Anatomy of a Murder (46 page)

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Authors: Robert Traver

BOOK: Anatomy of a Murder
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“Well, when you got to the tavern with your car what did you do?”
“I remember I got out of the car and walked into the tavern. It seemed almost as though he was expecting me. I wasn't even in the tavern when I saw him watching me through his rear bar window. I watched him. And he kept watching me. As I approached the bar he whirled around on me.”
“What happened after that?”
Again the sighing deep breathing. “I can't—from there on it is a
jumble. My next recollection is back in the trailer. My next coherent recollection is back in the trailer.”
“Can you illustrate for us, Lieutenant, what position the deceased assumed when he turned around?”
The Lieutenant's words came in breathless spurts. “As I say, he turned … To the best of my recollection he turned to his right … his left hand on the bar … I cannot recall seeing his right arm.”
“You say his left hand on the bar or arm and hand?”
“His left forearm. He kind of leaned.”
“State whether or not you remember driving back to the trailer.”
“No, sir; I don't.”
“What happened when you got back to the trailer?”
“I guess I came to.”
“What were you doing when you came to?” I pushed on.
“I was standing with the empty pistol in my hand.”
“How do you know it was empty? Before you answer I would like to show you People's Exhibit Number Eleven, and I ask you if this is your pistol.”
“It is mine, sir.”
“Now how did you know it was empty?”
“This is a semi-automatic pistol—it is recoil operated. This gadget sticks up on the top of the magazine when the last round goes off—and there is not another shell. The piece here holds it back—you can't aim it and you can't release this.”
“In other words by looking at it you could tell it was empty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that substantially as Detective Sergeant Durgo explained it the other day?”
“It was near it. I think he probably knows more about side arms than I do.”
At this point I purposely did not get into how the Lieutenant had got the lüger; I had a little trap set out myself for this one, and if the clever Mr. Dancer evaded it I could still bring it out on re-direct.
“How many people did you see in the bar that night?”
“Only one—the deceased.”
“There has been testimony here that a number of people were in the tavern and at the bar, and that some of them greeted you. Did you observe any of them or were you aware of their greetings?”
“I saw and heard nothing.”
“Now you of course saw and heard these eyewitnesses testify here in court earlier this week?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And did you know prior to that night some of those who claimed to have greeted you?”
“Yes, mostly by sight, but I had spoken to them on previous occasions. The people up there were very friendly.”
“Did you speak to anyone at the bar that night?”
“No, sir.”
“To your best recollection did any one speak to you?”
“No, sir.”
“Including the deceased.”
“That is correct.”
“Do you remember leaving the tavern?”
“I do not.”
“Or talking to the bartender or anyone outside?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you remember returning to the trailer?”
“No, sir.”
“What is the first thing you recollect?”
“I first recall sitting in the trailer with my wife and telling her I guessed I had shot someone, probably the deceased. Then I went over and told Mr. Lemon what I believed I had done.”
“That is the deputized caretaker of the trailer park?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why did you go to him?”
“Well, he was the only one who seemed to be in charge, either there or in the village for that matter.”
“Did you go to him because he was a deputy sheriff?”
“I may have. At any rate I went to him.”
Claude Dancer was scribbling furiously and I knew he would pounce on all this deputy business. “Did you think of Mr. Lemon being a deputy before you went to the bar that night?”
“I did not. I did not think of Mr. Lemon or his being a deputy or about anything but grabbing that man.”
I paused and I pitched a fast ball, as much for Mr. Dancer as anyone. “If you had thought of Mr. Lemon and remembered he was a deputy would you have gone to him?”
“No, sir, I would not have, any more than I'd have got my old father out of bed to go gather in this—this man.”
“Do you recollect what you told Mr. Lemon?”
“Not exactly. I assume I told him what he has testified to here.”
After that I quickly took the Lieutenant over his knowledge of Barney's prowess with pistols; his medals; the fact that it was common knowledge that he possessed pistols and sometimes carried them; his experience at Judo; and, finally, that the Lieutenant possessed this knowledge the night when he went to the bar to “grab” Barney. I purposely avoided his war record, feeling Mr. Dancer would glean more enjoyment rooting for it himself. I then brought out, over the Dancer's strenuous objection, that the Lieutenant had been obliged to retain an Army psychiatrist for financial reasons. Then:
“Lieutenant Manion,” I asked, “on the night of this shooting did you love your wife?”
“I did, sir.”
“Do you still love her?”
He frowned and breathed deeply, clasping the arms of his chair until his knuckles showed white. “Very much, sir.”
I turned to Claude Dancer. “Your witness,” I said and retired to my table.
Claude Dancer got his cross-examination under way with ominous calm. “You don't remember much about that night after you left the trailer, do you, Lieutenant?”
“Well, sir, just as I have already testified,” the Lieutenant parried, and I noted that the People's psychiatrist had at last come to life and was making some notes.
“Have you ever had similar lapses?”
“None other than the ordinary lapses a man might bump into from combat.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, quite often after an action had been completed and we got back to talk it over, if there were ten survivors there'd be ten different stories of what happened.”
