Outlaws (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard)

by George V. Higgins

  “Until about the first part of Sixty-eight,” he said, “I was what I suppose would have been called ‘conventionally liberal.’ Protest marches, candlelight services, raising money for Cesar Chavez. Very earnest, but not very committed. Then, in April, Martin Luther King was murdered. And I was shaken. Then, in June, Robert Kennedy was killed. And what my teacher had said to me turned out, I guess, to be correct. In my despair I concluded that there must be some single explanation for this uncanny, seeming coincidence of murders. That there were dark forces at work to thwart any politically legitimate effort to turn the system around. To make it function for justice, and equality, and fairness. To make it stop killing people.” He hesitated. “Do you follow me, sir?”

  Gleason nodded. He retreated to the bar enclosure and rested the heels of his hands on the rail. Morrissey fidgeted at the defense table. “I do indeed, Mister Tibbetts. Please continue.”

  “I’d started using drugs,” Tibbetts said. “I’d started doing drugs, mostly speed — amphetamines — at the beginning of my senior year. There was so much to do. There was a whole world of knowledge that I did not possess. I wanted all of it, and I wanted it all at once. Sleep was an interruption, a needless delay. So I was doing that. Then, then a friend of mine who was aware of my religious interests told me of the path to enlightenment that opened with mescaline. He told me about visions, about travel through the time and space continuums, about the personal experience of transcendence. I experimented. He was right — or at the time, at least, I thought he was right. I went on to LSD. I actually recommended it to others. Two of whom died, I should add. But my own experience was bliss. A mandala sense of wholeness, and unity and peace.

  “I became convinced,” he said, “that my father had been right. That the only limitation on my ability to do good, to accomplish much, to redirect the energies of this great nation toward the good — that the only limitation was my own imagination. And that the need to do it, the obligation to do it, was a moral imperative. That I had no choice.”

  “A saviour complex?” Gleason said.

  “Absolutely,” Tibbetts said, smiling and rueful. “I know it sounds arrogant, when I say it now. I know it sounds juvenile and stupid. I know it sounds, even, crazy — but I was crazy, then. For several years, I now know, I was certifiably insane.”

  “And this,” Gleason said, leaning his buttocks on the bar enclosure and folding his arms across his stomach, “this would of course explain why you didn’t run for president, do something along that line, instead of turning to violence? Because of your convictions that a moral imperative had been revealed?”

  Tibbetts chuckled. He nodded. “I guess it would, yes,” he said.

  “And why you, instead of working in some anti-poverty group, or something like that, why instead you acquired a machinegun, and a sawed-off shotgun, and a few pistols and ammo — to arrange for social justice?” Gleason said.

  “Mister Gleason,” Tibbetts said, spreading his hands, “if you want me to tell, you know, that what I am accused of doing, that it makes any sense at all, well, I can’t. Because it doesn’t. Which is exactly what I’m saying, to this jury and to you. If I contemplate the life I led until this past winter — the way I treated my parents, tyrannized my good friends, abused drugs and all the rest — if I look back on it now, as I’ve had to do since I cleansed myself, I look and I’m appalled.”

  “Understandably enough,” Gleason murmured. Morrissey stood up. “What was that?” he said to Gleason. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

  “I did,” Tibbetts said, smiling. “He said: ‘Understandably enough.’ It’s a reasonable comment, Mister Gleason.” Morrissey sat down, scowling. “You have to understand the reinforcements I received, for the course that I was taking. It was increasingly evident, to anyone paying even the slightest attention, that agencies of the government, of our own government, were engaged in domestic espionage. Spying on our own citizens. It was blatant that the Warren Commission had at best bungled its investigation of John F. Kennedy’s assassination, or — at worst — intentionally fogged up the issues. It was plain that James Earl Ray could not possibly have subsisted on his own for a year or more, after his release from prison, before he turned up in Memphis to shoot Martin Luther King. There was no doubt in my mind that Sirhan Sirhan was a mere instrument, a tool, protecting others in the shadows. The inescapable deduction was that Chairman Mao was right: ‘The only power is the power that comes out of the gun.’ ” He paused. “So,” he said, “so we acquired guns.”

