Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady
“I'm not married.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“Yes, sir, but we divorced.”
“On what grounds did your wife divorce you, Detective?”
“Why... we didn't get along.”
“Aren't you lying, now? Wasn't the actual grounds for the divorce the fact that you beat her?” Jackson snapped.
Wagner stood up to ask the purpose of the questioning as Kolcicki wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve. Jackson said he wanted to establish, since the witness had stressed Matt had lied, that lying is an everyday occurrence, and it would be natural for a man to attempt to lie his way out of a tight spot. The judge told Jackson he wasn't aware lying was such a commonplace thing and he thought it was all irrelevant to the case. Jackson turned to Kolcicki, asked, “You have read and just heard Mr. Anthony's confession?”
“Yeah.”
“That's exactly what Mr. Anthony confessed to you?”
“Sure, it's the confession he signed.”
“Detective Kolcicki, I understand you have been a police officer for many years. During that time, have you secured other confessions?”
“I have, lots of them.”
“In other words, you are an experienced detective, an old hand at police work?”
“I am.”
Jackson said that was all.
As Kolcicki left the stand, walking with surprising grace, Wagner stood up and told the judge, “Your Honor, the State rests.”
There was a rush of small talk in the courtroom. I glanced at Brown: he didn't show any emotion at being off the hook. I was a trifle bewildered, somehow I had expected much more depth to the State's case.
Jackson stood up and said he wanted to make a motion. The judge had the jury sent out and Jackson asked that the case be dismissed for lack of evidence. The judge simply said, “Motion denied,” and asked if he was ready to open the defense's case. Jackson looked at the clock; it was a few minute after three—said he was ready.
The jury trooped back to their box and Jackson took several books out of his attache case, asked they be entered into evidence as exhibits for the defense. He and the judge had some sort of argument, of which I only caught part. The books were the writings of old Ben Jonson, Maugham, Anderson, Dreiser and others. Jackson claimed he wanted to quote a few lines from each of these famous writers, ”... who certainly can qualify as experts on their profession...” in order to establish the special conditions necessary for ”... a creative artist to work....” Jackson and the judge talked for several minutes. Wagner had not even risen from his chair. Finally the judge asked impatiently, “What has the prosecutor to say?”
“I have no objection, your Honor,” Wagner said.
The judge fussed some more, had Jackson mark the passages he wanted to read. The judge glanced through them and all this took a great deal of time. I was restless for a smoke. Matt was writing away at his table as though he was in his den and couldn't care less about the proceedings.
Wilma and Joel were whispering, their red and white heads together like a clumsy nosegay. I stared at her without any feeling and wondered why I didn't feel some damn thing. I'd certainly made the most asinine spectacle of myself possible before her. Also, I hadn't slept with more than a half a dozen women in my life, if that many. Yet seeing Wilma didn't remind me of a thing. All I could think of was—she wasn't wearing those awkward health shoes but regular high heeled ones.
The judge finally gave Jackson the go-ahead signal as the court attendants told people to stop talking. Jackson brought the books back to his table, then addressing the jury, he said, “As I stated in my opening address, it is the defense's contention—which I am about to prove—that a creative person, such as a writer, is a genius and not an ordinary person. Nor can the creative person, the writer, be expected to live by ordinary customs and conventions. I am about to read what several world-famous writers, experts, have said about the living and working habits of authors. Obviously they did not write this for Matt Anthony's trial. In each case I will give you the copyright date, and you will note that most of these observations were written many years ago and cover all writers.”
I left the court as Jackson began to read in a clear, elocution-teacher's voice. In the corridor I lit my pipe, enjoying the taste of the smoke. I could hear Jackson quoting somebody who said a writer should not be tied to one woman since the tool of his trade was curiosity. That sounded like pure bunk. Sinclair Lewis, I think, came in for some statement about writers needing to travel, a constant change. Jackson quoted Ben Jonson's “Who casts to write a living line must sweat,” followed by a long bit from Maugham about an author does not write only when at his desk, but all day long as he is thinking and experiencing many things. And a writer can not give his undivided attention to any other calling.
I waited until four, phoned our apartment. Michele said she was going to take the late afternoon Friday train. Liz Kuhn bad asked her to a dress rehearsal of a new musical—Michele was beat but hadn't been able to get out of it. She asked how the trial was going and I said the State hadn't presented much of a case.
