Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

On cross-examination, Brett asked how, after several months, Ellie May could identify Earl Thomson so positively. Very few white people came by the Lantern, Ellie May answered. Mr. Thomson naturally stood out. He was dressed cool, too, good jacket, nice sports shirt and a shiny kind of chain necklace and ring, and a watch he kept studying.

He’d talked to Ellie May about buying a gun from Charlie Lee. But Charlie Lee called and told her they’d had a flush — a “flush” was an overnight sprouting of mushrooms that had to be picked right away. She’d put Earl Thomson on the phone.

“Miss Cluny, did you know that Earl Thomson’s car was stolen while he was in The Green Lantern?”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t.”

“After the call from Mr. Lee, what did Mr. Thomson do then?”

“He seemed kind of pouty.”

“ ‘Pouty’?”

“Kind of mad, ma’am.”

“But what did he do?”

“He just left, ma’am. Threw down some money, and went out.”

“Miss Cluny, is The Green Lantern’s phone private?”

“No, ma’am, it’s a pay phone. Bartender answers it, calls for whoever it is.”

“Anyone in The Green Lantern can use that phone, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But Mr. Thomson did not return and use that phone?”

“No, ma’am, he didn’t.”

“Have you seen or talked with Mr. Thomson since that Friday afternoon last October?”

“No, ma’am, I haven’t.”

“Thank you, Miss Cluny.”

Charlie Lee was a stocky, middle-aged black man, dressed in a blue suit with a denim shirt and black tie. His testimony was simple and direct: he owned a Parker shotgun and wanted to sell it. Mr. Earl Thomson answered his newspaper ad and they agreed to meet at The Green Lantern. But the mushrooms had flushed a day early, and he had to break the date. Ellie May told him the white man was there, called him to the phone. He’d explained about the flush to Mr. Thompson, told him he had to work.

“Mr. Lee, did Mr. Thomson make another appointment with you at that time?”

“No, ma’am, he didn’t.”

“Did you suggest one?”

“Sure, ’cause I wanted to sell the shotgun. But he told me to forget it, like he was disgusted, and hung up.”

“You had no further contact with him since that time?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Did you sell your shotgun to someone else, Mr. Lee?”

“No, ma’am. I still got it.”

“Well, I hope you find a buyer, Mr. Lee. Thank you.”

The attention of the jurors sharpened when Miguel Santos was called to the stand. The testimony of Adele Thomson’s therapist was crucial to the defense structure and it was obvious Davic intended to shore it up as firmly as possible.

Santos was attentive, his voice determined, earnest, anxious. His eyes followed Davic with obedient interest. A film of sweat shone on his broad, smooth forehead.

The Cuban’s nervousness seemed to stem from an immigrant’s pride at participating in such important official proceedings, plus a fear of failing to live up to whatever was expected of him; his attempts to be responsive and cooperative were painful in their eagerness, but seemed to make a favorable impression on the jurors.

On cross, Brett asked, “Mr. Santos, do you have a valid United States driver’s license?”

“No, miss, I don’t.”

“How long have you been in this country, Mr. Santos?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Santos, are you a competent driver? A good driver?”

“Oh, yes, I drive all kinds of trucks, cars, in Cuba. Very good.”

“Then when Mr. Thomson called you on that occasion we’re talking about — early Friday evening, October sixteenth — you weren’t worried about driving over to Muhlenburg to pick him up? Is that correct?”

“ Si, yes, correct.”

“It didn’t bother you to be asked to drive fifteen miles at night through rush-hour traffic? That didn’t worry you at all?”

“No, miss. I drive very well.”

“You were not concerned about not having a driver’s license?”

Santos shrugged uncertainly. He looked for help to Davic, who stood and said, “Your Honor, many Cubans who fled the present regime there are political refugees. Naturally they don’t have official papers. It’s difficult for them to obtain U.S. drivers’ licenses. That isn’t Mr. Santos’s fault.”

“Your point is well taken, Mr. Davic. The question is irrelevant in any case. Go on, Miss Brett.”

“Mr. Santos, how long have you worked for the Thomson family?”

“Seven years, ma’am.”

“In that time were you ever asked to serve as a chauffeur for Earl Thomson?”

“No... I don’t think so, miss.”

“Do you mean ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ Mr. Santos?”

“I mean no, miss.”

“Then you must have been surprised when Earl Thomson asked you to drive to Muhlenburg and pick him up. Were you surprised?”

“A little.” Santos shrugged. “But I am there at the house to work, you know, miss. I do what work is there, what I’m asked.”

“Then you were not surprised at Mr. Thomson’s request?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

“Judge Flood,” Brett said, “I’m trying to establish that the actions Miguel Santos took that night were of an unusual nature, an unprecedented nature. Surely the jury is entitled to a clarification of these unique circumstances.”

“Miss Brett, I have sustained defense counsel’s objection. I’d appreciate it if you’d get on to something else now.”

Brett again took the stocky Cuban over the events of that particular Friday night — a second time and a third. With each repetition, it became increasingly obvious that Santos’s testimony had been carefully committed to memory; his answers were a word-for-word duplication of his testimony to Davic on direct examination.

Santos had been in his quarters above the garage when Thomson had phoned from Muhlenburg. This was five-thirty — “or maybe a little after.” Mr. Thomson asked Santos to drive over to Muhlenburg. The chauffeur, Richard, was not home — he was in New Jersey with Mr. Thomson, Mr. George Thomson. Santos had left immediately in a family car. Santos described the route he’d taken that night with mechanical accuracy, listing without hesitation a stream of street names and route numbers. But Brett gained little by establishing that Santos’s account seemed to be memorized; his methodical delivery strengthened his credibility with the jury because it appeared so in keeping with his character. The Cuban obviously was the sort of person who would have to be certain of his facts before he would put a hand on a Bible and swear to them.

“Mr. Santos, where did you pick up Mr. Thomson in Muhlenburg?”

“In front of a diner. He told me where he would be. The Bellflower diner.”

“He was waiting outside?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Who drove home then, Mr. Santos?”

“He did. Mr. Thomson.”

“Did he tell you his car had been stolen?”

“No, miss.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“About what, miss?”

“About what happened to his Porsche Turbo 924?”

“No, miss.”

“Weren’t you curious?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Santos, what time did you and Earl Thomson arrive at the Thomson home?”

“Seven o’clock, just about seven.”

“What time did you go to bed that night?”

“Maybe ten, ten-thirty o’clock.”

“Did you have dinner after you returned from Muhlenburg?”

“Yes.”

“Did you eat alone?”

“In my room. Yes.”

“You stayed alone in your room until you went to bed?”