  “And used them?” Gleason said.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Tibbetts said, shaking his head sadly.

  “You have amnesia, too?” Gleason said.

  “I have,” Tibbetts said, “I now have a clear understanding of the blackout effects of years of prolonged drug abuse. I know we had guns. I know we knew that people in Boston were preying not only upon addicts here, but upon oppressed peasants in Bolivia and Chile, to — in effect — steal cocoa from the farmers, and to victimize the poor here with the cocaine product. I recall discussions about taking direct action against these predators.”

  “But you don’t recall doing it?” Gleason said.

  “No, I don’t,” Tibbetts said. He looked wistful. “If I did — and I mean this, Mister Gleason — I would admit it now. But I honestly do not.”

  “Mister Tibbetts,” Gleason said, “this will almost certainly be my last question to you.… No, on second thought, I’ve asked my last question.” He looked at the judge as he went back to his chair. “No further questions, your Honor.”

  Behind the bar enclosure, James Walker in his tee shirt and overalls stood up. “Power to the people,” he said. “Death to the traitor, Tibbetts.” He raised his fists above his head.

  “Good God,” Bart said. He sighed. “Mister Morrissey,” he said, “any redirect?” Morrissey looked up. He shook his head slowly. “Good,” the judge said. “Mister Bigelow, Miss Veale, Mister Klein? Any cross from you?” Bigelow shook his head. Veale shook her head and Klein stood up. “No, your Honor,” he said. “No wisdom from me.” “Good again,” Bart said. “We’ll take the luncheon recess.”

  22

  In the afternoon, Morrissey stood up and said: “That is the case for the defendant Tibbetts.”

  “Defendant Tibbetts rests,” the judge said, making a note. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, “again let me anticipate the instructions I will give you before you retire. The case against Samuel Tibbetts — and the case for Samuel Tibbetts — is now closed. Anything that any of the other defendants may decide to offer, or that may be obtained from them on cross-examination: none of that may be considered for or against Mister Tibbetts. I know we’re asking you to walk a conceptual tightrope here, but you have to manage it.

  “Mister Bigelow,” the judge said.

  Bigelow stood up. “Waive opening statement, your Honor,” he said. “At this time, Mister Walker wishes to make his allocution.”

  “Yes,” the judge said. He made another note. Walker stood up. He was wearing a dark blue tee shirt under his overalls. His face was impassive. “Just a moment, Mister Walker,” the judge said. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said to the jury, “the defendant Walker, through his attorney, has asked the Court for permission to make an ‘allocution’ to you. The Commonwealth has indicated that it does not object, and therefore I have granted the request.

  “An ‘allocution’ is basically an unsworn statement. Mister Walker will not take the oath. Or the stand, either. Mister Gleason will not have the opportunity to cross-examine him. You are therefore to take the statement in that light, and give it whatever weight, or none at all, as you deem it worthy of.

  “Mister Walker,” he said.

  Walker had a bass voice. It resonated in the uncrowded courtroom. “Fellow citizens,” he said, “Ché taught that love is the only motivation of the true revolutionary. That whatever dedicated men and women do, in the name of the revolution, they do it out of love. An
d we — I — we were all filled with love.

  “We were few in the beginning,” he said. “We were young, and filled with hope. We had passion and intensity. We sacrificed for one another, and the proletariat. We made bonds with those in bondage; we enslaved ourselves to slaves. Where we saw oppression; where we saw despair; where we saw the hopeless, the bereaved, and the forgotten: there our hearts lay, and our spirits. There we cast our lot.

  “Out of that commitment came the Bolivian Contingent. Still few. Without much money, except for what we had ourselves. But still, a growing cadré, a movement that had promise, a foundation for a future that would say to young and dedicated peoples: ‘Yes, we are Americans. Yes, we are truly free. Yes, we know what we are doing. We’re not hypocrites,’ we said. ‘We do not forge chains. We break the chains that stifle progress, chains that weigh us down. Wehave the force of our convictions. What we say, we believe. And we are prepared to act.’

