Stitch in Snow

Chapter 07

Portland was green. After four years in Ireland, I had forgotten how brown grass becomes in winter in the northern half of the States. It is depressing: more depressing than the somewhat grey 'soft' winter days of Ireland for there the grass, being green, has a brilliance all its own, as if recalling the warmth of the sun in the grey weather. I'd prefer Ireland at its green dreariest, to the States in brown winter death.

The Portland airport was compact and new, alongside the Columbia River. The view of Mount Hood and the Three Sisters as we banked to land was spectacular enough to bring me out of my temporary mental funk. Organising myself and getting to the motel completed the process. The motel was mock Far Eastern Japanesy type, dark wood, monolithic style, and full. However, it was modern, convenient, comfortable and reassuringly anonymous. I had a drink with my dinner of Pacific crab which were much sharper in taste than East Coast shellfish. I sat and watched the river swirling in the change of tide - idling in body and mind. I took a couple of sleeping pills and conked out for a night of non-tossing and not much rest.

Taking myself firmly in hand again the next morning, I phoned Mr. Porter at Portland State University. He was delighted to hear that I had emerged from the blizzard- bound midwest. They had seriously wondered whether I'd make the engagement. I affected surprise that they could doubt my ability to overcome a minor obstacle. I was scheduled to do a lecture, two roundtable discussions on writing for young adults, and to address a group of city librarians on the changing styles in children's reading. The only thing that had really changed was the availability of what children prefer to read rather than what adults think they should be reading, to improve their little minds. I happened to write what they wanted to read: fantastical adventures with (to adults) incredible creatures with magical powers.

Often, as I addressed my sceptical adult audiences, I wondered if they had had any childhoods at all; they didn't seem to have enjoyed them. Probably not. If they'd been old enough to have lived through the depression, their child-hoods must have been bleak. Young enough to have lived through the second world war, they'd have another set of influences to drive them.

My editors had remarked that my ability to 'think' as a child, a contemporary child, was what made my books so popular. Perhaps. I gave full marks to my son, Timothy. After all, it had been Tim, telling me stories at his bedtime (his earliest tales stemming from a subconscious realisation that his father was dying) which had started me on my career. Critics and child psychologists might suggest different rationales but I was there. And I diverted my anguish over Raymond's lingering death into jotting down Timmy's delightful bedtime yarns. Ray had enjoyed them, too, because I got into the habit of taping them rather than lose some of Tim's quaint phrasing in the retelling.

Tim has always been a demonstrative and affectionate boy but, at five, his sensitivity had told him that mother needed more than kisses and hugs: she needed to be diverted and consoled. So he had told me bedtime yarns to supply that need.

Now my empathic, sympathetic, sensitive son wants to build bridges and space ships. I'm surprised who shouldn't be: Tim is never predictable.

Nor, because of Tim, was my life. There was so little money left after Raymond died that I went back to teaching to support us. I was not temperamentally suited to that profession even after getting a Masters in Education. So, I compromised with a job in the university library where I could work hours to suit Tim's school schedule. One of the researchers gave me the right advice: get an advanced degree in library sciences and write my own ticket with any of the major industries who desperately needed properly catalogued and managed libraries. I went one better: I got my doctorate in library sciences, borrowing enough money from both Ray's and my own parents to finance the studies. It was a grind, but when I finished, I really did write my own ticket - with an aerospace firm in Cambridge.

Then, after years of working every spare minute, I was restless with the lonely evening hours on my hands. That's when I rediscovered the tapes of Tim's terrible tales to mother mom. They had lost none of their charm and, to till in spare time, I typed them up. I showed them, more as a joke, to a friend. She asked permission to show them to her husband who was an editor in a textbook firm. The second publisher we submitted them to signed me to a contract and it was full steam ahead.

At that point in time, Timmy was in junior high school in a very rough neighbourhood. With no effort on his part at all, he was getting straight A's, bored stiff and, with the exception of one very studious narrow-minded boy, friendless. Tim'd been in too many fights and when he got his skull fractured in a science lab (I never did find out the details), I realised that either we'd have to move from this town or Tim would have to go to a private boarding school. My editor mentioned the tax exemption for authors in Ireland and when I'd learned a bit more about the quality of Irish schools and life, I decided the gamble would be worth it. I'd enough savings and with continued effort at the typewriter on my part, plus a tax exemption, we could swing it.

