Mark the Sparrow

by Clark Howard

  “Would you mind telling me,” Klein said, “why you’re so interested in this Whitman matter?”

  “Not at all. I think Weldon Whitman is innocent. As a matter of fact, after talking with your Mrs. Calder this afternoon, I know he’s innocent.”

  “Cloud,” the lawyer said tolerantly, “let me assure you that Weldon Whitman is guilty. There is absolutely no question in my mind that he was properly convicted and that he deserves to go to the gas chamber.”

  “Mr. Klein, are you aware of what Doris Calder told me today?”

  “You mean the circumcision thing? Yes, I know about that. It might interest you to know that she has already repudiated that statement by admitting to me that she might have been, ah—well, remembering someone else’s, ah—anatomy.”

  Cloud got up and walked to the window. “Whether she’s repudiated it or not,” he told Klein, “it’s still going to be a part of my story.”

  “I wish you’d reconsider that, Cloud.” Klein turned in his chair and talked to the younger man’s back. “Let me tell you a little about Doris Calder. She’s basically an exceptionally good person, and by that I mean that she’s very kind, very considerate, very generous when it comes to helping people who need help. All this in spite of having had some very bad times, times that have left their mark on her and may often make her seem, well, less sensitive than she really is. She was married to an alcoholic, a man who used to beat her severely; she had a daughter who died in her preteens of leukemia; her son Billy has been a constant problem to her—incidentally, you may be interested in knowing that my office was proved right in not opposing probation for the young man: he has since enlisted in the Marine Corps and distinguished himself in combat in Vietnam. Doris Calder is not some cheap floozy undeserving of your consideration. She has her weak moments; this afternoon you succeeded in encouraging her to drink too much. But on the whole she is a good woman making a genuine effort to improve herself and her position in the community. I hope I can convince you not to do anything to cause her to regress.”

  Cloud turned and sat back on the windowsill. “I can appreciate your interest in Mrs. Calder,” he said quietly, “and I can understand your wanting to help her and protect her. But by the same token, you should appreciate my interest in Weldon Whitman.”

  “I would, if it were not so grossly misplaced.”

  “That’s a judgment you have no right to make. Klein, you’ve got to admit that some doubt has been cast on her identification of Weldon Whitman.”

  “There’s always some doubt in most criminal cases, Cloud. But by law there must be reasonable doubt.”

  “Don’t you think this qualifies?” Cloud challenged.

  “That isn’t for me to say. Only a judge or a duly impaneled jury can decide something like that.”

  “It may come to that,” Cloud warned. “If there’s any way to impeach Doris Calder’s testimony, Weldon Whitman will see that it gets done. And I’ll help him do it, all the way.”

  “If that’s where your conscience leads you, Cloud, by all means do so. But in the name of decency, man, do it in the courts, through the proper judicial processes, not in some sensationalistic magazine that will distort the thing all out of proportion and cause additional grief to a woman who’s already had far more than her share.”

  “As I said earlier, Mr. Klein, I appreciate your concern for Mrs. Calder. But you keep forgetting the other person who’s involved in this matter. Weldon Whitman is going through a lot of grief too. And his grief involves life and death.”

  “Whitman brought all of his grief on himself,” Klein said adamantly. “He went out looking for it with a gun in his hand. Look at his record, for god’s sake: he’s a burglar, an armed robber, a car thief—”

  “He admits to being all that,” Cloud said. “But the fact remains that he has not killed anyone and he does not deserve to go to the goddamned gas chamber.”

  “I will never agree with you on the latter point,” Klein said resolutely.

  “Then I’m afraid I’ll never be able to agree with you on anything,” Cloud told him.

  The two adversaries stared at each other. Each felt he had conceded to the very limits of compromise. But both realized they were at a standoff.

