Spider Webs

VI The Defendant

Harry had watched the six o’clock news in the tiny lobby of the motel. An hour later he turned it off and said to the young black behind the counter, “Don’t nothing good ever happen in this world?”

The young man dragged his eyes away from the racing form he was studying. “You don’t like what’s happening in the world, you jump off.”

“Where?”

“The edge.”

“The world ain’t got an edge.”

“Then it looks like you’re stuck here like the rest of us.”

The thought of this made Harry hungry. He walked two blocks up the main street to a take-out stand and bought a bucket of fried chicken. Then, at a discount bakery outlet where day-old goods were sold at half price, he picked up a bag of sourdough rolls and a box of doughnuts.

When he returned to the motel room, Richie was still sleeping on the bed. The long-sleeved sweater he’d worn during his morning testimony had been flung across the back of a chair, and he had on the muscle shirt that was his uniform ever since arriving in California. He looked very young and innocent in his sleep, and Harry thought this was one of the good things that happened in this world, his boy, Richie.

Harry shook him gently by the shoulders. “Richie, wake up. Come and get some supper.”

Richie’s eyes opened, but there was no other movement.

“Hey, son, come on and eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I never heard you say you weren’t hungry before. Look, fried chicken, doughnuts, sourdoughs, good stuff.”

“I don’t want any,” Richie said. “I had a couple of beers this afternoon.”

“Wait a minute. You’re not old enough to drink beer.”

“I look old enough.”

“The hell you do. You look like a fifteen-year-old kid. In this state you don’t do no legal drinking till you’re twenty-one. That’s six more years. You show me the guy that sold you the stuff and I’ll have him arrested.”

Richie merely stared up at the ceiling with the sullen expression on his face that seemed as much a part of the teenage uniform as the muscle shirt and shrunken jeans.

Harry knew there was no use talking to him, so he sat down and ate three pieces of chicken and a roll, and then he ate three more pieces of chicken and another roll and four doughnuts.

Finally Richie said, “You going to eat it all?”

“Why not? There’s no one around to share it with.”

“I wouldn’t mind tasting a piece.”

“Help yourself.”

Richie ate standing at the window, watching the boulevard traffic and the marina lights softened by mist. He felt sick, not from the beer — he’d bought only one can and hadn’t finished that — but from fear and indecision. Every now and then a cramp would seize his stomach like an iron hand.

“How come you don’t talk to me no more?” Harry said.

“I talk. I’m talking now.”

“Not like in the old days. You used to wait dockside for me to come in after a job. You’d start jabbering away, telling me everything in your head.”

“I was just a kid then.”

“You’re still a kid or you’d have more sense than to wear those pants tight enough to strangle your balls. They’re going to shrivel up like a couple of walnuts. You always had good balls. You got that from me.”

“Everybody wears shrink-to-fits.”

“Everybody around here.” Harry emphasized the word as if it referred to a place where people lay around in the sun and committed immoral acts and never held a job. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

“You didn’t bring me. Cully did.”

“It was my idea. I thought you needed the experience. Little did I know what kind of experience you’d get. But I should have suspected. A friend of mine told me about it, how the crazies all went west and when they couldn’t go any farther, they had to stop and that was California.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“What did you say?”

“I was agreeing with you.”

“No, you weren’t. You were smart talking. No son should smart talk his father.”

The iron hand squeezed Richie’s stomach again. “Leave me alone.”

“What’s the matter with you these days? You act like you’re losing your best friend.”

Richie went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Harry ate the rest of the chicken, the rolls and all the doughnuts except two, which he put away for breakfast. He heard the toilet flush and water running in the basin for a long time. When Richie came back, his eyes were red as if they’d been stung by soap.

“I’m going for a walk,” he said.

“Wait a minute and I’ll go with you.”

“No.”

“I got a better idea. Why don’t we stay home and watch TV? There’s a good movie on, real funny, I seen it before. It’s a million laughs.”

“I don’t feel like laughing.”

Harry made one more attempt. “You’re barefoot. How come you forgot your shoes?”

“I don’t need any.”

“What if you step on a piece of glass and get blood poisoning?”

“So I croak, so what?”

“That ain’t a sensible attitude.”

“Lay off me, will you?”

“Okay, go your own way. But be back by ten.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so.”

“That don’t make it a federal law.”

“No. It’s just an old family custom: The father gives the orders, and the kids obey them.”

“Why are you always harping on this family stuff?”

“Some sons,” Harry said grimly, “have to be reminded.”

“I’m reminded.”

“Ten o’clock.”

“Okay, okay.”

He walked to the door, his movements slow and hesitant, almost as if he wanted to be stopped. But Harry said nothing more to stop him, and the boy went out. He didn’t know if he’d be back by ten or twelve or ever.

Donnelly woke up to the sound of chimes. He often received telephone calls at odd hours of the night so he’d had the chimes installed to replace the shrill bell. The difference in sound made little difference in his reaction. He still woke with a sudden surge of adrenaline and a stopping of the heart.

It was Gunther.

“Charlie, you want to guess where I am?”

“No.”

“I’ll tell you anyway. I’m at the county jail.”

“I suppose you’ll also tell me how you got there.”

“If you insist. I was out with this chick, and we weren’t having such a great time. What with one thing and another. So to liven things up, I turned on the police calls and I heard this dispatcher talking about a BIP at the harbor on a boat named the Bewitched. BIP, that’s what the cops around here call burglary in progress. See, the people who listen in on police calls figured out long ago what the various code numbers mean, so the local cops switched to letters.”

“How clever.”

“So I sent the chick home in a cab — you’ll find the bill on my expense account — and drove down to the Bewitched. And guess what.”

“Guessing games at two-thirty A.M. are not nice, Billy boy.”

“All right, I’ll tell you. The burglar, as in BIP, was the kid Richie Arnold. He got past the guard by swimming out to the Bewitched and climbing up the port side. Funny thing, I thought they were crazy to keep a guard on that boat all this time but apparently not. The guard heard a noise, went to investigate and came up with our boy Richie.”

“What was he doing?”

“By the time I got there he was sitting in the back of a patrol car, wrapped in a blanket. The cops weren’t saying a word, so I followed them out here.”

“Has he been booked?”

“No. There’s some shenanigans over him being a juvenile as well as a material witness. But the kid’s asked for a lawyer. Kids these days watch so much TV that even a first grader picked up for playing hooky will demand a lawyer.”

“Did they get him one?”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Gunther said. “He asked for you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re Cully King’s lawyer.”

“Didn’t anyone explain to him that I can’t work both sides of the street?”

“Nobody’s explaining anything to anybody. But I can tell you there’s a lot of excitement in the air, good or bad I don’t know, and I don’t think they do either.”

“What was the boy doing on the Bewitched?”

“Stealing.”

“Stealing what?”

“Nobody seems to know that either. As far as I could see, it was something wrapped in a dirty piece of canvas, a sail bag maybe. Whatever is in that bag must be plenty important because they’ve called the DA and even the judge. I think you’d better get down here, too.”

“All right.”

“You want me to wait or can I go home?”

“Stick around.”

“I need some sleep.”

“Some scientists believe that people can be trained to do without sleep entirely. Look on this as a golden opportunity to start practicing.”

When Donnelly arrived at the jail, he didn’t waste time asking questions that wouldn’t be answered. He simply requested a meeting with his client, giving no explanation or apology for the timing.

