by Julie Smith
Rob called, “Your phone’s ringing.”
Six A.M. and the phone was ringing. What was going on? I raced to the kitchen and picked it up. “Rebecca,” said Mom. “Are you all right, darling?”
My mind raced. This time, surely, I hadn’t done anything my mother could have read about in the paper. Maybe she was just getting in the habit of greeting me that way. I gave her my usual answer: “Sure, Mom. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason, dear. I just wanted to make sure before I told you what I have to tell you. I just want you to know your dad’s going to be okay; it’s nothing to worry about, he’s going to be fine.”
My heart nearly pounded out of my chest. “Something’s wrong with Dad?”
“Darling, he’s fine, really. But I had to take him to the hospital last night.”
“Mom, what is it? What’s going on?”
Miranda walked into the living room and sacked out on one of the couches. Mom said: “Remember how I begged you not to let him get involved in this?”
“For heaven’s sake, Mom, what’s happened?”
“He had a little spell in Israel. I never knew what it was, exactly—he just said he didn’t feel well and wanted to come home. We didn’t want to worry you, darling, so we didn’t tell you.”
“Mom, what is this?”
As if reading my mind, Mom said, “Don’t worry, darling, it’s not a brain tumor. They think it’s something you can have surgery for. Last night”—she sounded as if she were about to cry—“right after dinner, suddenly he couldn’t talk. He couldn’t say a word, Rebecca.”
“My God.”
“He’s okay this morning, darling. Really. But they have to do more tests.” She was starting to sob. “He wants to know if you can make it on your own today.”
“Sure, Mom. I’ll be fine.” Sure I would; with green hair, a sick father, and an incoherent witness. Maybe I could get a recess. “Tell Dad I’ll call him as soon as I can.” I rang off quickly, not wanting to absorb any of Mom’s fear—I had enough of my own.
I said: “Dad’s not going to make it to court today.”
“Is he all right?” asked Rob.
“They’re doing tests.” I was trying not to cry. “What shall we do about Miranda?”
Picking up my need not to talk about Dad, he said, “Make her drink this.” He poured out a mug of coffee and took it over to her. She sat up and sipped.
“We’ve met you before,” I said. “On Easter. At Mount Davidson.”
“You chased me!”
“Well, you punched me.”
Unexpectedly, she laughed. “I did? I’d sort of forgotten.”
“Listen, a lot of things have happened since then. Remember the man on the cross?”
She looked panicked. “Yeah. I dream about that all the time.” She dropped her coffee mug, spilling coffee all over my white rug, and started sobbing—great, wrenching sobs. “I’m getting out of here.” She got up and tried to run, but stumbled instead, falling back down on the couch. “What are you trying to do with me?”
“I’m the lawyer for a man accused of killing the man on the cross. Only he didn’t kill him. I want to know what you know about what happened there. You might be able to save my client’s life.”
She stopped sobbing and sniffed. “I don’t know nothin’.”
“Do you know a man named Les Mathison?”
Again she looked panicked—trapped, surrounded by enemies. I needed to put her at ease. “Let’s try some more coffee,” I said gently, and Rob brought some. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just want to know what you know.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Maybe,” I said, grasping at any straw that fluttered by, “you need to get it off your chest. Maybe it would help stop your dreams.”
She looked up from her cup, and for the first time I saw hope on her face. “It would?”
“I don’t know. It might.”
“Do you have something I could put in this?”
“Cream and sugar? Sorry, I thought—”
“Some booze.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have any.”
“I need some.”
Suddenly, I felt terribly sorry for her. Out of the blue, I blurted, “Miranda, do you really want to be an alcoholic?”
She shook her head slowly. “No.” It was almost a whisper. She looked around the room. “I’ve never been in a place like this. We were always poor when I was a kid. I left home because it was awful—and you know where I wound up. I’d like to live in a nice place. A clean place. I’m sorry I mugged you.”
“You mugged me? You’re the one who mugged me?”
“I saw your ad and I got nervous.”
“Wait a minute. You knew all the time who we were and what we wanted?”
“Not exactly. I was a little disoriented this morning—I am a lot of the time. But sometimes I can do things okay. Only I couldn’t kill you.”
“Kill me!”
“I meant to when I followed you. But I hit you once and that was all I could do. I can’t do that stuff anymore.”
“What stuff?” I had a sudden wild thought that Miranda was the Trapper, momentarily forgetting that she was in no condition to have planned the crimes.
She shrugged, looking very sad. “Just live the way I’ve been living.”
“Miranda, what happened that night? The Saturday night before Easter?”
“Les and I had a fight—” Rob came in and sat down as she began to talk, the words pouring out, finally, after so many months. What she told us might save Lou and it might not. I can’t say I wasn’t a little disappointed, but it was certainly better than anything I had so far. And there was still a crucial question she hadn’t answered. “Where is Les now?” I asked.
“I don’t know. When I left Mount Davidson, I didn’t go back to the hotel. I figured he’d think it was because of the fight we had the night before—about how I thought he was seeing another woman. But that wasn’t it. See, I figured he’d killed the guy.”
