Summitt

Chapter Thirty

When Selby’s bedside phone rang, he lifted the receiver quickly, hoping the sound hadn’t waked the house. He heard Blazer growling on the stairs, and saw a faint light on his windows.

It was Jerry Goldbirn in Las Vegas.

“I tried to get you yesterday, Harry. Your housekeeper said you were over in Philadelphia.” Selby heard Goldbirn draw a deep breath and release it slowly. “We were tough cookies in our time, my friend, played hurt, missed curfews, messed around but still kicked ass when the whistle blew for game time. But that was quite a while back, Harry.”

“Is that your deep thought for today?” Selby said. “Where the hell did it all go?”

“Speaking of time, loyalty’s got a statute of limitation on it too, pal, ever think of that?”

“Would you like a violin accompaniment, Jerry? Everything is fleeting, snow melts, Christmas and Hanukkah are coming closer together every year? Fishing isn’t as good as it used to be and never was?”

“Go on, make me laugh,” Goldbirn said. “You could work a lounge act here with your great sense of humor.”

“Okay, what the hell is it?”

“A long time back you took me out of a practice play so I rode the bench and stayed alive. So for auld lang syne, Harry, I leaned on that flake from New York Bell Telephone. I got a number for Jennifer Easton. A switchboard at a convent in upstate New York, a place on the Hudson near Hyde Park. I owed you one, Harry. Well, we’re even now. I came across a name so hot I goddamn near dropped the phone. Simon Correll. Jennifer Easton is his personal foldout, his mistress. Correll could push a button and flush my casino and my bank accounts right down the drain. All of Vegas if he wanted to. I’m out of the game, Harry. Back on the bench. You can do me a favor, if you want, tear up my phone number. Sorry.”

The phone clicked in Selby’s ear... So that was what Miss Kim with her big eyes and cheerleader’s legs had kept back. And what Senator Lester had decided not to tell him — that Jennifer Easton, who loved boats and not belonging to people, wasn’t a model or photographer or casual friend of Jarrell’s at all, but the mistress of the man who ran Thomson and Harlequin, the Correll Group and, of course, Summitt City itself.

Before court adjourned that morning, Selby joined Sergeant Burt Wilger in a bar on a side street off the parking mall. It was a cops’ hangout, with a pool table covered with plyboard for the lunch buffet and specials chalked on a blackboard beside the cue rack. A private phone was connected directly to District Attorney Lamb’s office and the Detective Division.

But at this hour the place was empty except for a waitress and a crippled black sweeper. Nevertheless, Wilger put a record on the jukebox and sat in a rear booth. He ordered coffee for two and a bowl of pretzels. He told Selby that he’d had no word on the Cadle brothers, that his informants had come up dry. “Which could mean the Cadles are split by now, or are registered somewhere under other names,” Wilger said.

The night before Wilger had tailed Davic and Earl Thomson to the Philadelphia airport, where they’d picked up Derek Taggart off a Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt.

“That was about nine P.M.,” Wilger said, biting into a pretzel. “The little faggot was in uniform wearing a theater ribbon they give you if you get off the boat without drowning and a Good Conduct Medal, which he probably got cornholing some local herren. Okay, okay,” Wilger went on, interpreting Selby’s impatience, “I’ll skip the social comment. But all the same, Selby, it made me mad to see a guy like young Taggart wearing captain’s bars when my nephew sweats out ’Nam in a vets’ hospital in a wheelchair.”

Selby drank his coffee and waited.

