by Hank Janson
Yeah, that was the hell of it. I wouldn’t ever see her again. It had been a short, sweet episode. Something to remember. A queer thought, that. Something to remember when, at the last moment, I was waiting for the warder to throw that switch.
The courtroom was crowded and stuffy. There seemed half-a-million folk there, and every one of them was trying to look at me. I sat with folded arms, looking neither to left nor right and vaguely understanding this was a battle for my life in which I had no part. My solicitor Jordan was there, the first time I’d seen him since that preliminary interview.
The tall, hawk-nosed guy quizzing the jury members was Bailey, who’d come down from New York especially to defend my case.
Nobody does anything for nothing. I guessed he wanted the publicity of it all. Well, if it was publicity he wanted, he was certainly gonna get it. Because not many guys appear in the dock with three separate charges against them, each of which merits the death sentence.
The testing and selection of the jury members went on for hours. The court adjourned for lunch, and I was locked away downstairs, supplied with milk and sandwiches. Then it was back to the court again. It was two days before the jury were finally selected and sworn in. The third day, the prosecuting counsel opened his case.
Listening to him, I knew everything was hopeless. First of all, there were the witnesses who had found Manton’s body in the car, the doctors, the ballistics experts and the fingerprints experts. They tied me in with Manton properly. My fingerprints were found all over the car. Just to make it neat and tidy was the evidence supplied by Helen.
The prospect of seeing her in court was the one thing that had given me any interest in the trial. I wanted one more look at her, have her blue eyes looking deep into mine.
But she was too ill to attend court. The prosecuting counsel waved her statement, which she’d made on oath, added gently that she’d undergone a gruelling experience that had caused her nervous shock. He added, meaningfully, that later, the jury members would understand the ordeal she had undergone. Then, very slowly and very loudly, he read her statement. It was brief and to the point. It made it quite clear how she’d seen me in the car with Manton.
It kinda hurt, knowing she was giving the evidence that would provide Frisk with his final victory. Yet all she did was to tell the truth. Her statement was made on oath. What other information could she give?
It took two days for the prosecuting counsel to complete his case. Hour by hour, the evidence piled up, one strong brick added carefully to another strong brick, building a wall that was stronger and more confining in every way than the one with which I had intended to seal Frisk off from all mankind. I could sense now the hostility of the public. As the facts slowly emerged, the reporters were ‘phoning them through to the newspapers. Public feeling was running high against me. I was a cold-blooded murderer. What was more, I was a bestial kidnapper. Nothing could stop those newshounds. I was in court charged only with murdering Manton. The kidnapping charge would follow later, if I was able to get free from the murder charge. But the newspapers weren’t missing a thing. The kidnapping took the public interest. It was built up really big.
With so much public feeling against me, a public hatred that was harsh and implacable, it irritated me to see the way Jordan the solicitor sat easily and comfortably throughout the hearing, a gentle smile whispering around his lips. And as for Bailey, whatever great guns he may have been in New York, he wasn’t firing many shots now. He spent little time in the court, leaving his junior to conduct the case.
I didn’t know why they were taking so long about it. I didn’t understand why they had to go through all this rigmarole. I was innocent, but I had as much chance as a celluloid cat in hell of proving it. The evidence was so thick against me, no sane jury member could find me innocent.
But that was up until the time the prosecution rested its case. Then, abruptly, the whole nature of the trial changed. Bailey, the defending counsel, came back into court with the air of a gladiator about to meet the lions. His eyes gleamed and his hawk-nose seemed eager to rend and tear his prey. He threw overboard every conventional court procedure and refrained from addressing the jury, beyond telling them the evidence he was about to draw out in court could completely contradict the charges of the prosecutor.
He called his first witness. ‘Miss Susan Long.’
I’d never heard the name before. I craned my neck with the others, wanting to see who she was. It wasn’t until she was seated in the witness box and pulled back the wispy little veil to her hat that I recognised the bony dame who’d been losing so heavily that night at Frisk’s nightclub.
