"I can't believe that my son would act in such a way except possibly-possibly--to defend himself, or to defend--me." There was silence in the courtroom. John Reddy Heart was sitting at the defense table with his head in his hands, the tips of his fingers against his shut eyes. You could see, Trish Elders said afterward, the tension in his back and neck. "Every one was staring at Mrs.. Heart and trying to figure out--what had she said? That John Reddy had not shot Melvin but if he had, it was for a good reason? Wow." Dill hadn't any choice but to continue his questioning, and to risk seeming rude, ungentlemanly. He said, dryly, "Mrs.. Heart, you claim not to have seen your son with a gun in his hand? At any time, before or Riggs's death? No? Nor did you exchange words with him before he ran out of the house with the gun?"
"I don't see how I could have, sir. If I was unconscious."
"If you were unconscious."
"I was. I'd been beaten. Punished. Oh God, it's all I deserve. Dahlia Heart began to sob. Dill said quickly, "Thank you, Mrs..
Heart, you may step down." Mrs.. Heart rose unsteadily, but immediately began to sink, to faint. Dill clumsily caught her and for a moment it as if the two--the beautiful blond woman in dazzling white linen, the middle-aged man in a dull gray suit--were embracing.
There was a shout. John Reddy had jumped up to rush to his mother, two uniformed guards immediately restrained him. He pushed and against them, they deftly wrestled his arms behind his back and him within seconds.
Some observers claimed that John Reddy had called, "Mother!"
claimed they'd heard him curse. "It was all over before we knew that anything had happened," Verrie said breathlessly. "Poor John Reddy! We had heart attacks, we'd thought he was going to be shot." Aaron Leander ETEART, whose age was given in the News as seventy-two and in the Courier-Express as seventy-six, was also called to testify as a hostile witness. Though Dill must have known from police reports that the old man would have nothing conclusive to offer. How Mr.. Heart had last March--it was shocking to see. He'd lost weight and his gaunt and creased, wattles of flesh hung from his neck. His hands shook as if with palsy. His eyes were shrewd as ever but sunken and lusterless.
When he took his seat, unsteadily, in the witness chair facing the courtroom, Trish whispered in Verrie's ear, "Is that him? Our Mr.. Heart?" We realized we hadn't seen him in months, prowling our village with his sack of bottles over his shoulder. He'd become a familiar sight and had not, we would sworn, changed in the slightest since arriving in Willowsville years ago, as the five-foot red plastic Santa Clauses that festooned our downtown the holiday season never changed from one year to the next. Some things are so familiar, so boring and comforting, you never need to look at them, exactly. You just need to know they're there.
But now, for sure, John Reddy's grandfather was old.
On the witness stand, Mr.. Heart spoke in a slow, quavering voice.
No sir, he told Dill, he hadn't seen John Reddy on that night, he hadn't any words with John Reddy and he wasn't sure he'd even heard the gunshots- "If I did I might've thought it was thunder, sir. It was a thundery time if I recall right. This is a stormy thundery region of the U. S. big lakes like we are. They say it's too much electricity generated. Mankind wasn't made to tolerate too much electricity in the air. It has to discharge, and many's the victim. If I'd heard it, and I ain't saying I did, only if, cause I wasn't anywhere near that part of the house, I wouldtve thought it was thunder, sir. Yessir, I would've said, It's thunder. And placed my money on that." Dill asked a few more questions but it was hopeless. Old Mr..
no more be herded along than a loose pack of cats. When Roland took over, he used the opportunity to read to the court a note Leander Heart's doctor--"'Mr.. Heart is suffering from a neurological impairment that affects both his memory and his thinking processes.
The impairment is exacerbated by stress and is probably related to advanced age but is not to be confused with Alzheimer's." So Aaron Leander Heart was excused from testifying, and helped down from the witness stand by rrn. lrlppe.
VVHATEVER had happened, or hadn't happened, on the night of March 18-19, that left Melvin Riggs permanently dead was revealed to be, so far as the Heart family was concerned, a blank.
