“Anything can be,” said Judge Warfield sharply.
“Except, says the state, Mrs. Gorsuch’s guilt.”
“She’s not on trial, I remind you.”
“I hope not—I don’t want the job of proving her guilt. My job is to prove reasonable doubt of Miss Conlon’s guilt, on the basis of Mrs. Gorsuch’s possible guilt! ‘Anything can be,’ as your honor so cogently says, but this parcel of guilt has been placed out of reach by the state, up high on a separate shelf, with a don’t-open-until-Christmas sticker on it. Your honor, I must open it up. I must know what’s inside. I must be allowed to find out.”
“Suppose nothing’s inside?” asked Mr. Kuhn.
“Then Miss Conlon will pay, very dearly.”
“If you have a case?” Mr. Kuhn barely murmured it, but Mr. Pender took him up quickly. “Ah, yes,” he cut in. “We know this ancient adage: ‘If you have a case, try it—if not, try your accusers.’ There’s another, still more ancient, one of the oldest our language knows: ‘Murder will out!’ The defense doesn’t fear this ancient saw—it wants this murder out in the open, where it belongs. Why does the state insist on tying it up?”
“Objection withdrawn,” said Mr. Kuhn.
“Proceed,” said Judge Warfield.
“Mrs. Gorsuch,” said Mr. Pender, “could we go back just a bit to your husband’s change of attitude after his father died. Did he say anything to you that explained his reason for this?”
“Well, I don’t know. He was upset.”
“By—grief, could we say?”
“Why, yes. Of course. Naturally.”
“At the millions he now stood to inherit?”
But once more Mr. Kuhn objected. “In the name of God,” he asked, “what do the millions have to do with this case?”
“May it please the court,” said Mr. Pender, “I’m glad the state has asked. The millions could have been—I don’t say they were, but they could have been—the motive this lady had to wish her husband dead.” And then solicitously, colloquially, to Mr. Kuhn: “You remember them motives, don’t you? Miss Conlon’s yen for revenge? On a guy that done her wrong? He done Mrs. Gorsuch wrong, as a faithless husband to her, and we’ve had one flash already of her vindictive spirit. The money Miss Conlon would make—remember the cash? The twenty-five thousand bucks? Mrs. Gorsuch stood to make millions by her husband’s death. Your case, my young friend, has boomeranged.”
“I’d say yours is sheer name-blackening.”
“Yes,” said Judge Warfield. “So far, Mr. Pender, with nothing to back it up except the claim that it ‘could be,’ that’s about all it amounts to. Once again, anything can be.”
“Your honor, I have positive evidence.”
“I must have some clue to its nature before I let you proceed with this line of questioning. So far, it’s only a smear.”
“Its nature, your honor, is simple. The state makes quite a point about the police, how they proved the statements false that Miss Conlon made to them. I’ll show, however, that far from proving them false, they actually proved nothing at all—except that a car was parked in the Gorsuch drive the night the deceased met his end, that it was of the same color, type, and make as the car Mrs. Gorsuch drove, such a car, I may add, as could have been had by rental from a dozen agencies here, none of which was checked by the police. The police say they tried this ‘stunt,’ as they call it, of driving up without lights on the stretch of road in question, and report ‘it can’t be done—anyone trying it would surely break his neck.’ Well, that’s what they think. But I’ll bring a witness, your honor, who’ll tell how it was done, a few nights before the fatal one, by a car which pulled up on him, also without lights, blew its horn at him as Miss Conlon says the horn was blown at Gorsuch—and forced him off the road. What with one thing and another, when Miss Conlon had told her story and been disbelieved by the police, he communicated with me instead of with them. He thinks, as Miss Conlon and the deceased were both at work in their nightclub the night this happened to him, that it was a practice run, preliminary to the real one, the one that caused Gorsuch’s death—and I happen to think so too. Or in other words, your honor, the police did nothing at all to check the obvious possibility that Mrs. Gorsuch had a confederate, to whom she lent her car that night, and who—”
“Wait! Can you produce a confederate?”
