Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

“Santos and young Taggart left the Thomson house early this morning, drove over to the Pilgrims Trust Bank in Wilmington. I don’t know where else they went. I had to get back to work.”

Wilger finished his coffee. “Davic’s about to put Thomson on the stand. Brett’s got to break him on her cross. It’s her last chance, maybe your kid’s. She’s got to smash their goddamn lies. The time element and the disappearing Porsche are what she’s got to work on. I been checking quarries, junkyards, closed-up warehouses, looking for the car. I got zilch. She’s got to break them open, Selby... but what could get broken in the process is her neck.”

Earl Thomson had been thoroughly coached, Selby saw, groomed with meticulous care — sincere, polite, quick with “sirs,” attentive to Davic’s questions. His clothing matched his relaxed but deferential manner; flannel slacks, a gray tweed jacket, loafers buffed to a high gloss.

Thomson told his story in a direct, effective manner. Leaving The Green Lantern about five-thirty, he discovered that his car was gone. He wasn’t particularly concerned; a rally of sports and antique cars was scheduled at Longwood Gardens, many of his friends were in town for it. They might have spotted his Porsche 924 — they would recognize it, of course — and taken it as a prank. Or... with a rueful smile... as an object lesson because he’d been stupid enough to leave the keys in it.

Having promised his mother he’d join her for dinner, he’d called Santos and asked him to drive over to Muhlenburg and pick him up.

No, he hadn’t notified the police. The theft was reported the next morning.

Earl filled out this simple story with supportive details. The gun he had hoped to buy from Charlie Lee was a double-barrel 20-gauge Parker. The family chauffeur was over in New Jersey, which was why he’d asked for Santos.

Davic knitted the threads together into a neat and credible package, concluding with the defendant’s account of the events at Longwood Gardens.

The lawyer paused then, pacing between the jury and the witness stand.

“Earl, you told Captain Slocum you’d never heard of a farm called Vinegar Hill. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lieutenant Eberle asked you if you were familiar with landmarks near that place. You told him you were not. Is that also correct?”

“Yes, sir. That’s what I told the lieutenant.”

“What time did that interrogation take place?”

“About two o’clock in the morning, sir.”

“Had you been asleep prior to their arrival?”

“Yes, sir. For several hours.”

“I see.” Davic paused again. “Now tell me, Earl — not at two o’clock in the morning, not when you’ve been pulled out of bed by police officers without a warrant — tell me now, in this orderly courtroom... do you know of a farm called Vinegar Hill?”

“Not by that name, sir.”

“Ah.” Davic nodded slowly. “Then you knew that farm by^ another name. Is that what you’re telling me, Earl?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What name do you know it by?”

“The Taggart Place, sir.”

“Under what circumstances did you know the Taggart Place?”

“It belonged to a friend of our family, General Adam Taggart. The general’s son was a classmate of mine at Rockland. We called it the Taggart Place. Or the General’s Place. When I was at college, some of us used to go there to hunt pheasants.”

“I want to emphasize one particular point now, Earl. You did not lie to Captain Slocum that night, did you?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“You did not know of a place called Vinegar Hill, did you Earl?”

“I certainly didn’t, sir.”

“Your Honor” — Davic addressed the bench — “there are other specifics of the People’s evidence I can’t refute at this time although I intend to later. But in fairness to my client, I would like to defer this examination. A witness for the defense has been delayed enroute to these hearings. His testimony is crucial to the proof of Earl Thomson’s innocence.”

“All right, Mr. Davic. But understand that People’s counsel may cross-examine the defendant on the portion of his testimony now part of this trial record.”

“Yes, Your Honor. I understand. Thank you.”...

They needed time to rehearse Ace Taggart, Selby thought, that had to be why Davic was stalling. Obviously they’d convinced young Taggart it was safe for him to take the stand and lie. In whatever Davic and Earl Thomson had told him, in the time at the Hell for Leather, the trip with Santos to the Pilgrims Bank in Wilmington, somewhere in that welter of people and places was the proof that had convinced AC-DC Taggart there was no risk in perjuring himself. But they also might be building a house of cards with a marked deck, Selby felt. It was like a trapeze act where the performers worked happily and skillfully without a net or safety straps until they found out that one of them had a trick knee or a hangover or was just a little short on nerve or guts. Then everything and everybody could collapse. One break was what his side needed. When they spotted the marked card, or the fingertips missed connections, the whole thing could go down...

At the recess Burt Wilger joined Selby in the corridor outside Superior Nine. “There’s a call for you in the pressroom,” he told him. “They switched it down from Brett’s office.”

A desk lined with phones had been moved against a wall in the temporary pressroom. Noise and smoke clogged the air. A girl in jeans extended a phone to Selby, mouthed his name inquiringly.

Victoria Kim did not identify herself. She told Selby what he needed to know about the Cadle brothers and broke the connection.

Selby picked up his coat and left the courthouse. From a pay phone he called Wilger and asked him to tell Brett he was on his way to Philadelphia. He forestalled the detective’s questions by saying a hasty goodbye and hanging up.

Maybe he’d already spotted one of the marked cards, Selby thought as he drove out of East Chester and followed the traffic into Philadelphia. The smiling athlete in the trapeze act with the trick knee he wouldn’t admit to, the blurred vision or fears that hit him in the morning when it was dark and he couldn’t get back to sleep... Who was it? Santos? Ace Taggart, or the little Sicilian, or Thomson’s mother, or Eberle, the drunk cop? Or Thomson himself? Or one of the Cadles. Who would crack first? Or was he whistling in the dark? Would anybody crack? He had to believe it. He couldn’t give up...

The clerk intoned, “All rise.”

After seating himself Flood said, “People’s counsel will bear in mind that cross-examination of the defendant will not extend beyond the testimony on record.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Please proceed then.”

Brett began casually. “Were you upset, Mr. Thomson, when you left The Green Lantern and discovered your car was missing?”

“I wasn’t upset, ma’am, but I was puzzled, I’ll admit.”

“I’ve checked several local dealers who handle Porsches, Mr. Thomson. Considering that your car was equipped with” — Brett picked up a note pad from the plaintiff’s table and read — “internally vented disc brakes, an electronic digital ignition system and so forth, the dealers’ consensus was that your Porsche Turbo 924 would be worth around thirty-five thousand dollars at current prices. Does that sound like a fair estimate?”

“I believe so, ma’am.”

“Some of the terminology is beyond me. Perhaps it’s not relevant, but would you mind explaining what turbocharging means?”

Thomson’s smile was confident; he was very comfortable in this role. “There’s a density in the charge supplied to any internal combustion engine. To put it simply, a turbocharger increases that density to about twice the normal atmospheric pressure. In contrast to a naturally aspirated engine of similar size — well, to put it simply, turbo engines increase horsepower by thirty or forty percent, which gives better performance all round.”