Anatomy of a Murder (32 page)

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Authors: Robert Traver

BOOK: Anatomy of a Murder
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“Your witness,” Mitch said.
“Did the bartender return or remain outside?” I asked.
“He came right back in.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“Yes, he said he recognized it was Lieutenant Manion.”
“Anything else?”
“No, he hurried over toward the bar.”
“Are you sure he said nothing else?” I pressed, thinking of the “Buster” business.
“Quite positive. We left shortly after. My wife was nervous—she was expecting, you know.”
“I hadn't known, Mr. Pedersen. Now how long had the bartender stood by your table?”
“Quite a while—well over half an hour, I believe. Perhaps even more. We were in no hurry—a nice moonlit night and all.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Pedersen. Did the bartender sit down and talk with you?”
“He talked but didn't sit down, though we asked him to several times.”
“You
asked
him to sit down?” I said. This was better than I had hoped for—the tired, resting—and watchful—bartender wouldn't even sit down when invited to.
“Yes, but he said he was expecting a friend from out of town and wanted to keep an eye out for him. He kept looking out the window.”
I glanced around to the rows of waiting People's witnesses and found the bartender, Alphonse Paquette, sitting with folded arms and staring straight ahead. Mary Pilant was not to be seen; in fact neither Parnell nor I had observed her around the courthouse since the case had opened.
“Did the bartender talk to you and your party?”
“Occasionally. Just small talk—the weather, fishing, the tourists, the soldiers out at the firing point, how Barney had recently won another pistol shoot, casual stuff like that.”
I could have gone up and kissed the man. “Casual stuff” indeed. “So the bartender told you that Barney had won another pistol shoot?” I said.
“Yes. We didn't pay much attention; it was an old story; Barney was always winning another pistol shoot—I guess he was one of the best in the business.”
I paused thoughtfully. Trial lawyers who sought to polish perfection frequently only managed to cloud it instead. Perhaps I'd better leave well enough alone. I turned around toward Mitch, ignoring Claude Dancer, who was again lurking behind me. “Your witness, Mr. Prosecutor,” I said.
Mitch glanced at Claude Dancer as I watched both him and the jury. Ah, there was the little informative shake of the head. “No questions,” Mitch hurriedly said.
“Mr. Sheriff,” the Judge said, “let's call it a day.”
“Hear ye, hear ye …” the Sheriff thundered.
Parnell nodded at me and then got up and left for the car. I sat at our table and chatted with Laura and the Lieutenant for a spell while Max stood in an arm-folded “they-shall-not-pass” attitude at a respectable distance from our table. When the murmuring shuffling buzzing crowd of onlookers had finally disappeared, presumably winding their way back to the beauty parlors and damp caves where they dozed between murder trials, Max nodded at me and then jerked his head in the direction of the jail and hurried on his way. His little show was over … . My impulse was to let out an exultant whoop. That Max would at this point have left the Lieutenant unattended I took as the best omen so far of the trial; I had been watching carefully for such a sign; I had not the foggiest notion myself how we were progressing.
A lawyer seeking to appraise his case in the midst of a trial is like a deceived husband: he is frequently the last person to suspect the true state of affairs. Max's willingness to let the Lieutenant find his way back to the jail unattended was eloquently telling me that, in his opinion at least, my man was still not in too great danger. And I had developed a wholesome respect for the opinions of Mr. Max Battisfore on matters of mob psychology and the temper of the crowd. After all the man spent most of his waking hours studying it, a veritable Mr. Demos himself. I said nothing of this to the Manions.
“I've got bad news for you, Counselor,” the Lieutenant said.
“Good news, bad news, news around the town,” I hummed. “How now, Herr Lieutenant? Vass iss da pad noose, ya?”
“Laura picked up the mail earlier today and then forgot to give me a letter from the Army.”
“Curses! Don't tell me our psychiatrist has broken a leg?”
“No, not quite that bad. The Army just wrote me they are holding up my pay until this case is over.” He shrugged. “I'm sorry—I'd figured on making another payment on your fee.”
A lawyer in the midst of trying his case is also apt to be like a visiting oilman running daft and amuck at Las Vegas: money is the farthest thing from his thoughts. “Don't worry about it, Lieutenant,” I said airily. “How did you like that left jab I took at our little friend Dancer?”
“Yum,” the Lieutenant said vaguely, and Laura reached over and impulsively touched my arm. “Win or lose, Paul, we'll never forget you. You're wonderful.”
The talk was veering a little on the moist side and I gave the Manions some suggestions that had occurred to me during the day's take. We finally separated, Laura accompanying her husband out through the main courtroom door toward the jail, and I taking my usual route through the Judge's chambers, a half-conscious hangover from my days as D.A.