“No, your honor. For some reason I can only conjecture, perhaps electrophobia, he hasn’t come forward yet. He could exist, however. He could be sitting right now in this very courtroom. Who are you looking at?”
Mr. Pender ripped it at Sally, whose eyes had sought Clay’s, and she at once ripped back: “Who says I’m looking at anyone? What are you getting at? What are you trying to say?”
“MR. PENDER!”
Judge Warfield’s tone wasn’t loud, but it filled the whole room. Obviously he was furious, and he went on: “I fine you one hundred dollars for contempt of this court.”
“I apologize, your honor.”
“I’ll stand for no cheap, theatrical tricks of the kind you just indulged in, no booby-trapping of witnesses, no grand stand plays for the jury’s benefit. You know better than that, Mr. Pender.”
“I regret my outbreak, sir.”
“It was not an outbreak. It was deliberate.”
“I’m sorry. That I have to deny.”
The judge was stern, but so was Mr. Pender. Taking out his wallet, he walked over to the bailiff and handed him a bill. “Have I permission to proceed?” he asked.
“As admonished, you have.”
“Mrs. Gorsuch,” he asked, “when I uttered the word ‘confederate,’ you looked at someone in the courtroom. May I ask who that person was?”
“That’s better,” said the judge.
“Well, Mr. Pender,” said Sally, uncrossing and recrossing her very pretty legs, “I did look away, that’s true, but what at, I disrecollect—not anything, that I recall. All it amounted to was: I was sick of looking at you.”
The crowd laughed.
Judge Warfield laughed.
Mr. Kuhn laughed. Mr. Pender laughed.
Clay’s heart had skipped a beat when Sally’s eyes drilled at him, and he had had a constricted sensation, as though he couldn’t breathe. He had been feeling exultant while she was being clobbered, but now had a horrible suspicion that the clobbering was going too far, that it would soon get out of hand. At lunch he wanted to suggest that “we put the brakes on a little,” but Mr. Pender wouldn’t see him, being huddled at first with Mike Dominick and then with two other men. He ate at a table alone, and all through the afternoon was in a nervous sweat while Mr. Pender continued with Sally, scoring various points, mainly as he provoked her to a succession of ill-humored outbreaks, all sharply at variance with the wan, wilted widow she had seemed to be at first. But at last she was excused, and his spirits came up fast as Mr. Pender went grimly on, taking an insurance man over the jumps, as well as a city detective, who defended his work on the case, saying, “We deal with what is, not what might be, Mr. Pender—like his honor says, that could be anything, including snowballs in—wherever you’re going next time.” He was fairly sullen and made everyone laugh, including, once more, Mr. Pender. Clay was really bucked up when adjournment finally came, and his arm was caught going out as Mr. Pender whispered: “We got ’em on the run—it’s really looking good. Hey, maybe it was the truth, what that dame said—Buster, I’m talking about. That would be something, wouldn’t it? Me, believing my own case!”
Grace fed him and loved him and held his head to her breast, all the while murmuring encouragement: “What difference does it make who got clobbered today or how much? All that matters is Buster and getting her off. Once she’s in the clear, we’ll forget this dreadful mess, as we forget a dream. We’ve both done our share—and I’d like to remind you, Clay, twelve and a half thousand dollars aren’t peanuts in anyone’s court. We’ve done plenty already—I as well as you. And we’ll continue that way—we’ll do what has
to be done to get this girl off. Once that’s out of the way, the sun comes up once more!”
He was comforted and replied in amiable growls, suggesting around nine that “we call it off and go to bed.” She agreed, and they got up from her modernist sofa, where they had been lying close, and started toward her bedroom. But before they reached it the buzzer sounded, and she went to open the door. Sally was in the hall, still in her black wool suit, her face twisted with rage. Coming in, she advanced on Clay and snarled at him: “You did that to me! You’re in cahoots with that guy! I’ve seen you with him—don’t pretend you had nothing to do with it! Well, let me tell you something. You—”
“Let me tell you something!”
