“I don’t agree,” the judge said. “I will instruct the jury to disregard this entire episode. They are intelligent people. I think they’ll be able to read between the lines.” He pointed the gavel at me. “You were lucky this time, Mr. Sloan, but I warn you now, if you refer to this sorry business in questions, in argument, or in any other way, you will be in automatic contempt and I will deal with you swiftly and to the full extent of my powers. Do you understand, sir?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
The judge studied me for a moment, his eyes burning with fury. “Bring them back in,” he said to the officer.
Evola stepped over to me, his face still flushed. “You’re a rotten son of a bitch,” he said in a hoarse angry whisper. “That was a shyster trick and it didn’t work. You’re going to lose your license over this. I’ll see to that. They warned me about you. I should have listened. The gloves are off, asshole.”
*
“WHY did she do that?” I whispered to Angel.
“I don’t know,” she said. “She loves me. She was trying to help.”
“Well, maybe she did,” I said. “And maybe she didn’t.”
Evola made a speech about the missing maid, accusing me of hiding her.
For the record I protested, but I got the impression that not a person in the courtroom believed me.
The jury was brought back and listened to the judge’s stern warning to strike from their minds everything they had just heard from Robin Harwell.
Evola, his face still pink with rage, stood up, glared at me, and then said, “The People rest!”
26
THE JUDGE WASN’T ABOUT TO GIVE ME TIME TO PREPARE. He was as furious as Evola. So I began our case at once.
I opened with the doctors I had used at the Walker hearing. Evola was better prepared this time, although he did no significant damage.
Of course, opening up the files on Angel’s mental problems was like jumping on very thin ice. If you jumped a little too hard you could go right through. It was extremely dangerous, but I had no other choice. I wanted the jury to believe she was emotionally fragile and unable to think correctly when she finally caved in and gave them that final videotaped statement.
My problem was that they might not stop there. They might go a step or two beyond and decide she was just nuts enough to stick a sword right through dear old dad.
All life is a gamble, they say. This time it was Angel’s. And in a different way, mine.
Since Evola had worked the witnesses in the previous hearing, he knew what he wanted to ask and he knew their probable answers. So did I. We went through the doctors, one after another. It went much faster than I expected.
Dr. Henry Foreman was good, very good. Evola tried to keep out any testimony about Harrison Harwell’s mental state, but I got most of it in. Enough at least to give the jury a basis for what was coming.
We moved so quickly we were soon up to my trump card, Dr. Voltz. It was going too fast. I didn’t want the jury to get the idea that our case sped by because it wasn’t substantial.
I called Max Webster as a witness to set the stage for the doctor’s testimony.
Webster, who looked even older, came forward. I quickly reviewed his many years with the Harwell company and his present position as head of security at the plant. He spoke of his long friendship with Harrison Harwell. Webster told again how Harwell had talked of suicide that last night when they were alone at the boat factory, the night he died.
Evola asked only a few questions. It was obvious that Webster was telling the truth. That made him dangerous, so Evola let him go as quickly as possible.
Then I called Dr. Hans Voltz to the stand.
Voltz came forward, looking like one of God’s senior angels.
I walked to a point in the courtroom where both Voltz and I would have to raise our voices to be heard clearly. It was a good tactic because it would help emphasize his important testimony.
The case, I thought, would stand or fall on the suicide issue, and Voltz was our main card.
“Your name?”
“Hans Voltz.”
“You are a doctor, licensed to practice medicine?”
“I am.”
Evola stood and said he would waive the doctor’s qualifications. It sounded like a very polite act on his part but it was a maneuver to keep the doctor’s impressive history from the jury. I thanked him equally politely, but declined his kind offer.
We spent fifteen minutes as Dr. Voltz spelled out his education, degrees, and training. Finally, we got to work.
He was as good as they said, maybe better.
There are witnesses, and then there are witnesses. Dr. Voltz was definitely a witness. Even the judge seemed to hang on every word. When Evola kept objecting, a tactic to try to throw the doctor off stride, the judge finally told Evola to sit down and shut up.
Dr. Voltz took the short sword taken from the Harwell’s body and used it to give a fascinating lecture on Japanese culture, tracing the weapon from its samurai origin to present times. I watched the jury. They were as riveted as the judge.
And I glanced from time to time at Evola. He looked, as the saying goes, like a five-pound bird laying a ten-pound egg.
Dr. Voltz explained in his friendly, learned way that the short sword, called a tanto, was the traditional weapon used for suicide by the samurai. He vividly described the ceremony of hari-kari. He even explained that in the old days it was customary to have a friend standing by so that, after stabbing oneself, the friend could lop off one’s head with the long sword, called a tachi. The doctor joked that because of a shortage of good swordsmen, the practice had fallen into disuse. No one laughed, but everyone smiled.
