“Members of the jury,” Fletcher began, a slight tremor in his voice. “You have listened to the persuasive advocacy of the attorney general as he poured venom on my client, so perhaps the time has come to show where that venom should have been directed. But first may I spend a moment talking about you. The press have made great play of the fact that I did not object to every white juror who was selected; indeed there are ten of you on this jury. They went further, and suggested that had I achieved an all-black jury with a majority of women, then Mrs.’Kirsten would have been certain to walk free. But I didn’t want that. I chose each one of you for a different reason.” The jury members looked puzzled.
“Even the attorney general couldn’t work out why I didn’t object to some of you,” added Fletcher, turning to face Mr. Stamp. “I crossed my fingers, because neither did any of his vast team fathom why I selected you. So what is it that you all have in common?” The attorney general was now looking just as puzzled as the jurors. Fletcher swung around and pointed to Mrs. Kirsten. “Like the defendant, every one of you has been married for more than nine years.” Fletcher turned his attention back to the jury. “No bachelors or spinsters who have never experienced married life, or what goes on between two people behind closed doors.” Fletcher spotted a woman in the second row who shuddered. He remembered Abrahams saying that in a jury of twelve, there is a strong possibility that one of them will have suffered the same experience as the defendant. He had just identified that juror.
“Which of you dreads the thought of your spouse returning home after midnight, drunk, with only violence in mind? For Mrs. Kirsten, this was something she had come to expect six nights out of seven, for the past nine years. Look at this frail and fragile woman and ask yourself what chance she would have up against a man of six foot two who weighed two hundred and thirty pounds?”
He focused his attention on the woman juror who had shuddered. “Which of you arrives home at night and expects their husband to grab the bread board, a cheese grater or even a steak knife for use not in the kitchen for preparing a meal, but in the bedroom to disfigure his wife? And what did Mrs. Kirsten have to call on for her defense, this five-foot-four, one-hundred-and-five-pound woman? A pillow? A towel? A flyswatter perhaps?” Fletcher paused. “It’s never crossed your mind, has it?” he added, facing the rest of the jurors. “Why? Because your husbands and wives are not evil. Ladies and gentlemen, how can you begin to understand what this woman was being subjected to, day in and day out?
“But not satisfied with such degradation, one night this thug returns home drunk, goes upstairs, drags his wife out of bed by her hair, back down the stairs and into the kitchen; he is bored with simply beating her black and blue.” Fletcher began to walk in the direction of his client. “He needs some other thrill to reach new heights of excitement, and what does Anita Kirsten see immediately when she’s dragged into the kitchen? The ring on the stove is already red hot, and waiting for its victim.” He swung back to face the jury. “Can you imagine what must have been going through her mind when she first saw that ring of fire? He grabs her hand like a piece of raw steak, and slams it down on the stove for fifteen seconds.”
Fletcher picked up Mrs. Kirsten’s scarred hand and held it up so that the palm was clearly visible to the jury, looked at his watch and counted to fifteen, before he added, “And then she fainted.
“Which of you can even imagine such horror, let alone be asked to endure it? So why did the attorney general demand ninety-nine years? Because, he told us, the killing was premeditated. It was, he assured us, most certainly not a crime of passion carried out by someone defending their life in a moment of rage.” Fletcher swung around to face the attorney general and said, “Of course it was premeditated and of course she knew exactly what she was doing. If you were five foot four, being attacked by a man of six foot two, would you rely on a knife, a gun, or some blunt instrument that this thug could so easily turn against you?” Fletcher turned and walked slowly toward the jury. “Which one of you would be that stupid? Which one of you, after what she had been through, wouldn’t plan it? Think of that poor woman when you next have a row with your spouse. After a few angry words have been exchanged, will you resort to putting the stove on to 350 degrees to prove you’ve won the argument?” He looked at the seven men on the jury one by one. “Does such a man deserve your sympathy?
“If this woman is guilty of murder, which one of you would not have done the same thing if you had been unfortunate enough to marry Alex Kirsten?” This time he turned his attention to the five women before he continued. “‘But I didn’t,’ I hear you cry. ‘I married a good and decent man.’ So now we can all agree on Mrs. Kirsten’s crime. She married an evil man.”
Fletcher leaned on the rail of the jury box. “I must beg the jury’s indulgence for my youthful passion, for passion it is. I chose to take this case as I feared justice would not be done for Mrs. Kirsten, and in my youth I hoped that twelve fair-minded citizens would see what I had seen and would be unable to condemn this woman to spend the rest of her life in jail.
“I must close my summation, by repeating to you the words Mrs. Kirsten said to me when we sat alone in her cell this morning. ‘Mr. Davenport, although I am only twenty-five, I would rather spend the rest of my life in jail than have to spend another night under the same roof as that evil man.’