Even at three o’clock in the morning the jail grapevine was in full operation. When Cully was escorted into the consulting room, his eyes were wide and wary.

He said, “What’s happening?”

“I thought you might tell me.”

“I heard some kid had been picked up for stealing from a boat down at the harbor. No names were mentioned, but I kind of guessed the boat was the Bewitched and maybe the kid was Richie Arnold. What did he steal?”

“What did you hear?”

“That it was just an old canvas bag.”

“Containing?”

“Someone said it hadn’t been opened yet. They’re waiting for the DA and the judge.”

“Do you know what was in that bag, Cully?”

“I heard it was a sail bag. So it probably contained sails.”

“Does it seem reasonable to you that a kid with as much sense as Richie would swim out to the Bewitched and take a chance on being arrested in order to steal a sail bag?”

“That doesn’t seem reasonable, no.”

“What does?”

Cully turned away with an exaggerated shrug that gave Donnelly as much of an answer as any words.

“You’ve known Richie for a long time,” Donnelly said, “and I’ve known him for only a short time, but we’re both aware he’d need a powerful motive to pull a dumb stunt like that. Do you have any idea what that motive could be?”

“How c-could I?”

The slight stammer in his voice confirmed Donnelly’s suspicion that Cully was scared and unpredictable. It would be necessary to prevent the district attorney from questioning him in private about anything, even the weather. Donnelly had long since discovered that the smartest crook in the world could trip over the most basic fact: One word led to another.

“What’s next?” Cully said.

“Next, Mr. Owen or one of his henchmen will try to pump you for information whether you have it or not. If you answer some questions and not others, the balk will be fed into a computer. If you don’t answer any questions at all, they won’t have anything to feed the computer. Whether he asks, ‘How are you?’ or, ‘Did you kill Madeline Pherson?’ your reply will be the same: ‘I respectfully refuse to answer on advice of counsel.’ Understand?”

“Yes.”

“So how are you? Do you like living in Santa Felicia?”

“I respectfully refuse to answer on advice of counsel.”

“Any complaints about the way you’ve been treated in jail?”

“I respectfully refuse to answer on advice of counsel.”

“Did you know that Richie Arnold has told the police everything? Why don’t you come clean and make it easier on yourself?”

“I respectfully refuse to answer on advice of counsel.”

The regular night guard came to the cell door, accompanied by a young deputy who looked new and nervous. His voice even cracked a little like an adolescent boy’s:

“Mr. O’Donnell?”

“Donnelly.”

“Sorry, sir. Mr. O’Donnelly, His Honor Judge Hazeltine has been notified of your presence in this holding facility and has indicated a desire to see you in the hearing room at your earliest convenience.”

The guard laughed and said, “That’s police academy talk meaning ‘Move it.’ Cute, isn’t it?”

The hearing room was a small area of the jail set aside for special psychiatric or juvenile hearings that weren’t suitable for open court. The air-conditioning had been shut off for the night in the interests of economy, and the place smelled of people under stress and of something more identifiable: mildew. It was coming from a canvas bag placed on the table that occupied center stage. Beside the bag was a green leather case stained with oil and brine and a gray-green mold. Only the double steel lock was unmarked by the passage of time and tides.

There were a dozen or so straight-backed wooden chairs occupied by District Attorney Owen and his chief investigator, Leo Bernstein, Judge Hazeltine and Gunther. With the arrival of Donnelly the judge rose and took his place behind the desk. In spite of the hour, he was bright-eyed and lively as if the unusual turn of events had piqued his interest. His voice was sharp.

“This unorthodox meeting has been called in order to be fair to both prosecution and defense. The green leather case on the desk in front of me has been given a great deal of attention during the course of the trial. Therefore, it seemed important to me to preserve it as found instead of trying to break the lock or otherwise forcibly open it. No skilled locksmith is available at this hour, so I am suggesting that we postpone the opening of the case until court convenes tomorrow morning. Is this agreeable to both counsel?”

Donnelly shook his head. “Under the discovery rule I have a right to see all evidence against my client before it is produced in court.”

“The discovery rule does not apply since the case has not been offered in evidence by the prosecution. Indeed, nobody knows at this time whether the contents will favor prosecution or defense. Have you any questions?”

“Yes, sir,” Donnelly said. “Where was the case found?”

“On the person of Richie Arnold.”

“Where did he find it?”

“Obviously somewhere on the boat.”

“Impossible,” Owen said. “My men searched every inch of that boat from stem to stern.”

“Apparently they missed a few inches between,” the judge said. “Now, what’s happened tonight, or rather this morning, leaves us in something of a dilemma. I was immediately informed of the development because of its legal implications. Here we have a juvenile caught stealing an object from a boat. Since juveniles are not allowed out on bail, they are either held in juvenile hall or released to their families, depending on the seriousness of the crime. Under ordinary circumstances Richie would be with his father right now. But the circumstances are not ordinary. First, he is a witness in a murder trial, and second, the motive for that murder might be sitting on the desk in front of me. So we’re not faced with a kid caught stealing hubcaps but a prosecution witness stealing material evidence and thus obstructing justice.”

“That would depend,” Donnelly said, “on whether or not he knew what he was stealing.”

“He must have known or he wouldn’t have stolen it.”

“How could he? He was not in the courtroom to hear the testimony of previous witnesses or subsequent witnesses. His father, who preceded him on the stand, was admonished like all other witnesses not to discuss the case or his testimony with anyone else.”

“It was in the newspapers and on television and radio.”

“Has he stated that he was aware of the contents of this case?”

“No,” the judge said. “In fact, he hasn’t stated anything except that he wants a lawyer and a hamburger. The hamburger part’s easy; the lawyer part isn’t. He wants you, Mr. Donnelly. I don’t know exactly what this means. Perhaps you have a theory?”

“No. However, it occurs to me that as a stranger in town he simply doesn’t know the name of any other lawyer.”

It was glib and plausible. The judge didn’t buy it, but he had nothing to offer in its place. His knowledge of Richie was too sketchy to enable him to estimate the degree of the boy’s sophistication. How many times had he been around the block and what had he picked up along the way?

He addressed the district attorney. “Has Richie Arnold ever been arrested for stealing?”

“I’m unaware of any kind of juvenile record on him.”

“Are you unaware because he didn’t have one or because you didn’t seek that information?”

“It hardly seemed necessary. He’s merely a secondary witness.”

“It seems necessary to me. Has the kid ever been caught stealing, and if so, what? Hubcaps or jewelry? Videotapes or Cadillacs?”

“I guess we’ll just have to ask him,” Owen said. “Where is he?”

“In an individual holding cell, presumably eating a hamburger.”

“Perhaps he could be brought to this room and questioned right here and now. He might be more willing to answer in this more informal atmosphere. I have three sons of my own, and I know how important it is to have the right atmosphere, the right tone.”

Nobody in the room was impressed. The Owen boys were becoming well known in courtroom circles.

“Richie Arnold has clearly indicated his unwillingness to provide any answers,” the judge said. “Questioning him here, informal atmosphere and tone notwithstanding, would be an infringement on his rights. I suggest we all go home and finish this night in a more conventional manner. We’ll meet in court in the morning. Is this agreeable to you, gentlemen? Mr. Owen? Mr. Donnelly? Mr. Gunther, you spoke?”

Gunther sat up straight in his chair, and one of the loose wooden rungs squeaked, making an oddly human sound of protest.

“Mr. Gunther, do you wish to make a statement against my proposal?”