Bailey was gentle with her, drawing her out smoothly and easily. His voice was that of a loving father extracting from his daughter a full account of her evening’s outing.
‘And what did you do in the backroom of this nightclub?’ he asked.
Susan took a deep breath. ‘I was playing a game,’ she said. ‘Lots of people went back to play games.’
A chuckle ran around the court. Everyone knew Frisk ran a gambling joint. Everyone knew the cops knew it. But the cops didn’t like it talked about. They were satisfied with the cut they got, but didn’t like criticism, didn’t like it inferred they weren’t doing their duty.
Bailey’s hooked nose hovered over Susan like he was about to pounce on her. But his voice was oily, smooth. ‘While you were playing your … game! … did you notice particularly anyone else who was also playing?’
‘There were a number of people I noticed,’ faltered Susan.
Bailey looked at the ceiling disinterestedly. ‘Will you look around the courtroom and see if you can identify any of those players?’
Susan looked around. Her eyes rested on me, lighted up and her bony chest heaved. Her long thin arm was fully extended.
‘That man there,’ she said.
Bailey didn’t even bother to look. ‘Did you notice him for any particular reason?’
‘Why yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘He was right next to me, and he was …’ she broke off suddenly remembering the cops. She amended her statement hurriedly. ‘He was playing the same game as me.’
Another chuckle ran around the court. The judge frowned over his glasses, looked around. ‘This is not a music-hall,’ he said sternly.
I was the next witness on the stand. I hadn’t seen my solicitor, I hadn’t even thought I’d be called. I felt all those eyes watching me as I went to the witness box, took my seat.
Bailey said: ‘I want you to tell the court your story. Exactly the way you told it to Mr Jordan, your solicitor. Tell us everything that happened, in the greatest detail.’
I licked my lips nervously. I stared at him anxiously. ‘Will it do any good?’
‘Don’t quibble,’ he snapped. ‘Just do what I tell you. Tell your whole story.’
I swallowed, gulped, realized Bailey must have something up his sleeve, and plunged into my account of what had happened. I particularly mentioned Frisk’s name. I particularly mentioned how he’d killed Manton.
There was a kinda stunned silence in court when I was through. The DA had some questions to ask me. He too looked a little shaken.
‘Now tell me,’ he said pompously. ‘Are you of the opinion that if anyone had killed Manton and wished to put the blame on someone else, he could have invented a better story than the one you have sat there and alleged actually happened?’
‘Objection,’ yelled Bailey.
‘Objection sustained,’ said the judge.
But the DA had got over his point. It dealt a heavy blow at my story. He went on questioning. Subtle, artful questioning that, while it was unable to shake my story, provided reasonable doubt in the minds of the jurymen.
When at last the ordeal was over and I was allowed to creep back to my seat, the usher called loudly for the next witness. ‘Miss Diana Foster.’
I knew who she was. The dame I’d danced with. She smiled around the court when she entered, crossed her legs carel
essly as she sat on the stand, and as soon as she saw me, nodded warmly.
My solicitor musta been doing a lotta digging. It musta cost plenty of dough. The way these witnesses were turning up showed he’d exploited every little detail I’d given him, followed them through and was squeezing every possible advantage from them.
Bailey questioned her with care, every question making itself felt. ‘And after you had danced with Mr Shelton, what happened then?’
‘Mr Shelton left,’ she said. ‘He went to the backroom of the nightclub.’
‘And then?’
She flushed. ‘I was lonely,’ she admitted. ‘My brother and his fiancée left early. I decided I’d join Mr Shelton in the games room. But when I got there, he wasn’t to be seen.’
‘You concluded then Mr Shelton must have left and gone home?’
‘Oh no,’ she said, scandalized. ‘That was impossible.’
‘Why?’
She flushed, shot me a shy, sideways glance. ‘Mr Shelton was very nice,’ she said. ‘I was awaiting an opportunity to see him again. I was watching the door all the time. He couldn’t possibly have left the club.’
‘Then what conclusions did you form?’
