Flight Dreams

by Michael Craft

  He ends with a sweep of his arm that could pass for a Shakespearean bow, drawing a smatter of applause from pockets of the gallery. Humphrey Hasting claps far more loudly than the others, causing Ferret a tinge of embarrassment as he returns to his seat.

  Judge Ambrose snuffs the demonstration with a single slam of his gavel, then turns to Roxanne. “Well, Miss Exner?” he says with a smile. “I assume madam counsel has a few thoughts of her own on this matter. Do you wish to respond with an opening statement?”

  “I do, your honor.” Roxanne rises and turns to the gallery. A gleam of resolution flashes in her eyes as she weighs her thoughts, focusing on the faces that peer back at her. The silence is broken only by the muffled abrasion of colored chalk on paper. She finally says, “I’m directing my comments to you, spectators from the general public and representatives of the press, because there’s no jury in this courtroom.” Her voice is clear, loud, and deliberately unladylike, delivering her message in sharp, staccato jabs. “There’s not a jury because this is not a trial. I urge you all to remember that basic fact and to dismiss the sensational nonsense you’ve been reading that has led to this opening session of the so-called ‘Houseman Trial.’ But I repeat: This is not a trial, merely a hearing. No one has been charged with a crime, and there’s not a scrap of evidence that would warrant charges. Remember that as this inquisition unfolds. Remember that as you observe the techniques of my skilled colleague, Mr. Ferret. Remember that as you witness the unconscionable spectacle of unspecified charges being leveled for unspecified crimes. And remember it, you who hold the power to inform the masses, as you rush from this room to milk ‘news’ from this hearing—a hearing that was spawned without justification and that will produce nothing of substance except the unprovoked humiliation of an innocent man. Remember it.”

  She spins on her heel and sits. The crowd stares, stunned. Even the artists have abandoned the drawings that lie in their laps. Arthur Mendel seems more frightened by the lull than comforted by her words of defense.

  The filthy bitch, Hasting tells himself. Putting down his pen, he decides that not a single word of Roxanne’s will appear in the Post—not in his paper, by God.

  “Thank you, Miss Exner,” says Judge Ambrose. “Your point is well made and forcefully stated. We’ll all try to keep in mind the issues you’ve raised. Now, Mr. Ferret”—he swings his head—“please call your first witness.”

  Ferret calls a police detective to the stand. The officer is sworn in, then proceeds to answer a long string of questions from Ferret regarding the underworld connections of many famous—and infamous—horse-racing figures. The questioning is structured to leave the impression that anyone involved in any way with horses, as Mendel was, must necessarily have connections with organized crime. The questioning also reveals, to Manning’s amusement, that neither Ferret nor Hasting has discovered Mendel’s past gambling peccadillo, which could have been used to build a far more incriminating argument.

  Roxanne listens, refraining from the objections she could easily raise. When at last it is her turn to cross-examine the witness, she has but one question: “Do you know of any evidence linking Arthur Mendel to the disappearance of Helena Carter?” The detective answers, “No, ma’am,” and Roxanne dismisses him.

  Hasting’s lips curl into a pout.

  Ferret calls a psychiatrist to the stand and questions him on various aspects of the criminal mind, leaving the impression that any man who has spent his career in a role servile to a woman would eventually have to strike out against that woman as a means of asserting his manhood and restoring self-esteem. In extreme cases, murder might well be the unhappy resolution to a situation described by the doctor as “psychologically untenable.”

  When Roxanne cross-examines the witness, she again poses the question: “Do you know of any evidence linking Arthur Mendel to the disappearance of Helena Carter?” The doctor answers, “No, ma’am,” and is dismissed.

  Hasting fumes.

  Ferret then questions the county coroner on techniques for disposing of a body under various circumstances, failing to include—Manning notes—the possibilities presented by concrete or construction sites. The coroner describes an array of grizzly procedures glossed over with technical jargon, rendering his morbid expertise unemotional and businesslike. He leaves the impression that if a person set out to destroy the mortal remains of a victim, it is a task that any clever child might accomplish.