“Oh, no, sir. I find it very agreeable, very, very agreeable.”

“That’s a few too many ‘verys.’ Three, to be precise. A person may agree or disagree. Variations cannot properly be expressed by a modifying adverb like ‘very.’ ”

“Sorry, sir.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, gentlemen.”

Donnelly waited for Judge Hazeltine in the parking lot. The judge came toward his car, whistling. It was an odd sound at that time and place, like a bird singing at night.

“May I have a word with you, Your Honor?”

“Go ahead.”

“If a public defender has to be appointed for Richie, it might mean considerable delay until one of the PD men is available. They work on a pretty tight schedule. I am offering to pay for an attorney for Richie — anonymously, of course — solely for the purpose of expediting matters and getting this whole thing over with.”

“Is that another of your do-gooder deeds, Mr. Donnelly?”

“The good is for me, nobody else. I want to leave town as soon as possible.”

The judge’s eyebrows made an inquiry, but he didn’t say anything.

“It’s not a sudden decision. I’m planning to live on my ranch in Wyoming.” In response to another wiggle of the judge’s eyebrows, he added, “I expect my retirement to be permanent. If an appeal is necessary in this case, it can be handled by the appeal firm of Esterhaus and Lowry.”

“Is your wife going with you?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She’s not and I’m not. There’s no one else to consider.”

The judge leaned his back against the hood of his car, his arms crossed. “You know, Donnelly, I’ve been hearing rumors about you for years. I never took them seriously.”

“Maybe you should have,” Donnelly said. “Good night. Why not?”

“Because I figured you as the kind of person who had enough guts to come out of the closet years ago.”

“You were wrong,” Donnelly said.

In spite of an almost sleepless night, Judge Hazeltine was in good spirits and opened the day’s session exactly on time, ten o’clock.

He addressed the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have an extraordinary situation on our hands which must be dealt with in an extraordinary manner. Mrs. Pherson’s green case has been found but remains locked. Since neither prosecution nor defense is willing to accept it as evidence until its contents are revealed, I am therefore taking it upon myself to have it unlocked in the presence of everyone in the courtroom.

“Mr. Lorenzen, the locksmith I’ve called in, has nothing to do with the trial and is not a witness, will not be sworn. As a nonwitness Mr. Lorenzen is not obliged to answer any questions. His job is to open the case as quickly as possible and go back to his own work. Bailiff, will you bring Mr. Lorenzen in, please?”

The bailiff escorted into the well a small, alert man in his forties carrying a worn black satchel. He nodded at the judge, whom he knew from the judge’s habit of locking himself out of his car.

“Your job,” the judge told Lorenzen, “is to unlock the green case on the small table between the bench and the jury box. Give the case a perfunctory examination, and make comments if you like, but don’t ask questions.”

“It appears to be a jewel case, or a makeup case, with a covering of fine old leather. It has obviously been exposed to some dirty water containing oil among other things. In contrast with the leather covering the lock is new. It’s made of stainless steel and is considerably sturdier than the small locks usually found on jewel cases, pieces of luggage and the like. Even a novice burglar could open this in a couple of minutes.”

“And a nonnovice locksmith?”

“Seven seconds ought to do it. It’s one of those locks that are installed to reassure the owner more than for real protection.”

From his satchel he took a long, thin instrument, which he inserted in the lock.

“Five seconds,” Lorenzen said. “Shall I open the lid?”

“No, I prefer to do it myself. You’re free to go. Thank you for coming, Mr. Lorenzen.”

The judge waited for Lorenzen to leave the courtroom before he lifted the lid of the case. Then he stepped back to give Owen and Donnelly their chance to see the contents.

Owen looked and turned pale. “Why, it’s just dirt,” he said. “Just plain dirt.”

“It’s not dirt,” Donnelly said. “It’s ashes.”

“What do you mean, ashes? Like from a fireplace? My God, you can’t mean it’s a person?”

“I think so. I could be more positive if the bench and the prosecution doesn’t object to my feeling the ashes with my hand.”

No one objected so Donnelly put his hand in the ashes, using his fingers as a kind of sieve. He found a small shard of bone and a tooth, a molar badly discolored but still identifiable. He gave both these items to the judge, who in turn passed them down to Owen.

Donnelly said, “This is or was a human being.”

The Judge returned to the bench, tapped his gavel and declared a ten-minute recess while the counselors met in his chambers.

In chambers the judge sat in the swivel chair behind his desk. He looked at the one-eyed owl on top of the bookcase. Then he turned his gaze on Owen.

“Your case has just been blown out of the water, Mr. Owen.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Do you believe that a man would murder a woman for a box of ashes?”

“He didn’t know they were ashes. He thought they were jewels.”

“What would lead him to that conclusion?”

“She told him.”

“That’s not in character for a woman like Mrs. Pherson.”

“Mrs. Pherson was doing a lot of things that weren’t in character.”

It was the judge’s decision to recall to the witness stand Dr. Woodbridge to establish whether the ashes belonged to a person. Woodbridge was not available until afternoon. Another delay. The rest of the morning was declared a recess. Donnelly spoke for the first time. “I intend to ask Your Honor for dismissal of all charges against my client.”

“Don’t waste your breath. I shall deny it.”

Dr. Woodbridge was the first witness of the afternoon. He sifted through the ashes, using his fingers as a kind of sieve. He testified that the ashes were those of a small, thin person. In addition to the molar and shard of bone found by Donnelly, he discovered another shard of bone and a lady’s wristwatch and gold wedding ring, initialed on the inside, R. M., B. K. It was obvious that neither watch nor wedding ring had been through the cremation process but had been added after the process was finished.

Tylor Pherson was recalled to the stand. Asked to identify the ring and wristwatch, he testified that they both belonged to his wife’s mother, Ruth Maddox, who had died at the beginning of spring.

“Where were Mrs. Maddox’s ashes usually kept?”

“In a large Chinese vase in my wife’s sitting room. I wanted proper interment in the cemetery, but Madeline wouldn’t hear of it. I didn’t realize until now how deeply her mother’s death had affected Madeline. She always put on a good front for the world. She said she hated to spread sorrow.”

“Where did Mrs. Pherson usually keep the green leather case?”

“In a floor safe in her main clothes closet.”

“Since her death have you had occasion to open that safe?”

“No.”

“Would you say it’s a fair guess that the jewels are in the safe right now?”

“It seems like a fair guess, yes.”

“Do you know the combination of your wife’s safe?”

“No. Madeline and I had a good deal of respect for each other’s privacy and belongings.”

“Who does know the combination?”

“Her attorney.”

“Where does he practice his profession?”

“Bakersfield.”

“Would he be in his office right now?”

“I believe so. He’s not a trial lawyer, so most of the time he spends in his office.”

“If you were to phone him during afternoon recess, do you think he’d be willing to go over to your house and open Mrs. Pherson’s safe to ascertain the presence or absence of the jewels?”

“Yes.”

“Would you do that, Mr. Pherson.”

“All right.”

Richie Arnold was the last recall witness of the day. He appeared with his father during the recess. The two sat side by side in the front row. Instead of the court clothes his father had bought him for his first appearance, Richie wore his beach outfit, tight jeans and a muscle shirt. He and Harry had been arguing about it ever since the district attorney had called in the morning.

“You look like a bum,” Harry said.

“I’m not a bum.”

“Well, you look like one. How are people to know the difference, whether you look like one or are one?”

“Jeez.”

“And I don’t want to hear no blasphemy neither.”