“They dropped Davic off at his hotel, Thomson and the cocksucker with the medals. They went for dinner to Bookbinders, the old one, then hit a joint near Arch Street, Hell for Leather, that peddles porno magazines, posters, condoms in all colors and flavors, some with jokes on ’em, blow the man down for navy types. Dirt-chute express. Cute stuff. Also they got pinchers, clamps and restraints for cocks and balls and tits, plus cassettes and booths to watch flicks in and listen to porno songs. Place is owned by a man named Petey Komoto. The songs and flicks are raw, not like the ones I remember as a kid — The Tiger’s Revenge by Claud Bawls, or The Open Kimono by Seymour Hare. This joint is for rough trade, bull dykes, heavy leather studs, SM types. Couple of years back Komoto got his ass chewed up in the disposal by taping what went on in a screening room. He had two-way mirrors put in too. Tried the scam on a pair of vice squad officers and they broke it off in him. It was pretty loose surveillance,” Wilger admitted. “I couldn’t work too close, Thomson’s probably seen me ’round the Hall. I staked out the place from my car across the street. They rented some film, disappeared into a booth. When they came out, they bought some magazines and drove back to the Thomson place in Wahasset. Earl’s in court now ready to testify.

“Santos and young Taggart left the Thomson house early this morning, drove over to the Pilgrims Trust Bank in Wilmington. I don’t know where else they went. I had to get back to work.”

Wilger finished his coffee. “Davic’s about to put Thomson on the stand. Brett’s got to break him on her cross. It’s her last chance, maybe your kid’s. She’s got to smash their goddamn lies. The time element and the disappearing Porsche are what she’s got to work on. I been checking quarries, junkyards, closed-up warehouses, looking for the car. I got zilch. She’s got to break them open, Selby... but what could get broken in the process is her neck.”

Earl Thomson had been thoroughly coached, Selby saw, groomed with meticulous care — sincere, polite, quick with “sirs,” attentive to Davic’s questions. His clothing matched his relaxed but deferential manner; flannel slacks, a gray tweed jacket, loafers buffed to a high gloss.

Thomson told his story in a direct, effective manner. Leaving The Green Lantern about five-thirty, he discovered that his car was gone. He wasn’t particularly concerned; a rally of sports and antique cars was scheduled at Longwood Gardens, many of his friends were in town for it. They might have spotted his Porsche 924 — they would recognize it, of course — and taken it as a prank. Or... with a rueful smile... as an object lesson because he’d been stupid enough to leave the keys in it.

Having promised his mother he’d join her for dinner, he’d called Santos and asked him to drive over to Muhlenburg and pick him up.

No, he hadn’t notified the police. The theft was reported the next morning.

Earl filled out this simple story with supportive details. The gun he had hoped to buy from Charlie Lee was a double-barrel 20-gauge Parker. The family chauffeur was over in New Jersey, which was why he’d asked for Santos.

Davic knitted the threads together into a neat and credible package, concluding with the defendant’s account of the events at Longwood Gardens.

The lawyer paused then, pacing between the jury and the witness stand.

“Earl, you told Captain Slocum you’d never heard of a farm called Vinegar Hill. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lieutenant Eberle asked you if you were familiar with landmarks near that place. You told him you were not. Is that also correct?”

“Yes, sir. That’s what I told the lieutenant.”

“What time did that interrogation take place?”

“About two o’clock in the morning, sir.”

“Had you been asleep prior to their arrival?”

“Yes, sir. For several hours.”

“I see.” Davic paused again. “Now tell me, Earl — not at two o’clock in the morning, not when you’ve been pulled out of bed by police officers without a warrant — tell me now, in this orderly courtroom... do you know of a farm called Vinegar Hill?”

“Not by that name, sir.”

“Ah.” Davic nodded slowly. “Then you knew that farm by^ another name. Is that what you’re telling me, Earl?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What name do you know it by?”

“The Taggart Place, sir.”

“Under what circumstances did you know the Taggart Place?”

“It belonged to a friend of our family, General Adam Taggart. The general’s son was a classmate of mine at Rockland. We called it the Taggart Place. Or the General’s Place. When I was at college, some of us used to go there to hunt pheasants.”

“I want to emphasize one particular point now, Earl. You did not lie to Captain Slocum that night, did you?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“You did not know of a place called Vinegar Hill, did you Earl?”