The surprise testimony of the trial, and the trial's turning point, was that of Laetitia Riggs, Melvin Riggs's widow. A witness for the prosecution.
Laetitia Riggs took the stand with more apparent confidence than previous witnesses. She was a short, compact wman with solid and a small determined rosebud mouth. Her skin was high-colored as if with permanent embarrassment. She appeared breathless. Bibi her as looking "like a girl hockey player thirty years later." She wore black--a boxy woolen suit with wide shoulders, black patent leather shoes.
A vivid contrast to the
"White Dahlia." It was observed that, when Mrs..
Riggs testified, Mrs.. Heart sat very still, dark glasses hiding half her face and hands clasped piously in her lap. Every one in Willowsville knew that Laetitia and Melvin Riggs were one of those couples, and there were many such, who led very differentsseparate lives. Melvin Riggs the owner of the High Life, Melvin Riggsthe co-owner of the Buffalo Hawks, Melvin Riggs the politician--the aggressive glamour of Riggs's public personality had little to do with Laetitia, the daughter of an old moneyed Buffalo-area family. "Of course, that man married Laetitia for her money. What can she expect?" There was pity, but little sympathy. Melvin Riggs had two grown from an earlier marriage but he and Laetitia were, in Laetitia's forlorn word, "childless"--so she'd naively told her Women's League friends.
Mrs..
Leroux told the story of suggesting to Laetitia, delicately, that and Melvin might explore the possibility of adopting a child--'And, goodness!
stared at me and said, Are you serious? To take such a risk? Not knowing a child's ancestry? It would be like Melvin to take such a gamble, the man loves gambling, but, thank you, not me." It was believed in that since Riggs's murder, and the public scandal, Laetitia had a nervous breakdown and had gone into seclusion with relatives in another part of the state, but the woman who appeared in court that afternoon did not ravaged or sickly. "What we saw in Laetitia Riggs, though we were too young to identify it at the time," Trish Elders would marvel years later, "was the glisten of passion--pure womanly rage." Dill began his examination by making sympathe ic reference to Mrs..
Riggs's recent widowhood and apologizing for the necessity of "reawakening the pain of grief." Courteously, he asked Mrs.. Riggs to describe the court what she knew of her late husband's business transactions and "personal relationship" with Dahlia Heart in the months preceding the shooting.
Mrs..
Riggs, a handleerchief clenched in her fist, spoke carefully, a little sharply, as if reciting rehearsed words. From time to time she glanced toward the jurors as if gauging what effect her words had upon them. (They were imperturbable, unreadable. A jury resembling the jury of the trial--mostly middle-aged men and women, all Caucasian. No one looked obviously crazy. ) Vehemently Mrs.. Riggs denied all knowledge of her late husband's business transactions and "personal relationships." She denied that he'd asked for a divorce or even a separation. She insisted that, though they were not often seen together in public, because Melvin was so committed to his work, they'd had a "deep, spiritual marital bond" based on "twenty-six years of mutual trust and understanding." They had married in the Lutheran church and both had observed its beliefs.
She accepted that, as a man of the world, a highly competitive and politician, her late husband had accumulated some enemies, was only to be expected. "There was a saying of Melvin's--'I'm a businessman, I'm not running a charity." Mrs.. Riggs laughed sharply. She the handleerchief against her eyes, fumbled and dropped it, and stooped gallantly to retrieve it, her handbag slipped from her lap and fell, too, with a clatter, spilling some of its contents onto the courtroom floor.
This wakened spectators and those jurors who'd been on the verge of off. Mrs.. Riggs blushed. She seemed suddenly
about to cry. As the handbag for her, in a moment of confusion, Mrs.. Riggs spoke incoherently, on her feet as if to leave the witness stand, then she sat heavily back down as if she'd been pushed. She said loudly, "Oh why don't I truth! For once! My husband Melvin Riggs, Jr. , was a brute.
If ever a man deserved to die Melvin Riggs deserved to die." Dill, appalled, tried to cut Mrs..