A buzzer sounded the end of recess, and the courtroom began to fill up, with first spectators, then jurors, and finally the judge himself.

The judge’s eyes surveyed the courtroom over the top of his glasses and came to rest on the two Arnolds in the front row. “Mr. Arnold, I must ask you to wait in the corridor.”

“Why? This is my son, he’s a minor. I got a right—”

“The only rights people have in this courtroom are these. I give them.”

“That don’t sound like democracy to me.”

“It isn’t, and it’s not going to be. Every witness is required to stay outside the courtroom both before and after testifying.”

“But Richie was remanded to my custody. I’m supposed to stick right beside him night and day so he don’t do anything stupid.”

“Bailiff, will you please escort Mr. Arnold out into the corridor?... Richie, we’re ready for you now.”

Richie stood up and opened the gate to the well. A black comb was sticking out of the left rear pocket of his jeans. He ran it through his hair before taking his place in the witness box. With the departure of his father he seemed more at ease.

The judge said, “Both counsel for the prosecution and for the defense have agreed to let you tell your story in your own words, and after it is completed, Mr. Owen will be given a chance to ask questions, and then Mr. Donnelly. It may be unorthodox, but I believe it will save time and truth.”

“Where do you want me to begin?”

“From the time you first saw Mrs. Pherson.”

“She was coming up the gangplank with Cully. And Harry said, ‘Goddle mighty, he’s got a floozy with him.’ I could see she wasn’t a floozy, but I didn’t argue with him. All women are floozies to Harry. He’s had kind of hard luck with women, not like Cully who just had to snap his fingers and—”

“Stick to your story, young man.”

“Yes, sir. Cully introduced the lady to me and Harry as the new cook. I guess it was some kind of joke because she never went near the galley. The two of them went to Cully’s quarters. I didn’t see her again until the next day. Cully and Harry were in the engine room and I was taking the cover off the mains’l when the lady suddenly came up behind me and asked would I do her a favor for a hundred dollars. Well, I never had a hundred dollars in my life — Harry always takes my pay and puts it in the bank in St. Thomas — so I said, ‘Sure, what’s the favor?’

“The favor sounded okay, nothing illegal or anything like that. I was just to hide something for her on the boat where no one else would find it. She handed the green leather case to me, the one on the table over there and gave me five twenty-dollar bills. I asked her whether it mattered if it got sort of wet, and she said no. Right away I thought of the bilge because nobody goes down there unless they have to. So I wrapped the green case in an old sail bag and hid it underneath the iron pigs in the bilge.”

“Would you explain to the court what iron pigs are?”

“Pigs are pieces of iron used as ballast when and where ballast will make the boat run smoother. Mr. Belasco keeps a whole pile of them in the bilge. I hid the sail bag with the case in it underneath the pigs. I expected Mrs. Pherson would ask for the case back at the end of the trip. But I never saw her again.”

He hadn’t told Harry this story. Nor did he tell the police when they were searching the boat. He didn’t know what was in the green case, and at first he tried not to speculate. But as more and more references to it were made in the newspapers and on TV and by Harry, he became aware that lost or found, it was an important part of the evidence against Cully. If it was found — some guard might be more curious and more careful than the others — its contents might give Cully a stronger motive for murdering the woman. Richie decided to retrieve the case. He almost got away with it.

He looked down at Cully with a mixture of pride and apology. Cully shrugged and turned away. Any student of body English could have translated the exchange: “I did it for you, Cully.” “Don’t do me any favors, kid.”

“Have you finished, Richie?” the judge said.

“I guess so.”

“Mr. Owen, do you have any questions to ask the boy?”

“Yes, Your Honor... Richie, you were aware, were you not, that the police were searching for the green case?”

“I heard some talk.”

“Why didn’t you inform them that Mrs. Pherson had given it to you to hide?”

“They never asked me.”

“Didn’t you consider it your duty to volunteer the information?”

“No.”

“Do you consider yourself a good friend of the defendant, Richie?”

“He’s the boss.”

“Is he also your friend?”

“I’m his friend. I don’t know for sure whether he’s mine.”

“Was it as a result of this friendship, one-sided or not, that you swam out to the Bewitched and stole the case?”

“I don’t think of it as stealing.”

“You were arrested, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“So obviously other people think of it as stealing, do they not?”

“I guess.”

“Do you realize now how stupid it was to put yourself in jeopardy for the sake of someone who may not even be your friend?”

Richie sat in obstinate silence, his arms crossed on his chest. He would rather be punished like a man than scolded like a child.

It was Donnelly’s turn. He was in no hurry. He wanted the scene between Richie and Owen to remain vivid in the minds of the jurors, showing the defendant as a man who inspired loyalty and friendship. He rearranged some papers, made a couple of notes and finally stood up to face Richie.

“Richie, when Mrs. Pherson handed you the green case, did she use the actual word ‘hide’?”

“I don’t remember exactly, but she said something like I was to put it away where no one else could find it.”

“Did you wonder what was in it?”

“I wondered why she paid that much money, a whole hundred bucks, to have it hidden.”

“When you found out what the case contained, were you surprised?”

“Everybody was. But it kind of explained the way she was acting, nice and friendly and all that, but not quite normal.” Richie turned to look at the judge. “I guess that’s all. Did I do okay?”

“You did fine, Richie. You’re free to go now.”

“You mean, go home like to the islands? I don’t want to. I want to wait for Cully. Me and him can go together.”

“That is not a matter for this court to decide. Please step down, Richie. Thank you. Considering the circumstances I believe we have been very lenient with you. Do you know what that means?”

“Yeah. What it really means is I got to stay with Harry like he was my father.”

“That’s enough, Richie. Please step down. Thank you.”

“At this point,” Donnelly said, “I would like to request a ten-minute recess for the purpose of checking page and line numbers of the transcript referring to certain portions of the testimony of Mr. Pherson and of Mr. Elfinstone and Miss Gomez of San Diego. If the relevant passages are read aloud to the court, it will not be necessary to recall these three witnesses.”

“You have ten minutes,” the judge said, and tapped his gavel. The gavel was comfortable in his hand, the right weight, the right balance. He had heard a rumor that at his retirement dinner he was going to be presented with a silver-plated gavel to replace the old wooden one. But he was not a man who replaced things. He hadn’t married again after his wife died, he hadn’t bought another dog and certainly nothing would ever replace the dull, earthy thud of wood on wood. The sound of silver was without memory or meaning.

When court reconvened, copies of the transcript were given to the judge and the district attorney. Standing at the lectern, Donnelly read aloud from his copy.

“Mr. Pherson’s testimony begins at page six hundred seventy-three, but the relevant portions begin on pages seven ninety-one, line eight. The questioner at this point is District Attorney Owen.”

“Skip now to page seven-oh-one, line eight, Mr. Owen still the questioner.”

“Skip to next page, line twenty, defense counsel cross-examining.”

Donnelly took a sip of water before continuing to read from the transcript. Angelino Gomez, the hotel maid, was the witness, Owen the questioner.

Mr. Elfinstone’s testimony began on page 709, line 13. A couple of pages later were the pertinent parts. Mr. Owen had asked Mr. Elfinstone what Mrs. Pherson said when she came to the desk to retrieve the green leather case which she’d just had put in the safe an hour before.

“Skip to next page, line six,” Donnelly said. “Here the cross-examination of defense counsel of Mr. Elfinstone by defense counsel begins.”

