I went back to the court’s offices and sat around, trying to fight off sleep. At four that afternoon a clerk came out and gave me the result. The three judges, even my old pal, had turned down the emergency appeal.
Angel Harwell would go on trial for murder as planned.
I don’t know how many bars I passed on the way back to Pickeral Point. For once in my life I didn’t even notice.
23
DONNA, MY PART-TIME SECRETARY, WAS BECOMING A rich woman.
I needed her to come in for hours of night work as I prepared the pleading necessary to bring a motion for a change of venue. It had to be done fast. She was a nice little woman, this former medical secretary, but I caught the glint of a rapacious pirate in her eye when she set the rate she would charge per hour.
Asking for a change of venue is basically asking to transfer the case to some other place, preferably far, far away.
If Angel’s statement had been tossed out things might have been different. Now things were desperate and I had to make the motion. I would argue to Judge Brown that Angel couldn’t get a fair trial in Pickeral Point because of the deluge of publicity about the case. And that was probably true, although because of the extensive national television coverage, even shepherds in Wyoming probably had formed an opinion based on what they saw.
Still, I had to make the motion, although the chance that Brown would grant it was nonexistent. Judges usually like to stay home. If I lost the motion and the case, the failure to move the trial would be one of the main cornerstones of the appeal. Of course, some other attorney would be handling the case then. If I lost the jury trial, I knew that I would no longer be Angel Harwell’s lawyer.
Judge Brown heard my change-of-venue motion on Friday afternoon. The throng of media people had thinned a bit since many of the national people had snuck away for a long weekend before the trial’s scheduled start on Monday.
I didn’t expect to win, and I didn’t.
Brown chose to play genial judge, his courtroom manner kind, even friendly. But I was up close and I could see his eyes. Friendship and kindness stopped somewhere around the bridge of his nose.
Later, on the steps of the courthouse, I made a nice speech to the cameras. Abe Lincoln couldn’t have done it better. I told them that while I personally loved the press, television, and the First Amendment, the case was being tried in the media and not in the court, and that poor little Angel was facing the impossible situation of trying to get a jury of twelve people who hadn’t already made up their minds.
I thought the argument was good. Later, when I saw the clip on the televised news, it sounded good.
The horror, for Angel and for myself, was that it was also very true.
*
THERE wasn’t enough time in the weekend to do everything. I had to get ready. I had to review everything, talk again to witnesses I planned to call, and try to work out several game plans for the trial, each based on possible eventualities. I still made it a point to visit Angel and Robin on both Saturday and Sunday nights.
I didn’t stay long either time. The visits were chiefly for morale purposes, although I did have a few last-minute details that needed clarification.
I sensed a definite change at the Harwell house.
Angel, I thought, was even more distant, as if she resented having to go through a trial and somehow held me responsible. She wasn’t hostile, just more remote. I wondered if she regretted now that she had insisted I be her lawyer.
Robin’s attitude was even more puzzling. She was nervous, but that I could understand, given the circumstances. The change was evident in small things. She avoided eye contact with me and although she was polite, I sensed a coolness I hadn’t experienced before. I thought perhaps Nate Golden had finally persuaded her that I was a mistake.
And maybe I was.
Of course, the Harwell house was once more under siege by the army of media, and that sort of thing could make anyone nervous. They were camped out on the street. The security men guarded the driveway entrance; otherwise they would have invaded. I don’t know what the waiting crowd of media people thought might happen. Perhaps they figured Godot might finally show up. Whatever their expectations, the camp-out was boring and they were doing a little drinking while waiting. Each time I drove by I was greeted by catcalls or cheers. The later the hour the louder and more boisterous the noise.
On Sunday night I found the atmosphere at the Harwell House even more tense. Like the people out at the gate, Robin had been drinking and was a little tipsy. If Angel had been matching her drink for drink, she didn’t show it. But she was on edge and that did show. When she spoke her words were clipped and icy.
“Run it by us again, Charley,” Robin said as I was getting ready to leave. “What happens now?”
I had told both of them what to expect numerous times, but they were understandably nervous and edgy so I took the time to do it again.
“Tomorrow morning we’ll start picking the jury. Depending on how it goes, that should take one or two days, maybe longer. When we finally get a jury, it will be fourteen people. Two of them will be excused at the end of the trial and the remaining twelve will make the ultimate decision.”
“Why should picking a jury take so long?” Angel asked.
“Usually it doesn’t, but this time I have to really dig to see if they’ve made up their minds about you before hearing the evidence. They’ve all heard about the case, obviously, but I’ll try to come up with people who I think will keep an open mind. That’s what will take the time.”
“Do you think you can find people like that?” Robin asked, “after everything that’s been on television and in the papers?”
“I’ll try.”
“Then what happens, after you get the jury?” Angel was staring out at the river.
I had covered it all before, many times. I was nervous too, but I found the patience to explain it all again.