  Roxanne again asks her sole question. The coroner responds that he knows of no such evidence. He is dismissed.

  Similar examinations and cross-examinations take place with a bank president, a priest, a jockey, a forensic pathologist—a parade of “expert witnesses.” Roxanne begins to wonder if Ferret will ever call Mark Manning or Arthur Mendel. She herself is determined not to call them to the stand, but she is surprised that Ferret has not yet lunged. It’s nearly one o’clock, and the proceeding has grown sluggish. Attorneys and witnesses alike are getting hungry and irritable.

  Judge Ambrose finally asks the two lawyers to approach the bench. He asks how many witnesses they still intend to call, wondering if they should first break for lunch.

  A murmur swells from the gallery. Humphrey Hasting, straining to hear what is being said, slips from the edge of his chair. Fumbling, he spares himself the ignominy of landing on the floor.

  “Before calling our star witnesses,” Ferret confides with a wink that makes Roxanne want to slap him, “I’d like to question Mrs. Carter’s sister, Margaret O’Connor, but I’m amazed that I haven’t seen her—”

  “Your honor,” Roxanne interrupts, “Miss O’Connor is not here today. Jerry Klein tells me that she preferred not to attend, finding the proceeding too painful. If called, however, she will willingly testify.”

  The judge turns from Roxanne to Ferret. “Well, counsel,” he says, “it seems you won’t be questioning Miss O’Connor today. Do you wish to go ahead and call Arthur Mendel?”

  “No, your honor. That can wait.”

  “How about you, Miss Exner? Any witnesses you wish to call today?”

  She begins to answer in the negative, then stops herself, reconsidering. She says aloud, for all to hear, “Yes, your honor, I would like to call a final witness—Mark Manning.”

  The murmur from the gallery immediately surges into a cross fire of excited discussion. Judge Ambrose raps for order and calls Manning to the stand. An expectant smile spreads across Humphrey Hasting’s face, and he watches with a predatory stare as Manning is sworn in and seated.

  Roxanne asks her witness, “Is it true, Mr. Manning, that in the course of your investigative reporting of the Carter case, you’ve had occasion to interview the family houseman, Arthur Mendel?” Roxanne’s delivery sounds cool and prosaic, as though she has never met the man she now questions.

  “Yes, Miss Exner, I spoke with Mr. Mendel at length on two occasions in October.” Manning’s mind snaps into focus as he falls into the expected pattern of questions and answers.

  “And what was the purpose of those interviews? Did you plan to write a story about him?”

  “No, I wasn’t planning a specific story. They were background interviews. I had reported events surrounding the Carter disappearance since the day after it happened, and though I’d met Arthur, I’d never interviewed him because there was no reason to think he was involved. But since his name kept popping up as a possible suspect—”

  Roxanne asks, “You mean, in Humphrey Hasting’s articles in the Post?”

  “Exactly. Because the Post repeatedly named him as a suspect, I decided to talk to Arthur simply as a means of confirming—in my own mind—his noninvolvement.”

  “You’ve been reporting for the Journal for how long, Mr. Manning?”

  “Nearly twenty years. I joined the paper right out of college.”

  “Your reputation for the work you’ve done there is widely known among the press. At the risk of embarrassing you, Mr. Manning, would it be accurate to say that you are
generally respected for your fairness, your thoroughness, your judgment?”

  “That would be accurate,” he replies, not at all embarrassed.

  “You think of yourself, then, as a good judge of character—that’s an important part of your job, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Miss Exner.”

  “Tell us, then, what conclusions you drew from your discussions with Arthur Mendel.”

  Manning smiles. “After some initial doubts, I found it inconceivable that he could be in any way involved with Mrs. Carter’s disappearance. In fact, I know that he is innocent.”

  Hank Ferret shoots to his feet. “Your honor, the witness is expressing opinions. Mr. Manning’s statement is irrelevant to this proceeding.”

  “Don’t be silly, counsel,” the judge snaps at Ferret. “All character witnesses are called to express their opinions, and Miss Exner has demonstrated that Mr. Manning’s opinion in this matter is indeed relevant. Objection overruled. Sit down, Mr. Ferret.” He cracks his gavel and turns to Roxanne. “Please continue.”

