Sledgehammer

by Walter Wager

  He glanced out of the booth at the yellow Mustang that was baking in the morning sun.

  “Bud, those people I wrote about are getting very energetic and creative—with tommy guns,” he continued. “And fire bombs. No, I’m not pulling your leg. I’m not jesting or being prankish either, you imbecile…Bud, this is getting much too rough for such cutesy language. This is developing into a Chicago-style war, and if you’re too young to remember that try on the Gallo-Profaci vendetta a few years back…Yeah, Brooklyn. Listen, last night these cowboys hit the Fun Parlor with submachine guns and a lot of fancy hardware. Gas bombs—all sorts of fancy crap. I heard one story that they had silenced tommy guns, and even we don’t have silenced tommy guns.”

  It was only 9:50 A.M., but it was already burning hot and he mopped his brow in the steamy atmosphere of the telephone booth.

  “This is a big-league group, Bud,” he continued, “and Pikelis has a large rough organization too and I don’t like the possibility of being caught in the middle—alone…Of course I’m scared. I’m not Lee Marvin or Richard Burton or Jean-Paul Belmondo, and nobody’s showed me the final script yet. For all I know, maybe I’m supposed to be ‘hit’ in the last reel and I’m too young to die…Cool? It’s easy for you to tell me to stay cool; you’re a couple of hundred miles out of range. Maybe not. Maybe these new boys have guided missiles too. Nothing about this outfit would surprise me…No, that’s a lie. Everything they do surprises me—and that scares me too. I hate surprises…No, I don’t know how many of them there are, but I’m only one and the odds are lousy. I’d feel better if I had nine members of our family around—with mortars and cannon. Fourteen would be even cozier—with air support…yeah, tell that to the boss. You tell him that I need help…Bud, that’s not my problem. Getting laid is no problem in this town. I’m a very popular and charming guy, and besides I know of at least seven cat houses in town.”

  He paused, looked at the parked Mustang again. The heat would be scorching, absolutely sizzling.

  “No, no corpses yet but it’s only a matter of time,” he warned. “Bud, these boys are out to demolish John’s entire organization and he isn’t about to let them…You better believe it. Listen, get me some muscle down here or I may get very weepy. I’ll spell it out for you. H-E-L-P—that’s all in capital letters, with an exclamation point at the end…Very funny; you’re breaking me up…Listen, Groucho, you wouldn’t be so goddam comic if you were down here alone.”

  It was at that moment that the conversation was interrupted.

  “Seventy-five cents more, please,” drawled the operator.

  “I’ll check in again on Sunday, if I’m still alive,” the man in the phone booth promised as he ended the call.

  He stepped out, heard the church bells chime ten.

  “Hear ye, hear ye, the Superior Court of Jefferson County is now in session,” Clerk Arnold Tibbett singsonged eight miles away in downtown Paradise City. “The Honorable Ralph M. Gillis presiding, pleaserise.”

  “Here come de judge,” predicted Kelleher.

  The high-ceilinged courtroom was crowded with officials, police, reporters and spectators who’d come to enjoy the sensational trial. It was going to be dirtier than a Swedish movie, if the rumors were correct. In this throng of more than 160 people nobody paid any particular attention to the three white men who sat beside Reverend Ezra Snell in the eighth row. Judge Gillis, triple-chinned and solemn behind his gold-rimmed bifocals, entered in his flowing gown and marched to his high-backed chair as everyone stood up respectfully.

  There was a low buzz of anticipation—for about five seconds.

  Judge Gillis gestured, and the clerk responded automatically with a loud request for “Silence in the court!”

  Gillis nodded, looked over to the prosecutor’s table where Jefferson County District Attorney Reece Everett sat—quite splendid in his new gray silk suit—waiting with two crew-cut young assistants. The judge could see that “old Reece” was just rarin’ to go, full of the wonderful energy and rhetoric that the prospect of publicity always seemed to bring out in him. Gillis could hardly blame him, having been the DA himself before being elevated to the bench eight and a half years earlier. The judge leaned back, let his eyes wander over the room and blinked when he saw the man beside Snell.