Judge Weaver was sitting alone at his desk reading a Michigan law report. A stack of opened and unopened bound law reports were lying around him on his desk. The manila folder containing our thick wedge of requested instructions lay at his elbow. He looked up. “Well, Mr. Biegler, another day, another dollar,” he said pleasantly.
“You're a real bearcat for work, Judge,” I said. “When do you eat?”
The Judge smiled. “Oh, I don't know. I guess I'm as lazy as the next man. But when counsel load me up with such brain-cracking requests for instructions as you've dumped on me, a man can't help but work. It looks like I'll be burning the midnight oil.” He patted the manila folder. “You didn't throw these things together overnight.”
“No, Judge,” I said, feeling like a monstrous heel that I couldn't tell him that most of the work was Pamell's. “I hope you're finding some food for thought.”
The Judge laid both of his big knuckly hands palms down in front of him on his desk. At that moment he reminded me of my dead father, Oliver, about to deliver one of his impromptu after-dinner perorations on the beauties of moderation and keeping early hours. The Judge turned and glanced thoughtfully out the window. “In no sense am I passing on the draft instructions you have given me. They mayor may not ultimately be given, in whole or in part.” He looked at me. “But you've obviously toiled and thought so hard over these instructions that it is perhaps only an act of mercy to tell you that so far they are checking out. Your authorities do what they should do: they sustain what you cite them for, no more and no less. So far they are among the best instructions on their points I've ever seen.” He smiled. “Now let's talk about something else. Sit down and ignite one of your hideous Roman candles—they can't all be duds.”
“Thank you, Judge,” I murmured, doubly embarrassed because I could not give old Parnell his just due. “That is generous of you—a man gets pretty lonely and uncertain during a trial like this. It—it's like nightmare and ecstasy all stirred up together.”
“Yes, I know, I know.” The Judge pushed his book away and stuffed his briar pipe. I sat with one leg over the arm of my chair, staring out at the lovely empty lake, longing to be out there, floating along with a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and—and whom? I almost blushed; I had been thinking, of all things, of Mary Pilant.
“You like being a judge, don't you?” I said, forsaking my idle dream.
The Judge glanced at me keenly and smiled. “I have a confession to make, young man,” he said, his pipe finally lit. “I am a rabid fan of murder trials, a fan just as hopeless in my way as those hordes of panting and painted harpies out there who are jamming our sessions. I am endlessly fascinated by the raw drama of a murder trial, of the defendant fighting so inarticulately for his freedom—his is the drama of understatement—, of the opposing counsel—those masters of overstatement, flamboyantly fighting for victory, for reputation, for more clients, for political advancement, for God knows what—, of the weathervane jury swaying this way and that, of the judge himself trying his damnedest to guess right and at the same time preserve a measure of decorum.” He paused. “Yes, a murder trial is a fascinating pageant.”
“Yes, Judge,” I agreed soberly. “No play in the world is quite like it. In this kind of drama the show may not only close abruptly but the main actors lose all if they fail.”
“It is interesting you should have said that.” The Judge reached for a law book. “Listen to this. I found it the other day in Callaghan's work on Michigan procedure and practice—at Section 38.48. The editor who wrote it must be a frustrated philosopher or novelist.” He expertly flipped the pages and stopped, murmuring “dum-dum-dum-dum” till he found the place. “Here it is. He is talking about jury trials.” The Judge paused and cleared his throat and began reading.
“‘In the course of any jury trial there are likely to be many incidents which will later be raised, by disappointed and astute counsel, as ground for overturning the result,'” the Judge read. “‘This is particularly true in criminal trials, wherein every possible method of influencing the jury one way or the other is customarily resorted to and every conceivable error, in case of appeal, is presented to the reviewing court.'”
The Judge paused and looked up. “Here's the part. Now listen to this. ‘The field is a most interesting one. It so far supersedes and renders inconsequential both stage and screen productions, and the
best products of the novelists, by sheer force of accumulated actual experience, as to make outpourings of the imagination pale and wilt by factual contrast … . Whenever there is a jury trial there is neighborhood interest, reputations at stake, serious liability, and often even future life involved.'”
“Amen,” I said. “That man certainly said a mouthful.”