“The man on the cross.”
“Yeah. And I thought if he knew I suspected, he’d kill me, too. I’m a real bad drunk, remember—I never know what I might say if I get drunk enough. So I left and pretty soon I hooked up with Mean-Mouth and he put me to work in one of those naked-lady places—to meet johns. It wasn’t really too bad.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. When she raised her head, she looked like a small girl trying to explain that it was okay about the way her parents beat her. “I mean, it was the best I could do. I didn’t know how to do nothin’ else. I didn’t think I could till now. But I can’t live with those dreams. I gotta do something.”
She’d strayed pretty far from the subject. I said, “Did you ever see Les again?”
She looked at her lap again, not at me. “No.”
“You saw my ad—you must read the paper. Didn’t you think Les might be the Trapper?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?”
Looking down, she said, “I don’t know.”
Rob said, “Rebecca, it’s seven-fifteen.”
“I’ve got to be in court by nine,” I said. “Will you testify, Miranda? I’ll get a recess and you can do it tomorrow.”
Once again the panicked look. “No. Today.”
I was so shocked that she’d agreed I barely heard the demand. “You’ll do it?”
“Only if I can do it today. I can’t go to sleep one more time before I do it.”
“Because of the dreams?”
“Yes. See, I don’t dream it the way it happened.”
“No?”
“In the dreams it’s me on the cross.”
Trying to put aside my dismay at having to present my case with green hair, I dressed while Miranda showered. I found a black suit for her to wear, blow-dried her hair, and put some makeup on her. When I was done, she looked close to pesentable, though my suit hung on her gaunt frame.
It
was five after eight when we left, which meant I had to speed to get to San Jose. If the CHP had caught us, we’d have been dead, but we made it just under the wire. As we drove, I was concentrating so hard on getting there, I didn’t talk much, but Rob and Miranda spoke briefly from time to time. Mostly, Miranda looked out the window, a look of utter despondency on her face. As we passed the airport, Rob said, “Why do you think you have the dreams?”
“Sometimes,” said Miranda, “I think it’s because I deserve to die.”
After that no one said a word.
* * *
Liz tried everything she could to stop Miranda’s testimony, saying Miranda was a drunk, she was unreliable, she was a surprise, and thus and therefore, but the fact remained that she was most certainly a witness at the scene of the crime. And I impressed on the judge that she was sober and reliable today, but might not be so tomorrow. It was 10:30 before we got out of chambers, and the spectators were restless. Looking white and waiflike, Miranda took the stand.
A ripple went through the courtroom when I stood up. You’d have thought no one in San Jose had ever seen green hair before.
“State your name, please.”
“Miranda Waring.” Gasps and whispers from the spectators.
“Occupation?”
“None.”
“Ms. Waring, would you describe yourself as an alcoholic?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Are you sober now?”
“Yes.”
“Would you tell the court how you know me, please?”
“My boyfriend got mad and tied me up. I think he was going to kill me. You found me last night and stopped him.”
“Objection!” cried Liz. “Irrelevant.”
“Sustained.”
“Very well. Ms. Waring, had you ever seen me before that?”
“Yes. Last Easter morning—at Mount Davidson. We got into a fight.”
“Did you ever know a man named Les Mathison?”
“We used to live at the same hotel in the Tenderloin. I was in love with him.”
“Was he in love with you?”
She looked unhappy. “We fought a lot.”
“And did you fight on the Saturday night before Easter?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell the court what happened that night?”
“He said he had to go out. We got into it because I thought he was going to meet another woman. I was pretty drunk, so I got the idea I’d hide in his car to find out for sure.”
“Why did you do that? Did you plan to confront the other woman?”
“I just did it because I was drunk.” Miranda turned up her palms. Sober, she had a down-to-earth way about her. “I didn’t think about confronting anybody. I don’t think I was thinking at all. I just got a six-pack and got under a blanket on the floor of his car, in the back. He drove somewhere and parked. When he got out, I saw we were in the Castro District—you know, where all the gays are.”
The spectators tittered, as if to say they might live in the boonies, but everyone knew the Castro.
“What did you do then?”
“I got out and followed him. He went to a place called the Yellow Parrot. A gay place.”
“What did you think?”
“Objection!”
“Your Honor,” I said, “I’m trying to establish the witness’s state of mind.”
“Overruled.”
“Thank you. What did you think, Ms. Waring?”
“I thought he was gay. I thought, ‘Well, this explains everything. No wonder he doesn’t want me.’”
“Did you notice anything odd about his appearance?”
“He was wearing a fake beard and a cowboy hat.”
“What did you do when he went into the bar?”
“I bought another six-pack and went back to the car and drank some more. After a while, I heard Les get in with another man.”
“Did you actually see Les?”
“Oh, yes. I was on the floor on the passenger’s side. So I peeked out from under the blanket and saw him. I tried to see the other man, but I couldn’t.”