“Can you give specific instances rather than generalities?”
Claude Dancer would surely have objected had I tried to bring out anything like this, and yet here he was, diligently wrapping the flag around our man on his own.
“Yes, I recall one incident in Korea. One of my half-tracks was supporting the infantry. I had eight men in this action and a Commie mortar round dropped in and wounded all eight. I happened to be far enough away to see what happened without getting wounded. Several more rounds came in. When we'd silenced the mortar fire and the meds could work on our men, all of them told a different story. They reported that from one to a hundred rounds had come in. There were actually four.”
I glanced at my veteran juror and he was hanging on the Lieutenant's words, white-faced, evidently gripped by some private battle recollection of his own.
“How long did you serve in Korea?” the Dancer went on.
“Nearly sixteen months.”
Mr. Dancer then obligingly took the Lieutenant through World War II, from Sicily up through France and Germany and wound him up on V.J. Day on an island in the far Pacific. As he pressed on I began to see what he was getting at, although the price he was paying seemed a little high.
“Now did you see action in all these places?”
“I did, sir.”
“Were you in constant combat?”
“No, sir, no soldier is ever in constant combat. None that survive,
anyway. We were under constant to intermittent barrage, constantly in a sweat, you might say.”
“And you had skirmishes from time to time?”
“Oh, yes.”
It came to me that the Dancer was also, and not so subtly, demonstrating his own familiarity with combat conditions. The little man had evidently been everywhere and done everything.
“Did you participate in these skirmishes?”
“Yes, sir. As platoon leader I had to.”
“About how long?”
“Sometimes a day, three days, even four. Again sometimes it was three or four days in the hole.”
Claude Dancer paused to hurl another bolt. “And during this time did you experience any unusual mental state of any kind?”
“No, sir. I once had a concussion from shellfire but I was back in action the next day.”
“Were you ever treated for mental disease?”
“No, sir.”
“Were you ever hospitalized for mental neurosis or psychosis?”
“No, sir.”
The Judge was busily engaged making notes, evidently preparing his instructions, and in his zeal Claude Dancer appeared inadvertently to have gotten between the Lieutenant and me. Rather than interrupt I instead got up and moved' over and stood between Mitch's table and the jury, near the scribbling knot of reporters, where I could get an unobstructed view.
“You have testified, Lieutenant,” the Dancer pushed on, “that after you found certain evidence on the person of your wife you immediately slipped your gun in your pocket and left the trailer, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Dancer glanced over his shoulder and noting I had moved, glanced again and once more squarely got between me and the witness and shot his next question. “And were you angry, Lieutenant?” This last blocking maneuver was clearly no longer inadvertent.
“Some,” the Lieutenant admitted. “I guess any man would be.”
In the meantime I had moved back to my table, so that I could see my man, and once again the Dancer spotted me and, with elaborate care, again moved squarely between us—whereupon the attorney for the defense blew his stack.
“Your Honor,” I arose shouting, as the startled Judge looked up.
“May the record show that on three occasions within the last minute the prosecutor has deliberately got himself between me and my client so that I cannot observe him.”
The Dancer fairly leered at me. “Surely
that
wouldn't interfere with anything would it?”
“I further object to the implication that I am signaling or wanted to signal my client. This is the shabbiest courtroom trick I have seen in years.”
“You haven't lived,” the Dancer said, turning coolly back to the Lieutenant. “Lieutenant,” he began, “when—”
“Your Honor,” I interrupted, hotter than ever, “I ask the court's ruling on my objection.”
The Judge was mystified, having been busy and not having seen the incident, a situation which the Dancer had evidently cleverly waited for and which only made me the madder. “What is there to rule on?” the Judge said curtly. “Go ahead, Mr. Dancer.”
“Your Honor,” I persisted, “I cannot let this pass. Please hear me out. I was seated here and Mr. Dancer got between me and my client. I thought it was inadvertent and rather than disturb you, since you were busy, I moved over by the jury. Again counsel got between us, and then I returned to my table. Once more it happened, and then it was clearly not inadvertent, anyone who saw it would know that. I ask that the court instruct this man not to do it again. I am sorry for the explosion but I won't sit and take that kind of guff from anyone.”
I had now irked the Judge in the bargain. “You know very well where you should sit, Mr. Biegler,” he said testily. “If counsel is in the way all you have to do is ask me and I'll move him. I must warn you against any further unseemly explosions. Go ahead.”
The Dancer cocked his head back at me. “Anything else, Mr. Biegler?” he inquired sweetly.
“Yes, Dancer,” I shouted, “you do that just once more and you won't
hear
the next objection—you'll feel it! I–I'll punt you clear into Lake Superior.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the Judge shouted, glaring at us and pounding his gavel. “This infernal backbiting has got to stop. The next man who speaks out of turn will have me to deal with. Proceed, Mr. Dancer.”
After that Mr. Dancer did not get between me and the witness, but he bore in like a bulldog and grabbed the Lieutenant and fairly pelted him with questions. He brought out that the Lieutenant's
military training included the cool appraisal and confirmation of reports; and he repeatedly stressed that the Lieutenant had stayed in the trailer only long enough to confirm this rape report and then had taken his gun and left. He was obviously trying to picture our man as gripped by a cold implacable rage.
