The chief shifted his bulk in the chair. He growled, “Not that I’m ungrateful, Lionel. But a little kid lies murdered. It’s at least manslaughter in the first degree. The district attorney is on his way home. It’s out of my hands.”
“No, it isn’t.” Lionel’s arm tightened about Sebastian. “It’s all in your presentation. You know that.”
The chief banged his fist on the desk. He shouted, “And I say the little bastard should be sent to the juvenile reformatory in Philly! And I aim to send him there, after his trial!”
The two men gazed at each other in silence, the chief’s face scarlet with rage, and Lionel’s grim. Lionel was first to speak. “Mulligan’s grandson.”
“The hell with Mulligan! He don’t even belong to the right party!”
“He’s got lots of influential friends.”
The chief sneered. “Past tense. I hear talk. On the verge of bankruptcy. Nothing like bankruptcy to set your friends a running. The hell with Mulligan.” He pointed his finger to Lionel. “Take my advice. Have nothing to do with that family.”
Lionel got up, and he seated Sebastian in his chair. Then he turned to the chief with a narrow smile. “Take me to the washroom, Leo. I’ve got something to say to you, privately.” He turned to Sebastian, who was freshly terrified, and said gently, “Don’t worry, Bastie. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”
“Don’t leave me, Uncle Lionel!” The boy cried.
“Just for a minute. To wash my hands.”
Sebastian cowered in his chair. “Uncle Lionel …” He clutched Lionel’s hand. “Nick … Mama …” His tearstained face held stark terror, and Lionel winced.
“Don’t worry,” Lionel repeated. He patted the boy’s shoulder. “Be a man. And wait for me.”
The chief grumbled, “Nothing’s going to change my mind. You’re my cousin, Lionel, and I feel real kindly toward you, and what you’ve done for me, but what’s this brat to you?”
The men went to the washroom, the chief expostulating all the way. He repeated, “Nothing’ll change my mind.” The washroom was fortunately empty, and the chief closed the door. “Now, then,” he said truculently.
Lionel dipped his index finger in water and rubbed it on the soap bar. The chief watched with curiosity. Lionel wrote on the mirror, “He’s my son.” And washed it off immediately.
The chief gaped. Stunned, he turned to Lionel. “Jesus!”
“True.” Lionel wiped his hands on the soiled roller towel. “Your own second cousin, Noddie. Your own flesh and blood.”
“Jesus,” whispered the chief, again. After a pause he grinned. “You and that drunken Mulligan bitch! Thought you had better taste. She snubbed my wife.” Leo shook his head. “Does Garrity know?”
“No.”
The chief howled with laughter and slapped his knees. “The eyes and hair the brat has! Suddenly minds me of Molly! Lovely colleen, nice to my own children, Dolores too. They’re great friends. Well, well.”
“And Molly’s late husband, Dan Dugan. You owed a lot to him, Noddie.”
The chief sobered. Then he held out his hand to Lionel. “Done,” he said. “Get the … my cousin out of here.”
“And not a word?”
“What! Against my own kin?” He shook his head. “What a joke on Garrity!”
Lionel and Sebastian returned to Jason, and the boy ran to Jason and hugged him. “He let me go, Papa!” Jason lifted him in his arms, but he looked at Lionel with disbelief.
Lionel nodded, “I talked sense to Leo. He’s not all bad.”
“Bastie told him the truth?”
“He didn’t even question him.”
Jason looked steadfastly at Lionel and was silent. Then he said, “There’s something here that I don’t understand.”
Lionel spread out his hands. “Leo and I are cousins. It’s as simple as that.”
“Nothing’s ‘simple’ where you are concerned,” said Jason. Then he smiled in passionate relief. He held out his hand. “Thank you, Lionel, thank you. That’s all I can say.”
Lionel found Joan at home in a state of agitation unusual for a young woman famous for her aplomb and self-control. Lionel had rarely seen her upset. She despised hysterics in other women, particularly if they were indulged in before men, and she controlled herself now enough to say, “Tell me all about it.” If her voice trembled, it was only slightly. Her hands, though, were clasped tensely together on her blue velvet lap.
