The Devil Amongst the Lawyers

by Sharyn McCrumb

  Henry looked down at Ishi, who had suddenly become a much greater responsibility than he had bargained for when they set out from the house on that sunny morning. He noted with approval that the child was not visibly distressed or weeping. Like him, he thought, she had been born middle-aged. In her decade of life, she had lived through many small earthquakes, and Henry, who had been in Japan for half as long, had also become accustomed to the sensation of terra infirma. He had delighted in the Japanese folktales that explained the phenomenon: a monster catfish lay coiled around the islands, and when it shifted its position, the earth shook.

  He knew, though, that today’s event was not to be cast as a charming legend. The toppled buildings, and the columns of smoke rising in the distance told him that this was a genuine disaster, well beyond the usual minor rumbles that happened so often. People were streaming into the park, in shock, perhaps, or waiting for someone to come along and tell them what to do next.

  He nodded in the direction of the Imperial Hotel. “Perhaps we should go back inside. The building held up well.”

  Ishi shook her head. “The fires will come. And I must go to my parents. We will go back now.”

  “But the electricity is off. No streetcars. No telephones. And there will be many fires throughout the city.” Henry’s arguments were all sensible, but he did not press the point, because he realized that he did not want to be responsible for someone else’s child during the chaos of a natural disaster. Ishi wanted her parents, and he was happy to relinquish her into their care.

  Ishi slipped her arm in his. “We will walk.”

  In order to get back home, they would have to cross the Sumida River, perhaps a half hour’s walk from the park, in order to reach their home in the Honjo district on the western side of the river. Henry hoped that the Shin-Ohashi Bridge had survived the quake, and he wondered what they would find when they got to the other side. Surely there were fires in Honjo, too, and perhaps their building had also been destroyed, but in any case, he could locate Ishi’s parents, and, if necessary, bring the family back to safety at the embassy or wherever the Americans established their emergency headquarters to wait out the disaster.

  He took Ishi’s hand so that he would not lose her in the crowds hurrying through the streets, some of them with handcarts, filled with clothing, bedding, and cherished family possessions, salvaged from their ruined houses. They weren’t all going in the same direction, though. People seemed to be fleeing the fires that had broken out in their neighborhoods without quite realizing that they were heading toward fires that had sprung up elsewhere. Roof tiles that had been shaken loose by the earthquake had fallen and shattered in the street, so that they had to watch where they walked. Henry glanced up at the dry wooden roofs exposed by the fallen tiles. If wind-borne sparks reached those bare roofs, those buildings would go up like tinderboxes, too. Willing himself to speak calmly, he urged Ishi to walk faster.

  The wind had picked up now, and the air smelled of smoke. Henry looked back the way they had come, wondering if they should have simply stayed in the new hotel, but he could see sheets of flames leaping behind them, forming a curtain that obscured the distant hills, and he thought that surely the sensible course would be to head for the river. When they reached the old wooden bridge, a policeman was stationed there, directing the foot traffic clogging the bridge from both sides, each group trying to reach the nonexistent safety of the opposite bank. On the ground beside the bridge were piles of bedding, discarded furniture, and abandoned handcarts. The policeman was permitting no one to set foot on the bridge encumbered by baggage, because such things were fire hazards and obstacles that would have endangered the lives of all who were trying to cross the bridge.

  Henry looked down at Ishi. “It will be difficult to get over the bridge. Will you be all right?”

  “Hai. We must go across.” Ishi answered him in a strong, clear voice, but her eyes were troubled.

  “Never mind, Hedgehog,” said Henry, trying to smile. “We’ll manage.”

  He thought of salmon fighting their way upstream as they shoved and squeezed past the hordes of desperate people who were surging in the opposite direction to get past. But except for the crackle of flames and the crashing of falling buildings, it was strangely quiet. No one screamed or wept aloud. Henry thought that under similar circumstances his fellow citizens back home might be stampeding in panic, and they certainly would not have been going so quietly. He wondered what emotions lay beneath the impassive faces of these calm, methodical refugees—self-discipline, resignation, or some other feeling that he could not even guess at.