‘There was only one place he could have been,’ she said. ‘He must have been in Mr Frisk’s office.’
‘But you couldn’t prove that?’ Bailey shot at her.
She shook her head. ‘No, I couldn’t prove it. Not directly.’
‘Could you prove it indirectly?’
Once again she flushed. ‘I stayed until the nightclub closed. I knew Mr Shelton would be sure to come out. I went to the car park, got my car and drove back to the front of the nightclub. It was closed then, but there was a light inside. I decided to wait for half-an-hour. But before then, Mr Shelton came out.’
‘He came out alone?’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said ruefully. ‘He seemed to be under the weather. The two men with him were supporting him. He looked as though he’d had too much to drink. They helped him into a car, drove off with him.’
‘Can you describe the car?’
‘Yes. A dark blue or a black saloon.’
‘Would you recognise those two men who were with Mr Shelton?’
‘I recognised them immediately. I’ve seen them many times before.’
Bailey turned to the judge.
Bailey said quickly: ‘Your Honour, may I request leave to recall this witness to the stand at a later date.’
‘Objection,’ yelled the DA automatically.
The judge stared at him blankly. ‘Why?’
The DA hadn’t thought of his reason yet. ‘Why … because …’ His voice trailed off as his mind groped for a reason.
The judge banged his gavel on his desk. ‘Objection overruled.’
The next witness was Gunn. He was dressed to kill, lounged contemptuously into the courtroom, sat elegantly in the witness box and sneered around as if to say: ‘Well, this is so very childish.’
The prosecution was getting worried. The case had taken an unusual turn. The DA’s face was hard and intent when Bailey began his questioning.
‘Look at the accused,’ he said. ‘Do you recognise him?’
‘Sure,’ said Gunn, looking at me and flashing his teeth. ‘He’s a hophead. Musta misjudged. Gave himself too big a jolt while he was in our club. Passed right out on the office floor.’
I took a deep breath. I knew what was coming. Just for a little while, I’d dared to hope. Now again I could see it was no good trying to break this case against me. It was too strong.
‘That was the night Manton was murdered?’
His smile slipped a little. ‘I guess it would be,’ Gunn conceded.
‘What did you do with Shelton when he passed out on your office floor?’ asked Bailey.
Gunn shrugged. ‘What else could we do? He was cluttering up the place. Me and Jenks took him in the car, left him on a park bench to cool off.’ His eyes glittered with malevolent amusement. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t have left him. He was a hophead. Everyone knows hopheads get murderous. Maybe we shouldn’t have left him alone. Maybe Manton wouldn’t have been killed and …’
‘Confine yourself to answering questions,’ snapped Bailey.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Gunn. His smile flashed at the jury. They listened intently, lapped up every word he let drop.
Bailey put on an act. He looped his thumbs in his vest armholes, looked at the ceiling and rocked back on his heels. Then he said, very gently: ‘Supposing it was suggested you and your associate Jenks drove to a disused parking lot nearby and left Mr Shelton in a car that had been stolen, returning again to the nightclub to collect the body of Manton, who had recently been shot by Mr Frisk. Would you call that a lie?’
‘I sure would,’ said Gunn. He bristled with indignation. ‘Anyone who would say that is a damned liar. He’d have to suffer, too. There’s a law in this country!’
‘I sympathise with you,’ mocked Bailey. ‘And if it was further suggested the body of Manton was placed in the back of that stolen car and that you and Jenks then drove that stolen car onto the highroad, left it parked in such a way that when it was discovered, it might easily be assumed Shelton had murdered Manton, that, too, would be a lie?’
Gunn said hotly: ‘I’ve never heard such an outrageous suggestion.’
Bailey grinned at him. There was something special about the way he grinned. Like he knew something that Gunn didn’t. ‘You categorically deny Frisk shot Manton?’ he asked.
‘We hadn’t seen Manton there for two weeks prior to his death.’
Bailey looked at his fingernails. He said, softly: ‘Murder is a very serious crime. Men are executed for it.’