  “Yesterday, and again this morning, you have seen disgrace. You have seen a husk before you, shaken out and thrown aside. You have seen a once proud man, once strong, and once a leader, piss on all that he believed, shit on all he loved. I am a strong man, and a leader, and I loved the man he was. I followed that man in the sunshine, followed him in rain. I took him as my leader. I took him as my guide. I, and many others, took him for our chief in battle, our consoler in distress. And now, because he is afraid, because he would deceive you — now he has betrayed us. And all we tried to do.

  “I will be true to the cause that we embraced,” Walker said. “I am not broken. I will not repudiate my brothers, and my sisters, and the poor. I will not stand up now and say that I regret my acts. I tell you proudly I was right, no matter who may cringe. I tell you that we gave ourselves entirely to the betterment of mankind, and that what we did was right.

  “I do not acknowledge this court, that judge there, or you. I do not recognize your right to try me, shackle me or kill. I recognize the revolution. That and only that. The day will come when we are free. When all of us are free. And you will know then: I was right. And you will hang your heads.” He sat down.

  The judge cleared his throat. He glanced at the jury. “Um, yes,” he said. He looked back at the defense table. “Mister Bigelow?” he said.

  Bigelow stood up. “That,” he said, “that, ah, the defendant Walker rests.”

  “Very good,” the judge said. He consulted his notebook. “Mister Klein, I believe?”

  Klein in the corduroy suit and the plaid shirt stood up. “Your Honor,” he said, “I have advised my client thoroughly of her rights. Miss Franklin has advised me that she has carefully paid attention to what she calls ‘this travesty,’ and does not wish to dignify it by active participation.” He turned and looked at Franklin. “I have stated your position correctly, Jill?” She nodded, looking grim.

  “Record will reflect,” Bart said, “that the defendant Franklin has made a gesture of assent by nodding her head.”

  “Therefore, your Honor,” Klein said, “therefore with the Court’s permission, defendant Franklin rests.”

  “Franklin rests,” the judge said, writing. He looked up. “Miss Veale,” he said, “I believe that you’re the anchor.”

  Veale stood up. “Defendant Fentress waives opening,” she said. “Call defendant Fentress.”

  “May be sworn,” the judge said. “Please take the stand.”

  Fentress in jeans and a khaki twill shirt with epaulets and two flap pockets strode toward the witness stand and stood in front of the chair. The clerk raised his right hand. “Solemnly swear,” he said, “that the testimony you are about to give will be the truth.…”

  Fentress wheeled toward the judge, hawked phlegm from her sinuses, and spat on the judge’s robe. She did a military right face and strode back to her chair behind the enclosure.

  The judge looked down at the spittle on his robe. He looked up at Veale. “Miss Veale,” he said, “ponder carefully your answer. Did you know your client intended to do this?”

  Veale shook her head. “I,” she said, “I wasn’t sure, your Honor.”

  “You ‘weren’t sure,’ ” Bart said. “Well, that’s not half good enough, Miss Veale, I’m afraid. Be advised that I will take under advisement whether we will look into this matter in more detail in a separate proceeding. Now, have you any other delightful surprises up your sleeve?”

  Veale cleared her throat. “Defendant Fentress rests,” she said.

  The judge nodded. He made a note. He looked up. “Commonwealth,” he said, “any rebuttal?” Gleason stood up. “None, your Honor,” he said. He sat down.

  “Excellent,” the judge said. He addressed the jury. “The evidence is now complete,” he said. “After nine days, those of you who were picked early, I’m sure you’re all glad of it. What remains now are the final arguments, and the instructions that I give.

  “This is not an easy case,” the judge said. “I, when the jury is faced with decision of a complex set of issues, I like to give counsel overnight to prepare their closing arguments.” He smiled. “Judges are former lawyers who are sure that we can all speak, off the cuff, without preparation, and do so effectively. But, when I was a lawyer, I always felt the jury had the benefit of better reasoning, and logic, when I had an evening — or a day — to marshal the evidence in my own mind, and make a couple notes.

