelings were hard to reach and alter. They were composed of bits of the past and pieces of the present, sights and sounds and smells processed into a mass in the middle of the gut. This mass could be benign or malignant; it could not be digested.

He saw Woodbridge walk from the courtroom, very slowly, as if his illness, once out of the closet, had gained weight and gravity. Donnelly felt a certain pity that he’d had to kill a part of Woodbridge in the interests of justice. Cully’s life or death wasn’t the real issue. Donnelly himself had died a hundred times so far that year and would die a hundred more.

Life and death didn’t matter. It was the judicial system itself that mattered, the system of justice for all. If that’s the white horse he was riding, it was a Thoroughbred.

As always at the end of a day the courtroom emptied quickly. Within five minutes the only people left were Cully and the bailiff and Eva and the woman artist who was still sitting in the front row putting the finishing touches on a sketch. The woman looked up as Eva approached. “Am I overparked?”

“No. I just wanted to ask you if Mr. King could see the sketch you’ve done of him. Would you mind?”

“Not at all. Here it is.”

“You show it to him.”

“Don’t you even want to see it?”

“No,” Eva said. “I don’t want to see it.”