And I was able to use the gory photographs to good effect. The doctor, lecturing to the jury, pointed to the significance of the placement of the sword, saying it showed the blade had been thrust in and up by the dead man. Then he went into the many causes of suicide, why people did it and how people did it. Then he related everything he had said as it related to Harrison Harwell.
It was suicide, he said. It could have been nothing else.
I don’t know about the jury, but I believed him.
I didn’t envy Mark Evola. Cross-examination of someone as sharp as Dr. Voltz was an almost impossible job.
Evola came at him in different ways.
“How could a man cut into himself like that?
The doctor explained that the sword was designed to do just that. The blade had entered just below the sternum bone, a center mass of thick bone that acted as a shield to the heart, and then the blade sliced up and in.
“That would have taken a great deal of force, wouldn’t it?” Evola asked.
The kindly old doctor shook his head. No. There was a muscle wall to be penetrated. That would have required only normal strength. Then the blade would have gone through the internal organs as if they were butter, slicing up into the heart. Blood would have followed the blade, squirting for a short time, seconds, while the heart still pumped. That explained why there had been so much blood.
Evola tried several attacks, and each of them failed.
I tried to hide my elation. We were going to win the goddamned case!
Evola walked slowly back toward his seat, the picture of defeat.
He turned, in a sort of swan song, looking for some graceful way to get off the stage. “Is that sword really that sharp, that a man could easily drive it into his stomach and into his heart?”
“Absolutely.”
“How about coming out?”
“I don’t understand?”
“Would a person have any trouble pulling that sword out?”
Dr. Voltz smiled. “None whatsoever.”
“Even a woman?”
Voltz beamed. “Even a child.”
“So if someone said she tried to pull that sword out and couldn’t, would she be lying?”
I felt frozen. Time stopped. I couldn’t breathe. Angel, in explaining why he
r fingerprints were found, had said in all her statements that she had gripped the sword handle and tried to pull it out, but couldn’t.
Voltz hesitated. I think he finally realized the implications of what he had just said.
“I repeat,” Evola said slowly, drawing out the words. “If someone said that, would that person be lying?”
The courtroom was stunningly quiet.
“Yes.”
We were going to lose the goddamned case!
“We’ll break here for lunch,” the judge said, looking over at me with a smile. But his eyes could not have been more cold.
*
ANGEL seemed absolutely unconcerned. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?” The question was without emotion, as though she were inquiring about the score of an uninteresting game.
I wondered how frank I could be. On the other hand, there was no point in sugar-coating things at this point.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s not over until the fat lady sings, but this is a very bad break. The suicide issue is still in play, but the business about pulling out the knife hurts.”
“I really didn’t pull, you know,” Angel said.
I turned so I could look directly at her. “You said you did.”
She shrugged. “I was going to pull it out,” she said evenly. “I did take hold of the handle, then I froze. His eyes were wide open and staring. He was dead. I ran away. I panicked, I admit it.”
Angel’s calm was unnerving. It was like she was talking about a flower arrangement. Again, there was a strange absence of emotion, any emotion.
“I’ll try to work that in somehow.”
“How?” Angel asked. “Will you have me testify?”
The jury would be as shocked as I was by her calm, her stillness, her unconcerned manner. There was something unsettling about it. Perhaps even frightening.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I replied.
“I want to testify, Charley.”
“Oh yeah? What are you going to do? Take the Fifth too? Jesus, that would really put the capper on things.”
“I want to tell my story.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“We’ve lost the case, Charley, in case you haven’t noticed. My only chance is up on that witness stand.”
“Look, don’t panic, Angel. We haven’t even gone over what I might ask, or Evola.”
“I want to testify. I demand that you put me on the stand.”
“It’s your funeral.”
“That’s exactly what it is, Charley.”
“Well, let’s talk about it at lunch.”
“No. When I come back I will testify.”
She got up and left in the company of the Harwell security people, without even a backward glance. I noticed Robin had already gone.
There was no point in following. I obviously wasn’t welcome. I just sat there. I had no appetite. Why even think about lunch?
The courtroom was now almost deserted. I looked around. It was nice. Courtrooms were always nice.
This would probably be my last time in one.
*
PEOPLE began to come back and the courtroom was again jammed. Angel returned. I noted that Robin wasn’t with her.
“I’m ready,” she said.
“Look, I’ll ask for a few minutes. We have to talk this over.”
“The time for talking is over,” she replied coolly. “Let’s just get this over with.”
I nodded.
The judge came out and everyone stood. He rapped the gavel, but I remained standing. He looked at me.
“Mr. Sloan,” he said, as if my name were a bad word, “are you ready to proceed?”
I paused, the way you might before diving into dark and dangerous waters.
“I call Angel Harwell to the stand.”
ANGEL had a story to tell.
*
She told it in a quiet, straightforward manner, her expression unchanged as she serenely related a history that rivaled anything in fiction, even very dark fiction.