We did. Tim was extremely happy in the Irish school system, made a quartet of good friends who were constantly in each others' pockets, did well on his Irish exams and his American college boards and SATs.

This was my second lecture tour: more extensive and better planned than the previous one. I should have a nice addition to my capital: enough to spend some time writing an adult book I'd in mind, and for Tim to stop worrying about how we were going to meet his college fees.

Mr. Porter said that he would collect me at the motel, to be sure he could deliver the speaker on time when they thought her snowbound. I was ready for him when he entered the lobby. Score one for me, I thought from his pleased expression. There's always a bit of awkwardness, when the shepherd/watchdog/p.r. man encounters Visiting Celebrity. For starters, the p.r. man has to gauge the V.C.'s egocentricity or absentmindedness. The gal who did p.r. at Milwaukee said she dreaded the absentminded darlings: the egos were much easier to handle: all you had to do was get them to talk about themselves and they'd go on for hours.

Mr. Porter started on the subject of the blizzard and that took us through the initial sparring. It amused me to wonder what Mr. Porter…Jim, I should say for he invited me to use his first name by the time we got to the elevated road spaghetti about Portland… what Jim would have said if he'd known how I actually had spent my time in Denver. Then he acquainted me with the size of my probable audiences and what aspects of writing, and library work I was expected to discuss. He'd like me to give an interview to the University radio, and one for the local newspaper. I agreed since I felt that I'd been a bit overpriced by the lecture bureau and was determined to give value for money.

The lecture went well: the hall had good acoustics, being an amphitheatre type lecture room so I didn't have to shout to be heard. The second roundtable was trying. A young girl wanted to know if any of my tales were drug-induced, which I denied categorically. She then questioned me about my private opinions of current drug restrictions and what was the climate in Ireland as regards drug-addiction.

'The climate in Ireland is always damp, and people take aspirins just as they do here.'

Her indignant reply 'That isn't what I mean' was drowned in the laughter and I saw Mr. Porter tapping her shoulder and speaking to her.

Last year I'd been heckled and had made the mistake of answering honestly and fully, thinking that the best policy. It had embroiled me in a rather disgusting word-brawl with the young man. Afterwards, in the bar where I'd been taken to recover by a considerate faculty member, it was pointed out to me how to handle such exigencies. If possible, you make a funny; you never explain your position unless it is germane to your lecture topic; you keep your cool and if the situation looks like getting out of hand, then you agree to discuss the matter with the heckler privately after the lecture - and conveniently forget to arrive.

I enjoyed the librarians' meeting the following morning: they were a keen bunch, and seemed familiar with my thesis on collection cataloguing and data retrieval. I noticed some faces familiar from the other lectures and wondered if the students had misunderstood the topic. Or, maybe they were indeed library science students. I got sidetracked onto children's books in Ireland toward the end of the meeting but I honestly feel that the British Isles have marvellous childrens' books, inexpensive, well-produced and with understated content. You don't have to bludgeon facts into childrens' minds: they're a lot more perceptive than most adults will credit them; and 'perceive' is the operative word and process.

I was given an elegant lunch, with sufficient pre-meal drinks to make the atmosphere congenial. Then I had my interview for the campus radio and with Jim Porter for the University newspaper.

Audiences are very stimulating to me but by the time Jim drove me back to the motel, I was absolutely whacked. He wanted to continue chatting but I told him that I'd run out of energy. I think he was genuinely sorry. He was profuse with invitations to return again, and promised to send me transcripts of the articles and a tape of the radio broadcast.

I didn't think about Dan-the-Mystery-Man until the next morning when I was packing and opened my knitting bag.

Berkeley was next on the itinerary and I was already regretting that I'd agreed to stay with Raymond's sister, Beth. I couldn't retract gracefully because I'd always liked Beth and Foster Hamilton, and their boys. But I suspected I was in for a good deal of reminiscing about Ray, moans about his early, tragic death now a good fourteen years in my past. I didn't mind talking about Ray: I liked to remember him but Beth had a tendency to dwell on the macabre instead of the merry and that is tiring. I needed my energy for the lecturing.