  “It doesn’t appear that we’re getting anywhere.” Klein stood up and straightened his coat. “I’ll wait until your story is published; then I’ll file a civil action against the magazine and you. In the meantime,” he said, removing a folded document from his inside pocket and laying it on the desk, “this is a restraining order prohibiting you from contacting Doris Calder again for any purpose. The order was requested by Mrs. Calder and has been signed by a judge. If you violate it, you’ll be subject to arrest.”

  “There’s no reason for me to violate it,” Cloud said. “I got everything I wanted from Doris Calder this afternoon.”

  G. Foster Klein sighed a weary sigh and shook his head. “Goodnight, Mr. Cloud.”

  At ten-thirty the next morning, Cloud was in the West Coast editorial offices of Argus magazine. The West Coast editor, a tall, hawkfaced man named Ben Droller, had just read Cloud’s article for the second time.

  “I like it,” he said without preliminary. “I’ll buy it. Give you five hundred for it.”

  “I think I should warn you,” Cloud said, “that Klein has threatened to sue me and whoever publishes the story.”

  “Big deal,” Droller said. “We’ve been sued before, will be again. Got two lawsuits pending against us right now. But we didn’t name our magazine Argus for nothing. Argus was the Greek god with a hundred eyes, who could see in all directions at once. They called him the watchful guardian. That’s how we like to think of ourselves: a watchful guardian. If there’s even a chance that Whitman is innocent, we’ll go with him all the way. How about it? Five hundred dollars.”

  “There is a condition I have to ask for,” Cloud said. “Because of the nearness of Whitman’s execution date, it’s vital that we get this story before the public as soon as possible. We’d like a guarantee that it’ll be used in the next issue.”

  “Can’t be done,” said Doller. “The next issue is already printed and waiting for distribution next Tuesday. But I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll make it the lead story in the next issue, which comes out in four weeks. Not only that, but I’ll use a picture of your condemned man on the cover, and banner the story title right across the front. How’s that?”

  Cloud smiled. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Droller.”

  “Now I have a condition. I want an option on any follow-up stories you do on Whitman—first look and a chance to outbid any other offers.”

  “Agreed,” Cloud said.

  Droller took the manuscript and left the office for a minute. While he was gone, Cloud allowed himself a moment of exhilaration. Wait until Whit and Genevieve hear about this!

  Then his smiled faded, and a serious, determined expression replaced it. This is the beginning, he thought. This is where it all starts. And it won’t stop until Weldon Whitman is free.

  Chapter Ten

  Robert Cloud settled permanently in Sacramento. He rented a small apartment near the state law library so that he could meet with Genevieve as conveniently as possible. It turned out to be a good move, because as they became more and more involved in the Whitman case, they needed to see each other for advice, moral support, and a wealth of other reasons. Before long they were meeting daily.

  “Here’s a copy of Weldon’s appeal on the erroneous transcript issue,” Genevieve said one day shortly after Cloud’s return from Los Angeles. “I made an extra copy in case you needed it for reference.”

  “Thanks, I’m glad you did,” he said. He thumbed through the lengthy document. “You type it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice job.” They were in the law library’s employee lounge having coffee and rolls on Genevieve’s morning break.

  “I need this doughnut like Mt. Everest needs more snow,” she said, eating a
way. “Listen, I wanted to tell you that the ladies’ auxiliary of the Businessmen’s Club has asked me to speak at their Thursday-afternoon meeting.”

  “That’s great! That’ll get us some good word-of-mouth publicity.”

  Genevieve, pleased with herself, flashed her splendid smile. “I expect we’ll make a little money out of it too. Normally after I speak, the president indicates that the chair will entertain a motion that a collection be taken for the Save Whitman cause. Then the president starts the ball rolling by contributing five dollars. After that, everybody contributes five dollars. Do you know that I’ve got nearly a thousand dollars in the Save Whitman account already?”

  Once a week Genevieve came to his apartment for lunch. They usually ate cheese sandwiches, which both were crazy about, and drank Cokes. While they ate, they talked about Room 22, Hotel Death; Genevieve was now proofreading the pages for Cloud.