Riggs off, but she continued in a high, aggrieved voice, the jurors, who stared at her in amazement. "Yes, my husband was a brute! It was my secret, and I'm sick of secrets! Having to pretend--it's exhausting, half the women of Willowsville are exhausted, we keep up the effort for years, for decades, then, one day, we stop. I want to tell the court that if that woman sitting over there--'Mrs.. Heart'--says that Melvin beat her, and her, it's probably true. I don't doubt he threatened that boy--that poor boy sitting there, John Reddy Heart--I've heard him threaten his own children, his grown children." Mrs.. Riggs was speaking rapidly, her face glistening with hot, angry tears. Her fists were clenched in her lap. "Melvin was my husband in name only. I endured the humiliation for pride's sake--like many another woman. If Mrs.. Heart believes he was her lover, she's a fool-he was not her lover, as he was not my husband, for the man was incapable of love. A woman is a cow. A woman is to be milked. For twenty-six years I pretended not to know. Melvin married me for my money--I wasn't a woman he'd have glanced twice at, otherwise--I knew, but I pretended not to know. A woman is a commodity or she's nothing. I suppose I loved him.
In the beginning. Already on our honeymoon--in Italy--which my family financed, of course--I pretended not to know--certain obvious facts.
Later, when I confronted him with one of his infidelities, he turned on and-he struck me. My private life has nothing to do with you.
he felt for me! And what contempt I deserved! Melvin could be a man--of course. Most men can. If they wish. If you're rich, or pretty. If there's a good reason for the charm. And Melvin could do things, things, with a certain flair--he knew how to get attention. You wanted to like him. The way people, weak people, want to like brutes and bullies, to have them on your side. Melvin claimed to love baseball--'The soul of America'--but everyone knows he treated his players, even his best players, like chattel'--that was his word for them. It's been noted that the Hawks rarely hired Negro players. And for a good reason--Melvin hated Negroes.
He hated Jews. He hated women. He was a selfish, ignorant, man. No one knew--I hid the shame well--that Melvin struck me sometimes. Not often in recent years because I'd learned. Only slaps, cuffs-'To keep you in line, Lae-titia. The way you'd cuff an old dog you wouldn't bite." Again, Dill tried to cut off his witness, but Mrs..
Riggs raised her voice louder. She said, sobbing, "Sometimes I wished he'd me, I couldn'tear the shame of divorce, and everyone feeling sorry for me. It was always my pride. I knew he was seeing a woman--the blackjack woman' people called her--but I didn't dare confront him. I was terrified of his temper. A few years ago he put his hands around my throat squeezed--his big, brute hands--and I almost fainted--and he laughed at me, and said, "Just kidding, Laetitia, just to show you what I can do'--he laughed in my face--'and I can finish it any time. And next day a relative called, an aunt, and I could hardly speak on the phone my throat was so hoarse, and she said, "Laetitia, is something wrong? You sound ill, and I said quickly, "Oh no, nothing's wrong, of course nothing's wrong, I'm fine. And that how it was, Mr.. Dill. All of my life as Mrs.. Melvin Riggs, Jr. All of my life. I've been fine."
"Mrs.. Riggs, please--you may step down."
"Oh yes may I? May I? May I, sir, may I step down? Yes?" Mrs.. Riggs began laughing shrilly. Her face shone as if every of it had been rouged. Dill reached out to assist her, she slapped at his arm, rose to step down from the witness stand and lost her footing, or became lightheaded, and began to fall, Dill and one of the bailiffs caught her, there was an outcry somewhere in the courtroom. (Bibi Arhardt and Sandi who'd crashed the trial reported afterward they believed it must've some scandalized relative of Laetitia Riggs's, some male, trying shut the old woman up. But things were so confused, it was doubtful even aware of anyone calling to her. ) Judge Schor, disgusted, tapped his gavel loudly, and ordered the court cleared and the session adjourned until the next morning. To Walter Thrun, Jenny's uncle, a fellow judge and an old buddy he saw frequently at the B. A. C. , Schor reportedly said a days later, "That asshole, Dill! Blindsided by two female witnesses in two days! I nearly
burst a gut laughing at the look on his face. Any attorney who doesn't know what the hell his witness is goingwto say before a jury deserves whatever verdict he gets." Jenny Thrun told us she was shocked, she hadn't known that judges spoke that way--"So crude! Like guys our age." Roger Zwaart, son lawyer, who, since Suzi Zeigler had begun dating Norm Zeiga had disturbingly crude himself, where once he'd been one of the nicer, courteous boys in our class, laughed at Jenny. "Hell, judges like anybody else, only nastier. A judge is a lawyer, right? ") Iohn Reddy tried to hang himself in his jail cell last night with a torn bedsheet. Two guards pulled him down, he was revived and beaten. Under clothes, where no one can see.
