Ace Atkins - Devil’s garden

Roscoe looked to Dominguez and Dominguez gave a polite nod, a confident smile, and soon got to his feet, replacing U’Ren before the bench.

“Did you see Mr. Arbuckle under the influence of liquor there at any time?” Dominguez asked.

“No, not under the influence of liquor.”

“His conduct was perfectly proper the whole time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that of a gentleman?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did he show any marked difference in his treatment of any one of the ladies there at all?”

“No, sir. He was the entertainer of the party.”

“In other words, he treated all the ladies who were present the same way he did Miss Rappe, isn’t that true?”

“Yes, sir.”

U’Ren was on his feet spitting out objections, his weaseled face red and pinched and sweating. Words were exchanged, and he returned to his chair, only to return minutes later before Semnacher. Roscoe watched but didn’t whisper over to Dominguez or shake his head or show any bit of emotion. He’d just let it all play out, let the fellas tussle on their own.

“Did Mr. Arbuckle say he had mistreated Miss Rappe?” U’Ren asked.

“No, sir.”

U’Ren gave a little laugh. A crooked little smile.

“He didn’t make the remark that he’d placed a piece of ice in Miss Rappe’s person?”

Roscoe held his breath, watching the smile on the lips of that bastard, knowing where it was all headed. He clenched his jaw, his right hand trembling.

“I don’t recall.”

“You don’t recall if he made the statement or where he placed the ice?” U’Ren asked.

“I never said ‘in.’ ”

“What did you tell the detectives, sir? I remind you that you are under oath.”

“On.”

“Where was the ice placed?”

Semnacher looked right at Dominguez, only catching Roscoe’s eye, and then back at U’Ren, shifting in his seat, uncrossing his right leg and then crossing it again. Come on, you bastard.

“On her vagina.”

Roscoe let out all his breath.

“Would you please repeat the exact word told to you by Mr. Arbuckle? Or would you prefer me reading your statement to Detective Reagan?”

“It’s not proper.”

“Sir?”

“I said it’s not proper.”

“It’s completely proper in the context of the proceedings.”

Semnacher glanced over at Judge Lazarus, who nodded with his chin.

“He said he placed it on her snatch.”

Women gasped. One squealed with horror. Roscoe turned in his chair to see the words repeated into an old woman’s tin horn. The old woman’s eyes grew large and she began to choke.

“But you don’t consider the placement of a piece of ice on a nude young woman improper?” U’Ren asked.

Dominguez stood and objected. Roscoe dropped his face into his waiting fingers and rubbed his eyes and forehead.

“He was trying to revive her,” Semnacher said.

“Would the court please instruct Mr. Semnacher to only answer the question?” U’Ren said. “He is not here to speak on Mr. Arbuckle’s intentions.”

Through his loose fingers, Roscoe watched U’Ren turn to the courtroom. He leaned a skinny arm against the witness stand, looking as loose and disjointed as a scarecrow. He peered up into the ladies hanging over the balcony railing and for a second gave a little grin. A confident batter at the plate.

“At what time did you hear Mrs. Delmont screaming for Mr. Arbuckle to open the door to room 1219?”

“I didn’t hear her scream.”

“Mr. Semnacher?”

“I don’t recall her screaming.”

“Surely you heard her banging on the door with the heel of her shoe?”

“That’s not what I recall.”

“Are you having memory problems, sir?”

“The mind is a funny thing.”

“Some minds are funnier than others.”

U’Ren paced back and forth in front of Judge Lazarus. Judge Lazarus followed the little lawyer with his eyes, never moving his big jaw from his hand. U’Ren walked back to the prosecutor’s table and exchanged whispers with the district attorney, Judge Brady. Judge Brady stood and walked to the railing, leaned over, and whispered something to the Delmont woman.

Maude Delmont, dressed all in black, nodded her head and wiped her nose with a handkerchief. Roscoe looked to Dominguez and Dominguez raised his eyebrows, hands resting on his large stomach waiting to see what was about to be sprung.

“Is it not true that you left the party with Miss Rappe’s undergarments? Her brassiere, bloomers, and garters?”

“I fished a waistcoat from the trash bin.”

“For what purpose?”

“I planned on joshing her later about her condition.”

“Did you not tell Mrs. Delmont, the very person who accompanied you to the Arbuckle suite, that you needed the clothing to wash your machine? Which was it?”

Women laughed. Lazarus stopped the court and spoke for a while, and U’Ren asked the question again. Al Semnacher leaned forward from the witness stand and cleared his throat, speaking loud enough for the ladies in the balcony.

“Maude Delmont is a known liar,” he said.

MAUDE DELMONT GASPED, closed her eyes, and pretended to faint. Kate Eisenhart caught her and hoisted her into her big lap, tapping Maude’s hand over and over and calling her name. Women craned their necks and whispered, and policewoman Kate Eisenhart told the lot of them to get back as she picked up Maude Delmont, threw her over a shoulder, and walked her from the courtroom like a big-game prize. As she walked, Maude opened one eye and looked back at Semnacher on the stand.

That bastard. That lousy prick.

Big Kate took her down the steps and out the front door of the Hall of Justice and told them newspapermen if they took one snap, she’d kick ’em all in the balls. She yelled for a glass of water, fanning Maude Delmont’s face and unpinning the wide-brimmed black hat. Maude fluttered her eyes open and then closed them again.

“Maude?”

She opened her eyes and righted herself on the granite steps, looking out on Portsmouth Square.

“That horrible man,” Kate said.

“The heat is awful,” Maude said. “All this black.”

Kate had a copy of the Examiner she’d plucked from the hands of a curious newsboy and waved it high up and down, breezing Maude’s face. A cup of water was placed in Maude’s hand and she stood.

“He can’t make up those things,” Kate said. “Not in this town, he can’t.”

“Movie people are all alike,” Maude said. “I’m never returning south. It’s a place without shame or a conscience.”

Kate shared a smile with her. The midday sun was a burning white. “Could you please call me a cab?” Maude asked.

Kate disappeared. Maude waited at the foot of the steps of the Hall of Justice for several minutes until Al Semnacher skipped down them, a mongrel group of newsmen at his heels. He tipped his bowler hat at Maude and there were pictures taken.

“I see you’ve made arrangements,” she said.

“How are things at the Palace? Heard the St. Francis kicked you out.”

Maude turned her head away. “I had my luggage moved to the Palace. The accommodations are much more to my liking.”

Al laughed. “Luggage? The only luggage you ever carry is a fresh set of bloomers in your pocketbook.”

Maude leapt at his throat, black hat rolling from her head, dropping her pocketbook and reaching her fingers around Al Semnacher’s skinny neck, trying to wring it like a chicken. His glasses were knocked off and Al fell to his back, swearing and cussing and calling her a nasty whore, and she kneed him in the balls and slapped him across the face until she felt a big arm reach around her waist and pull her back, the sweet voice of Big Kate telling her that her cab had come.