The clock said half past one. Callista watched Judge Mann hurry into the
courtroom, all business, dark pucker of a frown, the black robe too
priestlike. It seemed to her that all present including herself were
distorted by the magnifying power of ritual. As Father Bland, in the
back row beside (_my late acquaintance_) James Mulhouse Doherty, would
appear deceptively beyond life-size if he were wearing his magic
vestments and saying a Mass.
"This Court is now in session." _Mr.-Delehanty-which-is-the-clerk._
_When did judges start wearing black robes, and why black? How long has
the office of judge existed at all? How about the wig--(O the
opportunity for mice!) and why did the American States do away with
it?--unfair to bald American lawyers. Subject for a thesis--relation
judiciary to priesthood--ecclesiastical courts--modern veneration for
office of judge--has judiciary ever become really secular? In fact could
it, ever? My ignorance_--
"Members of the jury," said Judge Mann, "your attention, please. I have
just been talking on the telephone with Dr. Garcia at St. Michael's
Hospital, where Mr. Judd was taken after his collapse this morning when
he had finished testifying." (_Talking-to-Edith, compare ignorance to an
unplowed field._) "It was a heart attack, as you probably realized, and
the outlook for him may not be good. In Dr. Garcia's opinion, Mr. Judd's
condition has probably been developing for quite a long time." (_The
soil itself is ready, indifferent, to produce flowers, nice fat
potatoes, or stinking weeds._) "The attack occurred, please remember,
when his testimony was done. Legally the situation is this: Mr. Judd's
collapse has no bearing on the case you must deal with. He had completed
what he had to say; Mr. Hunter had announced he didn't intend to make a
redirect examination. During this long noon recess I have talked with
both counsel; neither side felt there would have been any occasion to
recall Mr. Judd. While he testified, I think you'll agree, Mr. Judd was
in full command of his faculties, so far as anyone can tell. Give his
testimony the same weight, no more and no less, that you would if his
breakdown had not happened; simply try to shut it out of your minds. To
my certain knowledge, neither counsel was aware of the bad state of Mr.
Judd's health. Both counsel believed him as well able to stand the
emotional strain of giving testimony as any other witness. Mr. Judd
undoubtedly believed this himself. Dr. Garcia tells me Mr. Judd had
neglected medical attention for a long time and was unaware of his heart
weakness. I charge you now, and will again: remember this thing happened
outside of the trial."
The Judge was laboring, Callista understood, laboring too much perhaps,
to defend Cecil Warner and through Warner herself, against the chill
poison of unspoken words, illogical notions. If Nathaniel Judd died, no
one would blame Mr. Hunter for summoning him, but many would recall
Cecil Warner's words: "If you do not understand that question, I have no
others." For certain minds it would be no strain to argue: _Judd died,
therefore the Blake girl is guilty._
It could be true that Warner's words might have helped to topple old
Judd, by making Judd sense for an instant some failure of charity and of
perception in himself. Ill, embarrassed, he might not have rallied
self-justifications quickly enough, so Warner's words might have caused
a brief stab of conscience, enough to send him over the edge. _But if he
dies the chief fault is mine. I am guilty. To live is to destroy--true
or false? I am small; my only real quarrel with Hunter is that if he has
his way I shall never grow. How stubborn the life that can't desire to
die!_
Last August she had desired it, or thought she had, until a moment of
that Saturday night, on the stairs, her mother weeping in a room left
behind, her mind visited strangely by Victoria's grandchild the Funny
Thing. She had begun to desire death earlier--in July, after Jim's
letter, the only one he ever wrote. Stilted, timid; needless doubletalk;
the awkwardness and misspelled words not endearing or funny but rather
shocking, evidence of the blindness of her love.
_I will not say part of me died when I read that dismal thing. We die
and regenerate with every breath. All that happened (I-would-say-to-Edith)
was that my journey had taken me beyond the region where I met Jimmy and
learned some aspects (not all) of a passion called love._
_Notice also (am-I-still-talking-to-Edith?) how the laughing-crying
devil-angel that Jimmy woke up in me has not died, but rouses me even in
the prison night, stinking bare-light-bulb night, starved for the
pressure, the almost-anger, furious crescendo, meteoric release. Oh, in
an enlightened society I could have been a splendid high-class whore!_
"You may call your next witness, Mr. Hunter."
"Sergeant Lloyd Rankin!"
