Ace Atkins - Devil’s garden

“He was convinced I’d brought him a bomb.”

There was cordial laughter and much harrumphing from the men, the mayor, the chief, and the D.A., all of San Francisco’s elite. Millicent, Hearst’s wife, smiled over at him, quite tired from her journey west with the twins, prepared once again to make their way back to New York.

Hearst would miss the boys.

Millicent, as always, had begun to bore him with her incessant talk of the Milk Fund.

While the men grew sleepy from the food and drink, plied with more cognac, cigars burning and satisfied, the women’s talk began to dominate the table. Chatter of the latest styles from Paris and of that handsome Italian Valentino. They particularly seemed to like his eyes, finding them oddly hypnotic, and Hearst thought to himself that perhaps he should reexamine the man’s films, learn the technique that had transformed a dishwasher into a lustful attraction.

As his plate was cleared, he remembered the letter, and tore at the envelope with his thumbnail. The message was as simple and straightforward a group of sentences as he’d ever read, so Hearst thought that it had to have been written by one of his newspapermen, an insider. But the last line made him know differently, and he looked up from the cleared linen and smiled, just catching the last few words from Millicent about the boys’ antics when they visited the British Museum and begged their father to buy them an ape.

“He not only can climb a tree,” Hearst said. “But he can serve cocktails.”

“He cannot,” Millicent said, blushing.

“He’s quite talented, you know. Better than a Chinaman.”

More laughter from Hearst’s side of the table, and Hearst stole a glance at George, who leaned against a marble column. Hearst crooked his finger, and as soon as George was at his side he looked up from the long row of family and friends, smelling of sweets and smoke and hearing laughter and great mirth. “Take care of this, will you?”

He dropped the envelope into his man’s waiting hands as if the edges had been set afire.

Roscoe picked lint from his hat and wondered what life would be like in prison, judging if he’d grown too soft, those times working laundries and barrooms too far away. But he decided he’d made a good go of it in the city pen, making friends with the jailers and hoods. He should have expected this shitstorm anyway, knowing that’s the way life works-that sucker punch coming when you least expected. He picked more lint, remembering what the Pinkerton had said about him being a whipping boy. He didn’t like to be anyone’s whipping boy, feeling that old shame heat up his face.

Satisfied with the crown, Roscoe went to work on the brim, picking, and slowly bringing his pale blue eyes up to the stand as Dr. Rumwell continued talking about the dead girl.

“The first thing I did was inspect the body,” said the little man with the shrill voice. “I decided that she was about twenty-five years of age and about five foot five inches and weighed about a hundred and forty pounds. And then I looked at the external surface of the body. I used a measuring stick for precision.”

Rumwell was small and lean. He wore a black suit of no style and a matching tie of no style. The man looked as if he’d shopped from a street vendor. His thin black hair was oiled and creased, and he wore a small black mustache under a reddened, bulbous nose.

Roscoe inverted his hatband and then tucked it back along the rim. Milton U’Ren paced before the judge and witness. “Go on,” he said.

“I examined the body and limbs, both the lower and upper,” Rumwell said. “I examined the face and the head by inspection and did not notice any marks on the face or head or on the scalp. But on the arms I noticed a few areas of ecchymosis.”

“Please speak to us in plain terms,” Judge Louderback said. He yawned, the whole goddamn show boring him to tears.

Rumwell looked up and over at the judge, mouth open, and then turned back to the courtroom. “Well, ecchymosis is a bruise. I think ecchymosis would be the more definite term.”

“How many bruises did you see on the right arm?” U’Ren asked.

“May I refer to my notes for the exact number?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There was a large area of ecchymosis-bruises-three inches above the external condyle of the right humerus…”

Roscoe looked over the McNab and let out a long breath. He readjusted himself in his seat and turned back to Ma and Minta. Minta had on a little fur hat and it was very attractive, and he wondered if the newspapermen would write about it, trying to make some sense of why she wore squirrel now and not monkey or mink. The newsboys always tried to make something out of a little detail. Like that time Roscoe couldn’t bring a manicurist to the jail. They wrote it as if he was trying to be uppity when really he just wanted someone to cut his nails. They even wrote about his playing with elastics, and would probably write about him cleaning his hat in the afternoon editions.

He placed the hat down on the table.

“This is the external condyle of the humerus, this bone called the humerus,” Rumwell said, pointing. “And this would be the arm and this the forearm. This was three inches above the external condyle of the humerus. And it varied in width from half an inch to an inch and it was exactly four inches long-that is, measuring from the posterior surface of the arm.”

McNab stood, tucked his hands in his pocket, waiting for the judge to let him speak. “I wonder, Your Honor, please, if the doctor couldn’t describe that a little more technically?”

Much laughter in the court. Even a few of the jury laughed, which was good because Roscoe had rarely seen them laugh at anything. McNab sat back at the desk, straight-faced, like a good sidekick. Roscoe nudged him in the ribs and winked.

McNab didn’t even respond.

“Over to the left arm,” U’Ren said. “What did you find?”

Roscoe could not take it anymore. It took everything in him not to stand up, walk out into the hallway and out to the park for a smoke. He imagined the whole farce in his head. Not as Roscoe Arbuckle on trial but Fatty. Fatty would be dressed as an infant and they would place him behind the judge’s bench, a rattle for a gavel, and the Kops would bring in his father in shackles. Al St. John would play the part as a wandering drunk, maybe even drop in a role for Luke the dog. They’d dress up Luke as the district attorney, and when a motion was overturned he’d lift his leg on the witness’s leg and run off, a chase would follow, out of the courtroom and onto dusty Hollywood streets. Al St. John would ride a giant bicycle, shaking his fist in the air. They’d rig Baby Fatty’s high chair as a machine and he’d begin pursuit.

Roscoe laughed.

Testimony stopped.

McNab gave him a hard look. Testimony started up again.

“We commonly call that the shinbone?” asked Judge Louderback.

“Yes, sir,” Rumwell said. “A bruise over the shinbone and to either side of the shinbone, oval in shape.”

“Did you examine the back of the deceased?” U’Ren asked.

“There were no marks on the back.”

“No marks on the back at all?”

“No.”

“And all the marks, discolorations, or bruises you found were on the front of the body?”

“Front and a little to the side.”

“Well, Doctor, from your experience in general practice, and from your knowledge and education and your training as a physician, were you able to determine from those marks what caused those wounds?” U’Ren asked. “Was it force or something else that caused-”

“Your Honor,” McNab said, shaking his head. “That calls for an opinion and is not based on anything that he has observed.”