The bald stubby man waddling forward looked neither calloused nor
hypersensitive. Thirtyish; young enough not to be too congealed in
acquired prejudices, old enough to have rubbed off some of the
certainties the young must use in place of experience. Mann imagined
for him a cute pink-and-white wife, two kids, mortgage, Chevvy. Anson
might do.
As Mr. Delehanty called more names, Mann ripped off the top sheet of the
doodle-pad, to bury it in the minute-book instead of the wastebasket.
Never mind Mr. Delehanty's feelings. Some later page might show only
cats, mermaids, stripteasers--he could have that one.
Relaxed and genial, T. J. Hunter spoke to the potential jurors as well
as to those first called: "I'm Talbot Hunter, assistant district
attorney who will try this case. Judge Terence Mann is presiding. At the
other table is Mr. Cecil Warner, defense counsel, and beside him is the
defendant Callista Blake. She's not a resident of Shanesville, by the
way, though she lived there till about a year ago. I don't think any of
you come from Shanesville--very nice town, about three miles beyond the
city line." Mann drew a lightning sketch of the Governor's mansion, and
wrote: _Nice town, but alas, T. J., wrong county!_ "Callista Blake is
the daughter, by an earlier marriage, of Mrs. Herbert Chalmers of
Shanesville. Callista's father, Kramer Blake, died in 1947. In 1951 her
mother married Dr. Herbert Chalmers, Associate Professor of English at
our own Winchester College. Miss Blake lived in Shanesville until July
of last year, when she took an apartment by herself here in
Winchester--21 Covent Street. Then, and up to the time of her arrest,
she was employed by a portrait photographer, Miss Edith Nolan--"
"Still is," said a thin red-haired woman among the spectators.
Mann's rap with the gavel was reflex action. "That can't be permitted."
The redhead sat frozen in evident astonishment at herself. It would be
Edith Nolan, Mann guessed; he could feel no genuine annoyance. "The
Court assumes the impulsive remark just made by a spectator was
inadvertent, an accident. Disciplinary action will be necessary if
anything like that happens again. All relevant statements will be made
properly, at the proper time. Go ahead, Mr. Hunter." A blush flooded
the woman's keen homely face; she nodded, no doubt a promise to behave.
In the early thirties, tense, intelligent, explosive, but without the
look of a crackpot; Mann expected no further trouble there.
Hunter said: "Please search your memories. Are any of those names
familiar? Blake? Chalmers? Nolan?... Don't worry if you've read or heard
of Mr. Warner. He's a very distinguished attorney. It'd be more
surprising if you hadn't heard of him. That's not the sort of
familiarity I mean--wouldn't disqualify you."
Mann noted the purloined Warner special. Now if the Old Man tossed his
opponent verbal violets he would appear imitative and absurd.
"Other names--Nathaniel Judd, senior partner in the real estate and
insurance firm of Judd and Doherty. Ann Doherty--that is, Mrs. James
Doherty.... Welsh? Jason? No familiarity? Good." Hunter swept on his
reading glasses, which were perhaps clear glass. "This paper I'm holding
charges that on the evening of Sunday, the 16th of last August, Callista
Blake, at her apartment at 21 Covent Street, Winchester, gave to Ann
Doherty, who was about to leave that apartment after a short visit and
return to her home in Shanesville, a drink of brandy containing the
poison aconite. It charges that within the half-hour thereafter Callista
Blake followed Ann Doherty to Shanesville, and found her near a small
pond which lies at the edge of the Dohertys' property. It charges that
Callista Blake, willfully, with malice aforethought, drowned Ann Doherty
in this pond. The State will ask for the verdict of murder in the first
degree."
Under spreading silence, words moved sluggishly in Judge Mann's
mind--words remembered from the hours when he could not sleep. He had
lurched sandy-eyed out of bed, prowled at the bookshelves, settled by
the chilling fireplace with a volume of the _Britannica_ and a shot
glass of brandy. "_The cerebrum is totally unaffected by aconite,
consciousness and the intelligence remaining normal to the last._"
His diaphragm twisted in a spasmodic yawn. He covered it swiftly, but
the reporters would have seen it. He thought: _Let them!_ But he must
not start woolgathering. Plump Mr. Anson had folded his arms and
declared that he was a plumber by trade. T. J. Hunter was asking: "Have
newspaper or radio accounts caused you to give any advance opinion?"
"No, sir, I b'lieve I can honestly say they haven't."
"Have you read the editorials in the Winchester _Courier_ or the morning
_Sentinel_ on this case?"
"Well, no, I kind of let the wife do the heavy reading."
Crowd laughter mildly rumbled; Anson evidently didn't mind it.
"Have you ever been the victim of a robbery or burglary?"
"No, sir, never was."
Routine questions continued a while, Hunter relaxed and casual yet
really wasting no time.... "Mr. Anson, my next question has been under a
good deal of discussion in recent years. Like any good citizen, you must
have given it thought. Have you, sir, any conscientious objection to the
death penalty?"
"Well ..." The man was unhappy. "I been asking myself that, ever since I
got called. All's I can say, if I was certain-sure about the guilt, I
mean the first-degree thing, I wouldn't hesitate to vote for the ch--for
the death penalty--if I was certain-sure, that's what I'd have to do."
"And you would do it?"
"I would," said Mr. Anson. "Seems--seems only right."
Another yawn assailed the Judge. He groped for causes of his weariness
other than lack of sleep. "_The world is too much with us_--" if too
much for Wordsworth long ago, what about now? A tractor-trailer answered
the thought, groaning through the street three stories below, a Cyclops
in anguish, rattling windows, sending elderly foundations into a
sympathetic shudder. Judge Mann wondered if he might be coming down with
a cold.