“I certainly didn’t, sir.”

“Your Honor” — Davic addressed the bench — “there are other specifics of the People’s evidence I can’t refute at this time although I intend to later. But in fairness to my client, I would like to defer this examination. A witness for the defense has been delayed enroute to these hearings. His testimony is crucial to the proof of Earl Thomson’s innocence.”

“All right, Mr. Davic. But understand that People’s counsel may cross-examine the defendant on the portion of his testimony now part of this trial record.”

“Yes, Your Honor. I understand. Thank you.”...

They needed time to rehearse Ace Taggart, Selby thought, that had to be why Davic was stalling. Obviously they’d convinced young Taggart it was safe for him to take the stand and lie. In whatever Davic and Earl Thomson had told him, in the time at the Hell for Leather, the trip with Santos to the Pilgrims Bank in Wilmington, somewhere in that welter of people and places was the proof that had convinced AC-DC Taggart there was no risk in perjuring himself. But they also might be building a house of cards with a marked deck, Selby felt. It was like a trapeze act where the performers worked happily and skillfully without a net or safety straps until they found out that one of them had a trick knee or a hangover or was just a little short on nerve or guts. Then everything and everybody could collapse. One break was what his side needed. When they spotted the marked card, or the fingertips missed connections, the whole thing could go down...

At the recess Burt Wilger joined Selby in the corridor outside Superior Nine. “There’s a call for you in the pressroom,” he told him. “They switched it down from Brett’s office.”

A desk lined with phones had been moved against a wall in the temporary pressroom. Noise and smoke clogged the air. A girl in jeans extended a phone to Selby, mouthed his name inquiringly.

Victoria Kim did not identify herself. She told Selby what he needed to know about the Cadle brothers and broke the connection.

Selby picked up his coat and left the courthouse. From a pay phone he called Wilger and asked him to tell Brett he was on his way to Philadelphia. He forestalled the detective’s questions by saying a hasty goodbye and hanging up.

Maybe he’d already spotted one of the marked cards, Selby thought as he drove out of East Chester and followed the traffic into Philadelphia. The smiling athlete in the trapeze act with the trick knee he wouldn’t admit to, the blurred vision or fears that hit him in the morning when it was dark and he couldn’t get back to sleep... Who was it? Santos? Ace Taggart, or the little Sicilian, or Thomson’s mother, or Eberle, the drunk cop? Or Thomson himself? Or one of the Cadles. Who would crack first? Or was he whistling in the dark? Would anybody crack? He had to believe it. He couldn’t give up...

The clerk intoned, “All rise.”

After seating himself Flood said, “People’s counsel will bear in mind that cross-examination of the defendant will not extend beyond the testimony on record.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Please proceed then.”

Brett began casually. “Were you upset, Mr. Thomson, when you left The Green Lantern and discovered your car was missing?”

“I wasn’t upset, ma’am, but I was puzzled, I’ll admit.”

“I’ve checked several local dealers who handle Porsches, Mr. Thomson. Considering that your car was equipped with” — Brett picked up a note pad from the plaintiff’s table and read — “internally vented disc brakes, an electronic digital ignition system and so forth, the dealers’ consensus was that your Porsche Turbo 924 would be worth around thirty-five thousand dollars at current prices. Does that sound like a fair estimate?”

“I believe so, ma’am.”

“Some of the terminology is beyond me. Perhaps it’s not relevant, but would you mind explaining what turbocharging means?”

Thomson’s smile was confident; he was very comfortable in this role. “There’s a density in the charge supplied to any internal combustion engine. To put it simply, a turbocharger increases that density to about twice the normal atmospheric pressure. In contrast to a naturally aspirated engine of similar size — well, to put it simply, turbo engines increase horsepower by thirty or forty percent, which gives better performance all round.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thomson.” She paused. “But you weren’t upset, merely puzzled that someone had made off with your very expensive turbocharged car?”