  Taking an unexpected turn, she asks, “Mr. Manning, has your involvement with this case proved in any way threatening to your health?”

  Ferret is again on his feet. “Your honor, I must object. Madam counsel’s transparent attempt to dramatize the witness’s bandaged arm is obviously a sympathy ploy beneath the dignity of this court!”

  With a menacing leer, Judge Ambrose tells him, “Overruled. I’m intrigued by the question. The witness will please answer.”

  Manning says, “Yes. My life has been threatened. Twice.” His words are met with astonished mutterings. “My arm was broken a few days ago in an auto accident resulting from potentially lethal mischief that seems clearly related to the Carter case; I do not know who was responsible. Earlier, on October nineteenth, I received a death threat in the mail; I have never taken the October incident seriously, however.”

  Roxanne asks, “Do you still have this letter?”

  “Right here,” Manning answers, producing the envelope.

  Roxanne has Manning read the insipid note into the record, then she has it entered into evidence and hands it to Judge Ambrose, who studies it closely.

  The judge asks Manning, “Do you have any idea who sent this?”

  “Yes, your honor, I know exactly who sent it.”

  The judge’s eyes pop. “Who?”

  Manning tells him, “Humphrey Hasting, reporter for the Post.”

  Pandemonium. The crowd’s whispers explode into whoops of dismay. Reporters scribble ecstatically—this is the stuff they’ve been waiting for!—and a veritable cloud of chalk dust rises over the heads of the sketch artists. Hank Ferret screams his objections. Judge Ambrose hammers over the din. And Humphrey Hasting sits with his mouth agape—a numbed, quivering blob in a bow tie.

  When a semblance of order has been restored, the judge asks, “Can you substantiate this charge, Mr. Manning?”

  “Indeed I can,” says Manning. Everyone in court listens, engrossed, as Manning recounts the events of the day when he received the letter. He points out the Post’s watermark on the stationery. He notes certain tendencies in Hasting’s writing style—including overuse of the word “modicum.” He explains the distinctive little E’s typical of old newsroom typewriters, adding, “Mr. Hasting once told me at a party that he writes all his stories on ‘an ancient Underwood.’ I’m certain, your honor, that if you impound his typewriter and examine its type, you’ll find that it produced the letter in evidence.”

  Judge Ambrose instantly dispatches two deputies to the Post building to confiscate the machine, making the order official with a pound of his gavel.

  A hush falls over the courtroom. All eyes turn to Humphrey Hasting, who hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. He peers at the judge for a moment, then shifts his gaze to Ferret, to Manning, to Roxanne, then back to the judge. Moments pass. Silence reigns. The room closes in on him.

  “No,” wails Hasting, “it wasn’t signed!” He flails both arms at the heavens. “You can’t prove it—you can’t prove a thing!”

  In a comfortable chair in a little stucco house in Assumption, Helena Carter listens to Hasting’s outburst on the radio. Abe, the greatest of all champion Abyssinians, lies curled in her lap. Abe’s tail, tipped with hairs of purest black, just touches his brick-red nose. The cat’s slow, easy breathing gently parts the black tuft of fur with machinelike regularity.

  The woman sits perfectly still, except for one of her thumbs, which strokes Abe behind the ears. She is the picture of contentment, but her mind is troubled. She hears the uproar that now fills the courtroom. She hears Judge Ambrose hopelessly gavel for silence. She hears the words of an announcer describing the scene. She hears the churning of her own brain, burdened for days with the decisions she must soon reach.

  “Your honor!” Hank Ferret’s voice barks through the mayhem. “I most strenuously object to Miss Exner’s line of questioning. I demand that the witness’s testimony be stricken.”

  “Overruled!” the judge blasts back at him. Then, in a civil, normal tone, he asks, “Miss Exner, have you any more questions for this witness?”

  “No, your honor.”

  The judge asks Ferret, “Well, counsel, I suppose you’d like to cross-examine.”

