“Objection,” the defense attorney said. “Other witnesses have indeed testified to these points, and no one disputes them. Do we need to keep repeating them?”
“I think we can move on,” the judge said. “Ms. Hoffman?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said. “Mrs. Douglass, let’s go back to the afternoon of October fifteenth. What happened after Dr. Bixby entered the office?”
“He and my husband conversed in sign,” Victoria Douglass said. “After a few moments, my husband’s secretary joined in.”
“Can you describe Dr. Bixby’s manner?” the prosecutor asked.
Victoria Douglass hesitated; her fingers flexed—barely—again. “It seemed—agitated. But that’s difficult to say. I don’t understand sign language.”
“Was it an angry conversation?” the prosecutor asked.
“Objection,” the defense attorney said, rising in his chair. “The witness can’t characterize a conversation when she’s just admitted she didn’t understand a single word spoken—signed.”
“I’ll withdraw the question,” the prosecutor said. “What happened next?”
“I felt uncomfortable,” Victoria Douglass said. “It seemed to be an important conversation, and I felt out of place. So I said goodbye to my husband, dropped off the cookies, and went home. Around ten, I began to wonder how much later my husband would be working. I called his office, but there was no answer. I assumed he’d stepped out for a moment, so I left a message.”
Finally, her composure seemed in danger. Her hands parted; she reached into her jacket pocket and drew out a pale blue linen handkerchief. The prosecutor pressed her hands together and rested them against her chin.
“Please,” she said, her voice soft with shared pain. “Go on.”
Victoria Douglass didn’t look up. “At eleven, I called my husband’s office again. There was still no answer. I called school security and asked the officer on duty to check my husband’s office. Half an hour later, two police officers came to the house and said James was dead.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” the prosecutor said. “Thank you for being so clear, and so courageous. Your witness, Mr. Arnold.”
The defense attorney leaned forward in his seat, the fingers of his right hand tapping the table impatiently. “I’d also like to thank you, Mrs. Douglass, for being so clear—and so remarkably calm. I have some questions about your husband’s last job, in California. You were both natives of that state?”
“We were,” Victoria Douglass said. The handkerchief sat uselessly on her lap; her hands were neatly folded again.
“And the school where he was working—that was also a school for the deaf? Is that school well regarded?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “It’s a fine school.”
The defense attorney’s fingers stopped tapping abruptly. “But you left. Forgive me, Mrs. Douglass. But you see how gray and drizzly our Cleveland weather is, even in April. Now, I love this city. I was born here; I’ll never leave. But whenever I hear about Californians moving to Cleveland, I’ve got to wonder why.”
Victoria Douglass smiled briefly. “Cleveland’s a lovely city, Mr. Arnold. Aside from that, my husband wanted to be a principal. At our school in California, he was an assistant principal, and the principal is capable, beloved, and barely fifty—I’m sure he’ll serve there for many years. If my husband hoped to advance his career, he had to go somewhere else. And the Cleveland School for the Deaf is a fine school, too, and my husband believed he could make it even better. He was determined to accomplish something special here—we both were. We were excited about coming to Cleveland.”
“I see.” He made a show of looking through his notes. “Perhaps you had additional reasons for being excited—or relieved. There was some trouble in California, wasn’t there? Some scandal involving your husband and a teacher on his staff? A deaf female teacher, almost twenty years younger than him—and than you?”
Victoria Douglass’s clasped hands tightened. “Almost twenty years younger than he,” she said, “and than I. Yes, there was some talk. Schools—all schools—breed gossip. I paid no attention to it. I trusted my husband, Mr. Arnold.”
“So the gossip was unfounded?” he pressed.
“Completely.” She unclasped her hands to touch the back of her neck for a moment, as if to massage it. “I’m convinced of it.”
The defense attorney wrote a single word on a pad, underlined it, and showed it to the defendant. I noticed one juror rubbing his chin as he peered at Victoria Douglass, two jurors taking notes.
“Let’s go back to October fifteenth,” the defense attorney said. “After dropping off the cookies, you went home. You didn’t go out again?”
