by D. W. Buffa
The only hope Darnell had was to make the jury see things through Marlowe’s eyes, feel what Marlowe had felt, try to face the same intolerable and inescapable decision to do what had to be done to save what lives he could. Each time he cross-examined a witness for the prosecution, whatever else he tried to do, he tried to do that: give the jury another glimpse into that primitive state of nature in which Marlowe had been forced to live and act. The day after Samantha Wilcox testified, Darnell was back in court, getting ready to do it all over again with what might be the last witness the prosecution would call.
James DeSantos would not have been called at all if he had had anything to do with it. From the moment he took the oath, glaring at the clerk, he did everything he could to give vent to his displeasure. Roberts tried to begin with a question that would put him at his ease. It did not work.
Asked to describe to the jury why he and his wife had decided to sail on the Evangeline, DeSantos exploded. ‘I told her it was a stupid thing to do! I told her that it was crazy to spend that much time away!’ His dark, handsome eyes burned with more than anger; unaccountably, in light of what had happened, it was something close to hatred. ‘I don’t know why I bothered—you could never tell her anything! She did what she wanted, no matter who it hurt. This time, it hurt her.’
His eyes had wandered all around the hushed, crowded room. Now he looked at Roberts with a hostile, penetrating stare.‘What do you want from me? Why did you bring me here? Haven’t I been through enough?’
‘You were brought here to answer questions, Mr DeSantos,’ said Roberts with a steely glance. ‘You were brought here to tell the truth about what you know.’
‘What I know is that my life is over—ruined, because all she ever thought about was herself. She had a contractual obligation, a picture that was to start shooting in a couple of weeks. She didn’t care if they had to wait, if hundreds of people had to sit on their hands, if the studio lost millions of dollars. She just wanted to have a good time! Sail around Africa—how romantic!’ he exclaimed, his eyes wild with rage. ‘Sail around Africa and look what happened! Look what happened to me! Look what I was forced to do! And if that wasn’t bad enough, look what’s happened since.’
‘What’s happened since?’ asked Roberts, stunned by the violence of the outburst.
DeSantos ignored him. For the first time, he turned to the jury, a ghastly smile on his face. ‘What do you think of me now, after what you’ve heard? What is the first thing that comes into your mind? The movie-star idol, the box-office sensation? Or the pathetic survivor, the ghoul who lived off dead people, including his own wife?’
His eyes, brutal and triumphant, darted back to Roberts. ‘That’s what has happened since. I’ve become a pariah, an outcast. No one will have anything to do with me; no one returns my calls. The pictures I was scheduled to make—cancelled; the offers that used to come in by the dozen every week—withdrawn.’
Roberts would have none of it. As forcefully as he could, he reminded DeSantos once again where he was and what was at issue. ‘This is a murder trial, Mr DeSantos. A man is on trial for his life.Your wife was killed. We’re not much interested in what may or may not have happened to your career!’
DeSantos jumped forward to the front edge of the witness chair. A caustic grin shot across his mouth. ‘My wife? Helena Green? Yes, I remember—we were married once. I seem to remember something about the ceremony, though not much about her being a wife after that. Married? Let me think.Yes! I guess we were. Two years, in which we may have spent all of two months together. Married? Not even enough to warrant a divorce. So why did we go on that ill-fated voyage, isn’t that what you asked? The question is misleading, Mr …? Yes, Roberts. Misleading, because it suggests that it was something we decided on together.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ said Roberts, taking advantage of a pause to get things back on track.‘You said in so many words that it was her idea. Now, let me ask…’
‘Her idea that she go. It was not her idea that I come along. I knew you didn’t understand. She was going, and nothing was going to stop her, but she had a thousand different reasons why I shouldn’t come along. The real reason, of course, was that she wanted to be with someone else. That’s right: my wife, Helena Green, wanted to sail around Africa sleeping with someone else. And no, he didn’t survive either.’