“What were they talking about?”
“Animals.”
“Animals?”
“The other guy was talking about living on a ranch. Les had grown up on one, so they were talking about animals. It was real boring.”
“Can you remember any more of what they were saying?”
“Uh-uh. I fell asleep. This real loud noise woke me up. Like a gunshot. I was scared, but Les was still driving—”
“You heard the noise while the car was in motion?”
“Uh-huh. Like I said, Les was still driving, so I figured everything was okay.”
“Did you think the noise came from inside the car?”
“Honey, I was skunk-drunk. I didn’t think anything.”
It took the judge a good five minutes to quiet the courtroom. “What happened next?”
“I don’t know. I fell asleep. When I woke up, the car was parked at the foot of Mount Davidson. I was just beginning to come around when I heard a noise—a crash, kind of. I got out of the car and went to see what it was. When I got to the top of the hill, I saw that man on the cross—and you trying to climb up a ladder to get at him. I thought, ‘This is a murder. I better make a citizen’s arrest.’ ” Once again the courtroom broke up. Miranda’s credibility was wearing thin.
“It didn’t occur to you when you heard a noise like a gunshot that that might be a murder?”
She thought about it: “The honest truth is, I don’t know. I think it went through my mind, but I was on a bender.”
“You were more sober when you woke up?”
“Not so’s you’d notice.” She waited for the laughter to die down again. “But I was definitely more sober after you chased me down that hill, and the police fired at us.”
“I think they were firing at me, actually.” This time I got a laugh. “Where did you go after you ran down the hill?”
“I had just enough money to take a bus back home—I mean back to the Tenderloin. But I was afraid to go back to the hotel.”
“You never went back?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see Les again?”
She looked down at her lap, as she had when I’d asked the question before, and once again answered without meeting my eyes. “No.”
Suddenly I didn’t believe her.
21
The things she’d said and the way she’d said them began to come back to me. Rob and I had had only about an hour with Miranda at my place, and there hadn’t been any time to think, to reflect, to analyze. I felt the way I had the night before when Mean-Mouth walked in on me—suddenly unfrozen, thoughts coming in an avalanche. I had an inkling of what I was about to do and I was terrified. I was about to ignore the first rule of being a trial lawyer: Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. It was simply not done, and yet I couldn’t stop myself. Once again I was a victim of adrenaline, perhaps; Kruzick says it happens to stage actors. If Dad had been there I would have had the sense to shut up, but on two hours of sleep, after everything I’d been through, I couldn’t put on the brakes.
I started out with a safe question, one I’d asked before. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”
Miranda fidgeted. “I guess”—pause—“I was afraid to.”
“Afraid of what, Miranda?”
She looked down again. “I don’t know.”
“Were you afraid of Les?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you sleep with a knife under your mattress?” I expected Liz to pop up with objections, but she sat as tensely as anyone else in the room. She probably guessed I was floundering and was letting me hang myself. Her silence unnerved me even more than my own audacity. I was starting to sweat.
I knew Miranda well enough to recognize her panicked look, and it flickered ever so briefly before she turned sullen. She said, “Honey, I live in the Tenderloin. Doors don’t
lock and people come through ’em.” Her voice had turned tough, which scared me even more. She was probably turning the jury against her, if they didn’t already hate her for being a drunk and a bum and a prostitute. Still, I couldn’t stop myself.
“Several months ago I placed an ad in the Chronicle, seeking information about your whereabouts or Les’s. Did you see that ad?”
“I saw it.” Her face was stone.
“And as a result of seeing it, did you follow me from my office to North Beach?”
“I don’t have to talk about that.”
“Your Honor,” I said, “bear with me.” Amazingly, the judge nodded.
“Did you tell me this morning that you not only followed me but intended to kill me?”
“I was drunk.”
“You were drunk this morning?”
“No. I was drunk when I followed you.”
“Why did you want to kill me?”
“I don’t know why—I was drunk, that’s all.” She was shrieking.
“You didn’t want anyone looking for Les, did you? And that’s why you didn’t go to the police.”
She spoke loudly and bitterly: “What would I care about Les? He was a killer.”
All of a sudden Liz returned, as if from the dead. “Objection!”
“Sustained. Miss Schwartz, I think you’d better tell us what you’re getting at.”
“I’m trying,” I said, “to establish why Ms. Waring has suddenly changed her mind and decided to testify.”
“Very well. Ask your question.”
I turned back to Miranda and saw that her face was on the verge of crumpling. I said very gently, “You didn’t go to the police before. Why are you testifying today?”
What was left of her composure fell away like cellophane wrapping. “Because I can’t get drunk enough anymore,” she sobbed. “Every night I dream it’s me up on that cross and every day I have to fight to keep from jumping off the bridge. I could have stopped him. I could have stopped him killing all those people!”
“You knew he was the Trapper, didn’t you? He threatened to kill you if you went to the police.”
“No! Not then—not after Easter. I thought it was him, but I wasn’t sure. If I’d gone to the police they would have caught him.”