  After what seemed like an hour of polite shoving and dodging, while the sky darkened and the smell of smoke grew stronger, they finally reached the other side of the bridge. Henry stopped for a moment to get his bearings and to take stock of the encroaching fires, and before he could choose a road that would lead back to Ishi’s building, another policeman approached them, unleashing a torrent of words and gesturing in the opposite direction.

  Ishi looked up at Henry. “We cannot go home,” she said, in case he had not understood the message. “He says that the head of police has ordered everyone to go to an open space near the river for safety.”

  Henry blinked. “Do you know where it is?”

  “Hai. The Army Clothing Depot. The building is gone. Now it is all grass, like park. My parents should be there. We will meet them.” She tugged at Henry’s sleeve and set off through the sea of people who were also heading for the safety of the open field where the Army Clothing Depot used to stand.

  THIRTEEN

  A sense of desolation, like a soul in torment.

  —MATSUO BASH

  By the time court adjourned for the day, all you could see of the town of Wise was gray shapes in the evening mist, so Nora had not seen much of her new surroundings. A cold drizzle was beginning to fall as they dashed for the car. While Carl fiddled with the pedal starter mechanism, Nora wiped the rain from her face with a linen handkerchief. They did not speak until he had the car in gear and eased onto West Main Street, in the direction of Cousin Araby’s house.

  “What did you think, Nora?”

  She hesitated. “Well, it put me in mind of church. Important without necessarily being interesting.”

  Carl laughed. “You could get in trouble saying that to a newspaperman. What did you think about the defendant, though?”

  “I felt sorry for her. Having to sit there and listen to all those people saying what they thought of her. And listening to her friends giving chapter and verse of things she said about her daddy when she was mad. Nobody ought to have their private conversations dragged out in front of strangers.”

  “Well, they’re trying to prove she committed murder, Nora.”

  “I know. And if Eleanor Roosevelt was to die, I reckon they could get half our kinfolk charged with the crime on evidence such as that.”

  Carl laughed. “But that would be fair enough, though, if she died in our house, don’t you figure? The neighbors heard the ruckus on the night Mr. Morton died, and he was in the house with only his family present, so all this tale-telling of past quarrels is just the icing on the cake.”

  Nora nodded. “I know he was done to death in that house, and it had to come about while they were having that set-to. I don’t see how we can know more than that. Suppose his heart gave out?”

  “The jurors listen to everybody talk, and then they have to use their judgment to say what they think most likely happened.”

  “I understand that. I just don’t know why anybody mistakes their opinion for the truth.”

  “ ’Cause there ain’t many people in the world who can up and ask the dead man what happened to him.”

  “Well, Carl, if I’d a-seen I’m, I’d a-asked him. He’s not here anymore.”

  “Maybe if you went back to the house where he died? Well, I don’t suppose they’d let us in. They’ve been paid not to talk to other reporters.”

  “I wish I
could help you,” said Nora.

  “I wish you could, too. I have to call in another story tonight to the rewrite man. It’s going to be pretty bland stuff.”

  “But even if Mr. Morton was still around and told me exactly what killed him, you couldn’t put it in the newspaper, could you? A lot more people would believe the jury than would believe a twelve-year-old girl who has visions. And if you put my name in the paper, I reckon my folks would send you on into the hereafter to talk to the dead man yourself.”

  “I’d deserve it, too,” said Carl. “And I guess the New York boys would have a field day with that story if I did write it. ‘Hillbilly Gal Talks to Ghosts.’ And ‘Backwoods Yokels Credit Superstition Over Science.’ ”

  Nora hung her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, don’t you give it another thought. This isn’t your problem, Nora. In fact, it’s hardly even mine. We’re not called upon to solve the case for the police. I’ve only got to make sense of it when I tell the tale. But maybe there is something you could do. They won’t let me into the jail to see Erma Morton, because reporters are barred by those syndicate people. Her brother has seen to that. But you’re not a reporter. Maybe you could get in to see her. Take her a book or some ladies’ magazines. You wouldn’t have to stay long. Would you be afraid to do that?”

