Дональд Уэстлейк - Baby, Would I Lie?

“I don’t care,” Ray said. “I’m not goin’ onto that witness chair again.”

They were gathered around the table in the conference room in Warren’s offices, Ray and his defense team, but none of them except Jolie could actually be said to be eating lunch. The rest of them pushed sandwiches around on their plates, not quite looking at the food.

Warren said, “Ray, you dug yourself into this hole; now it’s up to you to dig your way out again.”

“Not a chance,” Ray said.

“Ray, stop and think for a second. Is that really what you want in the jury’s minds when they go in to their deliberations? ‘My Ideal’ ?”

“They’ve heard it,” Ray pointed out. “It’s over and done with.”

“If you go back on the witness stand,” Warren told him, “I’ll be the one asking the questions. Heffner already said he was finished with you.”

“He sure was,” Ray said, and ruefully shook his head.

“So,” Warren went on, “I’ll take you through your history, the evolution of your thinking away from that song.”

“Aw, come on, Warren,” Ray said. “What are you gonna do, start playin songs yourself? Play The Hymn? You’re not a disc jockey. Anyway, then Heffner gets another crack at me, doesn’t he? If you take a double dip, he gets to do the same thing, doesn’t he?”

Reluctantly, Warren said, “Yes, he does.”

“So then he plays ‘The Dog Come Back.’ It isn’t a trial anymore; it’s a greatest hits. Warren, I made a big-enough fool of myself out there. I’m not gonna go do it again, and that’s that.”

Warren looked deeply pained. “It’s the wrong image to leave with the jury,” he insisted.

Jim Chancellor said, “Warren? Don’t we have other witnesses?”

“Oh sure,” Warren said. “I was going to put on half a dozen character witnesses, but how can I, in the teeth of that song? I’ll be maligning their characters instead of boosting Ray’s. Milt Lieberson flew in from L.A. to testify, and wouldn’t that be great, a Hollywood Jew agent telling these fine folk what a great character Ray Jones has.”

Jolie, around a mouthful of sandwich, said, “Forget character witnesses.”

“They’re forgotten,” Warren assured her. “And I also had three Ray Jones Theater employees to say there was never anything between Ray and Belle Hardwick, but so what? A guy who prefers his women to turn into pizzas at three in the morning isn’t likely to be known for his long-term relationships.”

Ray said, “What about my ex-wife?”

Warren gave him a look of deep mistrust. “What about her?”

“Put Cherry on the stand,” Ray suggested. “ There’s a long-term relationship for you.”

Jolie was heard to groan. Ray turned to her, saying, “Come on, Jolie, you know that’s true. I’ve kept up with my alimony payments, and I was never a minute behind in my child support.” To Warren again, he said, “How’s that for character?”

“Ray,” Warren said, “do you really want Fred Heffner asking questions of your ex-wife?”

Ray thought about that, his eyes shifting back and forth. “Probably not,” he said.

Jim Chancellor said, “We have other witnesses, don’t we?”

“Oh certainly,” Warren agreed. “We have three scruffy shifty-eyed no-fixed-abode musicians ready to testify that they borrowed Ray’s sports car for short-term assignations with loose women all the time. Won’t Fred Heffner love them .”

Jolie said, “Forget the car. The car isn’t what it’s about, not anymore.”

Jim said, “Warren, a little earlier you said, if Ray did badly—”

“And at that time, I had no idea,” Warren interjected, “just how badly our friend Ray could do.”

“Thanks,” Ray muttered.

Determined to make his point, Jim said, “You said you’d put witnesses on until the jury forgot Ray’s testimony, no matter how long it took.”

“Not this testimony,” Warren said. “Our grandchildren will remember this testimony.”

Ray said, “Oh, come on. One song?”

“Circling in their heads,” Warren said, “with those ukuleles.”

“Electric guitars.”

“Electric ukuleles, for all I care,” Warren told him. “If I’d had my wits about me, I must admit, I would have insisted you recite those lyrics. Awful as they are, they wouldn’t have stuck quite so forcefully in the jury’s mind. But now, as those jurors sit there trying to determine your guilt or innocence, that song is going to circle in their heads, twang twang twang, and she turns into a pizza at three o’- clock .”

That line, delivered with that much savagery, pretty much silenced everybody in the room for a couple of minutes, until Jolie said, “Warren? Is there anything else to do?”

Warren didn’t answer. He was gazing across the room as though there were something he really despised on that wall over there.

Ray cleared his throat. “Warren,” he said, “if you really want me to go back on the stand...”

Warren roused himself. “No,” he said with a long and pessimistic sigh. “I realize now, that would merely be waiting for the other grenade to drop.”

“You’re probably right,” Ray admitted.

“My entire defense strategy,” Warren said, “is in ruins around my feet.”

“I’m sorry,” Ray said.

Jim said, “Warren? What are we going to do?”

“The only thing we can do,” Warren said. “The defense rests.”

They stared at him in astonishment. Ray cried, “What? I’m our only witness?”

“Let us hope,” Warren said, “I’m brilliant in summation.”

Judge Quigley decided to end the court day with Warren’s announcement that the defense would rest, so the summations would be given by both sides on Wednesday, giving everybody one more night to think it over.

Then Wednesday arrived.

Fred Heffner, in his summation, quoted the lyrics of “My Ideal” — all of them. A little later, he quoted parts of it again. He talked about Ray’s car, found in front of Ray’s house, stained with Belle Hardwick’s blood. He talked about depravity. He talked about rootless show-business people. He talked about Belle Hardwick as a God-fearing working person with a history in this community, a person about whom no one had found one unkind thing to say. He talked about Belle Hardwick trying to fend off the unwanted advances of a brutal and no doubt drunken suitor. He talked about that suitor having the arrogance of fame, show-business fame, leading him to believe he could have whatever he wanted in this world, that he was too important to be denied and that, in any case, he could get away with anything. Heffner talked about that suitor’s increasing fury at Belle Hardwick’s refusal to give in to his lust, a fury that had at last turned murderous. He asked the ladies and gentlemen of the jury to consider just who that suitor might have been. Who else could it have been? Who else had the qualities of depravity, rootlessness, arrogance, social apathy, and disregard for convention that had led to the assault on Belle Hardwick and then her murder? “Ladies and gentlemen, you see him before you, seated at the defense table. If you see anyone else , in or out of this courtroom, anyone at all who might have been responsible for this depraved and wanton destruction of a young woman’s life, then that is reasonable doubt and you must find this fellow innocent. But if he is the only one you see, the only one who might have done it, the only one who could have done it, the only one whose failings of character made such an outcome even possible, then there is no reasonable doubt, is there? Of course, there isn’t. Raymond Jones is a murderer, a foul, foul murderer, and it is your duty, your privilege and your duty, to see that he is put away in such a fashion that he will never never never be in a position to wantonly attack anyone else’s daughter. Your daughter. Or mine.”