  Oh my.

  Oh my, oh my, oh my.

  Yes, it was him all right. Judge Gillis recognized the long gray hair, the big famous head that he’d seen on the TV news so many times.

  It was him, and he sure wasn’t here sightseeing. Not him. He was a tiger, tough and cunning and plump on the flesh of the dozens of eager prosecutors whom he’d consumed. He was a man eater, that one. It was going to be one helluva trial, and for a moment the judge considered calling “old Reece” to the bench to warn him. No, “old Reece” was getting mighty big for his britches and Gillis decided to let him find out for himself. It would be a painful education, Gillis thought, but it was time for “old Reece” to face some realities after years of soft living in the artificial protected atmosphere of Pikelis’ well-managed empire. Let “old Reece” take his legal lumps and grow up, the judge thought maliciously.

  Everett, the mayor, Marton and John Pikelis himself were all in for quite a surprise. Judge Gillis would do his best to move things along, as they expected him to, but the realistic man on the bench knew that with him in the case the trial might take many weeks and if—no, when—the Nigra was convicted he’d fight the appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. It was a rather exciting prospect; none of Ralph Gillis’ cases had ever gone up to the U.S. Supreme Court. The U.S. Supreme Court—that was something. They said that he’d never lost a murder case appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court—a remarkable record.

  Oh my, oh my, oh my.

  Judge Gillis almost purred, fought down the accompanying smile.

  He nodded to the clerk.

  “People versus Clayton,” chanted the civil servant.

  “Please bring in the defendant,” ordered the judge sharply. “Can’t start the trial without the defendant.”

  The clerk signaled to the uniformed man in the side doorway, and ten seconds later four policemen escorted Sam Clayton into the room. Another buzz from the spectators, another judicial gesture and another command for silence.

  “Mr. Clayton,” began the judge. A number of those in the room were somewhat surprised by this as black people were generally addressed by their first names in Jefferson County, and they didn’t guess that Gillis was being meticulously courteous and correct because the judge wanted the trial transcript to look good when it reached the U.S. Supreme Court. “Mr. Clayton, are you represented by counsel?” Gillis asked piously. “I don’t see anyone at your counsel table, and if you don’t have an attorney under state and Federal law, I’m obliged to name one for you.”

  The district attorney listened contentedly. It was all arranged. The judge would appoint Norton Woodhouse and Woodhouse knew what was expected.

  “If it please the court,” somebody said from the spectator benches.

  “Here we go,” Gillis thought. “Yes?” he asked aloud.

  A number of people—including the defendant—turned to look at the stranger. He was a well-dressed graying man with a dramatic air, big-headed and clear-voiced.

  “May I approach the bench, your honor?” he asked.

  “Does this relate to the question of the defendant’s attorney? If it does, you may,” the judge announced curtly. “If not sit down. I’ll have no interruptions or nonsense in my court.”

  Everett beamed. You could count on good old Ralph Gillis to run a no-nonsense trial. The district attorney didn’t notice Clayton staring at the black minister beside the stranger, didn’t see Reverend Snell’s meaningful nod. The Northerner—his speech identified him—strode down the aisle, stopped ten feet in front of the elevated podium.

  “What is it?” demanded Gillis.

  “It will not be necessary for the court to appoint counsel, Your Honor,” the man said.
“I am Mr. Clayton’s attorney.”

  Reece Everett frowned at this unexpected development, and Shelby Salmon—the correspondent covering the case for WPAR-TV—swallowed twice as he recognized the stranger.

  “Are you a licensed attorney admitted to practice in this state?” the judge asked with poker-faced innocence.

  “I am, Your Honor. I’m a member of the bar in New York and several other states, and—by reciprocity and subsequent application to the Supreme Court of this state—am entitled to practice here.”

  “May I have your name, please, Counselor?”

  My, my, “old Reece” was going to have a fit now.