  “What did you think of that part where Whit describes the working over the police gave him after his capture?” Cloud asked. “Does it seem a little strong to you?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by strong,” she said. “I think it’s well described, particularly the way he tells about the pain he felt. Weldon certainly has a way with words.”

  Cloud did not bother to tell her that it was he, not Whitman, who had the way with words. He was continuing to work enthusiastically on the book, editing, rewriting, editing again, as fast as the handwritten pages arrived from Whitman. And he started a second article for Argus. He wanted badly to do a piece on Whitman’s unnamed partner; but Whitman still refused to bring him into the case—and Cloud, even if he wanted to, had no way of finding the man without Whitman’s help. All Cloud knew about him was that he had done time with Whitman in Folsom—which, without any additional facts, was an impossible lead for him, alone, to follow. Reluctantly, Cloud went on to another subject: the condemned man researching and preparing his own appeal without professional legal advice. Cloud titled the story “The Lawyer of Death Row.”

  The first Argus story caused a sensation when it came out—particularly the part about the obvious difference in penises. Argus sold out the issue in five days. People began to discuss Weldon Whitman. A few columnists did pieces on him. Some editorials were written. A lawsuit was filed—by G. Foster Klein, alleging libel. Ben Droller immediately contacted Cloud for a follow-up article, and Cloud sent him “The Lawyer of Death Row.” Through all of this, one thing remained unchanged: Weldon Whitman still had a date with the executioner, and that date was only forty-one days away.

  “Shouldn’t he have heard on the transcript appeal by now?” Cloud asked Genevieve on one of their rare nights out, when they were walking home from a movie.

  “Not necessarily,” Genevieve explained. “It’s getting close, but there’s still plenty of time for a stay of execution. You see, besides filing the appeal with the Supreme Court, we’ve also filed a motion with the district court for a stay of execution. They usually wait a month or so to see if the high court will review the appeal right away; but if it looks like the high court is going to take awhile—as it does in this instance—then the district court will stay the execution until after a ruling on the appeal has been made.”

  “When do you think he’ll hear?” Cloud asked.

  “Another week, ten days maybe. I don’t think the district court will let it get to within a month of the execution date.”

  When Cloud saw Genevieve for lunch the following day, he had some news. “I got a call this morning from the editor of the Sacramento Independent News. They want an article on you and your Save Whitman efforts for next week’s Sunday supplement, and they want me to write it. What do you think?”

  Genevieve was unimpressed. “I’d much rather see something on Weldon. He’s the one who needs the publicity.”

  “We can work in quite a bit about Weldon; don’t worry about that,” he assured her. “What I want you to decide is whether you want to connect yourself that openly with the Whitman cause. Up until now, you’ve had exposure only to select groups in certain social and educational circles. With an article like this, you’ll be opening up to the public at large.”

  “I don’t care about that,” Genevieve said. “I am totally committed to his cause. All I want to know is whether it will be good for Weldon.”

  “Every time we get his name in print our way, it’s good for him,” Cloud told her.

  “Then do the article,” she said.

  He did, calling it “The Condemned Man and the Librarian.” It was the cover story and lead piece in the following week’s Sunday supplement. By noon on the day the paper came out, half of Sacramento was talking about the unmarried head librarian at the state law library who was working against the state trying to save a convicted sex-crimes kidnapper from the gas chamber. The newspaper story, like the article in Argus, caused a minor sensation.

  The next day, Monday, was quiet. But on Tuesday Genevieve Neller received an unexpected visit from the assistant state director of public education.

  “That article in Sunday’s paper caused quite a stir over at the State House,” he said. His name was Lenz and Genevieve had always considered him a decent sort. Pleasant, always helpful with budgets and other matters, he was a career civil servant who always seemed to try to do the right thing. At the moment, however, he appeared distinctly uncomfortable.

  “What kind of stir?” Genevieve asked.

  “Apparently there have been a number of complaints about your—ah—activities with this Whitman fellow—”

  “Complaints from whom?” Genevieve asked, bristling slightly.