“Angel, the prosecutor goes first. He has the burden of proof. He puts on his witnesses and I cross-examine. When he’s done, it’s our turn.”
“And how long will that take, the prosecution’s part of the case?” Robin asked.
“That depends on how I do with, the witnesses. Sometimes things go faster than expected, sometimes they take a lot longer. My guess is two days, maybe three for the prosecution’s case.
“And how long for us?”
“As long as it takes. You know the witnesses I’m going to call and what they’re going to say. Again, barring major surprises, it should take a day, maybe two, maybe three.”
“Will you put me on the stand?” Angel asked.
“At this moment, I’d say probably not. But if it’s necessary and you think you can handle it, we might.”
“And then you lawyers argue to the jury, is that the way it goes?” Robin’s words were slurred slightly, but I heard an undertone of hostility.
“Yeah, that’s the way it goes. Figure a day, day and a half for that. Then the judge gives the jury his instructions as to the law the jury must apply. Then it’s up to them. His instructions should take about an hour. After that, there is no way to guess how long the jury might take to reach a verdict.”
“Tonight, if you had to bet, what are my chances?” Angel turned and this time stared at me.
“Good. If things go the way they should, your chances are very good.” I didn’t feel that confident but sometimes stark truth can be unnecessarily cruel.
“Can you do this, Charley?” Robin asked sternly. “Handle this whole trial?”
“It’s a little late to ask that, isn’t it? Yes, I can handle it.”
“Would you feel more secure if another lawyer came in and helped you?”
“What’s your point, Robin?”
“Well, it’s just that sometimes two heads are better than one. Nate Golden suggested that —”
“I’ve gone this far with Charley, I’ll go the rest of the way with him.” Angel’s word’s were brave but I thought the
y lacked the lull measure of her previous determination.
“Another lawyer coming in now would be dangerous,” I said. “It would be like two drivers trying to steer a brakeless truck down a hill. I wouldn’t advise it.”
Robin said nothing. She turned away and looked out at the dark river. Angel also fell silent. It was time to go.
“This will be a lot easier than it sounds,” I said as I left.
Of course, I was lying.
*
TRIAL. The word has many meanings.
It can be the examination of fact and law before a judicial tribunal. The Harwell case would be exactly that.
It could also, according to the dictionary, be a state of suffering, distress, or pain. The People versus Harwell was that too.
At least it was for me.
I had tried well over a hundred jury cases, some big, some small. I had literally looked into the eyes of over a thousand jurors. Before, in the old days, I approached a trial with a certain plan, partly whiskey-inspired, the kind of romantic spirit I like to think the old World War I fighter pilots possessed — just wrap that white silk scarf around your throat, pull on the goggles, and fly up to do or die. Smiling, confident, ready.
This time it was different, very different.
I awoke and found I existed in a vacuum of emotion.
Every movement was mechanical. I shaved and showered and dressed. My reaction, I thought, was probably like how a person feels on the way to the hospital for a major operation.
Alia acta est, as Caesar used to say, according to the nuns. It was the only Latin I remembered. The die is cast.
I was not smiling or confident this time.
But I was ready.
A stranger who came to the courthouse this morning would have thought the circus was in town. It was that kind of eager crowd and that kind of excited atmosphere. Everything but the elephants.
The morning began with stern warnings from Judge Brown.
This time, none were directed at me.
The first was aimed at the reporters and cameramen. The judge, his eyes narrowed to the point of closing, snapped off the rules with quick, simple precision. Any media person stepping over the line would find instant accommodation in Pickeral Point’s beautiful new jail. No one in the crowded courtroom doubted that he meant exactly what he said.
His second lecture was directed to the bank of nearly one hundred potential jurors assembled. They were told what would be expected of them and what they might anticipate if selected. His words were carefully chosen and on paper would read like a nice kindly lesson in civics. However, with the growling verbal spin he gave each word it was more like a declaration of war. I wasn’t a potential juror but he scared even me.
The judge then directed his menacing attention to Evola and me, asking if there were any motions to be made before jury selection began.
I had debated making a motion that all the witnesses be sequestered, that is, kept out of the courtroom, until it was their turn to testify. It was a tactic that often paid handsomely, since one witness might give an entirely different version of something another witness testified to, not knowing what the other person had said. The jury often disbelieved both because of the conflict. However, it was a sword that could cut both ways. I didn’t want that to happen to my witnesses, either. It would be all witnesses or none. So I did nothing.
Evola was probably thinking along those lines, too. Each of us stood in turn and declared we were ready for trial.
The judge gave the assembled jury candidates the oath.
We were off and running.
*
“You told Mr. Evola that you have three children, Mrs. Harris. What are their ages?”
Mrs. Harris, according to the report I had received from Sidney Sherman, was fifty-five years old, a widow who worked as a store clerk. Sidney’s people had discreetly looked up as much information as they could on each member of the panel, being careful not to go far enough to be accused of interfering with jury selection.