As luck would have it, I arrived in the midst of a family crisis: the older boy, Sam, had been living with a classmate, a girl, and she was pregnant. Should she or should she not get an abortion? I was drafted as an arbitrator which could have been a prickly situation except that I quickly discovered no one really wanted my opinion because I couldn't understand the entire situation, now could I? To which I readily agreed. The crux of the matter was that the girl, Linda, was afraid that she might be aborting a second Messiah, a genius and 'you could never be sure, could you?' And it really couldn't matter if she'd been smoking hash because they hadn't proved it harmed the unborn, now had they?

Foss was out of his depth: Beth was trying to be 'modern' and 'understanding.' I tried to suggest to her that they would solve it themselves among their peers but she couldn't make up her own mind whether she wanted to be a grandmother at thirty-nine or not; or if Linda was wrong about using hash and the child would be a moron. I decided that if Tim ever got into a similar situation - and it was possible - I would insist that the girl carry the child to term. I'd look after it, though it would wreck my writing schedule. I was missing the involvement with someone who depended on me. I liked to be needed. I liked to plan around the requirements of someone other than myself. A man would have suited me better but a child would be welcome. Having solved that knotty problem in my own mind, I tried to avoid discussions about Sam and Linda. What I would do was not necessarily what they would elect.

I was committed to a series of lectures at local community colleges for grade school teachers and library science majors. I could repeat that lecture in my sleep, and almost answer all the questions likely to be generated. In the informal sessions that would crop up after the official lecture, I wondered why I was living on what my writing could bring in when PhD's in my field were pulling in thousands of dollars. I would pull myself up short: I had had that 'glory' before and never more relieved to have the excuse of Tim to pull stakes and replant in Ireland, peaceful, green, haphazard, friendly Ireland.

Easter vacation intervened to let me catch my breath before the second round of junior college talks. I did some sightseeing in San Francisco with Foss, who was delighted to have an excuse to get out of the house. Foss is an associate History professor and a keen war-historian. I'd brought him several Irish textbooks so that he could see how 'our' wars were treated in other history books. We discussed the historical significance of the troubles in Belfast and decided that it would take a massive re-education program to improve the situation which had been in existence for four hundred years.

No sooner were we back in their house than the current war raged about us. Linda was in floods of tears, Beth trying to console her and Sam was glaring at both of them,

thoroughly rebellious.

'She's made the appointment --' said Beth defiantly, helplessly.

'Appointment?' Foss was having trouble dragging himself out of the Belfast troubles and its historical significances.

'For the abortion!' Beth's eyes were as wet as Linda's.

'Oh, that!'

I shuddered at Foss' ill-timed diffidence.

'That? Can't you get out of your stuffy history books and into the present needs of your family? These poor children are suffering -'

Foss looked as if he thought he'd done enough suffering and was going to explode. So I did.

'If they're suffering, they brought it on themselves. Furthermore they don't really want to abort the child: it's theirs! If they honestly hadn't wanted it, Linda would have gone quietly to the clinic and had it done and over with in twenty-four hours instead of greeting and grembling around here for a week. Have the child! Grow up with it!'

'But… but… they're in college…' Beth began.

'What's that to the point? I was still in college when I had Tim…' I saw Beth opening her mouth for another specious argument and jumped on her, aware out of the corner of my eye that Linda had stopped weeping and Sam looked considerably happier. 'And don't you dare say things are different. They aren't. And if they have to dump the baby on you while they go to classes, so what? What else are you doing with your time? Think how much fun it'll be to spoil a grandchild. You won't be near as nervous with this one as you were with Sam, or Perry. And he can baby-sit for his nephew. And if it's a girl… if you told me once you wanted a girl you told me nineteen times only you couldn't afford a third baby on Foss' salary; if it's a girl, you'd be very pleased. Well, there's nothing wrong with Foss' salary now, although I don't suggest that you two support their baby… but it's obvious to me, though I don't know the situation as you keep telling me, that no one in this room wants Linda to abort the child. Now if you'll excuse me, I have two lectures tomorrow in the boondocks and I have to make an early start!'

I made an exit in complete silence but when I had reached my room, the renewal of the conversation in the living room had a completely different tone. I was exhausted with that outburst, and trembling. Furthermore, I wondered what on earth had possessed me to interfere.

