A. Fair - The Bigger They Come

The sheriff said, ‘By God, I believe you, Lam.’

The district attorney said, ‘Wait a minute. That would mean the gun was fired twice.’

‘Sure, it was fired twice,’ I said.

‘What became of the first bullet?’

‘How the hell do I know? It’s stuck in something.’

‘The gun couldn’t have been fired twice,’ one of the Los Angeles officers said. ‘The magazine holds seven shells. There were six shells in the gun when the boys from Homicide found it.’

I said, ‘I’m telling the truth. I can prove it. I loaded that gun myself. I put seven shells in the magazine, then I jacked one up into the barrel. Then I took the magazine out again, and put an extra shell in. That made eight shells. You get the box of shells in the bureau drawer of room 620 in the Perkins Hotel, and you’ll find there are eight shells gone from the box.’

The sheriff said, ‘He’s right. That accounts for that extra empty cartridge they found in the room.’

The two men from California got up. ‘Well, Donald,’ one of them said, ‘you’re going back with us. Get your things, and we’ll start now.’

‘I don’t want to start now,’ I said. ‘And I don’t have to.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m in Arizona,’ I told him. ‘I don’t like California. It’s too damn hot going across the desert. I’m getting along fine here. I like the jail, and I like the treatment. You give me the dose here and I’ll take it.’

‘Surely, Donald, you aren’t going to make us go to the bother of getting extradition, are you?’

‘I’m not going to leave here.’

One of the cops moved forward belligerently. ‘Why, you dirty—’ The sheriff put a hand on his arm. ‘Not here, buddy,’ he said in a slow drawl that packed plenty of authority.

The district attorney said to the jailor, ‘Take him back to his cell. We’ve got some telephoning to do.’

‘I want a paper and a pen,’ I said.

They exchanged glances, then the sheriff nodded. ‘The jailor will bring them to you.’

I went back to my cell. It was so cold I could hardly keep my knees from knocking together, but I sat there with chattering teeth and wrote by the dim light of a jail incandescent.

After an hour they came back for me. The sheriff said, ‘The stenographer has written out the confession you made. We want to read it to you, and if it’s correct, we want you to sign it.’

‘Sure,’ I said, ‘I’ll sign it, but here’s something that I want filed.’

‘What is it?’ he asked, looking at the scrawled pages.

‘That,’ I said, ‘is the application of Donald Lam, also known as Peter B. Smith, for a writ of habeas corpus.’

The sheriff said, ‘Donald, you must be crazy. You’ve confessed to cold-blooded, deliberate, premeditated murder.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I killed a rat. Are you going to file this application for habeas corpus, or do I refuse to sign the confession?’

‘I’ll file it,’ he said. ‘I thought you were just a stir-crazy punk. Now I know you’re nuts.’

The courtroom was packed with sweltering humanity. Outside, the sun was melting the pavement in the streets. It was ten o’clock in the morning, but it was already hot. Out in the open air, the heat was dry and easy to bear. Inside the crowded courtroom, the air was soaked with the perspiration of curious spectators.

Judge Raymond C. Oliphant came in and took his seat on the bench. The bailiff called the court to order. The judge looked down at me with curious but kindly eyes. ‘This is the time heretofore fixed,’ he said, ‘for hearing the application of Donald Lam, also known as Peter B. Smith, for the writ of habeas corpus. Are you ready, Mr. Lam?’

‘Yes, your honor.’

‘Have you a lawyer to represent you?’

‘No.’

‘Do you intend to secure one?’

‘No.’

‘I believe you have some funds, Mr. Lam?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘You’re able to hire an attorney if you want one?’

‘I am.’

‘And you don’t want one?’

‘No, your honor.’

The judge turned to the district attorney.

‘Ready for the state,’ the district attorney said.

‘You have filed a return to the writ?’ the judge asked.

‘We have, your honor. It sets forth that the defendant is being? held in custody by virtue of a warrant for his arrest for first degree murder issued in the State of California. Extradition proceedings are being taken, and we expect at any moment to have the requisition flown to Phoenix by plane, and have a writ of extradition issued by the governor of Arizona. I believe I am safe in assuming that this will be done within a matter of hours.’

‘And that is the only reason that the defendant is being held?’ Judge Oliphant asked.

‘Yes, your honor.’

‘There is no doubt as to the identity of the defendant?’

‘No, your honor.’

‘Very well, put on your evidence.’

The district attorney called the sheriff. The sheriff related the circumstances of my arrest. He called the court stenographer, and the stenographer read my statement into evidence.

Judge Oliphant looked down at me rather kindly. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that this is enough proof. You seem, Mr. Lam, to have confessed to what may or may not be first-degree murder. At any rate, it is homicide. The question of degree, the malice, and the amount of premeditation will have to be determined by the California courts. But it is apparent to this court that you are guilty of either first — or second-degree murder. It is, therefore—’

Thanks to the activities of the grievance committee, most of my legal experience had consisted of following involved legal doctrines through the intricacies of a law library. My courtroom experience had been very limited, and my knees were rather wobbly as I got to my feet. But I was mad enough to keep my voice from quavering as I interrupted him.

‘Is it the custom, your honor, to decide a case before the petitioner has had an opportunity to make any showing?’ I asked.

He frowned, and said, ‘I was trying to be easy on you. Go ahead and put on your case if you want to. You’ll just give the California authorities more — I think you should have a lawyer, Mr. Lam.’

‘I don’t want any lawyer,’ I said, and called the officer who had taken me to Yuma as my first witness.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Claude Flinton.’

‘You are an officer of this state?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you brought me to Yuma?’

‘That’s right.’

‘From where?’

‘From El Centro.’

‘Did I leave El Centro voluntarily?’

He laughed and said, ‘You did not. The sheriff of El Centro and I dragged you out and put you in a car, and it was a hot job.’

‘Under what authority?’

‘Because I had a writ of extradition and a warrant of arrest on a felony embezzlement charge with a count of obtaining property under false pretenses.’

‘What did you do with me?’

‘Took you back to Arizona and lodged you here in jail in Yuma.’

‘Did I accompany you of my own free will?’

He grinned and said, ‘You did not.’

I said, ‘That’s all.’

The judge asked in icy tones, ‘Have you any more witnesses, Mr. Lam?’

‘None, your honor.’

‘Very well. I shall now decide the case.’

‘Will I have an opportunity to argue it?’

‘I fail to see where you can say anything which will affect the ruling of the court.’

I said, ‘There is plenty to be said, your honor. The State of California wants me back. A few hours ago, the State of California didn’t want me within its borders. The State of California turned me over to the State of Arizona against my will and wish. I was dragged into the State of Arizona. There can be no question of that.’