Grace stepped in between and for a few moments told Sally off, for her “rotten, vindictive nature,” which left your father aghast, frightened Mr. El, froze poor Alec so he walked out on you, and finally brought you to this, the shadow of the electric chair! You—!”
With surprising dexterity for one so gracefully slim, she jerked Sally to her knees and began slapping her face. Sally screamed and cursed at her. At that, she really hooked things up. Holding Sally by the head, her hand clutching the soft felt hat, she slapped and slapped hard, so one of Sally’s cheeks was suddenly red. Then: “Get up!” she snapped, stepping back. And when Sally rose: “Get out!”
“Go to hell, you poor mope. I’ll go when I—”
Another slap cut that off, and then she grabbed Sally and hustled her to the door. Opening it, she pushed her out. But Sally, turning to Clay, snarled: “Not so fast. I still haven’t told him what I came here to say! That shadow she’s talking about, it’s big enough for two. Try some more tricks, why don’t you! I’ll not go alone! Did you hear what I said?”
“We got ’em on the run. We must have or she wouldn’t have come. If she’s sweating blood, let her!”
23
BUT NEXT MORNING MR. PENDER took a setback when the stuttering boy took the stand, the parking-lot attendant who had heard the brawl that night and told in exact detail how Buster had said: “I’ll k-k-k-kill you!” He was not cross-examined, for the reason, as Mr. Pender explained at lunch: “I couldn’t risk getting into the position of deriding a physical infirmity. Taking him over the jumps could easily have looked like that and only have made things worse. And, Clay, it’s bad. That damned K-K-K-Katy stuff, I’ll k-k-k-kill you,’ is the kind of thing that stays in your ear when other stuff is forgotten—and it worries me. If it wasn’t for that, this jury would vote an acquittal without even leaving the box—I could feel it yesterday that I had ’em. If only someone would come, would sit down at the table with us and whisper he heard that row, that he was out there parked in his car and could testify under oath that it didn’t happen at all the way that clown said! A fat chance. All kinds of people have come—like that guy I’ll put on the stand, the one who was run off the road, the one who’ll shoot holes in the cops’ report, and others, friends of Buster, offering to speak for her, be her character witness, believe it or not. But this one guy that I need won’t show.”
“Nat, he has showed,” said Clay.
Startled, Nat stared, and Clay stared too, at his fingertips, as though a bit startled himself. “May surprise you, but I was parked out there myself, alongside the lot, and heard the whole thing. She was furious, but she didn’t say she would kill him.”
“Lean back, Clay, quick! I might kiss you!”
“Nevertheless, it’s a fact.”
“But what were you doing there?”
“Calling on Mike Dominick—I sell him meat, don’t forget. After the row I decided it wasn’t the night and drove home. Just the same, I was there.”
“Brother! It’s in the bag, we can’t lose!”
And so it seemed, not only to Mr. Pender but also to Grace, when Clay called for a quick confab, from a courthouse pay station, just before court convened. “Oh, certainly!” she exclaimed. “If there’s anything, anything at all, that you can truthfully say, to offset it, what that crazy boy said, by all means do it! Clay, the time is now, and the point of it is, get her off! Get her off, get her off, get her off! You’re going to testify anyhow, and there’s no sense at all in withholding the one thing that’s going to count.” So in midafternoon, when the state had finished its case, with a thick-faced electrician who told of the ladder incident, with Buster “bugging the guy, keeping at him to climb up and look”—so the threats on the parking lot was ominously prereinforced, redoubled in depth, so to speak—Clay took the stand to lead off for the defense, following a brief, solemn statement by Mr. Pender as to what his case would involve. Clay gave his name in his best big-shot manner: brisk, crisp, and importantly amiable. At once he hit a nice note of disbelief, of amused contempt, even, for the accusation against Buster, quickly disposing of the ladder incident. “For that I guess I’m responsible,” he admitted in an easy, offhand way. Then, after telling of the visit from Mr. Alexis and Buster, the greetings from Mike, and so on, he said: “I warned Mr. Alexis—as he called himself to me—of the importance of getting his rails level, else his cradle, with Miss Conlon dangling from it, might go rolling off somewhere and land her behind the eight ball.” He repeated the Mexico City anecdote, and Mr. Pender interrupted: “Did they test the rails at all?”