Lionel told his wife in detail, his hand on her knee. She asked him no questions, did not interrupt. Her eyes never left his face; they were enormous, filled with a shining blue light. At last, when he was finished, she closed those eyes briefly as though their concentration had exhausted her.
Lionel made one of his eloquent gestures. “So,” he said, “Bastie was nearly sent away in place of the loony. To spare Patricia and Nick! We can’t let Bastie live there any longer. The tutor threatens to leave, and Bastie hasn’t been sleeping lately as it is; he’s always on the alert because of his brother. His health is suffering.”
“And our son exists under the stigma of having killed a little boy. A lifelong stigma!”
“I offered to take Bastie in our own house, but Jase was adamant. People would talk. So I suggested St. Mary Amelia’s School; it’s just five miles away, and he can come here weekends and holidays and we can drive out to see him. Better than that house! I persuaded Jase, and he sounded relieved. Bastie is his favorite child.”
“Our child.”
Lionel bent forward and kissed her. “Our child. Frankly, I’m relieved, too. We’ll see Bastie more often than we do now. As for the stigma—people forget. It will be listed as an accident.”
“And this is not the first time he’s taken the blame for one of these accidents. I wish Patricia was dead. Dead!” Joan’s quiet voice rose in passion.
“I do, too. She’s a disaster. To her father, husband, children, to herself. And she contrives to get everything she wants.”
In her distress Joan cried, “Including you!”
Lionel’s face became ugly. “She never had me. I used her.” He stood up and paced the room, and Joan watched him, contrite. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sometimes I can’t stand thinking of it. I never told you. But Bastie is the result; and that comforts me.”
Although Lionel had rarely experienced compassion, the emotion suddenly washed over him. He knelt down beside his wife’s chair. Usually fluent with words, he was speechless. After a moment she embraced him tearfully. “Things will work out for the best,” he said. “Hush, darling. We’ll have a drink to Bastie’s liberation, and it really is liberation.”
“He’s devoted to Nicole.”
“And she’ll see him often, I promise you. She’s a sensible child.”
“And I pity her, in that house with that mother! No wonder she acts like an old woman, poor thing.” Joan was sincere. “Things don’t ‘work out for the best.’ I’m surprised at you, darling! Mr. Pollyanna.”
They laughed for the first time.
When he recovered, Mr. Percy Crimshaw sued Jason for half a million dollars for the death of his little son, Herbert.
32
Jason’s lawyer was a young breezy man named Henry McWilliams, exigent, expensive, cynical, who made light of problems, including even murder. He was practical and ruthless, and dismissed emotions as irrelevant and muddying. He believed in facts, law, more or less, and loathed hysterics and personalities and “extenuating circumstances,” except where they concerned a client. He was a consummate actor, which no one suspected, for his demeanor was open and frank; he was polite even if he faced hostility and derision. His appearance was fresh, boyish, and ingenuous; he deceived even old experienced judges and opponents. He was hurt when a client’s or witness’s testimony was received with skepticism; he would imply by his aspect and lowered head that he was deeply wounded. “What?” he appeared to be saying. “Can you possibly infer that I would take any case that is not bona fide and above repro
ach? I am distressed beyond words.” He had a triangular smile, with excellent teeth.
In consultation with a client, however, he used no pretense of sympathy or belief. “Clarity, clarity, and in as few words as possible. I have no time to waste, and I presume you have no time, either.” The smile was not in evidence as he briskly named a costly retainer. He was a rogue, as were all lawyers, disillusioned, merciless, and very successful. He rarely lost a case. Daniel Dugan had recommended him. He had an office in Belleville, but his main office was in Philadelphia, where he had four partners, older than he. He was only forty.
He appreciated Jason at once as a client, for Jason related all facts without discursive interpolations of emotion, without incoherences, without visible agitation, and with control. Henry took notes and approved of Jason. When Jason had finished, Henry leaned back in his office chair and gave rapid and intent thought to Jason’s story.