  “People,” Lenz shrugged. “Taxpayers.”

  “What I do on my own time is not the taxpayers’ business unless I break a law of some kind, or violate the moral standards established for state employees. I don’t believe I’ve done either, Mr. Lenz.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t,” Lenz said at once. “But Mr. Hardy, in his position as state director of public education, feels that it may look as if you had. I wonder if I might ask—strictly for Mr. Hardy’s information, of course—how you became involved with this Whitman?”

  “I was asked by Mr. Whitman to send him some law books. He explained that he was a condemned man, without funds, attempting to prepare his own legal appeals. Knowing how difficult it was going to be for him, I decided to help by doing some of his legal research here at the library.”

  “You volunteered then?”

  “I suppose so, yes,” Genevieve said.

  “I don’t suppose you’re related to Whitman in any way? Eighth cousins or something?”

  She shook her head. “As the article pointed out, Mr. Lenz, we’ve never met. When Mr. Whitman first wrote me, he didn’t even know my name; he simply directed his letter to the head librarian. Besides, what difference would it make if we were related?”

  Lenz cleared his throat and tried not to look embarrassed. “I think that Mr. Hardy is looking for a way to—ah—somehow justify to the public your activities—”

  “Justify!” The word coursed through Genevieve Neller’s mind like a charge of electricity. “Mr. Lenz,” she said icily, “please tell Mr. Hardy that what I am doing needs no justification. I am not involved in a Communist plot, or advocating pornography and heroin for teenagers, or even criticizing the operation of state government. All I’m doing is trying to help a fellow human being who has been forsaken by everyone else on the face of the earth except one other person and myself.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Hardy realizes that,” Lenz said quickly. “As I said before, what he is mainly concerned with is appearances.”

  “Well, I’m very sorry,” Genevieve said with pronounced impatience, “but I have no time for appearances. I have time only for realities.”

  “Of course. I understand.” Lenz stood up. “I—ah—don’t suppose you have any immediate plans for terminating your activities with regard to this Save Whitman movement.”

  “No, Mr. Lenz,” Genevieve said f
irmly, “I do not.”

  Lenz nodded as if he had expected that answer, and left.

  Genevieve told Cloud about it that night. She was incensed that after eleven years of faithful service to the state, the director of public education would attempt to pressure her into abandoning a cause she believed in so wholeheartedly.

  “You may have misunderstood this fellow Lenz,” Cloud said. “He might not have been suggesting that at all.”

  “Oh yes he was,” she said angrily. “That’s exactly what he was hinting at. Can you imagine!” She paced across Cloud’s living room several times, until he finally took her arm and made her sit down on the couch.

  “Even if that was his motive, you shouldn’t let yourself get upset like this. Try to calm down.”

  “I can’t calm down!” she stormed. “The nerve of them to even try it!”

  Cloud warmed some coffee and brought two cups over to the couch. “Here, drink this and try to relax. Everything will look a lot better tomorrow. A week from now, you won’t believe that you got this mad over it.”

  Cloud was right about the next day: Genevieve was almost as mad—but not quite. Thursday was even better, and by Friday she had calmed back down to normal again.

  Cloud was at his typewriter at ten on Monday morning when the telephone rang. It was the city editor of the Independent News.

  “Just got a call from our man at the district court,” the city editor said. “Thought you’d like to know. They’ve granted Whitman’s stay to allow the Supreme Court time to review the transcript appeal.”

  Cloud threw on a jacket and ran the two blocks to the library to tell Genevieve. He found her at her desk, staring vacantly at a single typed sheet of paper on her desk.

  “Hey!” Cloud said exuberantly. “Good news! The district court granted the stay—” He stopped and looked closely at her. There was no color in her normally rosy cheeks, and her lips were parted slightly in an expression of incredulity. “Gen, what’s the matter?” Cloud asked. Genevieve picked up the sheet of paper.