  “What is there to be afraid of? Even if she killed a man, she’s already locked up.” Nora smiled. “I reckon I’d be safer talking to her than I am riding in this contraption with you.”

  IN THE COURSE OF A CAREER in journalism, Rose Hanelon had talked to English earls, convicted killers, society beauties, disaster survivors, and impoverished immigrants in tenements—nearly the entire spectrum of humanity—and she had felt not a twinge of discomfort in conversing with any of them. But as she gave Danny’s number to the long-distance operator, she felt her hand shaking. The people she interviewed in the course of a day’s work were all fodder for her feature articles, and they wouldn’t matter to her for any longer than it took for the piece to appear in print. After that she forgot them, as new people replaced them in her thoughts. She might like her interview subjects personally or sympathize with their plight, but they were part of an endless procession of humanity and she had to move on. You had to let the old ones go so that you could muster an interest in the new subjects.

  But Danny was not just yesterday’s news. He was a part of her personal life, insofar as she had one, and her sympathy and attention in him was constant and unfeigned. The interest she forced herself to show for a succession of strangers came naturally to her where Danny was concerned. That was the reason for her nervousness. Because he mattered to her, she was afraid of doing something wrong and losing him, and that would hurt. She had never known anyone like him. She seldom let herself get close to anyone, and she did not trust herself in this unfamiliar territory of the heart.

  While she waited for the long-distance operator to make the connection, she took deep breaths, willing herself to speak calmly. She had combed her hair and freshened her makeup—to place a phone call.

  “H’lo.” Danny’s voice, a lilting baritone that always made her think of ballads, and whiskey, and a patchwork of Irish fields seen from a biplane.

  “Hello there, Danny. It’s Rose. I’m still in the back of beyond, so I thought I’d pass the time by seeing what you’re up to.”

  “Why, hello, Rose. How’s my intrepid lady journalist? You don’t know how much I’m wishing you were here.”

  She bridled with pleasure. “Oh, Danny, I miss you, too! Did you get my letters? I’ve been writing—”

  “Well, the thing is I haven’t been in town myself. I got a job just after you left. Looked like easy money for a quick trip, and the client was made of money, but for all the trouble it has landed me in, I wouldn’t do it again for a million dollars.”

  Rose tightened her grip on the receiver. “Trouble, Danny?”

  “I’ll say! I just had to use what they paid me up front to post my bail.”

  “You were in jail? What did you do?” Not what are you charged with. What did you do? Because Rose knew that in Danny’s mind only his love of flying was clear and focused. Everything else—laws, morality, fair play, and obligations—might have been painted there by Monet, so vague and blurry were they. He seemed to consider anything that furthered his flying career or gave him pleasure as an acceptable course of action, and if these things were illegal, then he would try not to get caught. In anyone else, Rose would have deplored such fuzzy morality, but somehow, with Danny, it didn’t matter.

  “Don’t take on, Rose, old girl. I didn’t kill anybody. I just did what I always do. Flew my plane someplace, picked up a shipment, and flew home.”

  She closed her eyes, trying not to imagine the worst. “And this shipment, Danny. What was it? Booze is legal nowadays, so I guess that leaves drugs.”

  “No, darlin’, nothing like that at all. This phone call must be burning up your hard-earned money as we speak. Couldn’t you just come back to New York and let me tell you the whole story over a pint at Sheridan’s?”

  “Tell me now. Hang the expense.”

  Danny sighed. “Well, if you must have it, Rose . . . There was a very well-heeled gentleman who had been living in Cuba, and he wanted to come back to New York in the worst way.”

  “So why didn’t he book a cabin on an ocean liner, Danny?”