She refolded her hands. “I did not.”
“And you didn’t see or speak to anyone until you called the security guard? That’s odd. You were home for over seven hours, and not a single person called or dropped by?”
“Objection,” the prosecutor said. “Irrelevant.”
“I’ll allow the witness to answer,” the judge said, “Mrs. Douglass?”
She kept her eyes squarely on the defense attorney. “No one called or dropped by. I don’t know how often people ‘drop by’ other people’s homes these days. And we’d lived in Cleveland for barely two months. We’d made acquaintances, but none so familiar they’d be likely to ‘drop by.’ Someone might have called, of course—but as it happened, no one did. The police checked my telephone records.”
“I’m aware of that,” the defense attorney said, not looking at her. “No more questions.”
The jurors watched her as she returned to her seat—more closely than they had when she came to the stand. Relieved, I realized I could sit down too. Signing for Victoria Douglass had hardly been difficult; even so, I felt exhausted by the importance of the occasion, by the weight attached to every word. It would be good to relax now, to simply watch and listen as Sandra voiced for Rita Hanson and signed for the attorneys.
The two witnesses contrasted sharply. Rita Hanson looked about twentyfive, tall and slender, with a light, easy walk that bespoke confidence and perhaps something more. Her features seemed vaguely exotic—not as softly regular as Victoria Douglass’s but more sophisticated, more striking. Her dark brown hair fell to her shoulders in loose curls. She wore a black silk blouse and a short, close-fitting white skirt.
During the prosecutor’s preliminary questions, I watched Rita Hanson’s hands. Her signs were large, emphatic—if she were a hearing person, she’d speak loudly. Her face, too, was vividly expressive. She didn’t seem intimidated by the surroundings; she seemed to be enjoying herself.
“I’d like to ask about October fifteenth,” the prosecutor said. She spoke more slowly and distinctly now, probably without realizing it. Like many hearing people, she seemed to have a half conscious feeling that deaf people would be more likely to understand if she spoke slowly. “Mrs. Douglass said you entered James Douglass’s office shortly after three thirty and spoke—conversed with him. Please describe that conversation.”
Rita Hanson began signing promptly, and Sandra voiced for her. “I’d just gotten an e-mail from the chair of our board of trustees,” Sandra said. “He reminded me that the board was meeting the next weekend, and he wanted to see the budget for the next semester a week before the meeting. I knew the budget wasn’t finished. So I went into the inner office and reminded Dr. Douglass.”
But Rita Hanson hadn’t signed “Dr. Douglass.” She had touched the right side of her forehead with her right pinky, then moved her hand out so the palm was facing away from her—a combination of the letter “J” and the sign for “smart.” It had to be a name sign for “James”—perhaps one James Douglass chose himself, perhaps one a deaf colleague gave him in tribute to his intellect. It wasn’t a huge discrepancy. Using a name sign doesn’t imply any special intimacy; probably, all James Douglass’s deaf friends referred to him that way. But I wouldn’t have interpreted that sign as “Dr. Dougla
ss.” It changed the tone of what Rita Hanson had signed.
“And how did Dr. Douglass respond?” the prosecutor asked.
Sandra watched Rita Hanson’s hands closely; so did I. “He said he’d forgotten about needing to send the budget early, so he’d have to work late to finish it,” Sandra voiced. “Then he spoke to his wife.”
This time, Sandra had left something out. After signing “wife,” Rita Hanson had held her right hand in a “Y” shape and waddled it across her left palm. “Fat wife”—that was what Rita Hanson had signed. I looked around the courtroom and saw a deaf spectator hiding a grin behind his hand, saw Victoria Douglass sitting very straight, stomach pulled in and shoulders stiff, face fixed and neutral.
“I see,” the prosecutor said. “Then what happened?”
Rita Hanson glared at the defendant’s table, where Frank Bixby sat with his body tensed, as if expecting a blow. Her signing turned even more rapid and decisive. “Then the defendant barged in,” Sandra voiced. “He’d found out that Dr. Douglass had suspended a student for plagiarizing. The defendant thought he should have been consulted before action was taken. He was extremely angry.”