  “Tomorrow of course is Sunday,” he said. “And I’m sure some of you will want to attend church services. And, quite frankly, I think we could all use a day of rest. We will resume on Monday morning. Promptly at nine-thirty. Mister Morrissey, Mister Bigelow, Mister Klein and Miss Veale will present their arguments. Mister Gleason will offer his. We will break for lunch. I will deliver my instructions, which will take about an hour. Then the names of alternates will be drawn; I will select a foreman, or forelady, and you will retire to begin deliberations.

  “When you were impaneled,” the judge said, “the clerk read the charges to you. Then he recited the words on a card. If you didn’t catch them, that is understandable. But I think they are important, and I want to repeat them, now. He said: ‘To these charges, the defendants have said that they are not guilty, and, for their trial, have put themselves upon the country. Which country you are, and you are sworn to try the issue. If they are guilty, you are to say so. If they are not guilty, you are to say so. And nothing more. Jurors, hearken to the evidence.’

  “Keep in mind, during tomorrow’s rest, that that command has echoed down more than three centuries of trials in Massachusetts. You have endured separation from your loved ones, deprivation of the most ordinary amusements, mediocre food,” the jurors smiled, “and the ordinary, day-to-day association with your fellow workers that means so much to all of us. You have done so because this is America, and this is Massachusetts, and in this Commonwealth, at least, when we are sworn to do our duty, that is what we do.

  “In Eighteen-thirty,” Bart said, “in Eighteen-thirty, Daniel Webster arose in the Senate of the United States, to respond to an attack upon this Commonwealth. He said: ‘She needs no encomium from me. There she stands — behold her.’ And here you stand, today.” He stood up. “Court will be in recess,” he said, and stalked off the bench.

  “He ain’t bad,” Richards whispered to Gleason. Gleason looked at him. “ ‘Ain’t bad’?” he said. “He’s fuckin’ beautiful.”

  SEPTEMBER 21, 1978

  23

  At 5:20 on Thursday afternoon Gleason returned to his office at 20 Ashburton Place. McNeil, Consolo and Richards were waiting for him. “Nothing,” he said. He collapsed into his chair. He massaged the bridge of his nose with both thumbs. “Three fuckin’ days they’ve been out.” He looked at each of them. “I will be goddamned if I understand what the hell they’re hung up on.”

  McNeil looked disappointed. “I thought,” she said, “I thought for sure when you were gone, there must’ve been a verdict.”

  “Ah,” Gleason said, “no. That was just, Bart decided since we�
�re all sitting around with our thumbs up our ass while those turkeys gobble, might’s well dispose the side issue of whether Carolyn Veale gets hammered for her client spitting. So he had us all in to chambers, and he puts it on the record. He thinks Veale’s suffered enough, that her client’s already punished her enough for this world’s tastes, so he kissed the contempt thing off. Wish the jury was as decisive.”

  “They’re hung up on Tibbetts,” Consolo said. “They’re hung up on Tibbetts because you didn’t rebut all that bullshit about him being nuts. You should’ve called Mackenzie.”

  “Another county heard from,” Gleason said.

  “There’s a hanger in there,” Richards said. “There’s one stubborn son of a bitch who’s not gonna budge, no matter what anybody says. Or what the evidence is, either. It’s probably that black broad Bart picked for foreman.”

  “You think so?” McNeil said. “She looked all right to me.”

  “June,” Richards said, “I had, Dave and I had a case once, back when he was, oh, I suppose he had about two years under his belt. He was one Frank D’Amelio’s assistants, and it seemed like Dave couldn’t lose a goddamned case. No matter how bad anybody fucked it up, Dave’d find a way to yank a guilty out of it. He was like fuckin’ Houdini. Guys, guys’re camping out on the courthouse lawn to get in line so’s Osgood got their cases. You’d run into some carnivore cop that never had a good word for anybody in his life, and he’d have the big shit-eating grin on his face, and you’d say to him: ‘Drew Osgood, huh?’ And he’d just nod and grin some more. Your boyfriend there was one the hottest prosecutors I have ever seen.