Sasha Calvo visited ohn Reddy in the detention home last night--they're engaged. The wedding is planned for New Year's Day.
Tomorrow, tohn Reddy will testify at his trial. He'll tell the true story of what happened on the night of Riggs's death!
The prosecution completed its case. Declaring that John Reddy was a murderer--"A vicious, precocious, anti-American subversive murderer. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have only to look the defend"St. to plumb his soul, he sits silent, contemptuous of our law, dvoid of remorse." The defense completed its case. Declaring that John Reddy Heart was no murderer but a confused youth of only sixteen caught up in a drama of his own making, and not of his comprehension--"John Reddy Heart himself a victim. A victim, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, of his own gallant impulse to protect his mother, and his instinctive impulse to himself." Those of us who attended the trial in the closing days compared with those who'd attended earlier. There was much confusion which Evangeline Fesnacht's voluminous notes could not clarify. It to us, that, another time, testifying now for the defense, Heart and her father Aaron Leander Heart were summoned to the witness stand, encouraged to amplify their previous statements. Where Dill had tried to curtail testimony, Trippe encouraged it. For now John Reddy was
"serious, good-hearted boy who never had a father"--"a respectful grandson, with a native intelligence"--"though book-learning' didn't come easy to him, he's always been smart." Still, Dahlia Heart and old Mr..
vague about what had actually happened on the fatal night. Neither to have seen. Or heurd. "It was as if," Evangeline Fesnacht said wonderingly, "a mist or something pervaded that part of the house. An amnesiac mist.
Things happened, but no one seems to have caused them to happen. It was noted that Roland Trippe didn't recall Farley Heart to testify, nor did John Reddy's younger brother return to court to observe the trial. There was a rumor, unsubstantiate&, zvhich came to us from Cynthia Swann, sophomore, whose father taught jhnior high social studies, that Farley had had a "nervous collapse"--which wouldn't have surprised us. (How were John Reddy and Farley? Most of us assumed they weren't close at all.
They neither looked nor acted like brothers. ) Nor did Farley's sister (whose name none of us could remember) appear in court, the child was said to be in a state of "nerves"--"traumatized"--by the violence in the Heart household, there was talk, we heard circuitously from Frannie Reid Schoppa, Mr.. Schoppa's wife, of her being placed in a foster home, or perhaps a Catholic convent school (? ), removed from Dahlia Heart's should Mrs.. Heart be ruled an "unfit mother." After the trial, it would become common knowledge that Farley and sister, whose name was Shirleen, were living with both their grandfather in a "quiet, residential apartment neighborhood" near Park during the trials. They'd been pulled abruptly out of their schools, of course, and both were provided tutors for the of the school year. Roland Trippe made these
arrangements. Three decades later, as Sister Mary Agatha of St.. Anne's Sisters of Charity, a Roman Catholic order, John Reddy's sister would be nationally acclaimed for her "revolutionary, inspired, empathe ic work" in unlocking certain of the secrets of autism in children and of the effect of childhood trauma upon the developing brain, yet never in any of the rare interviews this remarkable, reticent granted would she speak of her own life. As Barbara Walters said of her, on network TV, "You find yourself taking for granted that Sister Mary Agatha is a pure soul'--one in a million, or millions, among us with no private history, no personal baggage' at all! ") There came a succession of "character witnesses" to take the stand, urged by Trippe to speak in support of John Reddy Heart. It was amazing to see Coach McKeever as
"Woodson Earl McKeever, Jr. ," in a suit and tie, nervously speaking, at length, of John Reddy's "diligence and fair-mindedness" in sports. There was petite Miss Bird remarkably composed, flamey-redhaired and wearing spike-heeled shoes, speaking of John Heart's "essential shyness, sobriety." There came Mr.. Lepage in tweeds and bright-polished brown shoes. Also Mr.. Cuthbert, Mr.. Dunleddy, Mr..