  “My name is Joshua David Davidson,” he replied in a voice that sounded like a trumpet call to arms.

  And that tore it.

  A muffled hysteria—hushed but palpable—swept the courtroom. The reporters whispered, the spectators stood up to see the famous criminal lawyer and the district attorney of Jefferson County blossomed in a look that indicated that he didn’t know whether to cry or wet his pants. Joshua David Davidson—what the hell was he doing here?

  “I’ll have quiet—or I’ll clear the court,” threatened the judge as he furtively relished the anguished shock “old Reece” was showing.

  “Your Honor, Mr. Davidson is a very well-publicized and clever and expensive lawyer. I’d like to know what he’s doing mixing into this case. I’d like to know who he really represents—some agitator group?”

  “I represent Samuel Roosevelt Clayton, sir.”

  The judge turned to the defendant.

  “Is this man your lawyer?” Gillis asked.

  “Yes, he is, Judge.”

  Everett blanched again.

  “With the fancy fees that this prominent New York attorney charges,” he sneered, “I can’t believe that the defendant could possibly afford him. Why, this boy—”

  “If it please the court, I’d like to request that the bench instruct the district attorney not to refer to my client in such a derogatory, contemptuous and improper manner,” Davidson whiplashed back swiftly. “Mr. Clayton is twenty-eight years old and served honorably for three years in the United States Army. He is not a boy. He is an adult, with all the rights and dignity and respect that our laws—state and Federal—provide for adults.”

  Gillis nodded thoughtfully. Davidson was going to devastate “old Reece” before this battle ended. There wouldn’t be enough left of Everett to make one good barbecue sandwich.

  “Will the court so instruct the prosecutor?” Davidson pressed coolly.

  “Your client will get all his legal rights. Mr. Everett,” Gillis announced, “please consider yourself so instructed.”

  “There’s another point that I think I must raise at this time—before we begin the long and arduous process of selecting a jury, Your Honor,” the celebrated criminal lawyer continued. “I’d be very grateful if you’d instruct the district attorney not to make any further remarks about the fact that I’m not a local resident or that my fees are substantial. It seems to me that either might be considered prejudicial by the appellate court later.”

  Davidson was laying it right on the line.

  He was going to fight every point, every word, every technicality and he meant to go all the way. He wasn’t going to give “old Reece” anything—except ulcers, sweats and insomnia.

  “Mr. Davidson, would you please come a bit closer?” the judge asked.

  “Of course, Your Honor.”

  “I have duly noted—as I assume you meant me to—your comment on ‘the long and arduous process of selecting a jury,’” Gillis said dryly. Davidson smiled. “And your reference to the ‘appellate court later’ did not pass unnoticed either. I’d been informed by our distinguished prosecuting attorney that this would be a short and simple case, that the defendant had confessed and that the trial would not last more than a few days. I’m planning on going off on vacation in about a week. I’d welcome your frankness on this prospect.”

  “I see no reason why Your Honor shouldn’t take his vacation,” Davidson answered with elaborate deference. “After all, this trial won’t be over in a week but it won’t have started either. I’m about to make a request for a month’s adjournment to give me adequate time to prepare the defense.”

  “And if I don’t grant it?”

  “Your Honor, I’m certain that as wise and experienced a member of the bench as you must certainly appreciate what the appellate court would say if a newly retained defense counsel were rushed to trial in a case involving a possible death penalty. They’d reverse on that alone.”

  It was true and Gillis knew it, and Davidson knew that Gillis knew it.

  “I’d bet that you’ve got a few more motions,” speculated the judge.

  Davidson grinned.

  “I’m glad to see that my estimate of Your Honor’s wisdom was so sound. Yes, I’ve got quite a few motions—the complete kit. I’ll start with Miranda when the trial begins, but that’s just for openers.”

  The man in the black robe nodded.

  “You’re a poker player, Mr. Davidson?”

  “Yes, I enjoy the combat of adversary proceedings, Your Honor.”

  The judge could see that Everett was getting edgy about the private conversation, gestured to Davidson to step back.