“First of all, no interruptions, please. I agree that Sebastian’s story should at once be refuted. I agree he should not appear as a witness. If we had women as jurors, which we do not, my advice would be different. Women are sentimental rather than just, and a kid melts their hearts. Your daughter should not appear as a witness, either. We will stick to the bare facts. You will relate Nicholas’ condition. I want the neurologists and the psychiatrist who examined him to testify to your younger son’s affliction. But above all, they should admit—and I’ll see that they do—that they advised keeping the boy at home. Which you did, following their informed advice.
“You will testify that you followed their opinions and advice, and in addition, you employed a male tutor who has dealt with other such children. You have also employed, recently, a male nurse. I hope the prosecutor will not insist on the time element; I’ll do what I can to head him off. You will testify that Nicholas is now entered into a private institution in Philadelphia, which treats those of his affliction—”
Jason interrupted. “What private institution? I never thought—”
“You will. I’ll name you one, and no time should be lost before he enters it. Immediately.” The cold hazel eyes were not smiling. “You will testify as to Sebastian’s innocence, and relate incidents when he took the blame for your younger son’s violence, to spare his mother and brother. His mother in particular, she being a very sensitive and fragile personality. I will try to get jurors that have mothers or wives or daughters like her. You will display grief as to her suffering. She is, at present, confined in a private hospital where she was sent, overwhelmed by nervous prostration due to the recent tragedy and shock.”
“She was confined before that, Hank.”
Mr. McWilliams dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “No need to mention that. As we have changed venue to Philadelphia because of extreme local bias, no one will know Mrs. Garrity was previously confined, unless you blurt out the information. If it comes out, however, you will say—and it appears to be the truth—that her son’s condition preyed on her mind for years. If it comes out that alcoholism is her problem, and the institution staff is questioned, which is unlikely, we will press them to testify that Mrs. Garrity’s … disease was brought on by Nicholas’ condition. ‘In their informed opinion.’ After all, they wouldn’t try to antagonize a patient whose husband lavishly pays the fees.
“We will get your father-in-law to testify as to Nicholas’ actions in the past, and his advice to you that your son be institutionalized, adding that you preferred to follow expert opinion. Mr. Mulligan will testify that Sebastian took the blame of his brother’s violent behavior on numerous occasions to spare his mother. Mr. Doherty will be a witness to Nicholas’ violent behavior, too, and the housekeeper, and the male nurse.”
“But we have no actual witnesses to the tragedy except Nickie and Bastie—”
“True But there are witnesses to Sebastian’s intelligent and exemplary conduct, plus Mr. Doherty’s testimony, the servants’ testimony, and that of his new teachers in St. Amelia’s School. His uncle—Lionel Nolan—who’s well-thought-of in Belleville and Philadelphia, is eager to testify in Sebastian’s behalf. Lionel can imply … er, that Sebastian … hinted to him that Nicholas fired the gun, and was responsible for previous destructions—”
“It’s a lie. Sebastian would not hint even to me, his father. And Lionel would not lie under oath.”
The lawyer smiled. “You’d be surprised at the information witnesses can recall when under oath. Perfectly amazing. And I know Mrs. Nolan will testify also. She is a great beauty; I hear she is very saintly, too. The jurors will be extremely moved, especially if she cries.”
“I never saw Joan cry, not even when we were children,” said Jason bitterly.
“She’ll cry. I guarantee that.”
Jason sighed wearily. “I haven’t a half-million dollars! I haven’t even a million cents! Mortgages, debts, taxes, Patricia’s expenses, Nicholas’ expenses … And Mr. Mulligan is plagued the same. We’re overextended. And now the war, with increased taxes. And interest! I’m broke.”
Mr. McWilliams was not one to waste sympathy on clients’ financial troubles. He knew his worth; he fingered the check Jason had given him as a retainer. “It’ll cost you money, Jason, even when you win the case. After all, the plaintiff’s son was killed—by your own son, even if he is not legally culpable. I hope to get away with fifty thousand dollars, to the plaintiff, in the verdict. Plus my fee, of course.”
Jason smiled ruefully and thought about taking out another loan. “Even when you win, you are a loser,” he said.