“Let me explain that. What I meant was that I wasn’t worried, ma’am. That Porsche is a very distinctive car, and I figured it would turn up.”

“What did you do when you discovered it was stolen?”

“As I said, I didn’t realize it was stolen until later.”

“You assumed some friend had driven it off as a joke.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Being the victim of that joke, what did you do?”

“I walked to the Bellflower diner and called home. I told Miguel Santos what had happened. Our regular chauffeur wasn’t there...” Earl smiled. “I have the feeling we’ve been through this, ma’am.”

“Do you find it tiresome, Mr. Thomson?”

“Not at all. I’ll dot every i and cross every t if you want me to. I told Miguel where I’d be waiting and told him to come over to Muhlenburg and get me.”

Brett adjusted her black-and-white-checked scarf with a seemingly distracted gesture, as if she herself weren’t quite sure of her next question. Then she said, “Why did you choose The Green Lantern for your meeting with Charles Lee?”

“I figured that would be convenient for both of us.”

“But The Green Lantern is seventeen miles from your home in Wahasset, Mr. Thomson. It’s more than nine miles from Hosckessin in Delaware, where Mr. Lee works. What made you decide The Green Lantern was convenient for either of you?”

“Let’s put it this way. I knew where it was. That’s probably why I suggested it. At least I was sure I could find it.”

“You know that area well then?”

“I’ve driven by there, yes.”

“You know that The Green Lantern is only a half mile from Fairlee Road then?”

“Objection, Your Honor. The question is irrelevant.”

“Sustained.”

Brett said, “According to your testimony, Mr. Thomson, you parked your expensive car in front of The Green Lantern. It was in clear view of at least a dozen homes and shops on Route One. Correct?”

“I wouldn’t swear to the exact number, but if you say a dozen I’ll take your word for it.”

“Did you go to any of those shops or houses to ask if anyone had seen who drove your car away?”

“No, I didn’t. I’ve told you, I was running late.”

“That jokester acted with a lot of confidence, wouldn’t you say? Acted just as if he owned the car. Knew how to start it, shift gears and so forth. Isn’t that how it must have appeared to the people in those shops and homes?”

“Maybe, ma’am. I wouldn’t know.”

“Do you have a jokester friend who physically resembles you, Mr. Thomson?”

“Well, I’ve got lots of friends, ma’am. Maybe some of them do look a bit like me.”

“Then any witnesses to the taking of your car might have thought it was you yourself climbing so confidently behind the wheel, and driving off so expertly? Isn’t that a possibility?”

“Objection, Your Honor. That insinuation is unsupported by any evidence.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Thomson, when you discovered your car was gone, did you suspect which friend of yours had borrowed it?”

“I told you, ma’am, I didn’t know who’d taken it and I didn’t waste time worrying about it. I half expected to find it waiting for me at home.”

“What was the other half of your expectation?”

“That was only a manner of speaking.”

“Did you half expect your car to turn up where it did turn up that night? At Vinegar Hill, or the Taggart Place?”

“Objection, Your Honor. I ask the court to admonish People’s counsel for that inference.”

“The question will be stricken. The jury will ignore it.”

Brett inclined her head, a gesture of submission in marked contrast with the apparent confidence in her expression. “Mr. Thomson, I find your lack of interest in the whereabouts of your expensive automobile difficult to understand. Weren’t you worried that your jokester friend might have, say, been involved in an accident?”

“I wasn’t worried, no. That suggests a careless attitude, you may assume. But people worry because they don’t know how to think. That’s what they drilled into us at Rockland. My car was gone. That was a fact I couldn’t change. So I didn’t waste time worrying about it.”

“Let’s go back over what you’ve told me. You left The Green Lantern, found your Porsche gone. Being late for your dinner engagement, you walked to the Bellflower diner, called Miguel Santos and told him to drive over to Muhlenburg and pick you up. Is that it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But, Mr. Thomson, the Bellflower is more than a mile from The Green Lantern. Why didn’t you go back into the Lantern and call Mr. Santos from that phone?”