Callista heard Cecil Warner's short involuntary sigh, felt his hostile
stiffening and alertness. Detective Sergeant Lloyd Rankin of the
Winchester Police came down the aisle and held up a flat hand for the
oath, the slab-faced sober man. His gray hair under the cold light
glinted like dull steel, his eyes a lighter gray but opaque, oyster
gray. _Draw him as a bulldozer--Cecil might like it._ She ran her
fingers softly over the wrinkled hand, lifted away the idle pencil and
drew his scratch pad toward her.
A bulldozer has its own squat dignity. If it's directed to knock over
some little house loved by generations, that's no fault of the dozer.
The blade advances, the Diesel bellow swells to the roar of a caged
hurricane. Old timbers--nobody wants them--crumble like dry cheese. And
look!--the picture grew in swift lines and leaping shadows--look, a
doll! Left behind maybe under the eaves years ago. It had tumbled into
brief light in front of the caterpillar treads, which would of course
move on. Too bad, but no time to stop.
She knew idly that the small brilliant drawing was good. Light lived in
that doll, the rest a melancholy gray, a darkness. And turning the
sketch face down, she wondered if she had done right in telling Cecil
Warner of Sergeant Rankin's curious lapse on that afternoon last August
when the world fell apart. In the Old Man's steady glare at
Rankin--maybe he hadn't even felt her take the pencil--she glimpsed a
blaze that would have suited the eyes of a male tiger about to drive
another way from his mate and if possible gut him to ribbons. Her own
half-welcomed excitement, private elemental anguish akin to the neural
riot of approaching orgasm, was just as irrelevant, just as far from any
notion of discovering truth--in a courtroom, of all places! For what
after all did Rankin's moment of rutty brutality have to do with the
truth or falsehood of her story? Accused of it--(_he will be!_)--Rankin
would flatly deny it, the word of a respectable policeman against that
of the Monkshood Girl.
Gravely, to the prosecutor, he was admitting twenty-two years of service
with the Winchester Police, twelve of them with the Detective Division.
An honest policeman, Rankin, an up-to-standard product of what must be a
tight, hard school; a product chipped at the surfaces but wearing well.
_And what is honesty?_
She supposed that for Lloyd Rankin it would mean being no more dishonest
than a majority of his peers. It would mean: don't take _big_ bribes,
and don't be an unpopular holy joe about the percentages from bookies
and pimps and what-not: that's sort of like a tax, see? No compromise
with major crime, but don't stick your neck too far out except in the
obvious line of duty. There, in that clear line of duty, be ready to
risk your life all the way and maybe lose it. Certainly give him that,
she thought. He had all the earmarks of what is called a brave man, who
could probably say with a bullet lodged in the bone: "It's the job." To
Sergeant Rankin honesty would mean that obeying orders comes first; the
top brass is paid to think, so when in doubt follow the rules. And
Sergeant Rankin would believe (this she knew) that all criminals once
caught are somewhat outside the human race, no longer protected by the
common laws of charity and fair play. The professionals among them are
The Enemy; the nonprofessionals, the one-shot wife-stabbers and other
grown-up first offenders--his mind would balk at those, fretful and
baffled: why couldn't they act like other people? Or perhaps he would be
wedded to some one of the superficial formulas, substitutes for thought,
derived from religion or popular psychology. Sensing no contradiction,
Rankin would also believe in his heart that the world is more or less a
God-damn jungle where every man (including this man Rankin) has his
price.
"What is your present assignment, Sergeant?"
"Attached to Homicide Bureau, sir, the last four years."
"I ask you to recall the events of Monday, the 17th of last August. Did
anything happen that day in the line of duty that had to do with the
defendant Callista Blake?"
"Yes, sir."
"Give your own account of it, please."
Sergeant Rankin slipped on his reading glasses, appearing in that
owlishness no less a cop, and consulted his notebook. "Late on the
morning of August 17th of this year, Chief of Detectives Daniel Gage
directed me to go to the apartment of a Miss Callista Blake at No. 21
Covent Street, this city, in response to a telephone call that Miss
Blake had made to the local precinct station. The station had passed on
the substance of her call to our headquarters, and Chief Gage relayed it
to me. Miss Blake had told the desk sergeant she wished to give
information to someone in authority concerning the death of a Mrs. James
Doherty in Shanesville the previous night. She had said further that she
was ill, and gave this as the reason why she did not wish to come to the
police station herself. Chief Gage had communicated with the State
Police, and he passed on to me what he learned from them about the death
of this Mrs. Doherty, who had been found, apparently drowned, in a pond
at Shanesville."