It seemed to serve as a kind of catharsis, that public acknowledgment of his wife’s infidelity, that harsh indictment of her betrayal. They were both dead, his wife and her lover, but he was still alive. For the moment that seemed sufficient satisfaction. He looked at Roberts with an air of weary resignation, as if he had said everything he cared to say on the subject.
‘There is really only one point we wish to understand, Mr DeSantos. It has to do with your wife and the way she died.Was she or was she not killed by the defendant, Vincent Marlowe?’
DeSantos looked at Roberts and then, as if he had just become aware of his presence, looked at Marlowe. His whole demeanour changed. His eyes became serious, thoughtful and introspective. The last trace of anger and defiance left his lips. His voice was quiet and subdued. ‘I don’t know how she died.’
Roberts went rigid. Standing next to the end of the counsel table, he pressed his fingers hard against it to keep his hand from shaking. ‘You’re under oath, Mr DeSantos,’ he warned. ‘I will ask you again: did Vincent Marlowe kill your wife? Did he kill Helena Green?’
DeSantos did not blink.‘And I’ll tell you again: I don’t know.’
‘Sir, we have a witness who has already testified that you saw Vincent Marlowe do it; not only saw it happen, but were the first to … to make use of her blood as a means of survival. Do you deny this?’
‘What do you mean, “make use of her blood”? Is someone saying…? Is that what that liar Trevelyn said? That I drank her blood so I could stay alive?’ he demanded.
‘That’s exactly what he said. And more than that, that you insisted on your right to do so first because she was your wife.’
DeSantos stroked his chin. ‘I wonder if that is true, if I really did? I wonder what any of us did out there?’
‘I beg your pardon? You’re saying you don’t remember what happened? That you don’t remember what was done?’
‘No, I remember some of it. What I don’t remember is how much of it was real, and how much of it was some kind of hallucination. What I remember mainly is the smell: the rotting flesh, the open wounds, the urine—did you know, did Trevelyn tell you, that we drank it, after the water ran out? Drank our own urine because we were driven mad by thirst? The smell, the stink, relieving ourselves in what we wore. And then the rest of it,’ he said, his voice dying in the stunned silence of the crowd, ‘the bodies, the blood…’ He looked up at Roberts as if he had forgotten where he was.
‘And what about the blood?’
‘It made them crazy,’ said DeSantos in a distant voice. ‘The sight of it, the taste of it.’
‘It made them crazy? Who? Who did it make crazy?’
‘All of us, everyone—almost everyone. That’s why it happened.’
‘Why what happened?’
‘The first time, the first time flesh was eaten—no one would take much, only what they had to. But then, when we got hungry again, all anyone wanted was more and warmer blood. It made them crazy—that’s what I said—the taste of blood. They could hardly wait to draw lots so they could taste it again.’
‘Your wife was the second victim, wasn’t she? The second person Marlowe killed?’
‘Marlowe was against it,’ said DeSantos sharply, the dazed expression gone. ‘He was against it from the beginning.’
‘Are you saying that he did not kill your wife? Are you saying that he did not kill anyone?’
‘I’m saying that whatever he did—and I don’t know that he did anything—he only did because the others said he had to.’
‘For the last time, Mr DeSantos: did you or did you not see Vincent Marlowe kill your wife?
’
‘I don’t know what I saw. I was like the others: half dead and out of my mind. For all I knew I was dead, dead and sent to hell. And you want me to tell you what happened? We suffered, all of us, like nothing you can imagine; and we did things, most of us, that can’t be forgiven. But did Marlowe do something he should not have done? He may have been the only one who did not.’
To DeSantos’s surprise, Roberts seemed to agree. ‘Certainly some of what he did was admirable, if what other witnesses have said is true: that when the boy was chosen to be the first to die, Marlowe tried to take his place. That’s really quite hard to believe, though, isn’t it? That someone would be willing to do that?’
‘It’s true, though. That’s exactly what he did, but the boy— how brave he was!—would not allow it.’
‘Would not allow it?’ asked Roberts with a sceptical eye.