“I don’t think you’ll understand my answer to that but I’ll try... I’d had my fill of that place. I’d gone out of my way to keep an appointment there, Charlie’d stood me up for one of his sort’s typical reasons. He could have sent that shotgun over with a friend, or hired some Puerto Rican to stand in at the mushroom shack. But Charlie took the short-range view, make a buck today, let tomorrow take care of itself. It never occurred to him that I’d adjusted my schedule to suit him.” Thomson’s mouth tightened with exasperation. “It may not seem logical, ma’am, but I didn’t feel like asking favors from The Green Lantern crowd.”

“Even though not using their phone would make you that much later for dinner with your mother?”

“She would understand, I was sure.”

Changing direction, Brett said, “Isn’t it true, Mr. Thomson, that you told no one in Muhlenburg — no one at The Green Lantern or the Bellflower, no one in the homes and shops in the area — that your thirty-five-thousand-dollar car had been stolen?”

“You say stolen, ma’am, even though I’ve testified I didn’t think it was. But, no, I didn’t tell anybody my car had been borrowed.”

“What time did you call Miguel Santos?”

“About six o’clock, I think.”

“What time did he arrive in Muhlenburg?”

“About six-thirty.”

“Where did you wait for Mr. Santos?”

“On the sidewalk in front of the Bellflower.”

“It was beginning to rain, then, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You waited in the rain for half an hour?”

“I didn’t want Miguel to miss me.”

“To your knowledge, Mr. Thomson, did anyone see you standing there in the rain?”

“Maybe somebody did. I wouldn’t know.”

“Did you speak to anyone?”

“I don’t remember. Maybe I nodded to someone, I don’t know.”

“You weren’t tempted to get out of the rain and wait inside the diner?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Thomson, did you speak to anyone in the diner when you made your telephone call? Did you ask the cashier for change?”

“I had no reason to.”

“No reason to speak to anyone?”

“I was in a hurry, ma’am. I was in no mood for small talk.”

Brett pushed her wooden bracelets higher on her wrists and glanced thoughtfully at the big wall clock behind Flood’s bench. “Mr. Thomson, your mother testified that you returned home from Muhlenburg shortly after seven o’clock. You showered and changed then. When you returned to her suite, she testified, you were not wearing your wristwatch. Is that also your recollection?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Miss Cluny from The Green Lantern testified that you were wearing rings and a chain necklace in addition to your wristwatch. You removed them too before showering?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“When you joined your mother, how did you know what time it was?”

“There are two clocks in her room. One is electric, the other is solar-powered—”

“You assumed both clocks were correct?”

“Why would I doubt it?”

“In your own words, you were running late. Then you walked that unnecessary mile to the Bellflower to make your phone call. Isn’t it possible it was later than seven-fifteen?”

“No. I’m sure of the time.”

“But how did you know your mother’s clocks were accurate?”

“Objections, Your Honor.”

“On what grounds, Mr. Davic?”

“People’s counsel is implying that someone might have tampered with those clocks.”

“People’s counsel has implied nothing of the sort,” Brett said. “You’re not listening to my questions, Mr. Davic, or you’re twisting them around for reasons of your own. The defendant was not wearing his wristwatch. It was logical to verify his knowledge of the time.”

Unexpectedly Earl said, “Your Honor, may I clear this up?”

“By all means, young man.”

“I checked my wristwatch after I showered. It was about seven-fifteen then. So it couldn’t have been more than a minute or so later when I joined my mother. Her clocks had to be right. That should put an end to the idea that my mother jumped out of bed and ran around her room turning back those clocks.”

“Your Honor,” Brett said, “I understand the defendant’s concern for his mother’s testimony. That does him credit. But for the record I have never questioned her testimony. Nor have I referred to anyone resetting clocks, manipulating the time. Those suggestions come directly from the defendant and his attorney. The thought is theirs, not mine.”