Once again, Rita Hanson had used the name sign for “James,” not the signs for “Dr. Douglass.” And she hadn’t signed “extremely angry.” She’d signed “pissed off.”
“How long did this confrontation continue?” the prosecutor asked.
“At least ten minutes,” Sandra voiced. ”Dr. Douglass said he didn’t have time to consult about every decision. He said he was very busy. He mentioned the budget, and said he might be at the office half the night finishing it.”
“So the defendant knew Dr. Douglass would be working late that night?” the prosecutor asked.
“He absolutely did,” Rita Hanson signed. Sandra voiced it, emphatically.
“And—since you understood every word signed during that conversation—could you describe the defendant’s tone, his emotional state?”
The witness’s signs became increasingly flamboyant. “He was furious,” Sandra voiced, then hesitated. “He was—in a murderous rage.”
“Your Honor!” the defense attorney exclaimed. “Objection!”
The judge looked at Sandra. “Was that an exact translation, Mrs. Blakemore?”
Sandra lifted her hands apologetically. “It’s the closest interpretation I could think of, Your Honor. One might also say, ‘mad enough to kill him.’”
“A distinction without a difference.” The judge rubbed his forehead. “I’ll remind the jury that either phrase reflects Ms. Hanson’s opinion, not a verifiable fact. Continue, Ms. Hoffman.”
“Just one more question,” the prosecutor said. “The ten-pound barbell the police identified as the murder weapon—was it on Dr. Douglass’s desk that day?”
“Yes,” Sandra voiced, watching Rita Hanson. ”He always kept it there, so he could do a few lifts whenever he found a spare minute. He worked long hours and couldn’t get to a gym often. But he kept in shape. He cared about his health.”
“About his body,” Rita Hanson had signed. Again, the change Sandra made didn’t amount to much. But I felt I had gotten one impression of Rita Hanson, and the jury had gotten another.
The defense attorney took over, leaning forward in his chair and looking at Rita Hanson frankly, his eyes tracing the neckline of her blouse, with the top three buttons undone. Several jurors followed his gaze. “Mrs. Douglass testified,” he said, “that you joined the conversation between James Douglass and the defendant. What did you say?”
Rita Hanson returned the defense attorney’s gaze without wavering. “I reminded Dr. Bixby that he was behind on lots of things,” Sandra voiced. “I said he should worry about finishing his own work, not about how Dr. Douglass was doing his job. Basically, I told him to stop being unreasonable.”
“To stop being an ass,” Rita Hanson had signed. Two deaf spectators exchanged quick glances and signs—disapproving, not surprised.
“So you backed up your boss,” the defense attorney said. “That was loyal. How would you describe your relationship with James Douglass?”
Rita Hanson let her hands rest on her knee for a moment. When she responded, her signs were slower, more carefully defined. “I respected him,” Sandra voiced. “Dr. Douglass worked hard. He was fair and polite to everyone.”
This time, Rita Hanson had in fact signed “Dr. Douglass.”
“And how did you like him as a person?” the defense attorney asked.
“He had a pleasant personality,” Sandra voiced. She didn’t edit Rita Hanson’s signs this time. She didn’t have to. Even so, several jurors were watching the witness with increased interest, shifting in their seats to get a better look at her.
“Did you have a social relationship with him?” the defense attorney asked. “Did you see him outside the office?”
Rita Hanson’s mouth twitched—was it a smile, a trace of a smirk? “Not outside the office,” she signed.
“I didn’t see him socially,” Sandra said.
“Objection,” the prosecutor said. “Relevance?”
“If Your Honor will allow me another moment,” the defense attorney said, “I’ll establish relevance. Miss Hanson, you’re very attractive. Do you have a boyfriend?”
Rita Hanson glared; her signs became large and emphatic again. “Lots of boyfriends,” she signed. “All the boyfriends I want.” She cast a defiant glance at Victoria Douglass, who looked down at her still-clasped hands.
“I have an active social life,” Sandra voiced.