‘He said that it wouldn’t be fair and that he didn’t mind so much as long as Marlowe did it.’
‘You saw all this? You heard it?’
‘I won’t ever forget it!’
‘You saw the boy die? You saw what Marlowe did?’
‘I couldn’t watch; I turned away. I saw Marlowe slide his hand down over the boy’s eyes, and then I couldn’t look.’
Roberts nodded as if he understood what DeSantos must have gone through. ‘And did you then follow Marlowe’s example?’
DeSantos looked at him with a blank expression. ‘His example?’
‘Yes. Marlowe offered to die in place of the boy. Did you offer to die in place of your wife?’
They stared at each other, locked in silence. Roberts, with a swift movement of his chin, wheeled around and faced the jury. ‘You remember quite vividly everything that happened to the boy, and you remember nothing about what happened to your wife. Some people might find that a little difficult to believe!’
‘Believe whatever you like!’ DeSantos shouted back. ‘What difference could any of that make to me now? Don’t you understand anything about what happened out there? We were all dead! It wasn’t a question of who was going to survive; it was a question how best to die.You think that lottery we held, the way we all drew straws, was some pact made with the devil to decide who would go on living? It was more like a covenant we made with God to let us ease our suffering. There were some, like Trevelyn, who would have killed us all, done anything to stay alive, but that was not true of most of us, not after the boy died. That was the example that stayed in our minds: the brave acceptance, the undaunted courage, with which he greeted his fate. It was hard to be a coward after that. He made death seem so simple.
‘Everyone, except for the likes of Trevelyn, wanted to die, and we would have, if Marlowe had let us. But he seemed to think the boy’s death taught a different lesson: that death had meaning only if it helped those it left behind. That’s why we went on like that, doing what we had to do, what was necessary, to stay alive, playing that ghastly lottery to decide who died and who lived. There were a few who thought we should not do it, that it was better that we each die when our time came, rather than kill each other just to live a little longer when, at the end of it, having murdered all the others, only one of us would be left and that one left to die alone.’
‘But Vincent Marlowe decided what you all should do? And Marlowe did the killing?’
‘Marlowe killed the boy because the boy said it was the only way he knew he could be brave enough. Who killed the others? They killed themselves. They died by their own agreement.’
‘But Marlowe performed the act?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ insisted DeSantos with a solemn, determined look. ‘We were all out of our minds, delirious, barely alive, delusional. All I know for sure is that without Marlowe all of us would be dead.’
Roberts gave him a stern look. ‘Including the last one he killed, the day before you were rescued?’
Darnell was out of his chair shouting an objection.
With a dismissive glance at DeSantos, Roberts withdrew the question. ‘No further questions,’ he said as he took his chair.
Homer Maitland leaned forward. ‘Mr Darnell?’
Darnell shook his head and started to sit down.
‘Well, perhaps just one or two questions,’ he said, rising again from his chair. He looked at DeSantos with a puzzled expression. ‘You said that the boy—his name was Billy, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you happen to know his last name?’
‘No, I just knew his first.’
‘He asked that Marlowe do this thing? It wasn’t Marlowe’s idea?’
‘Marlowe’s idea? He wanted to take his place.’
‘Yes, I understand. My question, though, is whether he asked that Marlowe do it because he was under the impression that, if he didn’t, someone else would instead?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t…’
‘Mr Trevelyn testified that the boy was chosen first because he was closest to death, that he would not have lived much more than another day.’
‘That is a lie! He wasn’t any closer to death than the rest of us.’
‘I understand. So he was chosen by lot—like the others would be. But that only explains the method by which the one to die was chosen; it doesn’t explain the method—if there was a method—by which the one who had to kill them was selected. Mr Roberts seems to want to suggest that all of the deaths were caused by Marlowe and that Marlowe did it solely of his own volition.’