Mrs. Harris was a small woman whose stark white hair, worn pulled back, made her look much older than she actually was. She sat in the seat assigned to her in the jury box, along with thirteen other potential candidates.
“My oldest daughter is thirty-four. My son is thirty, and my other daughter is twenty-one.”
“The same age as Angel Harwell?”
“Yes.”
I watched to see if there was any reaction to the mention of Angel’s name. None was apparent.
“When Mr. Evola asked you, you said you had followed the case on television and in the newspapers but that you had not formed an opinion as to guilt or innocence, is that right?”
“Yes.” She said it rather proudly.
I smiled. “The case has really become the talk of the town, hasn’t it, Mrs. Harris?”
She smiled back, but warily. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
“I assume you’ve talked to your family about the case, perhaps even your neighbors and friends?”
She paused, the smile fading. “Like you say, there’s been a lot of talk.”
“Have you ever expressed an opinion to anyone, say anyone at work, about Angel Harwell’s innocence or guilt?”
Mrs. Harris tried to conceal her blossoming anxiety.
“No,” she said, hesitating for a telltale second.
She was lying, of course. She knew it. I knew it. Evola knew it. But it was a human kind of lie. It was impossible to live in Pickeral Point and not discuss whether little Angel had really knocked off her old man. Opinions were part of that process.
It was my job to see if she harbored any real bias toward Angel despite her declaration that she did not.
“You told Mr. Evola you aren’t related to anyone in this case, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Have you ever talked to any of the Harwells?”
She shook her head. “I never talked to any of them. I would occasionally see Mr, Harwell around here. And his father, but I never talked to them.”
“Was any member of your family ever friendly with the Harwells?”
“No.”
I thought the answer was a little too fast and a little too definite.
“Did you or any member of your family ever work for the Harwell boat company?”
She nodded slowly. “My brother.”
“Does he still work for the company?”
“No.” Again the answer was a little quick.
“He left the company?”
“He was fired.”
Suddenly she assumed the face of a good poker player. I couldn’t read anything from her bland expression.
“Did you agree with that at the time?”
She shook her head. “No. It was unfair, quite unfair.”
I waited for just a moment, then asked, “Who fired him?”
“Harrison Harwell.”
There was a bustle of whispers in the packed courtroom, silenced by the judge’s stern stare.
“Do you have any resentment about that?”
“I resented it at the time. I don’t now.”
That was another human lie. The problem was whether she held it against any Harwell, which would be very bad for us. Or did she hate Harrison Harwell so much that his death would seem like simple justice? That would have been very bad for Evola.
I walked to my chair and sat down. Selecting jurors is like a poker game. You make the other side bet if you can. There are only two ways to have a juror excused: peremptory, meaning no reason needed, and cause, meaning a very good reason needed. I could have used one of my peremptory challenges — I had twenty of them since it was a life sentence case — and she would be gone. I could have also challenged her for cause, but it wouldn’t stick since her answers, lies or not, didn’t reveal any overt prejudice. Challenges for cause could be made without limit, except the cause had to be demonstrated and it had to be pretty strong.
If I passed, it would be up to Ev
ola. He couldn’t establish cause either, and he, as prosecutor, had only fifteen peremptory challenges. Making the other side spend its challenges was all part of the game.
The comparison between jury selection and poker was inaccurate. This time it was more like Russian roulette. Any juror might be the fatal bullet, the one who would persuade the others to go against you.
But it was time to twirl the cylinder and pull the trigger.
“Pass the juror for cause,” I said to the judge.
Evola held a short whispered conversation with Morgan to get his advice, then stood up. “The People will excuse Mrs. Harris,” he said in a friendly tone, as if he was doing her a nice little favor.
Jurors were always sensitive to how lawyers treated fellow candidates. No lawyer wanted to seem vicious, for obvious reasons.
Mrs. Harris, looking more resentful than relieved, got up and eased her way past the other candidates and out of the jury box. The clerk called a replacement, who came up and took her seat.
Then it began again.
Any one of them might be that fatal bullet.
*
IT went by like a speeding train. I had tried my best.
Fourteen, eight men and six women, had been selected. I looked over at Angel and wondered if she realized just how important these fourteen people would be in her life. At the end of the trial, they would rule like Roman emperors, either thumbs up or thumbs down. Lions would not devour the loser. We were more civilized, although in a way the result would be much the same.
The fourteen of them were given the final oath.
The judge directed the other members of the panel, those not selected, leave the courtroom. Their still-warm seats were instantly filled by newspeople.
It was almost five o’clock. I expected the judge to knock off for the day.
“Mr. Evola,” he said, “do you want to make your opening statement now, or wait until the morning?”
“I’m ready now, Judge.” He stood up. “I shall be brief.”
Shadow of A Doubt Page 35