Mr. McWilliams shrugged lightly and said, “That’s life, Jason. You can’t win.”
“Only lawyers and bankers can.”
Mr. McWilliams laughed in appreciation. “One last bit of advice to you, Jason. Don’t give any more speeches against the war before the trial. You are notorious even in Philadelphia and I suspect even in Washington.”
“What can a man of principle do?”
Mr. McWilliams laughed again and rose. “Cut his throat.”
Molly Dugan had no interest in the war, which disgusted her. Daniel had told her too much. She avoided newspapers, speeches, parades, and the public excitement which had made New York delirious. She traveled to quiet places and read books and took walks in the country, to escape. She spent prolonged periods in the Amish country; she heard no talk of war there. The Amish people lived in peace, with no newspapers or magazines and no marches. It was a world apart, tranquil, engaged in the earth, and God, the eternal verities.
She was not happy, and did not forget. When thoughts of Jason became too unbearable, she moved, always in flight. She was too sensible to feel guilt over Jason. After all, she had been honest before she married Daniel; she said she did not love him but had loved Jason all her life. She was fond of Daniel, and grateful to him, she said. But that was all. He loved her, so he married her. It was not her fault that she found it impossible to forget Jason; she had made Daniel an excellent wife, solicitous and affectionate and considerate. It was not her fault that after a while he found this not enough, and she grieved. She wished that she had been able to love him, but she did not feel guilty. That was for sentimental people who enjoyed being punished for what they could not help. Wallowing in self-pity, Molly thought of them, with scorn. Feeling virtuous for their masochism! Molly thought of Spinoza’s axiom, that to feel guilty for one’s acts is to be twice guilty. The subtlety did not escape her.
But she had not confessed to that joyous day by the river. It would have hurt Daniel unforgivably, and he did not deserve that for loving her.
She came back to New York after Labor Day. The tumultuous city wearied her, and she found refuge in long walks in Central Park, alone. She had few friends; in fact, only acquaintances. The dislocations of public entertainment disconcerted and annoyed her. She had been looking forward to the Ring Cycle, only to learn the tenor—a German—was no longer employed, his contract canceled. What had Richard Wagner to do with this present war?
A particula
r New York newspaper, fervid and passionate, called for the internment of all Germans, whether American-or foreign-born, as “potential traitors.” But there was this impediment: millions of Americans were of German extraction; hundreds of thousands had lived here before the War Between the States. Thousands belonged to the Sons of the American Revolution! And hundreds of thousands had fled Bismarck and his socialism. It was hard to hate them—but the government in Washington tried, particularly Colonel House, who was also covertly interested in Russia and the secret information about Communist unrest, which never was printed in American newspapers. They were not informed.
President Wilson was not informed, either. The idealist could only think of a “league of nations” which should abolish war forever and bring the world to a millennium of peace and brotherhood and universal love—after this “holy conflict,” of course. He dreamed of a world government, too, ignoring the fact of proud human diversity and resplendent different cultures. He was not aware of Moses’ warning, that nations should not intrude on other nations, races, religions, or customs. Uniformity, he believed, led to love. “Difference” led to war. His slogan, “Self-determination of small nations,” would come later, when he was close to death.
It was shortly after July 4 that Molly received one of Lionel’s infrequent letters. It was unusually thick, and when Molly opened it, a mass of newspaper clippings fell out. She read the letter and the clippings with extreme consternation.
“Hotelier’s insane son absolved in accidental shooting of neighbor’s child in Belleville! Crimshaw consented to jurors’ verdict of fifty thousand dollars as recompense for death of little boy! Defendant, Mr. Jason A. Garrity, who pleaded insolvency, expressed profound sympathy for the bereaved family but was spurned by the dead child’s father.… It is rumored that Mr. Garrity is in extreme financial trouble. He has been sued by the defendant’s lawyer, Mr. McWilliams, who refused to accept his $50,000 fee in time payments.”
A period of intense thought ensued for Molly. Then she telephoned her banks in Belleville, Philadelphia, and New York. She did not telephone her brother. She set her beautiful lips resolutely, and her eyes were filled with golden fire.