with his twitchy smile and raspy smoker's voice. Even prissy Mr..
we'd believed had disapproved of John Reddy--"Basically a decent boy, despite the length of his hair and his biker' gear. I am certain." There was Miss Crosby our guidance counselor with her frowning potato-plain face dignified manner, speaking as if she were an aunt of John Reddy's--"I counseled John Reddy on certain private family matters, and urged him to concentrate on vocational arts' in our curriculum, and found him, on the whole, a mature and responsible individual for his age... thrust in midst of a volatile domestic situation." (With a meaningful, disapproving glance in the direction of Dahlia Heart whose face was partly obscured by dark glasses but who seemed to be staring, abashed, at her hands clasped in her lap. ) There came Mr.. Hornby who taught vocational arts--" The boy might be a little impatient now and then, but that's his age. It's my impression he tried to stay out of fights. He has a real gift with his hands." There came Alistair the school custodian to declare in his thick Scots accent--"John Reddy is a boy who cleans up after himself, you'd never find rancid food stinking up his locker, or filthy old sneakers, mildewed gym clothes. There sure ain't many boys like that these days." We were proud of the WHS staff for supporting John Reddy, we had think it impressed the jurors. (Who must've been wondering why Reddy, an accused murderer, refused to speak in his own defense, sat day after day at the defense table looking sullen, or sad, or pained, or pissed, or halfasleep in a trance like he couldn't be bothered to listen. ) We had to revise our opinions of certain characters like Dunleddy, Schoppa, Stamish--"Maybe they're not so bad after all." Blake Wells, editor of our Weekly Willowsvillian, would write in an editorial, in his eager, slightly pompous style, "A trial can bring out the worst in a community. But it can bring out the best, too. Sometimes. WHS can take pride in... " (This was both true and not so true. For though Roland Trippe had approached a number of John Reddy's classmates, including boys on the basketball and track teams, only Orrie Buhr and Clyde Meunzer agreed to act as character witnesses. The others, among Dwayne Hewson, Bo Bozer and Ken Fischer, were embarrassed to have decline--their fathers had forbidden them to get involved. There was the fear that these boys of good Willowsville families would be contaminated by the association with John Reddy Heart and his notorious mother, up blackballed by the most prestigious fraternities when they went to college, or lose out on job prospects after graduation. As Mr.. Hewson told us sagely, "It's a harsh world, kids. The only people who think it's live let live' are losers. ") John Reddy's friends Orrie--"Orson"--Buhr and Clyde Meunzer came through for him, though. It's doubtful that they made favorable on the jury, they were uncomfortable in cheap-looking suits and snap-on ties, "looking like off-the-rack at Sears," their duck's-ass hair slick with grease and their lips swollen and mumbly. Tough guys who'd sneered at us since seventh grade, pushing us around on playgrounds and intimidating us with their big-knuckled fists. Orrie's skin was clam-colored and sweaty, he'd grown a mustache on his upper llp that looked like he'd smeared it on with a charcoal stick. Clyde, whose braying-threatening call ("Gonna you up real good, fuckface") had terrified some of us since the boys' locker room in junior high, was revealed tq have a stammer. Seeing his friends the front of the courtroom, John Reddy was s, aid to have squirmed in his pressed the tips of his fingers against his eyelids. His own mouth worked, silently. Both Orrie and Clyde swore that in all the years they'd known John Reddy he had not mentioned, not once, the name
Joyce Carol Oates - Broke Heart Blues Page 22