Royce hastily scribbled a note and gave it to Davic. Glancing at it, Davic nodded. His expression was impassive but he couldn’t mask the anger in his eyes as he withdrew his objection.

Brett then asked Earl Thomson if he had called any of his friends that night to find out who had... as he said... borrowed his car. Earl answered that he had waited until the following morning.

“Did you call your friends then?”

“No, because it seemed clear by then it wasn’t a joke.”

“So you reported the theft to the East Chester police department the next morning?”

“It was reported then, yes, ma’am.”

“That wasn’t what I asked you. Did you report the theft of your car to the police?”

“No, an associate of my father’s reported it.”

“May we have that person’s name?”

“Sure. He’s an old friend of our family, Mr. Dom Lorso.”

“Is he the only person you told that your Porsche had been stolen?”

“I also told my father.”

“But when you called Miguel Santos from Muhlenburg you testified, and I’ll quote... ‘I explained to Santos what had happened.’ What did you mean by that?”

“Well... I explained I needed to be picked up, that’s all.”

“But you told this family friend, Dom Lorso, that your car was stolen?”

“Yes.”

“Why did Dom Lorso report the matter to the police? Why didn’t you report it, Mr. Thomson?”

“What difference does it make?” Earl’s voice was hardening. “An executive can tell his secretary to report something missing to the police. The point is, the theft was reported, ma’am, and you know it was.”

“Is Mr. Lorso your secretary?”

“You know damn well he’s not.”

The gavel sounded. “Mr. Thomson, your attorney assured me that your conduct will be consistent with the standards of this court.”

Davic stood up. “Your Honor, I make no excuse for my client’s language. People’s counsel’s questions seem designed to provoke such a rejoinder. Dominic Lorso is a respected businessman, a member of numerous charitable organizations in the community. He has served on—”

Flood said, “Miss Brett, Mr. Lorso is obviously not the young man’s secretary. You know that, I presume.”

“Your Honor, I am attempting to establish the relationship between the defendant and the only person he apparently trusted enough to report the theft of his car to the police. That car, which now seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth, was an instrument in a crime the defendant has been charged with. The People need to examine the relationship between Earl Thomson and Dom Lorso.”

“Then go on, Miss Brett, but defense counsel has made a reasonable point about provocative inquiry.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. Mr. Thomson, how long have you known Dom Lorso?”

“I told you, he’s like a member of the family. I called him Uncle Dom when I was a kid.”

“Would you say he was like your godfather, Mr. Thomson?”

“Objection, Your Honor!”

“On what grounds, Mr. Davic?”

“People’s counsel surely understands the pejorative implications of her last reference.”

“You mean godfather, Mr. Davic?” Judge Flood rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. Perhaps we’re becoming too sensitive. I believe the word godfather is a useful term for a respectable relationship. Overruled.”

“Yes, he was like a godfather to me,” Thomson then stated. “He’s the most decent man I’ve ever known besides my own father.”

Brett said, “I want the jury to understand your confidence in Mr. Lorso — why, in short, Mr. Thomson, you went to him about your stolen car instead of the police.”

“I can only repeat what I said earlier. Dom Lorso is an old friend. I respect his advice. In this instance he chewed me out. Told me I should have called the police right away. But since I hadn’t, Mr. Lorso said he’d get the information directly to Captain Slocum. That would save time, he said.”

“Did Mr. Dom Lorso ever give you similar good advice in the past?”

“Yes. Quite a few times.”

“When you failed to report a matter to the police which should have been reported?”

“Objection, Your Honor!”

“Sustained.”

Brett walked to the People’s table and glanced at her notes. “At Longwood Gardens, Mr. Thomson, did you take the plaintiffs accusations against you seriously?”

“Not at first, ma’am.”