Gunn licked his lips. ‘Why tell me?’
Bailey turned to the judge. ‘Your Honour,’ he said, ‘May I recall my previous witness for a moment, without this gentleman leaving the stand?’
The judge opened his mouth to speak, but already Bailey had beckoned to Diane Foster. She stood up, walked over to him.
‘In the previous evidence you referred to two men,’ he said. ‘Can you identify any of them in this court?’
‘I sure can,’ said Diane. She pointed an accusing finger at Gunn. ‘This is one of them.’
Bailey beamed with satisfaction. ‘That’s all,’ he said. ‘Kindly sit down again.’
There was a rustle of expectancy among the onlookers as she returned to her seat. And whereas before, Bailey had been almost gentle with Gunn, now he changed, turned into a terrifying symbol of justice. He stood well back from Gunn, asked in thunderous, terrifying tones. ‘Will you tell the court how long you have been outside, waiting to be called to the stand?’
Gunn was nervous. ‘I guess maybe an hour-and-a-half.’
‘And throughout that time, you have had no manner or means of learning the nature of the evidence given by these witnesses who appeared before you?’
Gunn was wary. His brow puckered. ‘I guess not,’ he said hesitantly.
‘You have just heard this woman identify you!’
Gunn had lost his grin. ‘Yeah, that’s right ... I don’t know …’
‘Do you know the penalty for murder?’
‘Look here … What is …?’
‘Do you know the penalty for murder?’ thundered Bailey. ‘Answer yes or no.’
‘Yes,’ said Gunn reluctantly.
‘Are you aware three or four or a dozen men equally guilty by complicity in the murder of just one man can all be charged and executed?’
Gunn’s face was white. ‘What are you getting at?’
Bailey had got him scared. His advantage was Gunn didn’t know what evidence had already been given. He was getting Gunn shaken, making it clear to him that if any charge was brought against Gunn, Frisk and Jenks, they might all be faced with a murder charge. He wanted to make Gunn realize that covering up for Frisk under such circumstances might be a risk to his own neck.
Bailey was playing his trump car
d now. He leaned forward, black eyes glittering and hook-nose looming revengefully. ‘I want you to think carefully before you answer my next question. I want you to understand that if and when my client is declared innocent of the charge laid against him, that of murdering Manton, it may transpire the prosecution will make other charges.’
The flamboyance had seeped out of Gunn. His knuckles showed white where he gripped the sides of the chair. Bailey deliberately allowed seconds to pass before he continued, long seconds throughout which the silence of the courtroom was deafening.
‘You are speaking here on oath. Any statements you make are being recorded. Such statements can be used again in open court. Your truthfulness can be judged in the light of other evidence that is produced.’ He paused again.
Gunn was sweating now. His face was white, and the sweat stood out on his brow like he was in a Turkish bath. ‘It may easily transpire,’ said Bailey, ‘that a man accused of murder may implicate associates deliberately in order to distract attention from his own guilt. There have been many such cases, some of which have been tried in this very courtroom.’
Gunn was staring at him as though hypnotised.
‘It is not my duty to give you this warning,’ said Bailey. ‘But I am aware of the seriousness of your situation. I cannot permit myself to ask you to answer this final question without giving you due warning.’
Bailey certainly earned his dough. He’d almost convinced me the previous witnesses had given full testimony completely incriminating Frisk.
‘Think well before you answer this last question,’ intoned Bailey solemnly. He held the court now. ‘Who killed Manton?’
Gunn looked around desperately as though seeking assistance. The DA was trying to catch his eye, shake his head to warn him it was a trick. But Bailey moved easily, kept himself between Gunn and the DA. ‘Answer up,’ he rapped sharply. ‘You don’t have to think about this. You’ve had all the time you need for thinking. This is the time for answers. Do you know who murdered Manton?’
Gunn bit his lip. A hunted look came into his eyes. The sweat was running down his cheeks now. He was fighting an internal struggle with himself like he was trying to make a denial but the words wouldn’t come out.