“Thank God she does not have to return home to him tonight. It is in your power, as members of the jury, to send this woman home tonight to her loving children, with the hope that together they might rebuild their lives, because twelve decent people understood the difference between good and evil.” Fletcher lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “When you go home to your husbands and wives this evening, tell them what you did today in the name of justice, for I am confident if you bring in a verdict of Not Guilty, your spouses will not turn up the stove to 350 degrees because they don’t agree with you. Mrs. Kirsten has already suffered a nine-year sentence. Do you think she deserves another ninety?”
Fletcher returned to his seat, but did not turn around to look at Annie, for fear that Karl Abrahams would notice he was fighting back the tears.
19
“HI, MY NAME’S Nat Cartwright.”
“Not the Captain Cartwright?”
“Yes, the hero who killed all those Vietcong with his bare hands because he forgot to take any paper clips with him.”
“No,” said Su Ling in mock admiration. “Not the one who flew a helicopter alone across enemy-infested jungle when he didn’t have a pilot’s license?”
“And then killed so many of the enemy that they stopped counting them, while at the same time he rescued a whole platoon of stranded men.”
“And the people back home believed it, so he was decorated, given vast financial rewards and offered a hundred vestal virgins.”
“I only get four hundred dollars a month, and I’ve never met a vestal virgin.”
“Well, you have now,” said Su Ling with a smile.
“Well, can you tell her that I have been chosen to run against Boston University.”
“No doubt you’d expect her to stand around in the rain and wait until you trail in near the back, like all your other adoring fans?”
“No, the truth is that I need my tracksuit cleaned, and I’m told her mother takes in washing.” Su Ling burst out laughing. “Of course I’d like you to come to Boston,” said Nat, taking her in his arms.
“I’ve already booked a place on the supporters’ bus.”
“But Tom and I are driving up the night before, so why don’t you come with us?”
“But where would I stay?”
“One of Tom’s numerous aunts has a house in Boston, and has offered to put us all up for the night.” Su Ling hesitated. “I’m told she has nine bedrooms, and even a separate wing, but if that’s not enough, I could always spend the night in the back of the car.” Su Ling didn’t reply as Mario appeared carrying two cappuccinos.
“This is my friend
Mario,” said Su Ling. “Very good of you to keep my usual table,” she added.
“Do you bring all your men here?”
“No, I tend to select a different restaurant each time, so that way no one finds out about my vestal reputation.”
“Like your reputation as a computer whiz?”
Su Ling blushed. “How did you find out about that?”
“What do you mean, how did I find out? It seems everyone on campus knew except me. In fact my closest friend told me, and he’s at Yale.”
“I was going to tell you, but you never asked the right question.”
“Su Ling, you can tell me things without having to be asked the right question.”
“Then I must ask if you’ve also heard that both Harvard and MIT have invited me to join their computer science departments.”
“Yes, but I don’t know how you responded.”
“Tell me, Captain,” she said, “can I ask you something first?”
“You’re trying to change the subject again, Su Ling.”
“Yes, I am, Nat, because I need my question answered before I can reply to yours.”
“OK, so what’s your question?”
Su Ling lowered her head as she always did when she was slightly embarrassed. “How can two such different people,” she hesitated, “end up liking each other so much.”
“End up falling in love, I think is what you are trying to say. If I knew the answer to that question, little flower, I’d be a professor of philosophy, and not worrying about my end-of-term exam grades.”
“In my country,” said Su Ling, “love is something you do not talk about until you have known each other for many years.”
“Then I promise not to discuss the matter again for many years—on one condition.”
“And what is that?”
“That you will agree to come to Boston with us on Friday.”
“Yes, if I can have Tom’s aunt’s telephone number.”
“Of course you can, but why?”
“My mother will need to speak to her.” Su Ling lifted her right foot, slipped it under the table and placed it on top of Nat’s left foot.
“Now I feel sure that has a significant meaning in your country.”
“Yes, it does. It means I wish to walk with you, but not in a crowd.”
Nat placed his right foot on her left. “And what does that mean?”
“That you agree to my request,” she hesitated. “But I should not have done it first, otherwise I would be considered a loose woman.” Nat immediately removed his foot and then replaced it. “Honor restored,” she said.
“Then after we have been on our uncrowded walk, what happens next?”
“You must wait for an invitation to take tea with my family.”
“How long will that take?”
“Normally a year would be considered appropriate.”
“Couldn’t we speed up the process a little?” suggested Nat. “How about next week?”
“All right, then you will be invited to tea on Sunday afternoon, because Sunday is the traditional day for a man to have a first meal with a woman under the watchful eye of family.”
“But we’ve already had several meals together.”
“I know, so you must come to tea before my mother finds out, otherwise I will be abandoned and disinherited.”
“Then I shall not accept your invitation to tea,” said Nat.
“Why not,”
“I’ll just stand outside your house and grab you when your mother throws you out, and then I won’t have to wait for another two years.” Nat placed both his feet on hers, and she withdrew them immediately. “What did I do wrong?”
“Two feet means something completely different.”
“What?” asked Nat.
