Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

Captain Slocum came in and settled himself comfortably in her visitor’s armchair, smiled and propped a large Gucci loafer against the side of her desk. Unwrapping a cigar, he said, “It’s the time of day to relax, Miss Brett. If I was home now I’d probably be watching the news and having a beer or even something a little stronger.”

Lighting his cigar, the captain savored a mouthful of heavy smoke, allowing it to drift slowly around his moist and slightly parted lips. “Would you like a drink by the way? A little touch to smooth the edges after a long, hard day?” Rolling the cigar between his lips, he studied her with an appraising smile.

“I’ve got a bottle for medicinal purposes in my office. Suspects go into shock sometimes. I have to be prepared for that. Or we could drive out to a place I like on the river. Seafood joint, make hot canapes with oysters and ham, very tasty. Bartender also knows how to build a very solid martini, uses dry sherry instead of vermouth. It makes a difference. Adds a sweet tartness. No reason why we shouldn’t combine a bit of pleasure with business. Right?”

Still smiling, the captain nodded at the documents on Brett’s desk. “You took a look at them, I guess.”

“Yes, I have.”

“They kind of speak for themselves, don’t they?”

“As much as any anonymous accusation does, Captain.”

“In most cases, your point would carry some weight, but the photostats of the operative reports are signed, Miss Brett.” Slocum blew a streak of smoke at his leather loafer, watched it swirl about the decorative brass links. “I’m just a cop, Miss Brett. Never mind my rank. I’m the muscle, you’re the brains. But while we’ve got different roles to play, there’s a need for teamwork between the muscle and brain in a department like ours.” (He actually chuckled, she thought with disgust.) “I used to try to explain that to my little girl when she was learning to ride horseback. If you point a horse for trouble, he’ll damn sure take you there. If you’d put us in the picture of the Thomson case to start with we could’ve worked together. But you went your own way, all brain, no muscle. Now we got ourselves a problem.”

Slocum nodded at the material on her desk. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Brett, that the horse has the bit in his mouth now, and you’re just hanging on for dear life?” He smiled. “Just a manner of speaking, you realize.”

Brett sat down in her swivel chair. Her back was to the window and she either felt or imagined a draft of icy air. Her shoulders were cold, and so was her spine, the coldness went all through her, from her neck down to her ankles. A sharp pain tightened her stomach muscles. Her mouth was dry, and she was experiencing the self-fullfilling fear that she would stutter when she tried to explain the documents Slocum had delivered to her office.

“Would you tell me how you got them?” she said, and to her relief her voice sounded cool and assured, even casual.

“They came direct to my office, addressed to me personally. Copies were also sent to Mr. Lamb and to Mr. Davic.”

“No sender’s name, no return address on the envelope, of course.”

Slocum shrugged. “Of course. But the envelope was postmarked in Philadelphia last night at seven thirty-five.”

Brett picked up the letter that had accompanied the various photostated documents. “This was typed on an old machine,” she said, “by someone who misspelled simple words like ‘various,’ drops the i, and ‘annual,’ only one n, but does perfectly fine with ‘accusatory’ and ‘judicious’ and ‘inflammatory.’ A clever fellow pretending to be dumb. Do you know anyone who fits that description, Captain?”

Slocum laughed softly. “About half the politicians I’ve ever done business with, Miss Brett. But people like that understand teamwork. They know that muscle and brain make a good combination. Like I told my little daughter, the horse will take you places, but sometimes it’s not where you’d like to be. Brains can make intelligent decisions, I’ll grant you. Or sensible ones. But muscle puts ’em to work. Let’s get down to business. You look scared, Miss Brett. But there’s no need to be... According to these reports you accused a man named Toby Clark of trying to rape you. That incident happened when you was just a kid in college. It was in the gym, right?”

“In the women’s dressing room.”

“You’d been in the pool. Alone. There was no one around but you and this Toby Clark. No other witnesses.”

“The gym was locked up while I was swimming,” Brett said. “Toby Clark had hidden himself in the locker room.” She moistened her lips and resisted the impulse to light a cigarette. “I’m sure you haven’t found Toby Clark, Captain. Or did you even look for him?”

Slocum laughed. “Why should I bother looking for him? That’s all ancient history so far as I’m concerned. I’m just interested in how this could affect the Thomson case.”

“I was waiting for you to get to that.”

“I’m a realist, Miss Brett. Don’t hold it against me. You had Toby Clark arrested. You accused him of trying to rape you.”

“Among other things, Captain.”

“Yeah. There was a scuffle, I gather. Rolling around in the locker room had to raise a bruise or two.”

“There were bruises, as you put it.”

“But the thing is,” Slocum said, and he was no longer smiling, “you charged Toby Clark with trying to rape you, and then dropped the charges. But that change of heart came too late to help Toby Clark. He was fired from his job at the school. Never mind the nice letters some professors wrote for him, or that he was cleaning up the locker room like he was paid to, picking up after rich little bitches, when you strolled in and peeled off your bra and G-string—”

“It took considerable investigative work to assemble those records, wouldn’t you say, Captain? Police reports, newspaper clippings, copies of the magistrate’s hearing?”

“That’s not the point, Miss Brett.”

“What is the point, Captain?”

“As a lawyer, you sure must know the answer to that. Everybody on that jury was questioned by you and Judge Flood and Davic about their personal experiences with rape cases. All the women were asked if they’d ever been victims, the men whether it had happened to their wives or daughters, nieces or cousins. Any prospective juror with experiences like that would sure as hell have been disqualified on the grounds they’d bring their fear or prejudice into the case against Earl Thomson... But nobody asked you, Miss Brett, about your personal experience with rape or attempted rape, and you didn’t volunteer that information, did you?”

“That’s not required of counsel.”

“I’ll take your word on that. But I know what Davic plans to do with this information. Tomorrow morning he’ll move to disqualify you. Mr. Lamb is aware of all this. He wants to talk to you now. He’s in his office.”

“Davic’s motion has no legal validity,” Brett said. “He knows that, and so does Mr. Lamb.”

Slocum turned his hands up in an innocent gesture. “Like I said, you’re the brains, I’m just the muscle. But all the brains in the world can’t stop Davic from filing. If Flood dismisses the motion, fine. But the jury is going to know that the woman prosecuting Earl Thomson for rape also accused one Toby Clark of trying to rape her, and then thought better about it.”

“The charge was true . It was a question of proving—” Her tongue felt like a wad of cotton in her mouth. Her spine seemed frozen solid. She wanted to throw something into Slocum’s blandly smiling face, but, ridiculously, she thought, most desperately of all she wanted not to light a cigarette. A trial of will or courage, an inquisitor’s test of innocence.