  Soft-voiced but eager, Ferret replies, “Indeed I would.” There is a moment’s quiet while the lawyer approaches the witness stand. “Mr. Manning,” he asks, his tone suggesting that a new thought has occurred to him, “do you feel, as you implied by your testimony, that it was somehow improper for the Chicago Post—which happens to be your employer’s principal competitor—to name suspects in the Carter case?”

  “It was highly improper,” says Manning, “to publicly accuse a man without evidence—even if motivated by the so-called ‘public interest.’ That’s not the function of journalism.”

  “I see. Could you share with us, Mr. Manning, your more highly evolved philosophy of journalism?”

  “It’s not a philosophy, but simply a matter of definition. The reporter’s job is to report the news—not to make news. He deals only in facts, striving to report them in a concise and intelligible manner. It is the reader’s task to understand those facts and to interpret them.”

  “But we don’t always have the facts, do we, Mr. Manning? Sometimes we have to rely upon our beliefs.”

  “Not in news reporting. Beliefs are always personal, usually meaningless, and sometimes dangerous. Beliefs are never knowledge. By their nature, they refute knowledge and dismiss facts.”

  “Come now,” clucks Ferret, as if he has trapped a child in a ridiculous fib, “are you trying to tell us there is no room in the world for belief or trust or … faith? Do you never act on a hunch?”

  “Of course I do—sometimes we’re forced to. When we don’t have sufficient facts that would allow us to act on the basis of knowledge, we must make decisions and take actions based on our best judgment. That’s acting on a hunch, a ‘belief.’ But my point is this, Mr. Ferret: When I’m stuck with a hunch, I don’t write about it.”

  A stir of muted voices affirms that the crowd in the courtroom has been swayed by Manning, but Ferret presses on. “It’s easy to point the finger, isn’t it, Mr. Manning? But fingers point both ways, you know. You have upbraided Humphrey Hasting for accusing Arthur Mendel in his columns, yet I distinctly heard you say of Mendel, ‘He is innocent.’ Isn’t that a belief on your part? Haven’t you acted on a hunch in so judging him?”

  “No.” Manning’s voice is clear, his manner resolute. “The innocence of Arthur Mendel is not a belief on my part. It is knowledge.”

  “Oh, really?” says Ferret with a sneer. “Do, please, enlighten us with the precious facts that enable you to make such a judgment.”

  Manning pauses before answering. “For seven years I have reported details suggesting that Helena Carter is not dead, but has disappeared of her own willing. No one else has followed this reasoning or drawn this conclusion. Now I tell you: The woman is a
live. This is a fact—but those who would profit from her death are no more likely to accept facts than they are able to understand reasoning.”

  Ferret says, “What makes you so certain that Mrs. Carter is alive?”

  Manning replies, “I could tell you that Helena Carter has not been murdered. I could tell you that I’ve recently seen her, sat with her, spoken with her at length. I could tell you all these things, but you wouldn’t believe me. I could swear to these things, but you’d accuse me of perjury. I could tell you precisely how I know the things I know. But I won’t.”

  Ferret says slyly, “A wise decision. No, Mr. Manning, I wouldn’t believe you. Yes, I’d accuse you of perjury. If the things you said were true, there’d be no need for this hearing today. If your words were true”—Ferret breaks into loud laughter—“you’d be a very lucky, rather wealthy man!”

  The crowd laughs nervously with Ferret, shifting its fickle allegiance. Judge Ambrose raps his gavel, and the disturbance is quickly quelled.

  “Your honor,” says Ferret, his voice still shaky with waning spasms of laughter, “I believe the ‘credibility’ of this witness has been sufficiently demonstrated. I have no further questions.”

  The judge addresses the assembly: “Ladies and gentlemen, these proceedings have taken far longer than planned. It’s well past my lunchtime, and Mr. Mendel has yet to testify. To the parties who have an interest in Mrs. Carter’s estate, it is important that we resolve these matters before New Year’s Day, so we will meet again tomorrow afternoon, December thirty-first, at one o’clock. At that time, Mr. Manning, you will substantiate your fantastic claims to Mr. Ferret, or you will be held in contempt of this court. We stand adjourned.”