Donnelly closed the transcript and prepared to go back to his chair. “It’s getting late,” the judge said. “If you’re thinking of starting to call your witnesses, Mr. Donnelly, you’d better postpone it until the next session.”

“I’m not calling any witnesses, Your Honor.”

“None?”

“None.”

“I hope you’ve considered this very carefully.”

“Yes. The prosecution’s witnesses did so well by my client that it seems best to leave it like that.”

“Very well. I’d like to see both counsel at the side bar.”

After a brief conference at the side bar it was decided that court would be adjourned until the following Tuesday in order to give both Owen and Donnelly time to prepare their closing arguments.

Owen worked on his closing speech the entire weekend. On Monday he taped it, making corrections, omissions and additions and changing voice inflections for emphasis and drama. He listened to the final version with pride and pleasure and on Monday night played it for Vee and the boys after dinner. There was considerable audience defection. Thatcher went to sleep on the floor, Jonathan had a phone call from a girl, an attack of hiccups sent Chadwick to his room and Vee began making out the week’s grocery list.

His Tuesday morning audience was more attentive. Donnelly and the judge took notes, as did all of the jurors except No. 2. Elsie Ball was a licensed vocational nurse doing private duty from eleven at night to seven in the morning. She was never quite awake, and Owen’s loud, clear voice fell on her ears soft as snow. It didn’t matter anyway: On the very first day of the trial she had made up her mind how she was going to vote and she didn’t intend to change it.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you may recall that in my opening statement I said this is a simple case. I would like to say that again now, this is a simple case.

“In the defendant’s chair sits Cully Paul King. The charge against him is murder with special circumstances. There is no graver charge in the lawbooks.

“Mr. King is not the average poolroom black. He’s had many advantages denied them. He is trained to earn a comfortable living at an unusual job, that of professional skipper. So if there are any bleeding hearts on the jury, let common sense stanch the bleeding. Cully King has had it good.

“A simple case. Here it is in a nutshell: The racing yacht, Bewitched, left San Diego with four people on board. It arrived in Santa Felicia with three.

“The missing passenger, found later tangled in a kelp bed, was Madeline Ruth Pherson, a forty-year-old married woman from Bakersfield. A woman of high character, she devoted a great deal of her time doing volunteer work with various charities, including Hospice, where she counseled the terminally ill and their families. Why would such a woman walk into a hotel bar and pick up a stranger, a man younger than herself and not even a member of the same race? What deadly twist of fate brought them together, these two people from different parts of the world, different cultures, different races?

“Let us turn now to the scene of the crime, the Bewitched. When Mrs. Pherson came aboard, she was wearing a blue and white striped coat. A fishing boat later picked up the coat from the ocean. It was completely buttoned, hem to neck, the same way that Mrs. Pherson’s other clothing was hung up in the hotel closet, according to Miss Gomez’s testimony. We submit that this coat was taken off a hanger on board the boat and thrown into the water. Remember Harry Arnold’s testimony that he had seen Cully King on that fateful night throw some clothing overboard. It was too dark for Harry Arnold to identify the articles of clothing, but he could certainly identify the thrower, Cully Paul King, who was trying to get rid of all evidence that Mrs. Pherson had ever been on the boat. Obviously he did not expect Mrs. Pherson’s body to be found. The sea does not easily give up its dead, and Cully King figured on this. The sea would be not only his friend but his accomplice. It was a very limited partnership, and it didn’t work. If it had, none of us would be here in this courtroom today.

“What Cully King didn’t figure on was that forest of giant kelp, which is not found in his part of the world.

“Let us take a moment now to examine a bit of hocus-pocus presented by Mr. Donnelly. He would have you believe that Mrs. Pherson jumped from the deck of the Bewitched into the water to commit suicide. The water’s coldness slowed her metabolism, making her able to survive during the time that the tide and the wind waves pushed her into that forest of kelp, and the grooves on her throat were caused not by the thumbs of Cully King but by two of the floats which grow along the stems of the kelp.

“Bear in mind that Mr. Donnelly doesn’t have to prove that it happened like this. All he has to do is convince you that it could have happened like this. Did he convince you? I hope not. I hate to see a group of intelligent men and women taken in by Mr. Donnelly’s crude shenanigans.

“But forget Mr. Donnelly’s shenanigans for a moment. Forget the forest of kelp, forget the modeling clay caper, metabolisms and Lazarus syndromes. Remember only this important fact: The Bewitched left San Diego with four persons aboard and arrived in Santa Felicia with three. What happened to that fourth person?

“Mr. Donnelly would like you to believe that Mrs. Pherson was planning to commit suicide even before she left home. It would be very nice for Mr. Donnelly and his client if you believed this. But you can’t. Your common sense won’t let you. Mrs. Pherson does not fit the clinical picture of a woman depressed enough to kill herself. She did not sit around the house moping, unconcerned with others, even unaware they existed. Quite the opposite. She went on a vacation. When she called her husband on the phone to announce her arrival, he said she sounded very cheerful. She talked pleasantly to Mr. Elfinstone and was considerate of the hotel maid, Miss Gomez. She appeared at ease in the company of Cully King. Does this sound to you like the behavior of a woman bent on killing herself? Of course not.

“It might be deemed rather peculiar for her to be carrying around her mother’s ashes. But remember, they were very close, these two women, and they’d been planning a trip to Hawaii when the mother became ill.

“Peculiar? Perhaps a bit. Depressed? No.”

Owen talked until the judge declared a fifteen-minute recess at eleven o’clock. During recess Owen sprayed his throat, then sucked a cough drop while he went over his notes for the rest of the day. He was aware of the fact that the jurors were getting restive: Papers rattled, swivel chairs squeaked, and the night nurse who occupied the second chair had let out a couple of unmistakable snores. He decided to cut the rest of his speech down to its bare bones.

During recess Eva Foster remained at her table. Cully King rose and stretched, and Eva thought what a beautiful body he had and how gracefully he moved it. When she spoke, Cully had to bend down so he could make out what she was saying.

“I bet you’re tired of listening to all this talk, aren’t you?”

“I can think of worse things to be doing and worse places to do them.”

“You don’t sound friendly toward me anymore. Why?”

“You were beginning to get ideas.”

“Do you disapprove of women getting ideas?”

“Certain women, certain ideas.”

There was a brief silence while he sat down and rearranged himself in his chair.

“Do you like my dress?” Eva said.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, notice now.”

He turned and looked. “Yeah. It’s a nice dress.”

“When I wore it the other day, you said it was a great dress.”

“Great, nice, what’s the difference?”

“It makes a big difference to me whether you like what I’m wearing or not.”

“Stop talking like that. Someone might overhear you and think that you and I are — that we have—”

“—have a commitment. Well, let them think it. It’s true. I told my father about you last night, how I felt about you and our life plans.”

“I want no part of your life plan, Miss Foster.”

“You have no part. You’re the whole plan.”

“Did you tell your father this?”

“Yes.”

“What’d he say?”

“That he hopes you get the death penalty.”

“Tell him something for me, will you?”

“All right. What?”

“That I hope so, too.”

Owen returned to the lectern at eleven-twenty.

“At this point, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to go over some of the highlights of the testimony given by my witnesses. My first witness was Mr. Belasco. He described in detail his boat, the Bewitched, and set for us the scene of the crime.