  “Because he didn’t want to pass through customs, of course. The authorities were not keen on his setting foot in New York again. Well, they were, but only because they wanted to put him in jail the minute he got here. So some of his fellas got in touch with me and asked me if I would fly down to Havana, and collect the gentleman, and fly him home to Long Island. It was just a lark for me, and they offered me a thousand dollars plus expenses to do it. Now how could I turn that down, Rose?”

  “Well, I wish you had. Who was this homesick man in Cuba? No, let me guess. An Italian gentleman with a lot of associates with shoulder holsters, and interests in, oh, gambling and speakeasies and call girls?”

  “Well, if you put it that way.”

  “I’ve always had a weakness for plain speaking, Danny. So, you flew to Cuba, picked up this Mafia person, and flew him back to Long Island?”

  “Well, I did, and the trip went off just as smoothly as anybody could ask for. Top-notch weather, not a bit of trouble in Havana, though I wish I could have stayed longer and had a look around. The plane was working a treat. I overhauled her from nose to tail before I left.”

  Rose felt her eyes sting, and a tear etched a trail through her newly applied face powder. “Just skip to the part where you landed and got arrested, Danny.”

  NORA FELT SHE COULD HAVE STOOD in Cousin Araby’s parlor for the rest of the evening, just staring. There was a real glass chandelier, and a rug that covered the whole floor of the room, real carpet, not like the oval rag-braid rugs up home. The radio was a big fancy floor model Atwater Kent, and beside it was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Nora thought she could have stayed right there forever.

  But as cordial as Cousin Araby had been, Nora knew she wasn’t really a guest and there were chores to be done. Potatoes to peel, biscuits to bake, and a dozen other chores that had to be done in order to put supper on the table for a house full of hungry lodgers. She followed Cousin Araby into the big kitchen, tied on an apron, and set to work.

  Carl poked his head around the door. “I’m just going to call my newspaper and give them the day’s story. Nora, do you think you might want to run down to the jail after supper?”

  Cousin Araby, who was standing over a skillet of fried chicken, looked up sharply. “To the jail? What do you want to take this child down there for?”

  “They won’t let me in to see Erma Morton because I’m a reporter. You know her brother made a deal with those syndicate people. I was hoping Nora might take her a magazine to pass the time. They might let her in.”

  Cousin Araby considered it. “Well, I daresay Erma Morton could us
e something to take her mind off the trial. Even if she did it, you can’t help but feel sorry for her. There’s a few old National Geographics in the canterbury beside the sofa. You could take those along to her, but if you’re planning to carry Nora away after supper, you can get in here and help her with the washing up before you go. Fair is fair.”

  Clearly Cousin Araby did not subscribe to the notion that menfolk were to be waited on hand and foot, at least not as it applied to eighteen-year-old cousins. Carl nodded assent, and, notebook in hand, he hurried into the front hall to telephone the newspaper. He had managed to make some notes to himself during the lackluster testimony of the afternoon session in court, and he had even made a stab at putting them into article form, an act of futility, since the rewrite man would change everything to suit himself anyhow.

  After a few minutes’ delay, the long-distance operator connected him to the news room, and he had the rewrite man on the line.

  “So it’s you, is it? Another riveting tale of the trial of the century over in Virginny?”

  “To be honest, sir, and this is not for publication, the case seems pretty routine to me. If the defendant were homely or ten years older, the courtroom would be all but empty. As it is, the national reporters are having a field day with it.”

  “And doing a better job than you. We see their columns, you know. They are managing to make this story into a classic tale of a persecuted heroine framed by her wicked and ignorant neighbors.”

  “That’s all hogwash, sir.”

  “Of course it is. But it’s worth reading, anyhow, which is more than can be said for these droning sermons you keep phoning in. Can’t you ginger it up any?”

  “I report what I see, sir.”

  “Well, judging from the disparity of the new stories, you’re not seeing what everybody else is. Where are all the colorful rustics and hollow-cheeked pioneers that the New York papers’ accounts are so full of?”