I took out my knitting, to calm my nerves, but it only reminded me of Dan. Well, at least I hadn't got pregnant. Then I started to giggle. It was improbable, but not entirely impossible and wouldn't I look funny producing at my late age? Would I have the courage to go through with it? It would be Tim's turn to be sympathetic and understanding… having an illegitimate half-brother or sister. I tried to imagine his face and would he come up with Bawdy Bedside Ballads for Baby Bastards. My editor would go berk. I laughed till the tears came to my eyes and I couldn't see to knit. I was caught completely unawares by the knock on the door.

'Yes?'

A radiant Linda and a jubilant Sam stood in my door. 'We want to thank you, Aunt Dana,' Linda said in a tremulous voice. 'We do want the baby. And furthermore,' she glanced shyly at Sam, who seemed to have grown a few inches in the last hour, 'we're even going to get married. For real!'

How I kept a straight face for that supreme modern sacrifice I don't know. I had to swallow before I could get any reply past my grin-fixed teeth. I must have come out with an acceptable response for Linda kissed me, Sam shook my hand in a very manly fashion. I must say it was an improvement on the limp grasp he'd given me when I'd arrived.

I had no more recovered my composure from their visitation when Beth arrived, weeping with joy.

'I didn't dare say what you said, Dana. I wanted to, goodness knows, because I simply couldn't stand the idea of Linda… aborting…' The very notion was repulsive to Beth. '…my first grandchild.'

'Even Spock was strong on the fact that kids need limits, Beth.' I said. 'I was only suggesting one…'

'But they listened to you…'

I forbore to mention that I'd said about the same thing… more politely… when I first arrived.

'Oh, Dana, what would I have done if you hadn't come…'

As I didn't know, I said that she would eventually have put her foot down, too. I was sure of it.

'You will stay for the wedding, won't you?' When I started to evade that, she said in a rush, 'if you can fit it in with your schedule…'

That made it seem ungracious for me to refuse and then she said they'd fit it in with my lecture schedule. I had four more days in the Bay area, didn't I?

I did. And I went to the wedding though to this day I can't remember anything more than Beth, Linda and Linda's mother in floods of tears, mostly happy, I think. I know that the only reason I made the plane to Los Angeles on time was because Foss and Perry deposited me at the proper gate. It wasn't champagne; it was fatigue because I will never again do two lectures a day at community colleges set fifty and two hundred miles apart in sunny California.

When I was unpacking in LA, I found the swimsuit. And thought, again, of Dan. And of the swimming pool reputed to be in the hotel. I made an appointment for my hair, managed ten laps in the pool and then bathed under a sunlamp until it was time to get my hair done. I nearly tell asleep under the hair dryer but contrived to stay awake long enough to get back to my room, into my bed where I conked out and stayed that way until nearly the next morning. My hair-do was no longer perfect but I was a lot better.

Over breakfast the next morning, I brought my 'brains' up to date, and thankfully reviewed a schedule which listed only three more cities after LA. Four more lectures and I could wing my way back to New York, see Tim at college and return, rejoicing, to the unhurried pace of my dear green Ireland.

I wrote Tim a longish letter before inspiration and energy deserted me. The p.r. man in charge of me in LA rang, and checked the afternoon engagement. As he didn't mention lunch, I ordered a heavenly fruit salad in the hotel.

It's fun being a visiting celebrity up to a point and I reached that point in Los Angeles. By the time I enplaned for Dallas I would have devoutly joined a snow-seeding expedition for another three days of enforced inactivity… and no people. The Dallasians (?) showered me with such lavish Texas hospitality… at least the beef was barbecued and for real… that I crept into Tulsa utterly, completely and thoroughly drained.

I do not remember speaking to the 78 librarians ol'Whosit County: I do not recall being interviewed on campus TV, though I later received the photos and I looked wide awake. I don't remember much of anything in Tulsa except that I must have done it well in my comatose state to judge by the letter of thanks I later received.

I surfaced to the insistent buzzing of the phone, a strident summons that must have been going on for some time to rouse me.

'Mom? Mom, what have you been getting into out West?'

'Tim? Tim?'

'Yeah, Tim, your ever loving son. Christ, what have you been doing?'

'Sleeping.'

'I don't mean now. I thought you knew better.'

'Knew what better?'

Tim sounded indignant, angry, upset and very much like his father, trying to be reasonable in a frustrating situation.

'How to keep out of trouble.'

'What trouble am I in? And where are you calling?' I had that sudden horrible chill of apprehension. And I couldn't remember where I was.