“But when the physical confrontation occurred, you took the matter seriously then?”

“Yes, ma’am. I did.”

“In fact, you attempted to run away — or drive away — on a motorcycle, didn’t you?”

A line of pressure appeared around Thomson’s lips. “I’ve never run from anybody in my life.”

“But Officer Summerall testified by deposition that you did just that.”

“I left the area, I didn’t run away.”

“Perhaps I phrased the question carelessly. Would you please tell us in your own words just what you did do?”

“I’d be happy to, ma’am. But to put the matter in perspective, I should tell you I’ve had considerable military training.”

At the defense table, Royce quickly wrote another note to Davic. Davic barely glanced at the paper, but his eyes became alert and watchful.

Earl continued, “I attended Rockland Military College for four years and was graduated First Cadet in my class, with the rank of cadet colonel. I qualified as expert with rifles and machine guns. I’ve run obstacle courses with live ammo firing over my head and I’ve been in simulated combat conditions.”

Earl’s manner had become expansive. “It’s strange,” he went on, “that no one has asked about the shotgun I tried to buy. I’m a gun collector. Certain elements think those are code words for Fascism or racism or something like that. But a gun is a tool, no better or worse than the man using it. Charlie Lee’s Parker, I’d heard, had its original stock replaced by one made from wood grown in the Balkans. Charlie got the gun from an old Romanian refugee he’d worked for. A gift, I suppose. The best wood for gun stocks comes from the Balkans. They bury scrap iron around the root systems of young trees. Over the years the rust and bits of metal grow right into the tree’s circulatory system and it makes natural iron burls and fissures in the grain of the wood—”

Judge Flood cleared his throat. “Mr. Thomson, our interest in these matters is not unlimited. Please get to the point.”

“Yes, sir. The thing is, I sized up the situation at Longwood like a soldier. Her father, Mr. Selby looked dangerous to me, dangerous to everybody. Until I could analyze the situation I didn’t want to risk anybody getting hurt. So I retreated, which was the strategic thing to do under the circumstances.”

“It was a military move then?” Brett suggested.

“Yes. It was only bad luck I was thrown from the motorbike. But you can’t run a military exercise by computers. Chaos is often the rule in combat. My father explained that to me. No matter how trained and motivated troops are, there is always an X in the battlefield equation — how the individual soldier will react to gunfire, to wounds or to the appearance of the enemy at an unexpected place or time... Well, I didn’t panic when I saw her father, because I’ve been trained to anticipate the disorder that is the essence of violence. Physical combat is the last place a hero can define himself — I’m speaking of the heroic ideal, ma’am. There is nothing vain or personal in this. But that ideal has declined irreversibly since the Greeks worshipped the heroes of the Iliad and the Odyssey.”

Thomson hesitated, a trace of uncertainty in his expression. Flexing his hands, he said, “I didn’t run from her father, ma’am. I’d never run — from anybody.”

“You are proud of your own father’s military background and record, Mr. Thomson?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did he discuss the details of his military career with you?”

“I found his discharge papers and service ribbons and Bronze Star when I was just a kid. They were in a musette bag in a storage room.” Earl paused. “My father told me a military unit was the fairest thing ever conceived. You were read the rules when you joined. The Articles of War. If you broke the rules, you were punished.”

“Did your father ever mention the name Jonas Selby to you?”

Tension hardened Earl’s mouth. Davic half rose, then settled back in his chair. The courtroom had become unnaturally silent.

“To the best of my knowledge,” Thomson said slowly, “the first time I heard that name was here in this court.”

“Did your father tell you that he had presided over military courts in Korea?”

“I... I believe that came up in our talks.”

“Your father never mentioned the name Jonas Selby during those conversations?”

“To the best of my knowledge, no.”

“Mr. Thomson, as a cadet colonel at Rockland Military College, you occasionally gave lectures on military topics to underclassmen. Correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. All upperclassmen gave such talks.”