"All the persons involved--Miss Blake, Mrs. Doherty, and others you may
have heard about later--were at that time unknown to you?"
"Yes, sir. Routine assignment to follow up information received."
"Go on, please."
"I reached Covent Street around noontime. I was in plain clothes of
course. Miss Blake admitted me, and before looking at my identification
remarked: 'Fast work! I've only been waiting an hour.' I don't know if
this was sarcasm. There had been no unnecessary delay."
Wanting to soften the intensity of Cecil's glare, she whispered: "It was
a noise to crack the silence. He stood in the door like a zombi, the
dear man, so's to make me speak first." She won from the Old Man only a
start, and a drowned look. He wasn't quite with her.
"Go on, Sergeant."
"I asked for her name, gave her mine, entered the apartment at her
invitation after showing my credentials. I inquired how she came to know
of Mrs. Doherty's death, and she said, first, that her stepfather had
telephoned her about it, but then immediately, and without questioning
from me, she said: 'Oh, I knew it, I knew it last night.'"
"Did you inquire what she meant by that?"
"Not right away. I first asked about her stepfather's call. I wanted to
get the identification and relations of these people clear in my mind.
She gave me the name Dr. Herbert Chalmers, said he had called her about
eleven o'clock and told her Mrs. Doherty's body had been found in the
pond. I engaged her in some general talk: who Dr. Chalmers was, and what
was her connection with Shanesville, with Mrs. Doherty, how long she had
lived there at Covent Street, things like that. She said she had called
the precinct station right after her stepfather hung up--which checked,
as to time. That first remark of hers--"
"I think we'll come back to that later. You say that in her call to the
precinct station Miss Blake had said she was too ill to go there. Did
she appear to be ill when you saw her?"
Rankin frowned. "I wouldn't say so. Dark under the eyes. I noticed a
tremor in her hands. Nothing that couldn't be explained by--oh,
nervousness perhaps."
"In that general talk, were her answers clear and satisfactory?"
"I learned nothing later to contradict them."
"I see. Well, did she then tell you what information it was she wished
to give--what she had in mind when she called the precinct?"
"Yes, sir. When I inquired, she said Mrs. Doherty had come to the
apartment the evening before. I asked what time; Miss Blake said Mrs.
Doherty had come at about quarter to eight and left at eight-thirty."
"Did she give the occasion, the reason for Mrs. Doherty's visit?"
"Miss Blake said she had telephoned to Ann Doherty, asking her to come.
I inquired the reason for this, what it was she wanted to see Mrs.
Doherty about, and she refused to tell me."
"Did Miss Blake explain her refusal?"
"No, sir. Just said: 'I won't tell you that.' I didn't press it. I
wanted to get on to other facts, facts she was willing to tell me."
"And she did give you other information?"
"She did, sir, freely enough."
"Just summarize it, please."
"She began by saying that since some time in July she had been under the
influence of what she called a suicidal depression, that she had some
poison in the apartment, and that she was afraid Mrs. Doherty might have
drunk some of it by accident. Miss Blake said she had become ill during
Mrs. Doherty's visit, had gone into her bedroom and shut the door--'to
get away from her,' as Miss Blake put it--and that while she was there,
in the bedroom, Mrs. Doherty must have poured a drink from the brandy
bottle which contained the poison. Miss Blake said she had been still in
the bedroom with the door shut--locked, in fact--when Mrs. Doherty left
the apartment. Then, according to her account, Miss Blake came out,
found the bottle had been moved, and became alarmed for Mrs. Doherty's
safety." The slight drawl and falling cadence of Sergeant Rankin's voice
was effective, Callista noted; good theater; something to admire as a
work of art. "She got her car out of the garage and drove to
Shanesville, to the Doherty house, found the Dohertys' car in the
driveway, found Mrs. Doherty's handbag fallen in the path, house dark
and door locked. Miss Blake said she then followed the path toward her
mother's house, assuming that Ann Doherty must have gone that way, and
presently discovered her, dead, in that pond. At that point, Miss Blake
said, she panicked, and was also ill again, and--drove home. You
understand, sir, I am merely summarizing, as you requested. Actually in
that preliminary talk with her, a summary was all I got--with, as I
later learned, some omissions. As soon as I had a general idea of the
situation, I called Chief Gage, using Miss Blake's telephone. Chief Gage
himself arrived at Covent Street at about ten of one, with a fingerprint
man--Sergeant Zane I think it was--a photographer, and yourself, Mr.