“Was a crime actually committed here? Mr. Donnelly will ask you to suspend your common sense and believe there was no crime. You may recall the famous movie scene where Jimmy Durante is asked about the elephant he is leading. ‘Elephant,’ Durante said. ‘What elephant?’ ‘Crime?’ Donnelly will say. ‘What crime?’ To that I can only answer, the crime as big as an elephant.

“The county’s chief pathologist, Dr. Woodbridge, described to you how Mrs. Pherson died of asphyxia caused by manual strangulation. He showed you pictures of the grooves left on her throat by the thumbs of Cully King.

“Lieutenant Sommerville of the Coast Guard explained how Mrs. Pherson’s body was cut away from the kelp that entangled her.

“Tyler Pherson, the dead woman’s husband, delineated his wife’s character for you and told you about the close relationship between Mrs. Pherson and her mother.

“The testimony of Angelina Gomez, the hotel maid, is of interest in two ways. It indicates that Mrs. Pherson intended to return to the hotel because she’d left her clothes in the closet. Miss Gomez also provided us with an account of Mrs. Pherson talking to herself about a trip to Hawaii.

“Mr. Elfinstone, the hotel’s assistant manager, detailed the rather mischievous remarks of Mrs. Pherson when she reclaimed her green jewel box. Mr. Elfinstone interpreted these remarks as meaning she was going off with a man.

“I’ve left until last the testimony of Harry Arnold and his son, Richie. It was Harry Arnold who heard a woman scream in the middle of the night and later saw Cully King throwing some clothing overboard.

“Richie Arnold was not a witness to the throwing scene described by his father, but he did hear a woman scream. If he sounded less than positive about hearing the screams, I would suggest that he was just suffering from nervousness at the idea of testifying against a man who was his friend and his employer. Richie also described his meeting with Mrs. Pherson, who gave him a hundred dollars to hide the green leather jewel case. We don’t know why she did this, and we probably never will. But it seems logical to think it had something to do with the amount of alcohol she had drunk at the bar. For a nondrinker like Mrs. Pherson double martinis can be lethal. If Madeline Pherson’s judgment had not been impaired by alcohol, she would never have gone on board the Bewitched with a man like Cully King.

“Let’s take a look at this man, Cully King. First and foremost, he is a murderer, without pity, without remorse, without a spark of humanity that might have saved Madeline Pherson.

“Did he kill her for those diamond stud earrings which he sold to the pawnbroker for five hundred dollars? No. The earrings were only a small part of his motive. The rest was in the jewel box, or what King thought was in the jewel box.

“I wish to repeat now what I said at the beginning of the trial: This is a simple case.

“Most murderers are careless. They leave behind fingerprints or footprints, gum wrappers, matchbooks, cigarette butts. Cully King, both by nature and by training, a meticulous man, erased Mrs. Pherson from the Bewitched with ease. What tripped him up was not carelessness but a forest of giant kelp, something he was unfamiliar with in his area of the world. If Mrs. Pherson’s body had not been caught in that kelp, this case would probably not have come to trial.

“Conducting a murder trial without a body has been done, but it is rare and rarely successful. The people of California ought to be very grateful for that kelp. It will prevent a murderer from walking our streets.

“It is unfortunate that Cully King did not take the stand himself. You would have seen him getting tangled up in his own lies as surely as Mrs. Pherson got tangled up in that kelp.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you do not get a true picture of Cully King by watching him sit here in court day after day, quiet, confident, benign. Benign, yes, he can look benign. But I know what he is. He is a cancer. It is up to you, ladies and gentlemen, to get rid of that cancer before it spreads.”

The gray jail bus with its barred and screened windows arrived to take the inmates back for lunch. The small group that had been waiting for the bus stood under the arched entrance to the sheriff’s department. All wore handcuffs, and one of them had on leg irons.

Richie Arnold had also been waiting for the bus, sitting on the grass in the shade of a lemon tree. When the bus stopped at the curb, Richie got up and approached the driver.

The driver, in uniform, opened his window. “Back off, kid. This is official business.”

“I just want to talk to my father a minute.”

“Against the rules.”

“I know, but couldn’t I talk to him anyway just for a minute?”

“So your father’s one of our jolly group. What’s your name, kid?”

“Richie Arnold.”

“I don’t have any Arnolds riding with me at the moment.”

“Arnold’s the name of my legal father. My real father is Cully King. I am going to live with him when we get back to the islands. I want to start planning the trip, but first I have to talk to him.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you can talk from here to Christmas, but the powers that be wouldn’t approve. You want to lose me my job?”

“No.”

“Then back off, kid.”

Richie backed off as far as he could, which took him as far as the group under the archway. They had lined up in twos and except for their restraints looked like a Scout troop about to leave on a field trip. Cully was handcuffed to the young man in leg irons. The young man’s face was flushed, and he was sweating profusely.

“I have an evil headache,” the young man said to Richie. “Can you help me?”

“Leave him alone,” Cully said. “He’s just a kid.”

“I was just a kid, too, when I refused to let Jesus Christ enter my body and the devil came instead and gave me this evil headache. Help me, boy, help me.”

“I don’t know how,” Richie said.

“Pills. Get me some pills.”

“I have no money.”

“Little blue pills.”

Cully told him to shut up, then turned to Richie. “You get away from here and stay away.”

“I just want to talk to you for a minute.”

“What about?”

“Our plans.”

“We don’t have any plans. There’s no more connection between you and me than there is between me and this pill popper here.”

“Little blue pills,” said the young man in leg irons. “You take three or four and the pain disappears and you are floating on a cloud. It’s like going to heaven. Only then you have to come down again, and that’s where I am now, down.”

No one was paying any attention to him. The prisoners had heard it all before, and Richie’s eyes were fixed on Cully.

“I thought you and me better start planning our trip back home. All it takes to be a family is two people. We can sign on boats together and everything.”

“Stop talking crap.”

“Little blue pills.”

Two deputies came out the door, and almost immediately the line began to move toward the gray bus. As it pulled away from the curb, someone inside waved. Richie couldn’t tell who it was. In case it might be Cully he tried to wave back, but he couldn’t lift his arm. It was as heavy as an iron pig.

Donnelly spent the lunch hour polishing his speech. Deprived of food, his stomach was making sounds of protest, which the loudspeaker at the lectern would pick up and broadcast to the entire courtroom. This speech was to be the last time he would ever address a jury, and he didn’t want it marred by stomach noises, so he bought two chocolate bars at the vending machine outside the jury room and ate them as he walked back down the hall.

Court convened at 2:03, and Donnelly immediately took his place at the lectern.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is not a simple case, as Mr. Owen seems to believe and likes to say. It has been a very difficult one, which is now grinding to a halt. I want to thank you for your attention and your patience. After the judge gives you his instructions, you will go into the deliberating room and decide the fate of a man who is as much a victim as the victim herself. Has he been treated like a victim? Judge for yourself. Denied bail, he has spent many weeks in jail. He has been harassed by the district attorney and his staff; he has been accused by the media and condemned from the pulpits.

“Why? What did he do?

“He went into a bar and ordered a drink. A congenial woman his own age or a little older sat down beside him and started a conversation. She was the instigator right from the beginning.

“Allow me at this point to answer some of the questions and respond to some of the charges against my client, Cully Paul King, by the district attorney. First and foremost, the District Attorney tells us, Cully King is a murderer.

“That he is a thief. Use your common sense to answer this one by yourselves. Why would a man like Cully King, who holds an interesting job with good pay, murder a woman for a pair of diamond earrings, which he pawned for five hundred dollars.

