Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

“In your opinion, what is the underlying cause for this sort of fear and hatred?” Brett said in a respectful tone.

“Well, as with most pathological behavior, there is seldom one clearly definable explanation. That applies to other disorders, of course, such as alcoholism, obesity, depressions, recurring nightmares, psychosomatic illness, tendencies toward violence and suicide, even murder. As a rule, they erupt from not one but a mixture of chaotic impulses.”

Earl Thomson leaned across the defense table and whispered fiercely to Davic. The attorney nodded but placed a light restraining hand on Earl’s shoulder.

“Well, is there any observable priority in those various morbid functions?” Brett asked. “A litmus paper test to determine and define sexual psychopaths?”

“No, I’m afraid not, Miss Brett.”

“You spoke about the father in relation to the rape victim . What about the molding influence of the mother in the formative years of the potential rapist?”

“The mother,” Dr. Clemens began, “is of course a major influence toward emotional stability or the lack of it. If she is unable and unwilling to—”

Davic broke in. “This is too much, Your Honor. People’s counsel has ignored your injunction. Her overzealous and hectoring persistence surely demands a rebuke from the bench.”

Judge Flood said, “The court has been more than generous, Miss Brett. Mr. Davic’s point is valid. You have exceeded the limits of inquiry I outlined.” Flood made a note on his pad. “Do you have any further questions for the People?”

“If it please the court, I have one last question.”

“It will probably not please us... but go on.”

“Thank you, sir. Dr. Clemens, you mentioned the pictures of the Israeli athletes on the wall of plaintiff’s bedroom. You gave us your explanation for their presence there. But there are other pictures in that bedroom. There is a portrait of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, a picture of the late comedian Jimmy Durante, and there is a framed collection of snapshots of Shana’s nine-year-old brother, David. I ask you, Mr. Clemens, will you tell the court what these pictures reveal to you of Shana Selby’s innermost private feelings and sexual yearnings?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Dr. Clemens,” Brett said, “we would value your expert judgment. And I will write my personal check for three hundred dollars for that enlightenment...”

Laughter began in the gallery. Judge Flood brought it under control by striking his gavel. When order was restored, he said, “You have managed to exceed the limits of my patience, Miss Brett. I will permit no further questions of this defense witness. Dr. Clemens, you are excused. Thank you for your cooperation.”

When Brett returned to the defense table she was lifted by Shana’s discreet smile, and even more by the solid presence of Harry Selby seated in the gallery directly behind his daughter.

When Selby’s bedside phone rang, he lifted the receiver quickly, hoping the sound hadn’t waked the house. He heard Blazer growling on the stairs, and saw a faint light on his windows.

It was Jerry Goldbirn in Las Vegas.

“I tried to get you yesterday, Harry. Your housekeeper said you were over in Philadelphia.” Selby heard Goldbirn draw a deep breath and release it slowly. “We were tough cookies in our time, my friend, played hurt, missed curfews, messed around but still kicked ass when the whistle blew for game time. But that was quite a while back, Harry.”

“Is that your deep thought for today?” Selby said. “Where the hell did it all go?”

“Speaking of time, loyalty’s got a statute of limitation on it too, pal, ever think of that?”

“Would you like a violin accompaniment, Jerry? Everything is fleeting, snow melts, Christmas and Hanukkah are coming closer together every year? Fishing isn’t as good as it used to be and never was?”

“Go on, make me laugh,” Goldbirn said. “You could work a lounge act here with your great sense of humor.”

“Okay, what the hell is it?”

“A long time back you took me out of a practice play so I rode the bench and stayed alive. So for auld lang syne, Harry, I leaned on that flake from New York Bell Telephone. I got a number for Jennifer Easton. A switchboard at a convent in upstate New York, a place on the Hudson near Hyde Park. I owed you one, Harry. Well, we’re even now. I came across a name so hot I goddamn near dropped the phone. Simon Correll. Jennifer Easton is his personal foldout, his mistress. Correll could push a button and flush my casino and my bank accounts right down the drain. All of Vegas if he wanted to. I’m out of the game, Harry. Back on the bench. You can do me a favor, if you want, tear up my phone number. Sorry.”

The phone clicked in Selby’s ear... So that was what Miss Kim with her big eyes and cheerleader’s legs had kept back. And what Senator Lester had decided not to tell him — that Jennifer Easton, who loved boats and not belonging to people, wasn’t a model or photographer or casual friend of Jarrell’s at all, but the mistress of the man who ran Thomson and Harlequin, the Correll Group and, of course, Summitt City itself.

Before court adjourned that morning, Selby joined Sergeant Burt Wilger in a bar on a side street off the parking mall. It was a cops’ hangout, with a pool table covered with plyboard for the lunch buffet and specials chalked on a blackboard beside the cue rack. A private phone was connected directly to District Attorney Lamb’s office and the Detective Division.

But at this hour the place was empty except for a waitress and a crippled black sweeper. Nevertheless, Wilger put a record on the jukebox and sat in a rear booth. He ordered coffee for two and a bowl of pretzels. He told Selby that he’d had no word on the Cadle brothers, that his informants had come up dry. “Which could mean the Cadles are split by now, or are registered somewhere under other names,” Wilger said.

The night before Wilger had tailed Davic and Earl Thomson to the Philadelphia airport, where they’d picked up Derek Taggart off a Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt.

“That was about nine P.M.,” Wilger said, biting into a pretzel. “The little faggot was in uniform wearing a theater ribbon they give you if you get off the boat without drowning and a Good Conduct Medal, which he probably got cornholing some local herren . Okay, okay,” Wilger went on, interpreting Selby’s impatience, “I’ll skip the social comment. But all the same, Selby, it made me mad to see a guy like young Taggart wearing captain’s bars when my nephew sweats out ’Nam in a vets’ hospital in a wheelchair.”

Selby drank his coffee and waited.

“They dropped Davic off at his hotel, Thomson and the cocksucker with the medals. They went for dinner to Bookbinders, the old one, then hit a joint near Arch Street, Hell for Leather, that peddles porno magazines, posters, condoms in all colors and flavors, some with jokes on ’em, blow the man down for navy types. Dirt-chute express. Cute stuff. Also they got pinchers, clamps and restraints for cocks and balls and tits, plus cassettes and booths to watch flicks in and listen to porno songs. Place is owned by a man named Petey Komoto. The songs and flicks are raw, not like the ones I remember as a kid — The Tiger’s Revenge by Claud Bawls, or The Open Kimono by Seymour Hare. This joint is for rough trade, bull dykes, heavy leather studs, SM types. Couple of years back Komoto got his ass chewed up in the disposal by taping what went on in a screening room. He had two-way mirrors put in too. Tried the scam on a pair of vice squad officers and they broke it off in him. It was pretty loose surveillance,” Wilger admitted. “I couldn’t work too close, Thomson’s probably seen me ’round the Hall. I staked out the place from my car across the street. They rented some film, disappeared into a booth. When they came out, they bought some magazines and drove back to the Thomson place in Wahasset. Earl’s in court now ready to testify.