“That’s consistent with your actions on the night James Douglass died,” the defense attorney said. “You went to Shrimpy’s, a bar in The Flats, and stayed until two in the morning. But you didn’t get there until about eight thirty. That’s odd. You left work at five. Why wait so long before going to Shrimpy’s?”
Rita Hanson looked at him contemptuously. “Shrimpy’s doesn’t get hot until after eight,” she signed.
“Shrimpy’s doesn’t get fun until after eight,” Sandra voiced.
“You certainly seem to have had fun there on October fifteenth,” the defense attorney said, flipping through some papers. “According to this pre-trial statement, you met a man there—Matthew Quinn, age forty-four—and took him to your apartment. He was still there in the morning when—”
“Your Honor!” the prosecutor protested. “This is just a shameless attempt to discredit the witness.”
“You said you’d establish relevance, Mr. Arnold,” the judge said. “Please do so.”
“I’ll let the jury decide on relevance,” the defense attorney said. “No more questions.”
“Very well. Ms. Hanson, you may step down. Does the state have more witnesses? No?” The judge glanced at his watch. “Then let’s recess for thirty minutes.”
Thank God. I had to leave that courtroom; I had to think. And I had to talk to Sandra. As soon as the gavel touched the block, I darted out, reached the hallway, pressed my back against the faded green plaster wall, and waited.
Moments later, Sandra found me, took one look at my face, and chuckled kindly. “You look like a nervous wreck,” she said, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder. “You shouldn’t. For your first time in court, you did well. I’m proud of you.”
Damn. “Thank you,” I said, “but it isn’t that. Sandra, I’m sorry, but I’m concerned about your voicing. You made so many changes.”
She drew her hand back and gripped her purse strap. “What changes?”
“You know,” I said. “ ‘Dr. Douglass’ instead of ‘James,’ ‘wife’ instead of ‘fat wife,’ ‘an active social life’ instead of ‘all the boyfriends I want.’ You did it constantly. You must have known you were doing it.”
Sandra’s hand slid down her purse strap, all the way to her waist. “And I said ‘extremely angry’ instead of ‘pissed off.’ Rita used an expression inappropriate for court; I used an appropriate one. You object to that?”
“Not to that
one,” I admitted. “But the other changes—”
“—were, in my professional opinion, just as appropriate,” she said, her eyes flaring. “But it’s my professional opinion you’re questioning, isn’t it?”
“Please don’t take it that way,” I said. I’m questioning your objectivity, I thought. You’ve decided Frank Bixby’s guilty, you want to see him punished for killing a man you admired, and you purposely kept the jurors from hearing anything that might distract them from focusing on Bixby, anything that might create more scandal for the deaf community. I tried to keep my tone pleasant. “I’m just afraid that sometimes you went too far, and the jury might have gotten the wrong impression.”
“No.” Sandra’s voice was hard and sure. “The jury would have gotten the wrong impression if I hadn’t made changes. There’s no such thing as an exact, word-for-word translation from sign to spoken English. You know that. You know that’s why we’re called ‘interpreters,’ not ‘translators.’ And I know Rita. I’ve interpreted for her through police interrogations, pretrial hearings, everything; I’ve studied the way she signs. It’s over-the-top. She uses curse words and insults, more freely than most hearing people would in similar situations. But that’s just how she asserts her personality, her attitude—it’s not really part of her meaning. When she signs ‘fat wife,’ it’s a way of characterizing someone, not an insult. Haven’t you encountered people who sign that way?”
“I have,” I admitted. Every word Sandra had said was true—and yet, somehow, wrong. “But there was something going on—something involving James Douglass, and his wife, and Rita Hanson. Couldn’t you sense it?”
Sandra laughed, softly but harshly. “Now you’re the one who knows what the jury should hear. You have some sense of ‘something going on,’ and you expect me to voice in a way that makes sure the jury senses what you sense.”
“No,” I said, “but if your voicing had been more exact—less of an interpretation, more of a translation—the jurors might have had a better chance of sensing things for themselves.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Victoria Douglass walk into the hallway and pause, as if looking for a familiar face. Her eyes rested on us.
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/10 Page 2