“Was your wife reluctant to tell you about the alleged rape?” he purred on.
“Not reluctant; she was hysterical; she couldn't tell anything for a long while.”
“But you questioned her carefully?”
“I did.”
“You wanted to be sure, Lieutenant, that you did not kill the wrong man?”
“Grab, Mr. Dancer—grab the wrong man.”
“Now you had a key to the gate, did you not?”
“Yes, Mr. Lemon gave it to me.”
“And you knew the gate was locked at ten every night?”
“Yes, Mr. Lemon told me that.”
“And your wife knew that, too?”
“Apparently not. I guess I didn't tell her. She had no occasion to use it alone and the few times we did together Mr. Lemon thoughtfully left it open.”
“You knew he was a deputy, didn't you?”
“I don't think I did, but if I had it wouldn't have made any difference.”
“Oh, so you preferred to take the law into your own hands rather than call on Mr. Lemon?”
The Lieutenant eyed Mr. Dancer coolly. “I'd no more have thought of calling on Mr. Lemon to do this job, sir, than I'd have thought of calling on you.”
Mr. Dancer had not forgotten how to blush, and he did so now, to the vast amusement of at least two people in the room: the attorney for the defense and an ex-soldier juror. “Look, Manion,” he rushed on hotly, “when you saw this stuff on your wife's leg you blew your stack and promptly went over to kill Barney Quill and did kill him, didn't you?”
Coolly: “I think we've been over all that, Mr. Dancer. I went over there to grab him.”
“And you did so while carrying a concealed weapon?” Mr. Dancer said scornfully.
“The pistol was out of sight, yes, until I produced it.”
“Concealed contrary to law?”
“I didn't think of that, sir.”
Parnell and I hoped we had legal medicine for this last charge: medicine which I had not even confided to the Lieutenant, and for a moment I felt almost benevolent toward Mr. Dancer—a benevolence which fled with the next question.
“Didn't you tell Detective-Sergeant Durgo that a man who would do that should not live, that you'd first thought it all over from every angle, and that you'd do it again if the occasion arose?”
“I don't recall saying any of that. Nor do I deny saying it. I respect Mr. Durgo's integrity, but I do not recall saying it.”
“You don't deny saying it?”
“No.”
The Dancer had drawn very near the witness, wagging his finger at him in the best Hollywood tradition. “I ask you now, would you do it again?”
I arose laconically. “I am sorry to disturb Your Honor, but if counsel gets any closer to my client I'm afraid my man might succumb to an irresistible impulse and grab
him
. I object to counsel standing so close to the witness.”
“Stand back, Mr. Dancer,” the Judge ordered, and the Dancer quickly retreated, shooting another question as he did. “I ask you now,” he pressed, “would you do it again?”
Coolly: “I rather doubt that I would dare, Mr. Dancer—now that I have met you.”
There was a momentary giggle over this and then a sudden thumping commotion in the back court. I wheeled around and saw a weird scene, as in a surrealist frieze: a young man lurching to his feet, warding off the upstretched restraining hands of seated onlookers, yawing his mouth open, trying desperately to say something. “L—l—let him gug—gug g—go … .” he shouted in a grotesque parody of human speech. “L—let the p-pup—pup—poor-poor-poor …” he gobbled crazily, the rushing words finally spat with dreadful clarity. “
For
Christ's sake let the poor bastard go!”
The Judge's gavel sounded and a cordon of officers descended on the culprit and half carried and half dragged him outside. Cold with fury, the Judge sent the jury to its room and called the Sheriff and counsel into chambers.
The Judge glared at all of us. “Does anyone in this room know anything about this?” he demanded sternly, and since the incident was plainly pro-defense, I flushed and hung my head, feeling like a
guest suspected of stealing all the mink and jewelry at a weekend house party.
“Not I, Your Honor, I swear,” I said. “I like to win my cases but I wouldn't be a party to a thing like that for the world. I never saw the man before.”
Claude Dancer glared at me as though I was lying by the clock and then the red-faced good old Sheriff came to the rescue. “Judge,” Max said, “if anyone is to blame for this incident it is me. This boy was blasted to hell in World War Two but refused to die and we try to be nice to him around here and take him off his mother's hands for a few hours. We'd kept him out of the trial until today and only let him in when he promised to behave. I guess we guessed wrong—he unfortunately blew his top. It must have been all the war talk. In fact that is more than I've ever heard him speak. I am positive that none of the lawyers of parties had anything to do with it. I'm terribly sorry, sir.”
Claude Dancer looked over at me and shook his head. “Even the disabled veterans throw you an assist, you lucky bastard,” he murmured.
“The cause of righteousness shall prevail,” I retorted piously.
“Let's take ten minutes,” the Judge said, still frowning ominously. “I guess,” he added slowly, “I guess there isn't a damned thing we can do. This is just one of the belated casualties of war, one of the lame chickens of our civilization come home to roost.” He shook his head. “The poor, poor bastard,” he murmured. It sounded like a benediction.

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