Her lack of emotion gave even more punch to the powerful story she told.
I occasionally asked a question but it really wasn’t necessary. She didn’t need my help.
She told of her life after her mother died, of being sent away to school, missing her mother’s affection and feeling cast out by her father.
Angel seemed to be looking at a point in the back of the courtroom, a point that only she could see. In the hushed room, her steady voice was the only sound that could be heard.
She had returned to live with her father and stepmother. At first everything was better. Her father was still distant but her stepmother made up for that, giving her attention and support. But as Angel developed into a woman she found herself confronted at long last by attention from her father, but not the kind she wanted.
It was a dark history, a story of rape, incest, and physical abuse. I noticed one of the women on the jury wiping away tears.
According to Angel she didn’t tell anyone because she was ashamed and she was afraid to leave since she was a minor and had no money. Her mother had set up a small trust fund, but she wouldn’t receive any income until she was twenty-one. Her father’s drinking accelerated and he became increasingly abusive toward her stepmother. Angel said she felt she had to stay to protect Robin since Robin tried always to protect her.
Angel, her eyes fixed steadily on that same distant point, said that despite everything, she still loved her father. But she feared him and what he might do. When she reached eighteen she finally summoned up the courage to leave, but her father followed her to New York, accused her of being a prostitute, and persuaded a court there to commit her. It was the first time she had ever seen the inside of a mental hospital.
Angel told the jury she believed that her father could have her committed whenever he chose. He said he could. And he had carried out that threat more than once when there had been trouble at their home. She told the jury of the time in Florida when he attacked her in a drunken rage.
She believed then that he really meant to kill her. She had grabbed a kitchen knife and held it before her to try to keep him away. He cut himself trying to grab her. The police came but he wasn’t arrested, she said. She was once again taken to a mental hospital, just as he had promised.
Hers was a story that had the simple but powerful ring of truth, every word.
Then Angel got to what happened the night her father died. She said that she had argued again with her father that night. He was losing his business, drinking more and getting worse, much worse. She was going to leave this time. So was Robin. The quarrel ended when Angel ran from his den. Later, out of fear of what he might do to her, she went back to apologize and found him dead. She felt responsible. She had placed her hands on the knife intending to get it out but didn’t try because he was obviously dead. In shock over what had happened, she ran to her bedroom, where the police found her.
I knew which parts of her story Evola might attack, so I took her gently back over that ground, covering anything that I thought needed more explanation as preparation for what was to come.
The power had come not only from what she said, but equally from the way she said it. I shouldn’t have worried. The lack of emotion had served only to underscore the horror.
I looked at the jury. You can tell, you know, sometimes. You can read on their faces what they’re thinking. This was one of the rare times. They believed.
“You may take the witness,” I said to Evola.
He was still angry and that rage was affecting his judgment. He came at Angel like a pit bull, shouting his questions, his voice full of ridicule and disdain.
It was the wrong tactic.
Angel was a young woman who had been greatly damaged by what had happened to her in life. She replied evenly in the same unemotional way, never reacting to his disbelief.
I didn’t object. It was going too well.
Evola became really nasty, shooting short, cuttin
g questions at her, hoping to provoke anger. She answered as calmly before, but two little tears began a slow trip down her perfect cheeks. Just as they had the first day I had seen her. No emotion, just the tears.
It was absolute dynamite.
Frustrated, Evola stood closer to her, almost yelling in her face. All he got for his trouble was her firm dignity and those silent tears.
I stood up and waited, looking directly at her.
Angel Harwell looked directly at me.
Finally, in a voice just above a whisper but loud enough for the jury to hear, I asked, “Angel, did you kill your father?”
“No.”
The courtroom was absolutely quiet.
“The defense rests,” I said.
*
EVOLA said he had rebuttal witnesses.
He called the young woman emergency doctor who had testified at the Walker hearing. I had noticed her sitting in the courtroom while Angel was testifying.
Evola asked her to describe how cool and calm Angel had been that night.
Then it was my turn.
There are various avenues of attack. Some work with witnesses who you think are lying. Some work with witnesses who you think are probably telling the truth. I thought the doctor was truthful.
“Doctor,” I said, beginning my cross-examination, “you were present here this afternoon when Angel Harwell testified, is that not so?”
“Yes.”
“Today, on the stand, did you think she was about the same as she was the night in the hospital when you examined her?”
“Yes.”
“And you thought her manner unusual that night, given the circumstances, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Having seen her today, on the stand, looking back, do you still think her manner that night unnatural?”
“No.”
“That is how she is, isn’t it, no matter the pressure, no matter the circumstances?”
“I believe that’s so.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Evola knew better than to try to repair her testimony. He tried again to put Milo Zeck on the stand. And, once more, he failed.
“Is that it, Mr. Evola?” the judge asked.
“The People rest.”
Shadow of A Doubt Page 39