Hunter."
"Did you inquire, before others arrived, about this poison Miss Blake
said she had?"
"Yes, sir. She said it was aconitine, and said she had prepared it a
week before, by steeping monkshood roots in alcohol--brandy. I asked
where she got the roots. From her mother's garden in Shanesville, she
said. I asked whether she still had the stuff on hand. She said: 'Of
course.' Mr. Hunter, maybe I ought to say at this point that up to then
Miss Blake appeared to have no idea at all that she might be accused of
anything. I don't pretend to understand it, but that was my distinct
impression. Well, she took me out to the kitchenette, and showed me a
half-full bottle labeled brandy, which she said contained the poison,
and also an ordinary kitchen canister with some chopped-up mess that she
told me was monkshood roots. She herself remarked that the brandy
bottle probably had Mrs. Doherty's fingerprints. I took these items back
to the living-room later, and from then on they weren't out of my sight
until Chief Gage arrived and had them sent safe-hand to the Department's
toxicologist Dr. Walter Ginsberg, after a fingerprint check. Miss Blake
was very composed, I'd say sort of indifferent, about all this. When she
had shown me the brandy bottle and the canister in the kitchenette, I
asked her: 'Miss Blake, what did you have against this Mrs.
Doherty?--you might as well tell me.' She didn't answer, just looked at
me as if the question was--well, foolish or surprising. I said: 'Why did
you do it?'" Sergeant Rankin turned over a leaf of his notebook. "She
replied: 'That's how it is? I've told you the truth, but it's going to
be like that?' I told her yes, of course it would be like that, and I
asked her who she thought would believe the kind of story she'd given
me. Miss Blake then said: 'Who knows what anyone believes?' And she
asked: 'Are you going to arrest me?' I said that would be a decision of
my superiors. Then I--told her to go back to the living-room and remain
in my sight while I used her telephone. She did so."
Callista felt the Old Man lean close. He was muttering at his
mouth-corner: "Is that when he--?"
She nodded. "He's deleted five rather long minutes. Why not let it go?
My word against his, nothing much happened anyway, and it hasn't any
bearing." Warner growled indecisively. "Partly my fault too--should've
remembered my skirt might be transparent against that sun." Warner's
hand tightened and fell slack. She noticed Rankin's oyster-gray glance
flick her lightly and pass on, for the first time since he had taken the
stand.
"Before Chief Gage and others arrived, did Miss Blake do or say anything
else you remember as significant?"
"Well--one thing--I don't know how significant. There was a fancy
aquarium thing in her living-room, with fish, tropical fish I guess.
When I'd finished my call to Chief Gage--well--should I take up the
Court's time with this?--I don't know if it's relevant at all."
Surprisingly to Callista, it was Judge Mann who said: "I think, having
started, you may as well tell it, Sergeant. We can stop you if it's too
far afield."
"Well--when I'd finished my call, Miss Blake said: 'I'm getting
something from the kitchen, I suppose you want to come with me?' I did
so, and stood by while she got a pitcher and emptied the ice-cube trays
from the refrigerator into it. I inquired about it, and she said: 'Don't
worry, it's just ice.' She carried the pitcher back to the living-room.
She pointed out where an electric cord from the aquarium was plugged
into a wall socket and asked me to disconnect it. I did so, mostly to
humor her, saw no harm in it--I don't know anything about aquariums,
nice hobby I guess. Anyhow before I knew what she intended she had
poured the whole pitcher-full of ice cubes into the tank, and lifted out
a gadget--a heating-coil in a glass cover--and rapped it real sharp
against the leg of the table so that the glass broke and scattered over
the carpet. I asked her what on earth she did that for, but she didn't
explain the action--that is, she said the fish were beautiful, said it
as if that explained something, but I don't know what she meant. Then
she just stood by the aquarium watching them die. Two or three of them
were dead almost right away, anyhow a matter of a few minutes. She
pointed one of them out to me, a very small red fish, said it was a--a
live-bearer I think she called it, and she gave me the scientific name
of it too, but I don't remember that--platy-something. She said that one
was a female ready to give birth. I'd thought all fish laid eggs, but
seems not. I asked her again what she wanted to go and do a thing like
that for. She said: 'They were beautiful and I loved them. Now watch
them die.'"