“Another question raised by the prosecution is: How could Cully King hire an expensive attorney like myself? That’s the easiest question of all to answer. He didn’t hire me. I volunteered my services. I don’t like to see people being railroaded into prison because of the color of their skin, country of origin, sexual preference or religion.

“One of the most interesting aspects of this trial has been the way Mr. Owen’s witnesses have qualified their answers with ‘maybe,’ ‘perhaps,’ ‘assume,’ ‘guess.’ Every one of these words has left a dent or a hole in the district attorney’s case until it looks like a tin can that’s been used for target practice. There is no room in a murder trial for assumptions, guesses, conjectures or maybes. When a man’s life is at stake, we must stick to absolutes, whole truths, not half or quarter truths, fact, not fancy.

“When you go into the deliberations room and start looking over your notebooks, I want you to remember one thing in particular: My client and I are not asking you for mercy; we are asking for justice.

“In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I wish to thank you for your attention and to urge you, in reaching a verdict, to put your emotions aside and rely on your good judgment and common sense. Thank you.”

Donnelly returned to his chair. Judge Hazeltine declared a short recess before he began his instructions to the jury. Before leaving the room by his private door, he motioned to Donnelly to meet him in chambers.

“Sit down,” the judge said when Donnelly entered. Donnelly sat down. “Anything wrong?”

“I think you’re going to get that son of a bitch off. That’s wrong.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s guilty.”

“He’s not guilty until the jury says he is.”

“Don’t give me that legal bull. He choked her. He’s known for having an ugly temper when he’s drunk. This was no murder for profit. She said or did something that enraged him, and he attacked her, grabbed her by the throat—”

“No.”

“No what?”

“He didn’t attack her.”

“I suppose she attacked him.”

“It’s possible.”

“And he killed her in self-defense.”

“Maybe.”

“In a fit of passionate rage.”

“More or less.”

“More more or more less?”

Donnelly’s only response was a shrug.

The judge looked up at the one-eyed owl on the bookshelf. It seemed to be winking at him, an oddly lascivious wink as if it knew all about men and women attacking each other in fits of passion and rage.

Donnelly went immediately back to the courtroom though there were still six minutes left of the recess.

Cully was waiting for him, his face smooth as glass, anxiety showing only in his voice, which rose in pitch and quavered slightly like a nervous old man’s.

“What did he want?”

“To talk.”

“About me?”

“Some.”

“What’d he say?”

“You wouldn’t understand. It was legal talk.”

“I don’t have to understand legal talk to know he doesn’t like me... Does he?”

“I don’t know, I never asked him.”

“Watch the way he looks at me. Hate. I see hate.”

“A verdict is seldom affected by a judge’s personal feelings.”

“Seldom,” Cully repeated. “That means it sometimes is.”

“Sometimes.”

“How about a lot more than sometimes?”

“It happens. I haven’t counted the times.” Donnelly had heard judicial instructions so biased one way or another that they amounted to ordering the jury exactly what to do. “Forget it. This is the judge’s last case. He won’t want to be overturned in appellate court. His instructions will be nice and neutral. And you’ll be a free man.”

“Will I?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“A free man,” Cully repeated. “That means I’ll be able to go anywhere and do anything I want to.”

“Nobody’s that free, Cully.”

“Why not?”

“There are debts to be paid.”

“I can always get money for to pay my debts.”

“Suppose this is a big one, like a hundred thousand dollars for saving your life.”

“I can pay my debts,” Cully said. “One way or another.”

“That sounds vaguely like a threat to me.”

“I didn’t hear any threat.”

“Maybe you weren’t listening. I was. It didn’t surprise me. The word’s been around the courtroom since the preliminary hearing that you have a vicious temper when you’re drunk. So I’m taking certain precautions. There’ll be no booze at the ranch.”

The first half of Judge Hazeltine’s instructions was fairly standard, explanation of the charge against the defendant, that of murder with special circumstances and the circumstantial evidence on which it was based. After this came a review of the jurors’ duties. He admonished them to ignore public opinion, their own emotions and their feelings about capital punishment. He put special emphasis on the phrases “beyond a reasonable doubt” and “to a moral certainty.” If certain evidence seemed unreasonable and was presented by a witness who appeared erratic or confused, that evidence should be ignored if it contradicted reasonable evidence given by a more controlled person with nothing to gain by lying.

A special warning was given against reaching a conclusion too hastily without proper and thorough reexamination of all the evidence.

The second half of the judge’s instructions was more personal both in content and in viewpoint. The evaluation of witnesses was of the utmost importance. More credence must be given to a man of wide experience like Dr. Woodbridge than to the writers of medical reports in various publications who were not present to be cross-questioned.

“I refer specifically to reports of drowning victims whose lives were thought to be extinct but who were later brought back to life, their need for oxygen being greatly reduced by the coldness of the water lowering their metabolism. These instances do occur, but they are rare, and the chances of such a thing happening in the case of Mrs. Pherson are minimal. Still, it’s possible, and that must play a part in your decision. If this possibility is large enough to cast the shadow of a doubt in certain areas, you have to take that into consideration when you’re casting your ballot.

“Other doubts may cast their shadows. The grooves left on Mrs. Pherson’s throat, were they made by a man’s thumbs or were they made by the floats on a piece of giant kelp? Unlikely? Yes. Impossible? No. The absence of thumbnail indentations along with these grooves is puzzling, but it must be remembered that not all thumbnails are the same length, and some may be too short to leave marks.

“Two witnesses who might be regarded as controversial are Harry Arnold and his son, Richie. The boy was indecisive, and the father’s claim that he’d seen Cully King throw some clothing overboard must be regarded with some suspicion since Mr. Arnold’s feelings about the defendant are obviously mixed. Also, he could not identify any particular item of clothing with certainty.

“One of the most important questions you must ask yourselves is: Did Cully King have a reason to kill Madeline Pherson? A sane man — and we have no evidence that Mr. King is anything but sane — does not kill without a motive. No motive has been proved. It should be noted, however, that because we do not know of a motive one does not exist. This is a big question, however, and must be considered carefully.

“Now, the first thing you’ll do when you begin your deliberations is to open your notebooks. Information contained in these notebooks may be freely exchanged among yourselves. When more precise details are required, you may ask the bailiff to bring you back into this room so the parts of the transcript you want will be read aloud to you. Copies of the transcript itself are not allowed in the deliberation room.

“In your notebooks you may have jotted down an impression, an observation, an opinion that will not only refresh your memory but also dredge up the feelings you had at the time on whether or not a witness was reliable or if you had doubts about his or her testimony.

“Before you even begin to discuss the guilt or innocence of the defendant, you must answer the all-important question: Was a murder committed? Some factors point to suicide. If Mrs. Pherson did not exhibit the usual signs of despondency, she certainly departed from her ordinary behavior in a manner that indicated some degree of emotional disturbance. Was it severe enough to precipitate suicide?

“Could her death possibly have been an accident? The ship’s log indicates a calm sea that night, so a sudden lurch of the vessel didn’t knock her overboard. Nor was it likely she’d been strolling around the deck stark naked in such cold weather.

“The ultimate question you must ask yourself, and the answer you must live with, is one of reasonable doubt. Is there reasonable doubt that Mrs. Pherson was the victim of murder at the hands of Cully King? Reasonable doubt is the deciding factor in most cases based on circumstantial evidence.