The Judge closed his book and slowly shoved it away. “I've presided at murder trials all over the state,” he went on. “I actually look for the assignments. Most judges duck ‘em and say they can't abide all the ranting and emotional corn. Downstate all the other judges near my bailiwick shake their heads and call me ‘First Degree' Weaver.” The Judge paused and smiled. “My passion for murder is almost illicit. And for all my concern and reverence for the law I sometimes ruefully suspect that the average murder jury really decides its cases
regardless
of the law.” He shrugged and smiled. “That's quite a somber admission from a dedicated old bookworm like me. But I can't help but suspect that you're a student of the same theory yourself—and also of the psychology of the jury.”
“Pretty much, Judge,” I said. “I've never stopped to figure it out, I guess. But I also guess that men will never devise a better system of determining their clashes with each other and society. At least our jury system, for all its absurdities and imperfections, achieves a sort of rough democracy in action—at least the result is not preordained as it is in some places.”
“Ah, yes,” the Judge said, looking out over the lake. “Yet we cannot help but dream and grope for perfection … .”
“Like a dog baying at the moon,” I said.
The Judge nodded his head and lowered his voice. “Man is the only animal that laughs and weeps,” he said, “for he is the only animal that is struck by the difference between what things are and what they ought to be.”
“That's a powerful observation, Judge,” I said. “And spoken beautifully.”
The Judge laughed and knocked out his pipe. “I may have said it beautifully, young man, but a fellow called Hazlitt happens to have written it. You better read that man some time if you haven't; he was afflicted terribly with character and brains—two commodities for the possession of which I've observed the ordinary run of men are not excessively notable.”
There was a clatter at the outside mahogany door, which opened
to introduce a mop handle and a large steaming pail of water and, finally, Smoky Madigan.
“Sorry, gen'emen,” Smoky apologized, bowing contritely and noisily backing out. “I figgered the coast was clear.” The heavy door clicked closed.
I arose and crushed out my cigar. “Judge,” I said slowly, “I like your man Hazlitt's sentiments.” I paused and nodded at the closed door. “He encourages me to be bold, in fact … .” I again paused, wondering if I dared speak my mind. “If—if I were still prosecutor of this county I'd have dismissed that felony breaking and entering case against that poor bastard and instead charged him with simple larceny and recommended a short rest cure with the Sheriff across the alley, a place where he'd be happy and do some good, not festering down at the branch prison among a lot of hopeless pros. If that man is a criminal then my name is William Hazlitt.”
The Judge smiled. “The court is always sensitive to the views of counsel, who are after all officers of the court. We will see, Mr. Biegler, we will see.”
“Thank you, Judge, and good night. It was pleasant to chat with you. And happy law-looking.”
The Judge looked up from his book to which he had already returned, smiling absently. “Most pleasant, Mr. Biegler, most pleasant. Good day, sir.”
I hurried away to tell Parnell the compliment the Judge had paid our instructions and supporting brief. As I clattered down the acres of soiled marble stairs I felt very expansive and virtuous, like a boy scout who had just thrown a rope to a drowning Smoky Madigan. Or had the rope instead been flung from the distant grave of a thoughtful Englishman who had once written “Man is the only animal that laughs and weeps …”?
Parnell was not in the car or anywhere around. I peered in the car to see if he had left his brief case. There was no brief case but I found a hurriedly scribbled note on the seat. “Dear Polly,” it read, “The old rabbit hound is off on a fresh scent. I can't wait any longer. Don't worry. I'll see you sometime late tomorrow if I'm lucky. And how do I get around? Young man, I've paroled myself and got me a new driver's license and rented a car. You're doing beautifully as I knew you would. Watch out for little Dancer. Now don't worry. Parn.”
“Oh, Lord,” I said, and I dashed into the jail and brushed past
Sulo into the empty sheriff's office and phoned Maida at her apartment.
“Maida,” I said, “where in hell is Parnell? What is he up to?” I read her the cryptic note and explained his disappearance during the day and again now. Maida had not the foggiest notion where he was, honest cross her heart she hadn't.
“Listen, young lady,” I said. “You're lying by your grammar school clock. I can always tell when you're lying-after all, I taught you. What're you two up to? What's this sly mysterious work he's been giving you? Come on—talk, damn it.”
Instead of talking Maida got her “dandruff” up, as Sulo Kangas might put it. “I won't tell you,” she snapped. “I promised not to. Parnell doesn't want you to know or to worry. So don't keep asking me—damn it.”
“But I
am
worried,” I wailed. “He's a sick overworked old man who hasn't driven a car in over ten years. And that was a hundred-year-old Maxwell that he shifted by prayer and clanking a series of chains. Are you still on the line? Talk, damn it, or—or I'll fire you.”
“Fire
me
?” Maida cooed. “First, Buster, you'll have to pay me what you owe me or I'll have the law on your neck. Mitch would be delighted.”

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