“They did. He, and later she.”
“How did she test, Mr. Lockwood?”
“I lifted her, and she swung on them.”
“How did he react to this?”
“He got sore that I should be touching her—he certainly didn’t act like a guy that would ever desert her and—”
“Object,” said Mr. Kuhn.
“Sustained,” said the judge. And then to Clay: “Tell what he said or did, not what you think it meant.”
“Yes, your honor,” said Clay.
“The reporter will strike, the jury disregard, this last remark of the witness. Mr. Pender, please—?”
“What did he say when you lifted her?”
“That she should get down by herself—or something like that. I told him, not in my place—she might fall and break her leg, and Grant’s, Inc., could be sued.”
“And then?”
“I lifted her down.”
“His manner, then, was jealous?”
“Object.”
“Sustained.”
So far Mr. Kuhn had shown no surprise, and he seemed aware already of what Clay related. But from the way he looked up, the next question obviously caught him off balance. “This visit,” asked Mr. Pender, “did it have an aftermath?”
“It did, in a way,” said Clay.
“Will you tell what it led to, then?”
“Well, there was Mike, who had sent his best regards by Alexis, and who I’d done nothing about all summer. But he buys my meat, after all, and I thought it was just about time for me to show some interest—in his reconditioned club and his plans for ten-ounce steaks.”
“By interest, you mean you decided to call?”
“To drop in for a chat.”
“At his club?”
“The Lilac Flamingo, that’s right.”
“And you did drop in?”
“I did—drove up there one night and parked.”
“On the Lilac Flamingo lot?”
“On the street, next to the lot. Well, there was space there at the curb, and why waste a buck? On that parking attendant of Mike, who spatters spit when he talks—and I didn’t have my umbrella.”
“Object.”
“Sustained.”
Clay’s crack got a laugh from the courtroom, but Mr. Pender didn’t smile. “Mr. Lockwood,” he said piously, “the boy can’t help his affliction.”
“He can help his l-l-l-lies,” said Clay.
He sounded like Frank Fontaine, and this time the crowd gave a roar, with hand-clapping mixed in. Plainly they liked this big, good-looking witness, and their sudden silence was hostile as the judge said to Clay: “Mr. Lockwood, you’ve already been warned about gratuitous opinio
n. I fine you one hundred dollars for contempt.”
Clay, patterning his behavior after Mr. Pender’s, got up, took out his wallet, counted some bills, and handed them to the bailiff. But his face reddened, and before resuming his seat he said: “Your honor, if I showed contempt for this court, I did so unintentionally, and apologize. But, if this be contempt, to louse this silly case up by letting the truth in, I can only repeat: someone primed this little jerk up, filled him full of lies, as nothing took place that night resembling what he said here in this place today. I was there. I know. If I’m again in contempt, I have more cash in my pocket.”
He sat down, and the judge thought a long time. Then, to Mr. Kuhn: “Are you going to move a mistrial?”
“Or a dismissal?” asked a grinning Mr. Pender.
“... I’ll let it ride,” said Mr. Kuhn.
“Mr. Lockwood,” said the judge, “this court is so impressed by your sincerity that I’m remitting your fine and instruct the bailiff to hand it back.” Waiting until Clay had taken his money, he went on: “However, the law is the law, and if there’s one more lapse on your part, cash will not be enough. I intend to send you to jail.”
“Yes, your honor,” whispered Clay.
“How long were you parked?” asked Mr. Pender.
“Only a few minutes—I meant to go in the club, but then Mr. Alexis came out, by a back door.”
“In the dark you could recognize him?”
“Dark? The lot has floodlights on it.”
“He was in costume, or what?”
“He was in dinner coat, black tie, and pink tarboosh, I believe it’s called.”