Дональд Уэстлейк - Baby, Would I Lie?

“The discussion,” Warren said, “should be about the state’s methods this morning. A public arrest, grandstanding—”

Delray interrupted to say, “We take murder seriously in Taney County, Mr. Thurbridge.”

“They take grandstanding seriously in the Bar Association,” Warren told him.

Judge Quigley said, “Mr. Thurbridge, it was not Mr. Del-ray’s decision to arrest Mr. Jones; that was a police decision. If you have a complaint regarding the state police of Missouri, this is not the forum for that complaint.”

Warren looked thoughtful. “Will the Missouri Bar Association believe the state police would take such an action without prior consultation with the public prosecutor? Be interesting to see.”

“The point , Mr. Thurbridge,” Judge Quigley insisted, “is the current matter before the court, which is the capital case against Mr. Jones in the death of Miss Hardwick.”

“I don’t see how we can proceed,” Warren said, “not after this morning’s circus.”

“We can, of course, postpone, if you wish,” Judge Quigley told him. “You may request a change of venue, if you wish. If we postpone, and if the state requests that the matter of Mr. Golker’s death be added to the matter of Miss Hardwick’s death, I would probably be in favor.”

“Never!” Warren snapped. “If the Golker situation is so much as mentioned in front of the jury during the trial, you may count on it, I will be before the appellate court that day.”

“You will have your say, of course,” the judge agreed. “On another matter, if we decide to postpone, I’m sure the state will request that we revoke the bail under which Mr. Jones is currently free, and I would—”

Warren almost did leap to his feet at that point. “You wouldn’t revoke bail!”

“Given the fact that there are now two serious and savage murder accusations against Mr. Jones, were we to have a delay of several weeks during which he could decide to flee the country — I believe Mr. Jones is a fairly wealthy man — I would be very much inclined to revoke bail, yes.”

Warren considered, keeping himself calm. “You want to go forward, as though nothing had happened.”

“That might be best,” the judge told him. “I’ll let you decide.”

“Perform a little circus in front of the potential jurors and then go on as before. If I agree with that, Ray’s bail continues.”

“Of course.”

“If I refuse, you’ll lock him up until the trial.”

“To assure his appearance, yes.”

Warren said, “Your Honor, you don’t appear to be interested in even the appearance of evenhandedness here.”

“Be careful, Mr. Thurbridge,” she warned him. “Whatever treatment you may be used to in other states, we in Missouri can be quite severe in the face of wild accusations. Take care.”

Warren gave her a level look. “In a well-publicized and important case like this,” he said, “I think we’ll all be careful, don’t you?”

She shrugged that off. “What’s your decision, Mr. Thurbridge?”

Warren brooded. Judge Quigley looked stern and unmoving. Buford Delray looked like the cat that raped the canary. In the little silence preceding Warren’s capitulation, the Englishman, Fernit-Branca, said, “Fascinating, American justice, all in all.”

Afterward, Ray understood that the little interrogation they’d run him through was just bullshit, a stalling session while Warren was being nailed to the wall by the prosecutor and the judge, but at the time it was going on, he didn’t get it, and for a few minutes there he got truly rattled. The troopers arrested him in front of the bus, they put handcuffs on him for the brief walk into the courthouse, they took him upstairs and through a hall full of local citizens waiting to be called as jurors — all of whom gawked at the celebrity in handcuffs, a dream come true — they took him into a small underfurnished room, and there they removed the cuffs, read him his rights, took his fingerprints, sat him down at a little metal table, and clumsily questioned him for about half an hour. Clumsily, because in fact they told him a lot more than he told them. There were half a dozen of them, in uniforms and plainclothes, led by a craggy-faced chief interrogator, and from their questions, Ray put together the story: Bob Golker’s body had been found in a car at the bottom of Lake Taneycomo, blood full of alcohol and lungs full of water. He’d died no more than twenty-four hours after Belle. And what did Ray Jones have to say to all that?

That was Ray’s first real moment of doubt. He almost broke down at that point and told the truth; but one look at those closed dumb official faces all around him and he realized the truth would be utterly wasted if used here. So, while they were stalling him, he stalled right back.

Jury selection had been supposed to start at 9:30, so it had been just a little before that time when Ray and the bus had arrived, and it was just a little after ten when the chief interrogator was called out of the room for a minute. The others halfheartedly went on with their bullshit, but everybody looked relieved when the interrogator came back a few minutes later and said, “Okay, Ray, that’s all for now. The deputy will escort you to the courtroom.”

“For what?” Ray asked.

The interrogator looked surprised. “For what? You came here for jury selection, didn’t you?”

“That’s goin ahead?”

“The deputy will escort you.”

The deputy, a blond gelding in tan, gestured with a hand that didn’t quite grasp Ray’s elbow. “Come along.”

Ray looked at his fingers, still black with ink from the printing. “Got to wash my hands,” he said.

“No time,” the deputy said.

Ray looked at him, looked around at the rest of these assholes, and grinned. “I may be a country boy,” he said, “but I know better than to walk into that courtroom and those folks on the jury with ink on my fingers. You’ve had your fun jerkin me around, but it’s over.”

The chief interrogator looked like a fella eating a bad clam. “The deputy will escort you to the washroom.”

“That’s more like it,” Ray said, getting to his feet. “And tell him, while we’re in there, keep his hands to himself.”

That shocked the dumbos into silence. Ray and the deputy went around the corner to the men’s room and Ray washed the black off his fingertips. Then the two of them walked together down the hall full of people waiting to be called for jury duty — Ray now grinning left and right, waving, demonstrating unfettered hands — and into the courtroom, crowded with press in the public seats and lawyers up front.

The judge looked like the orphanage operator in Annie ; not a good sign. She glowered at Ray for his whole walk between the rear door and the defendant’s table. Ray ignored her as best he could, took the empty chair beside Warren Thurbridge, and leaned over to half-whisper, “We havin fun yet?”

Warren gave him a bleak smile. “When the going gets tough,” he said.

Ray looked interested. “Yeah. What happens then?”

“Wait and see.”

So Ray waited and saw, for the next two hours until lunchtime, and there wasn’t much fun in it. Most of the time, he didn’t know what the hell was going on, and when he did know what was going on, he didn’t like it.

One by one, the prospective jurors were put on the witness stand and asked questions. Sometimes the questions were asked by the judge; sometimes by the prosecutor, Buford Delray; sometimes by the state prosecutor, Fred Heffner; sometimes by Warren; and sometimes by Warren’s local legal beagle, Jim Chancellor. The questions had to do with what the people knew about the case and what they knew about Ray and what attitude they had toward capital punishment. (Those who didn’t like capital punishment were automatically excluded, which meant the very first cull was in favor of the bloody-minded. Great.)