Michele went into detail about an idea for decorating the fireplace in our 'country home.' Court was over, I watched people streaming out into the hallway. Brown went by, didn't hear my tapping on the booth door. When I finally hung up, the courthouse already had that deserted feeling.
Heading for the street, I found Joel inside the door, almost hiding. Asking me for tobacco, he got a new corncob going as he said nervously, “All this lousy publicity for nothing. For Christsakes, Wagner couldn't convict a fly on his evidence. The judge should have tossed the case out. For the life of me, I don't know why they couldn't have called it manslaughter, fined Matt and prevented this ridiculous spectacle. Anyway, it's over.”
“Over?”
“For us. Wilma is checking with Wagner if we're free to return to town now. My God, I'm a wreck, really need a vacation.”
“Going to your musical flying saucer, out of this world?”
“Told you we're heading for the West—” He smiled. “Oh, my, you're pulling my leg about my den. I may retire there for a few hours relaxation at that. I rarely spend a night there but... that time. It wasn't just Matt and the case, things had been rather nasty between Wilma and myself. That's over, we're like rabbits now.”
“Good for you two. I'll send you Easter cards.”
Joel puffed hard on the pipe. “Odd taste to this tobacco. I got a break with Wilma.”
“You did?”
“You see, I understand Wilma, she has a great sexual curiosity. Most of the time I'm grateful for that, but it can also be quite... demanding. Of course we're both broad-minded and... oh, I'm pretty sure she had an affair a month or two ago.”
There wasn't anything for me to say, but my insides coiled.
“Hell, we're sophisticated people—I've strayed myself a few times—but, and this proves it's a healthy thing. She must have gone with a kid. Very immature, I mean, he must have been a lousy lay. Ever since she—we—we've been wonderful in bed.”
He wasn't looking at me as he said this. He wasn't smiling. If he'd done either I would have hit him, busted his goddamn queer face. I said, “The silver lining. Look, give me a ring when you get back from the islands. I want you both to meet my wife.”
He said he would and I walked out. It was only when I reached the car, drove to the motel that my anger—or was it shame?—left me and I could grin about it. Knowing the Hunters had been something.
I washed up and wondered what the devil to do with myself. Michele and I had been so close these last months, I felt strange being alone. The window looked out upon a bay and I wondered if we could get in some fishing over the weekend. If it would turn just a little warmer we might even do some swimming or—
The phone rang. “Mr. Connor?”
“Yeah.” It was a man's voice.
“Norm, this is Henry Brown. I can't find a place to sleep. Is that invitation to share your room still open?”
“Certainly. Look, how about supper together? All goes on the swindle sheet.”
He hesitated, then said all right and I drove into town, picked him up in front of a drugstore. It wasn't five yet and we rode out to the canal, sat in the car and watched the fishermen going after tiny snappers. Brown said he had decided to stay for the duration of the trial, that he thought Matt needed his friends in the courtroom. I told him, “Looks like you won't be called at all. Matter of fact, the case may be over tomorrow. Clair hasn't any witnesses except Matt.”
“I imagine he'll put on a psychiatrist, or several of them. He's pleading temporary insanity. Then the State will put their own experts on the stand, and when all the smoke has cleared, nothing will have been proved.”
“la any event, Wagner hasn't proved murder.”
Brown nodded. “If I was Clair I'd rest my case without patting Matt on the stand, merely let the psychiatrists say it was possible Matt was insane for the moment. But I think Clair wants to make a show of it.”
“What has he got to lose? The D.A. hasn't made it murder.”
“That Wagner is shrewd. I have a feeling he's waiting for Matt to take the stand. Wagner has something up his sleeve.”
“And you still believe Matt didn't kill Francine, even accidentally?”
“Yes. Aside from the reasons I gave you before, Matt's courtroom behavior convinces me. I don't see him acting so nonchalant if he had anything to do with her death. The way he sits there and grins smugly, keeps writing away—what in God's name is he writing? One would think this is all a big joke to him. Another thing that doesn't make sense: I see Matt for the first time in years, and in an argument over me, he threatens to kill his wife. Does that make sense? Or did I point that out when we first talked?”
“Couldn't that be in keeping with your picture of him as an intellectual phony?” I asked. “Matt might not have the courage to openly help you, but in an argument with his wife he goes all out. To make a horrible pun, he went overboard.”
“Perhaps, but I don't believe it. I can hardly believe the trial, most times it seems like a dream, that it can't be real.”
“I know, I had the same feeling.”
