Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

“Miss Brett, it is not your place to hold on points of law in relation to my rulings.”

Brett’s answer was to drop the Rockland yearbook into a wastebasket.

During the recess, she had scrubbed her hands and combed out her hair. A few drops of water still glistened at the temples. She had polished the tips of her bone-colored pumps and dabbed cologne at her wrists. As she studied the witness, her manner was now openly skeptical.

“Tell me, Mr. Thomson, do you have any theories to explain the continued disappearance of your car?”

“Theories? No, ma’am.”

“You told us it was a distinctive automobile. You told us you were sure it would turn up. Are you surprised it hasn’t?”

“No, ma’am. Whoever ripped it off probably stripped it for parts or got rid of it.”

“Did you get in touch with Porsche owners’ clubs around the country? Did you advertise for information about your stolen car?”

“I didn’t think it would do any good, ma’am. So I didn’t bother.”

“Have you offered a reward for its return?”

“No... no, I haven’t.”

“Mr. Thomson, this may be only a matter of grammar or usage” — she stopped and watched him — “but do you realize we’ve been talking about your car in the past tense?”

“What does that matter?”

“It matters because it suggests you believe that car doesn’t exist anymore. Is that the fact of the matter—?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Thomson, you told Captain Slocum that you did not know Shana Selby or anyone in the Selby family. The tapes were played in this courtroom only a few days ago. You remember your statement to Captain Slocum?”

“Sure. I didn’t know the girl who got so hysterical at Longwood. So I certainly didn’t know her family.”

“In regard to your testimony about those events, did you see Shana Selby shoved to the ground?”

“No, I didn’t. That weird character with her started the trouble and got decked. I think she knelt down to help him up.”

“You didn’t see anyone strike her or push her?”

“No, ma’am.”

“But you observed a man coming to her assistance?”

“Well, yes, I saw that much.”

“You observed that man help Shana Selby to her feet?”

“Yes.”

“Then you ran away from him?”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t run away from her father. ”

Brett walked from the stand and stood with her back to the plaintiff’s table. “I remind you that you are under oath, Mr. Thomson. I will now ask you to explain two things. How did you know the name of that stranger at Longwood? How did you know his relationship to the plaintiff?”

Earl made a dismissing gesture with his hand. “Well, everybody knew that—” But he stopped there, a curiously numb expression appearing on his face.

Brett remained motionless. Earl moistened his lips and clenched his hands. Brett said, “Would you like time to think about it, Mr. Thomson?”

“I don’t need any favors.” He spoke quietly, the words carefully enunciated. “Everyone knew,” he began, but stopped again, staring at his tight fists. “Everybody heard how he sent his daughter over there to say I raped her.”

“At that time, how did you know that man was Harry Selby?”

“I assumed—” Earl shrugged and looked at Brett, his eyes sharpened by anger. “Maybe I saw a picture of him somewhere. Do you remember every man you ever saw in your life? Every man you may have—”

Flood’s gavel cut him off. “Mr. Thomson, you will answer the People’s questions in a responsive manner.”

Brett said, “Mr. Thomson, on three occasions you referred to Mr. Selby as the girl’s father or her father. I’ll repeat the question: How did you know — at that time — that he was Harry Selby or that he was Shana’s father? ”

“I don’t know.” Earl’s voice was rising. “The girl called his name, maybe, or he yelled something to my friends about being her father.”

“The truth is,” Brett said coldly, “you knew Harry Selby and recognized him on sight, didn’t you? Wouldn’t you prefer to ease your conscience now and tell us how you knew him? And everything you know about Jonas Selby?”

“Objection, Your Honor! Objection .”

“Sustained.” Flood rapped his gavel.

But Earl’s voice was rising again. “I’ll answer your question, ma’am. Don’t think I’m afraid, don’t ever think that . I don’t want pity from anybody .”

“Your Honor, if you please—”

Earl’s powerful voice overrode Davic’s. “Pity and charity, they’re the virtues of traitors, of faggots and cowards. You’re like that, miss, coddle broken-winged sparrows, let the eagles die. Heroes are comic-strip figures to you. You’d destroy your country for the worst at the expense of the best . Your hero’s Don Quixote, a bungling fool to laugh at—”

The gavel sounded to no purpose, marshals stared at the bench for instructions.

“Or you’d prefer Dante of the Inferno, the impotent observer of death, a voyeur in hell—”

“Mr. Thomson.” Judge Flood struck the gavel so hard that it started a ringing tremor in his crystal carafe.

“You hate men with guts enough to act because they make you realize your helplessness, because they—”

Davic was at his side now, and when Earl tried to rise the lawyer gripped his arm and forced him back into the witness chair.

“Your Honor,” Davic said, “I must ask for the court’s understanding. My client is under a severe emotional strain. I believe that justice as well as decency would be served by a recess of these hearings until tomorrow morning. It’s a cruel burden, as I’m sure Your Honor knows from his long experience on the bench, for a witness to be forced to defend himself — as Mr. Thomson has — against charges that practically deny him membership in the human race, that strike at the very core of his honor and self-esteem.”

Judge Flood motioned to Brett to approach the bench. “You’ve heard Mr. Davic’s request. What do you say, Miss Brett?”

“I agree that a brief recess might be in order, Your Honor. But the defendant is in a responsive mood and willing to testify. This is an opportunity the People have a legitimate right to pursue. My examination was designed to get at the facts in a logical sequence, and within a contained time reference.”

“I understand, Miss Brett, but nothing will be lost, I assure you, by adjourning until tomorrow morning.”

Judge Flood sounded his gavel and interrupted whatever else Brett had begun to say by standing and stepping down from the bench.

“All rise,” the clerk said.

The late afternoon sunlight streamed across the Quaker and Indian murals, almost masking Counselor Davic’s now more relaxed expression.

Brett returned to the plaintiff’s table and smiled for Shana’s benefit. She noticed a sheet of memo paper on her legal pad.

“A court officer left it there,” Shana told her.

After reading the brief message, Brett looked away and said quietly, “Something’s come up, Shana. I’ll have Sergeant Wilger run you home, okay?”

“Sure.”

The message requested an immediate meeting with People’s counsel on an urgent matter. It was initialed by East Chester’s chief of detectives, Walter B. Slocum.

Brett paced her office with her arms crossed tightly in an effort to control the tremor in her hands. On her desk was a sheaf of typewritten yellow pages, undated and unsigned. Next to them were Xeroxed copies of arrest reports, a magistrate’s booking sheet, detectives’ summaries, letters written on university stationery and a small stack of news clippings.