‘Trevelyn was the one who pushed for it, who insisted it was the only way to survive. He would have killed the boy—I know he would have—if Marlowe had let him. If it had been Marlowe himself to die, instead of the boy, I think he would have insisted Trevelyn do it, to make Trevelyn take the responsibility for what he wanted done. But he never would have let him touch the boy.’
‘But before that—before that first drawing—what had been decided about who should do it?’
‘A second drawing, so that everything would be decided by chance: who would die and who would kill.’
Darnell nodded to himself and then tilted his head to the side. He looked at DeSantos with the utmost seriousness and respect. ‘You know that Marlowe killed your wife. He is going to admit that, along with everything else he did, when he testifies. And while I understand why you might want to protect him by being less than truthful about what you know, you cannot help him with a lie. What we need to know—what we need to know from you—is why, after the boy was killed, it was Marlowe, and not someone chosen by that process of random selection you just described, who killed the others? Why wasn’t there a lottery to choose the one who would kill your wife? Why did Marlowe do it?’
‘Because of what happened to the boy. Because you knew how much it hurt him, how deep it went. Because you knew that you could trust him to make it as painless as he could. Because you knew that if he had to take your life, it wasn’t because he wanted to save his own.’
Chapter Sixteen
HOMER MAITLAND WANTED TO SEE BOTH attorneys in chambers. The word suggested something exquisitely Victorian, a room cluttered with ponderous furniture, thick littered carpets and heavy draperies, with a constant fire against the bone-chilling fog of a London December. The reality was rather more prosaic: a small rectangular room with a grey linoleum floor, two metal bookcases of standard dimension and a nondescript desk with a cheap wooden veneer. There was a window, but no view.
‘DeSantos was your last witness?’ he asked as Roberts and Darnell settled into the two chairs in front of his desk. A thin, shrewd smile stole across his mouth. ‘Or was DeSantos the first witness for the defence?’
This was not condescension, nor was it second-guessing. Homer Maitland understood the chances a lawyer sometimes had to take. ‘It’s a strange case when the defence lawyer insists that the prosecution’s witness provide the testimony that the prosecution could not get from him. That’s why you called him, isn’t it?’ he asked Roberts directly. ‘To testify that he saw Marlowe kill his wife, He
lena Green? Never mind—that isn’t something I should ask.’
‘It doesn’t seem to matter why I call a witness,’ said Roberts with a modest, self-effacing smile. ‘By the time Mr Darnell…’
‘Bill,’ insisted Darnell.
‘By the time Bill finishes with them on cross-examination, I’ve lost more ground than I’ve gained.’
A quick, hard grin cut across Maitland’s mouth.‘I wouldn’t be too surprised if Bill doesn’t think the same thing after you finish with the witnesses he calls for the defence.’ He looked from Roberts to Darnell and back again. ‘You were right, both of you, in your opening arguments. This is the most unusual case any of us will likely ever see. I’ve been on the bench thirty years this April, and I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m not sure that the wisdom of Solomon would be enough to decide this one.’
There was a long silence in which each of them wondered what the chances were that anything close to that measure of wisdom might be found among this or any other jury.
‘Perhaps they’ll draw straws to decide whether Marlowe lives or dies,’ said Darnell finally.
‘Isn’t there some way to resolve this before it comes to that?’ asked Maitland. He turned to Roberts. ‘Is there any way to negotiate a plea?’
‘He wouldn’t plead to manslaughter. There isn’t anything lower than that except dismissal.’
‘And the first thing he would ask me is whether he could fight it,’ said Darnell to Maitland’s astonishment. ‘Marlowe won’t plead to anything; he wants this trial, not to prove his innocence, but to prove his guilt. What you said a moment ago is truer than you could have known: the best witness for the prosecution is likely to be the defendant himself.’
‘So you are going to put him on the stand?’ asked Maitland, just to be sure.
‘I can’t stop him; and at this point, I’m not sure that I want to. He needs to get it out, to make his confession. It might send him to prison; it might cost him his life. That doesn’t matter to him— it might even be his incentive.’