We talked some more, then had a few drinks and a leisurely fish dinner. I liked talking to Brown, although the old guy was so dogmatic he infuriated me at times. Like I said something about 'professional' men and he claimed that was a snobbish term; it took as much knowledge and time to be a good bricklayer as to be a lawyer. Still, it was all a way of passing time.
We drove back to the motel, picking up the evening papers on the way. It didn't make most front pages—nothing sensational had come out of the court. One paper had a picture of Jackson in action and another of Matt grinning—and looking positively huge sitting at the defense table—all shoulders. Except for a line in one paper, Brown wasn't mentioned at all. I stretched out on the bed, read the papers, feeling very good—remembering how wretched I'd been the last time I'd spent the night out here, worrying about Wilma and... that Joel was a snide bastard. A lousy lay, a kid!
Brown undressed and went to sleep by nine-thirty. I was amazed at how hard and lean he looked for a man his age. I was far from sleepy and I took a walk in the darkness, then returned to smoke a pipe in the motel driveway, listen to the sound of the waves. A few cabins away I saw Jackson Clair pacing up and down with long, energetic steps. Maybe it wasn't an act, he couldn't know anybody was watching. I walked over and said hello. We shook hands and his bony face was full of a dozen different shadows as he boomed, “Ah, the publisher!”
“No. Longson's advertising manager.”
“Yes, yes, I saw the ads. Simple and pleasing. Is the book selling well?”
“About what we expected.”
“I trust you fellows are going to give Matt an advance on the book he's writing in court. I'm gambling my fee on that.”
“Depends on the book. We only have a few chapters so far and nobody's read them yet. How is the trial going?”
“Splendid. I was afraid the judge wouldn't allow the books, but when he did that was a major victory. Yes, indeed.”
“Do you plan to put Matt on the stand tomorrow?”
“Yes. After all, he's my star witness—and the only witness to the actual incident. I feel very confident Matt will walk out a free man.”
“Wagner certainly hasn't proved murder. Prof. Brown thinks he's waiting in the bushes for Matt to take the stand.” Jackson sighed. “Care to walk with me? Exercise soothes my nerves, relaxes my mind. One reason for the tension of our times, too many cars.” As we walked up and down the driveway, Jackson said, “That Brown—a real thorn in the case. If only he weren't a radical! Make the case much easier if he had been kicked out of college for stealing or murder, but... you noticed, I'm sure, how I laid the groundwork for a defense if Wagner tried to redbait. Wagner is a square shooter, kept the case clean of red herrings. He's a very puzzling opponent.”
“You think he's competent?” I asked. “Oh, yes, he's clever. The trouble is, stupidity can often be mistaken for cleverness. I don't mean he's stupid, but after all he's a hick town D.A. For example, I don't understand why he didn't object to my introduction of the books as evidence. Another thing, he hasn't tried to bargain, offer us murder 'two' if Matt pleads guilty. Very odd.”
“You think he's getting a Sunday punch ready?”
“He has to. Obviously he hasn't proved the slightest intent or premeditation. However, I am not worried, a wild punch is the easiest to duck, as I believe your Prof. Brown will tell you. However, one thing I admire Wagner for, he's a gentleman through and through. He could have had the Hunters give the entire conversation between Matt and Francine Anthony, brought out Matt was a bit of a radical himself in his teaching days. Did you know he was bounced from Brooks for leading the students in an anti-ROTC demonstration? That one of the things he told Francine in that fateful conversation, was she should be damn glad Brown clammed up... he could have named Matt? Of course it's all silly, but you realize how easy it would be, or have been, for Wagner to have played up the Professor, then smeared Matt. Yes, Wagner is a fair fighter.”
“What reason would Wagner have for not bargaining?”
“Frankly, I don't know. Perhaps he knew I wouldn't even consider anything less than a manslaughter charge. Then again, he may be a gambler, playing the long shot. One thing you can be sure of, I don't underestimate him.” Jackson suddenly changed the subject, asking if I knew this area had once been the headquarters for most of the Atlantic Coast Indian tribes? Had I ever visited the reservation nearby? He was full of Indian lore. I was almost trotting to keep up with his long legs. About a half hour later, as he was earnestly explaining how the various tribes regulated the fishing rights, I was getting damn tired. I suspected Jackson was, too—I was far younger and in better shape—but he was trying to outlast me; as if we were a couple of kids. Finally I thought the hell with it and when he paused I said, “We'll have to talk again about the Indians. Right now I need to hit the sack.”