  “In accord with defense counsel’s suggestion,” Gillis announced, “I’m advising the district attorney that it would probably be wiser to omit any personal references to Mr. Davidson’s home, origins or economic status. If we concentrate on trying Sam Clayton instead of Joshua Davidson, we should move this trial much more quickly—and properly.”

  The prosecutor shrugged in acceptance.

  “Now can we start the selection of the jury?” he asked impatiently.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Davidson?”

  “No, Your Honor. I’ve just been retained in this very important and complex case which involves a possible death penalty, and I’m certainly entitled to adequate time to prepare.”

  “And what would the distinguished defense counsel consider adequate time?” challenged Everett.

  Davidson stroked his chin, as if considering.

  “I know that I could justifiably and properly ask for two months,” he began.

  “Two months?”

  Oh my, “old Reece” was getting shrill and angry already.

  “Two months—that’s ridiculous,” the prosecutor blustered.

  “But I won’t ask for two months, Your Honor,” Davidson continued blandly. “I think that one month will be adequate, and I hereby move for a month.”

  “May I approach the bench, Your Honor?” Everett demanded.

  “Of course.”

  The prosecutor walked forward.

  “Ralph,” he appealed in low, grim tones, “we’ve got to do something about this before it gets out of control.”

  It was already out of control, and if “old Reece” weren’t so stupid he would have realized it.

  “Ralph, this was supposed to be a fast simple trial. That’s what we were told. You know they’re going to be sore as hell if it doesn’t go that way, and somebody’s going to pay for it.”

  It would be Everett, not me, thought the judge. Gillis had less than two more years before his term ran out and he retired.

  “Any suggestions, Reece? I’d like to do what I can. You know I won’t stand for any nonsense in my court, and I’d sure welcome any suggestions on how to get this moving—any legally sound suggestions that won’t stir up problems if this fellow appeals as he says he will.”

  “Don’t give him a month, Ralph. Please don’t give him a month.”

  He was such a fool. Gillis had told Ashley and Pikelis that Everett was a fool, but they hadn’t paid any attention and they’d made him district attorney because he photographed well and took orders even better. Now Davidson would show them—and the world—exactly how big a mistake that had been. Wherever Joshua David Davidson tried a case, wire-service reporters and network TV new
s crews and correspondents of Life and The New York Times appeared within twenty-four hours. Let Ashley and Pikelis try to control them.

  “Mr. Davidson,” summoned the judge as he gestured to the defense lawyer to come forward again, “I propose to give you three weeks—and then, if you need a few more days, I’ll consider such a motion. It’ll bring us into the worst heat of late August in any case.”

  “I don’t mind, Your Honor,” the New Yorker answered. “As former President Truman once said, if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. I’ve tried cases in all parts of the country at all times of the year. Well, this will actually be my first case in August since most courts usually close up for August—but heat doesn’t bother me a bit, in court or out.”

  He was going to get his month if he wanted it, but saying “three weeks” should keep Everett happy. Happy? No, but less hysterical.

  “Three weeks then,” the judge declared. “Any other motions?”

  “I’d like to request permission for an immediate medical examination of the defendant to determine whether he was beaten or otherwise coerced into signing this so-called confession. Under the Supreme Court decision in—”

  Gillis gestured.

  “You don’t have to cite it by name and number,” he interrupted curtly. “You’ve got a right to it. Whenever you want any doctor you choose.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. My medical experts will be at the jail in one hour. They’ll be Dr. Halsey Travis of the Tulane Medical School and Dr. Avery Brigham of Emory Medical School.”

  Smart. He was smart all right. Tulane was in New Orleans and Emory in Atlanta. Instead of using Harvard or Columbia types, he was going with well-known and respected Southern medical experts. It was a pleasure to watch this Davidson work; he didn’t miss a trick.

  “Mr. Everett will arrange for them to examine the defendant,” Gillis assented.

  Mr. Everett looked as if he wanted to arrange for something very different—such as the instant deportation if not demise of Joshua David Davidson.