'I'm calling from Lehigh.'

'No, honey. I know where you are. What city are you calling me in?'

'Huh? Hey, Mom,' and Tim's voice turned anxious. Reflex snapped me out of my daze.

'I'm sorry, honey. I'm sleepy.'

'You're in Tulsa, Mom, and you're in trouble.'

'What kind? Did I miss a lecture date?'

'No, not that.' Tim was disgusted at my obtuseness. 'I mean that guy. Lowell.'

'Lowell?'

'Yeah, Lowell.' Tim was getting angry again, partly relief and partly an inability to get me to function intelligently. 'Daniel Jerome Lowell. He's charged with murder and you're his alibi. He says. Did you ever meet a Jerry Lowell?'

'Lowell… Lowell…' I couldn't for the life of me then remember any Lowell but I also didn't remember any murders, or murderers.

'Mother, his lawyer has been trying to catch up with you. So he says. I gave him the name of your lecture bureau so they could give him your itinerary. I figured if you were involved, you'd better know and if you weren't, you could sue for libel, or something. Only the lawyer has been phoning me saying he keeps leaving messages only you don't answer them. Are you trying to evade him?'

I was still fumbling for the name Lowell.

'What's the lawyer's name?' That might give me a clue. 'Jefferson, Marshall amp; Taggert is the firm. Peter Taggert the particular man. Mom, are you sure you're all right?'

'I'm tired, very tired, Timmy. I'm so tired I don't even remember if I've given my talks in Tulsa or I have them to do. What's today's date, please?'

'It's the 10th of April, Mom, and you were to speak in Tulsa on the 8th and 9th. Mom, are you sure you're all right?' Tim's voice now had the 'small boy in search of security' tone.

'Yes, Tim. I'm just talked out, travelled out and de-synced. You woke me out of a sound sleep. You know how I am just waking up.'

'Yeah…' He sounded somewhat reassured.

'So, this Peter Taggert believes I can help his client, a Daniel… Dan!'

'You do know him?' My admission startled Tim more than my bleary state of mind.

'Denver Dan-the-man. Yes, I know Dan, and he isn't a murderer. I don't see how he could have murdered anyone… I mean. When? Who? Why?'

'I don't know many details, mother, except that it happened in Denver… Is he that swimming-hiking freak you wrote me about?' Tim wasn't certain that these were sufficient bona fides. 'Haven't you seen the papers?'

'Papers! I've been on tour. I'm lucky I get to read menus.'

'He's supposed… alleged is the word they use… alleged to have killed his former wife on Thursday, March 20. She wasn't found for two days because of the snow but he's supposed to have killed her approximately 11 PM Thursday evening.'

As Tim talked, I had been thumbing through my diary. Thursday was the last evening we had spent together… and at 11 PM we'd been watching Gunga Din… No, we hadn't. We'd been making love. But that was irrelevant to the fact that Dan Lowell had been most decidedly in my company the entire evening.

'He was with me all Thursday evening, Tim. What do I do now?'

'I suggest that you call the legal man. He said he'd been trying to reach you. He's phoned me three times because you're the only proof his client didn't murder the woman. Plenty of circumstantial evidence to prove that he could have.'

'He couldn't have and he wouldn't have. He's not that kind of guy.'

'Call the man.' There was relief in Tim's voice for my positive statement. 'When will I see you?'

'I'd planned to fly back tomorrow but now…'

'You'd better let justice triumph. Mom. I'll see ya when I see ya!'

It was ten-thirty Rocky Mountain time. As I dialled the number Tim had given me, I recalled receiving message slips at the last two hotels. They hadn't made any sense to me at the time. I had stuffed them in my case and sure enough, they were all from a Peter Taggert, and they informed me, classically, that it was a matter of life and death.

'My name is… Jenny Lovell,' I told Taggert's receptionist in Denver. 'I believe Peter Taggert wants to get in touch with me.'

'Miss Lovell? Just a mo… Mrs. Lovell?' The girl reacted violently. 'He is, but he isn't here. Oh, he's in court with Mr. Lowell. Oh, where are you, please? Babs,' this was said to someone at her end, 'she's calling in. It's her. Hold on, Mrs. Lovell, for Mr. Taggert's secretary.'

'Mrs. Lovell? Where are you calling from, please?' The second girl was more in command of herself but I could hear the undercurrent of excitement and relief in her tone.