Brett picked up a manila envelope from the People’s table and unwound the waxed string from the metal disc on its flap. On a corner of the envelope was a glossy decal of an armored knight with a black shield. Opening the envelope, Brett removed a volume in gray cloth with crimson edges. The lettering on the cover was plainly visible to Earl Thomson and the attorneys at the defense table. It was a Rockland Military College yearbook, the school motto arched in black capitals: THY COUNTRY IS THINE HONOR.

“Mr. Thomson, do you recognize this volume?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s our college yearbook.”

“Would the court stenographer please note,” Brett said, “that the witness has identified the Rockland Military College yearbook for the year 1974. The book contains two hundred sixty-two pages of general information about the school and faculty. Plus fifty-eight photographs of the graduating class of the year 1974. The lectures you gave, Mr. Thomson” — Brett nodded at the book she was holding — “are listed here in your biographical sketch. You conducted seminars on military justice and punishment, and several others on the rights of defendants and the responsibility of officers in summary and general courts. That information is correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“In those seminars on the courts-martial system of the U.S. Army, did you ever mention the trial of Jonas Selby?”

“No, ma’am. To the best of my knowledge, I did not.”

“To the best of your knowledge? Then to the best of your knowledge did you discuss in those lectures the role your father played in the court-martial of Jonas Selby?”

Davic objected. “This line of inquiry is totally extraneous, Your Honor. I move that it be stricken from the records.”

“On the contrary, Your Honor. The court-martial of Jonas Selby is crucial and relevant to the issues at court — according to Mr. Davic himself. He argued to have K.S. 36663864 made part of the record. If Mr. Davic now believes that transcript is extraneous, I ask why he went to such trouble to have it released from an Operative-Classified category and introduced as a defense exhibit. He insisted that truth was the heart of his defense. That motive was the heart of that truth. It was Mr. Davic who advised the jury that Harry Selby’s father had been prosecuted and sent to prison by Major George Thomson. He insisted that Harry Selby had known and hated the Thomson family long before the rape of his daughter. That the seeds of the persecution of Earl Thomson lay deep in the past in Korea — or so Mr. Davic argued. Very well, Your Honor, let the People have the opportunity to turn that question around. What did Earl Thomson know of the Selby family before that savage attack on Shana Selby? May we not ask what he—”

Flood cut her off with his gavel. “I have not yet ruled on Mr. Davic’s objection, Miss Brett. I will review my notes on K.S. 36663864. We will recess for fifteen minutes for that purpose.”

George Thomson and Dom Lorso waited for Davic outside the courtroom. The corridor was crowded but the police had roped off the entrance to Superior Nine. When Davic appeared there were shouted questions and the flash of camera bulbs.

Lorso drew on a cigarette, his nerves shredded from the hours of enforced abstinence, then said quietly, “She’s playing him like a yo-yo, Davic. Didn’t you tell him to stick to yes and no, for Christ’s sake?” Thomson nodded vigorously.

Davic presented a fixed smile to the cameras. Barely moving his lips, he said, “The defendant doesn’t want any disruptions from me, Mr. Thomson. Those were his words. Your son is running things. It wasn’t my decision to introduce the court-martial transcript that gave Brett a green light to cross-examine. She’s taking full advantage of your generosity. Your son is damaging himself, Mr. Thomson, but I can’t stop him.”

Thomson blinked uncomfortably as flashlights exploded in his eyes. “Then tell Slocum to stop her,” he said very quietly.

The three men stood together facing the reporters and photographers. “Give us a break, gentlemen,” Davic said pleasantly. “I don’t have a statement to make now. When I do you’ll be covered, that’s a promise.”

“We’ve waited long enough.” Thomson rubbed his mouth to muffle the words. “Earl can’t handle it. Tell Slocum to cut her legs off before it’s too late.”

“Yes, of course,” Davic said, and with a genial wave to the press, returned to the courtroom.