“The law states that before reaching a verdict in a criminal case, the jury must be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt and to a moral certainty. ‘Beyond a reasonable doubt’ is self explanatory, but the latter phrase has caused much disagreement, being one of the few instances where the law is imprecise. I have received a note from one of the jurors requesting a definition of ‘moral certainty.’ A previous officer of the court defined it as a gut feeling. I’m not sure I can do better than that, although putting too much reliance on moral certainty alone would not serve the interests of justice.

“You will be in the charge of the bailiff from now until the end of your deliberations. I wish you luck.”

As soon as the judge left the courtroom by his private door, Eva Foster walked quickly out of the main door and down the corridor to meet him in chambers. He was hanging up his robe when she entered.

“That was,” she said, “I mean, your instructions were, very good.”

“Maybe your feelings are somewhat colored, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

“I don’t quite under — oh, I see. ‘Colored’ is the word they used to indicate blacks many years ago.”

“Not very many. I’m about your father’s age, am I not?”

“Roughly.”

“I met your father at the carol sing last Christmas. By the way, could we do without the cards this year?”

“It won’t be my decision. I don’t expect to be here.”

“Still going after this guy tooth and nail, are you?”

“If you want to put it that way, yes.”

“Preacher, church, father giving away the bride, the whole bit?”

“No preacher, no church, certainly no father giving away the bride. Maybe no bride, for that matter.” She went over to the window and stood looking down at the traffic. Though the window was closed and locked, she took a long, slow breath as if there were air coming in, clean and fresh from the sea. “I don’t care if he marries me or not. Just as long as we’re together I’ll be content.”

“Sure of that?”

“Yes. I’ve thought about it a lot.”

“You haven’t thought about it, Foster. You’ve dreamed.”

“My plans are made. We’ll buy a small house; I have enough money for a down payment. We won’t have any children, but I’ll get a dog, maybe two dogs to keep each other company and to keep me company when Cully’s at sea.”

“There’s a difference between a dreamer and a planner, Foster. A planner would take into consideration the possibility that Cully might not be available to fit into any plans.”

“He’ll be acquitted, I’m sure of it. Your speech made it clear that you expected the jury to return a verdict of innocent.”

“Juries don’t do what’s expected of them; they do what they damn well want to.”

“Cully should have been given a chance to take the stand so the jury could watch him react, listen to him talk. They could have seen for themselves what a good man he is.”

“He’s a liar,” the judge said. “He’d have tripped over his tongue every time he opened his mouth. Donnelly did well to keep him off the stand.”

“Why, you sound” — she turned from the window — “you sound as if you think he’s guilty.”

“I think the prosecution did not prove its case and the verdict will reflect that fact.”

“But what do you really think inside your heart?”

“I think you’re a headstrong young woman who will continue to believe what she wants to believe about this man. The more he’s accused, the more you’ll defend him.”

“I’m a reasonable person. If you had real proof of Cully’s guilt, I would believe it.”

“If I had real proof, I’d have presented it to the jury in one way or another, and they would have believed it.” The Judge’s voice was somber. “I have one piece of advice for you which I believe you’re still realistic enough to take. Don’t be in any hurry to send in your resignation. At least wait until the guy indicates willingness to go along with you and the little house and the two dogs.”

“You sound cold and mean.”

“As long as you’re wallowing around in this emotional swamp everyone who criticizes him will seem to you cold and mean when, in fact, they’re trying to be kind.”

“Is this your idea of kind?”

“Yes. I’d like to prevent you from being found drowned in the sea or in an alley with your throat cut or tossed out of a car with a bullet in your brain.”

“You can’t really believe Cully is capable of such things.”

“Sure I can.”

“You really are cold and mean.”

“And sensible,” the judge added. “Very, very sensible.”

The first ballot was taken on the third day of deliberations and the final one in the late afternoon of the fifth day. An hour’s time was allowed for the parties involved to reach the courthouse and be present for the reading of the verdict.

Some of the court watchers who’d been coming every day awaiting the jury’s decision were in line outside the locked door of the courtroom within minutes of the announcement that the jury was coming in. To avoid the crowd that was already forming, the court personnel entered through a side door, as did both counselors and their investigators and Cully himself, this time not in the custody of his usual deputy but of four new ones. They all were pleasant-looking young men, but their presence emphasized the grimness of the occasion. Then the judge came in, and the jury, and finally the main door was opened to the public. The court watchers rushed in for front-row seats, followed by the reporters, the woman artist who’d done the sketch of Cully, assorted lawyers and secretaries who were interested in the trial and witnesses like Harry Arnold and Richie, who had not been allowed in except while they were standing along the rear wall. The bailiff pushed the rest of the crowd back into the corridor.

Cully sat motionless except for his eyes. He glanced at the jury. They all were watching him, and this was, Donnelly had told him, a good sign. Jurors who had voted against the defendant seldom looked at him when it was time for the verdict to be read.

So they’re going to let me go, he thought. And the people out there will be waiting for me, waiting to lock me up in their lives, and I’ll never be a free man, never.

The sights and sounds and smells of people filled the room.

Judge Hazeltine tapped his gavel. “Order in the court. The jurors having reached a decision, their verdict will now be read by the foreman.”

“We, the jury, find the defendant, Cully Paul King, not guilty of the charges against him. That of murder with special circumstances.”

The room exploded with new sounds, but Cully sat in silence. He felt Donnelly’s hand on his arm, he saw Eva smiling, and Richie smiling and Harry waving at him, but he did nothing, said nothing, until the judge rose to leave and the jury began filing out. Then Cully got to his feet and started shouting.

“Wait! Listen to me. You’re wrong, you’re all wrong. I killed her. Change your verdict. Don’t let them get at me. I want to be free of them. Come back. Wait, listen to me. Come back!”

Nobody came back.

“The trial’s finished,” Donnelly said. “Nothing you do can start it over again.”

“I want to be free. Don’t let them get me. Come back!”

The judge closed the door behind him, and the last of the jurors departed.

Cully pulled away from Donnelly’s restraining hand. “Leave me alone.”

“Sit down and shut up, you crazy bastard,” Donnelly said.

“Don’t touch me.”

“All right, all right. Sit here quietly until you get hold of yourself. I’ll be waiting at the end of the hall near the stairs.”

The room emptied almost as quickly as it had filled, and Cully was left alone with the bailiff at the door getting ready to lock the place up until the next murder or the next robbery or embezzlement or assault. There would always be something to fill it again.

“Aren’t you going to go out and celebrate?” the bailiff said.

“No.”

“I know a young woman who’d be very happy to celebrate with you. I mean, I think she’s ready, real ready.”

“No.”

“Okay, I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes to collect your thoughts. You’ve had a big day, a big week; in fact, I guess it’s been a big six months.”

“Yes.”

The bailiff went out into the corridor. Tyler Pherson was sitting on the bench where he’d sat all through the trial, wearing the same black suit and glasses, the same expression.

“Not much use waiting around here,” the bailiff said. “The trial’s over.”

“Not yet.”

“Sure it is. Everybody’s gone home.”

“The defendant hasn’t come out here yet.”

“He will in a minute. It’s late. Pretty soon the whole place will be locked up. I bet my wife’s putting dinner on the stove right now.”

“I won’t keep you from your dinner more than a minute or two,” Tyler said. “I just want to go in and congratulate Mr. King.”

“That’s mighty decent of you, considering.”

“I have considered everything.”

Tyler walked into the courtroom for the last time. The gun in his pocket felt smooth as silk and warm from his flesh.