'Right now I'm in Tulsa but I can be in Denver as soon as I can get a plane. Will that help?'

'Yes, it will. Your presence here is urgently needed.'

'Look, I'm terribly, terribly sorry I didn't call earlier. My son just rang me. I haven't read any newspapers in days. You're sort of in a limbo when you're touring. If I'd known… I mean, Dan Lowell wouldn't kill anyone. I've never heard of anything so outrageous. My son said that he's supposed to have killed his former wife at 11 on Thursday evening and you tell Mr. Taggert I know he didn't. He was with me the entire evening. Things haven't gone too far, have they?'

'Just come to Denver, Mrs. Lovell. Your testimony is vitally needed.'

'I'll be on the next plane. And look, would you tell Mr. Lowell that… Gunga Din is bringing the water?'

'I beg your pardon?'

I repeated my remark which then didn't sound too witty but Dan would appreciate the reference and I couldn't think of anything else that didn't sound trite and insincere.

'There must be a plane out of here for Denver sometime today, and I'll be on it. Be sure of that. Okay?'

She asked for and I gave her the present Tulsa number but as soon as I disconnected that call, I got the flight reservations desk. I had missed a morning flight from Tulsa but I could book on the 2 PM. I packed in a flap, remembering to cash one of the lecture checks where I was known. At that, I had to get a bit huffy with the manager because he wouldn't believe that I didn't have any credit cards apart from my Allied Irish Bank cheque-cashing ident. I had to ask him, in my most acid tones, didn't he think the University's checks were any good so he demurred and grudgingly handed over the money. I noticed he used dirty bills and small ones so I had an unwieldy wad. Then I over-tipped the bellboy and doorman as I got in the cab for the airport.

There was no trouble in altering my ticket to include a stopover in Denver but I had two hours to wait until I could board the plane: plenty of time to stew. I found a Denver paper at the newsstand but there was no follow-up yarn about the murder: no mention of it at all.

Had Tim had the facts straight? Thursday? I riffled through the diary. Most of Dan's time those three days had been spent in my company, except for a few brief hours, especially that Thursday evening. He'd been with Hearty-har-har when he hadn't been with me. Had Tim said 11 PM? Dan was covered as far as the AM was concerned, too, because… yes… we were swimming at 10 AM Thursday. Of course, he could have nipped out after I'd gone to sleep Thursday evening late, or was it by then Friday morning… but how far away had his ex-wife lived?

Dan had been worried about something. Worried? Anxious? Annoyed? Betrayed? Yes, that had been the elusive quality about his mood that evening: he'd been angry and felt betrayed. By his former wife?

I shook my head. This line of thought was unproductive. And disturbing. I had too few facts beyond the major one: Dan had been in my company most of those snow-bound days, his time accounted for when he wasn't. Besides which, he wasn't a murderer.

I recognised that anyone can be pushed to the point of murder. But Dan had not acted like a driven or trapped man, unless he was far more a dissembler than I could give him credit for. And, he'd had two tickets in the airport that afternoon. Furthermore, at lunch he had definitely acted relieved, as if he'd solved his problem. Solved his problem by escaping the scene of the crime? No, no. He'd been with me at the reported time of the murder!

I killed (whoops…) passed some time eating a good lunch in the airport restaurant, complete with a half bottle of wine for its soothing quality. Anger is a good therapy and I was angry on many counts: angry at Tim's being involved at all in this; angry at myself for not having appreciated the genuine urgency in the messages from Taggert; angry at the unknown murderer who had involved Dan, me, and Tim in such a ghastly affair. Angry because my very lovely brief encounter was now besmirched.

I resolutely took out my knitting as I settled myself to wait to board the plane. That reminded me of how I had got into Dan's company in the first place. But the knitting worked its usual charm. I reviewed and re-reviewed what I did know about Dan, and Denver, and my conclusion reaffirmed my judgment of him. He was innocent of that capital charge.

I was overwhelmingly grateful to be asked to board at Gate 9. I was glad to be involved with the routine of flying, responding to the hostess's polite queries. And wondering what would happen if I told her, instead of inanities, that I was flying to Denver as the material witness in a murder case. Trial? No, it hadn't, it couldn't have come to trial so soon. Could it? But my flight was really a matter of someone's life which was being threatened by someone else's death.