“I can’t tell you, but as you were clever enough to find out the correct translation of Su Ling, I feel sure you will discover the meaning of two feet, and never do it again, unless …”
On Friday afternoon, Tom drove Nat and Su Ling up to his aunt’s home in the leafy suburbs of Boston. Miss Russell had obviously spoken to Su Ling’s mother, because she’d put her in the bedroom on the main landing, next to hers, while Nat and Tom were relegated to the east wing.
After breakfast the following morning, Su Ling left to keep her appointment with the professor of statistics at Harvard, while Nat and Tom spent some time walking slowly around the cross-country course, something Nat always did whenever he would be running over unfamiliar territory. He checked out all the well-worn paths, and whenever he came to a stream, a gate or a sudden undulation, he practiced crossing it several times.
On the way back across the meadow, Tom asked him what he would do if Su Ling agreed to a transfer to Harvard.
“I’ll move at the same time and enroll at the business school.”
“You feel that strongly about her?”
“Yes, and I can’t risk letting anyone else place both feet on hers.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll explain another time,” said Nat as he came to a halt by a stream. “Where do you imagine they cross it?”
“No idea,” said Tom, “but it looks too wide to jump.”
“Agreed, so I expect they aim for the large flat pebbles in the middle.”
“What do you do if you’re not sure?” asked Tom.
“Follow closely behind one of their team, because they’ll do the right thing automatically.”
“Where are you hoping to end up this early in the season?”
“I’d be satisfied with being a counter.”
“I don’t understand, doesn’t everybody count?”
“No, although there are eight runners on each team, only six count when the final score is calculated. If I come in twelfth or higher, I would be a counter.”
“So how is the counting done?”
“First across the line counts as one, second two, and so on. When the race is over, the first six in each team are added together, and the team with the lowest overall score is the winner. That way, seven and eight can only contribute if they stay ahead of any of the first six runners on the other team. Is that clear?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Tom, looking at his watch. “I’d better get back, because I promised Aunt Abigail I’d have lunch with her. Are you coming?”
“No, I’m joining the rest of the team for a banana, a lettuce leaf and a glass of water. Could you pick up Su Ling and make sure that she’s back in time to watch the race.”
“She won’t need to be reminded,” said Tom.
When Tom strolled to the house, he found his aunt and Su Ling deep in conversation over bowls of clam chowder. Tom sensed that his aunt had changed the subject the moment he’d entered the room. “You’d better grab something to eat,” she said, “if you’re hoping to be back in time to see the start.”
After a second bowl of clam chowder, Tom accompanied Su Ling across to the course. He explained to her that Nat had selected a spot about halfway around, where they could see all the runners for at least a mile and then if they took a shortcut, they would be back in time to watch the winner crossing the finishing line.
“Do you understand what a counter is?” Tom asked.
“Yes, Nat explained it to me—an ingenious system, which makes the abacus look positively modern. Would you like me to explain it to you?” she asked.
“Yes, I think I would,” said Tom.
By the time they reached the vantage point that Nat had selected, they didn’t have long to wait before the first runner came into view over the brow of the hill. They watched Boston’s captain shoot past them, and ten other runners had come and gone before Nat appeared. He gave a wave as he sped off down the hill.
“He’s the last counter,” said Su Ling as they set off to take the short cut back to the finishing line.
“My bet is that he’ll move up two or three places now he knows you’re here to watch him,” said Tom.
“How flattering,�
� said Su Ling.
“Will you be taking up the Harvard offer?” asked Tom quietly.
“Did Nat ask you to find out?” she inquired.
“No,” said Tom, “though he talks of little else.”
“I have said yes, but only on one condition.” Tom remained silent. Su Ling didn’t tell Tom what the condition was, so he didn’t ask.
They almost had to jog the last couple of hundred yards to make sure they were back in time to see the Boston captain raise his arms in triumph as he crossed the finishing line. Tom turned out to be right, because Nat ended up in ninth position, and fourth counter for his team. Both of them rushed over to congratulate him as if he were the winner. Nat lay on the ground exhausted, disappointed that he hadn’t done better when he learned that Boston had won by 31 to 24.
After supper with Aunt Abigail, they started out on the long drive back to Storrs. Nat rested his head in Su Ling’s lap and quickly fell asleep.
“I can’t imagine what my mother would say about our first night together,” she whispered to Tom as he drove on through the night.
“Why don’t you go the whole hog and tell her that it was a ménage à trois?”
“Mother thought you were wonderful,” said Su Ling as they walked slowly back toward south campus after tea the following afternoon.
“What a woman,” said Nat. “She can cook, run a home and is also a successful businesswoman.”
“And don’t forget,” said Su Ling, “that she was shunned in her own land for bearing a foreigner’s child and wasn’t even welcomed in this country when she first arrived, which is the reason I’ve been brought up so strictly. Like so many children of immigrants, I’m no cleverer than my mother, but by sacrificing everything to give me a first-class education, she has allowed me a better chance than she ever had. Perhaps you can now understand why I always try to respect her wishes.”
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 72
