“Yes, that is why I recognized that it was my duty to tell the police what I had seen.”
“I take it that by then you would have heard all about the body and how it was clothed. And you would have heard all about Private Williams.”
“I’m not sure now of everything I heard.”
“Did you hear descriptions of Private Williams?”
“I don’t recall.”
“If you did, you might later have projected those characteristics back onto the man whom you saw at the corner.”
“I have described the man as I saw him,” Clemens said, for the first time with a trace of annoyance.
“Was there anything about the appearance of Sarah Coile that night as you described her to the police that you could not have heard from common gossip?” Dorkin asked.
Clemens coloured faintly.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I described what I saw.”
“You haven’t said anything about the possible age of the man whom you saw. Did you form any impression about that?”
“I don’t know. As I said, I never really got a look at his face.”
“So he might, for all you know, be a man in his forties or fifties?”
“Except for the uniform.”
“Except,” Dorkin said, “that you thought he was in uniform. I must say that I’m very uneasy about that. What was it made you think it was a uniform? What sort of jacket was he wearing? One like the one Private Williams has on now?”
“No. Like the kind you see on the street. One that fastens at the waist.”
“But could that not simply have been an ordinary waist-length jacket such as anyone might wear?”
“Well, I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“Are you sure that after learning that Private Williams had been arrested, you did not fill in in your own mind what you felt you ought to have seen—but which, in fact, you did not really see at all?”
“My impression was that it was a uniform.”
“But you might have been mistaken?”
“I suppose.”
“To come back to the question of the age of the man. Apart from the question of the uniform, you saw nothing that would be inconsistent with its being a much older man than Private Williams?”
“No, I suppose he might have been older.”
“Older and not in uniform. In fact, quite possibly not a soldier at all.”
Clemens lifted his shoulders slightly in a gesture of impatience and looked down at his hands.
“I should make it clear to the jury,” Dorkin said, “that I am not suggesting that Reverend Clemens has engaged in any deliberate untruth. But I think that the members of the jury should ask them-selves whether he has imagined that he saw a good deal more than he possibly could have seen in the brief time he had while turning the corner onto Broad Street. One final question. In your testimony, Reverend Clemens, you estimated that you could have gone past the intersection as early as ten to eleven.”
“I think it would have been closer to eleven.”
“Nevertheless you did accept that estimate on the part of the prosecutor. You didn’t happen to check a clock at the Salchers’ house as you left?”
“They do have a clock, but it doesn’t keep time.”
If he recognized the question for the trap it was, he gave no sign of it.
“I see. So you are only guessing at the time you left their house and went past the intersection a few minutes later. It is very easy to misjudge time, as everyone knows, and is it not possible that you could have gone past the intersection where you saw the couple as early as twenty to eleven—by which time, even in terms of the evidence given so far, Private Williams and Sarah Coile could not possibly have arrived there yet? Could that not be so?”
“I don’t think it was that early. I think it was closer to eleven o’clock.”
“But you are only guessing.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Thank you,” Dorkin said. “I have no further questions.”
As Dorkin was going back to his place, Whidden rose.
“A supplementary question,” he said. “I take it, Reverend Clemens, that in spite of what has just been said, you still have no doubt that the girl you saw was Sarah Coile and that the man was at least not inconsistent in appearance with Private Williams?”
“Yes,” Clemens said. “That is what I was trying to make clear.”
“And you have no doubt that you went past the intersection at around eleven o’clock.”
“I’m sure it was about that time.”
“So am I,” Whidden said, then turned to the jury, leaning for-ward, his hands clasped behind him beneath his gown.
“I should make clear, however,” he went on, “that I am not for a moment disputing the possibility so ingeniously raised by my learned colleague, that within half an hour of leaving the dance hall Sarah Coile got rid of Private Williams (who then disappeared into thin air for nearly an hour) and found herself in the company of a different man altogether who just happened to be of exactly the same build as Private Williams and to be dressed in something that at least looked like an army uniform. We are certainly not disputing that such wild improbabilities as these do from time to time occur in the course of a century.”
It took a second or two for it to sink in, then the smiles spread through the jury, and there was a scattering of laughter among the public.
Clemens was the last witness of the morning. Dorkin collected his papers and with Smith ploughing a path for him made his way through the crowd.
The afternoon session began with Vinny Page. Like Clemens, she had also been repackaged for the trial. At the preliminary hearing, she had come across as a vivacious flirt. Now, the sexy little flick of the ass that she had shown when she had walked to her place on the stand two months before had been suppressed, and she was costumed in a discreet two-piece suit and a modest little hat. The note struck was that of a demure maiden who might have dropped in on her way to church.
Whidden, as elaborately gallant as a stage-colonel out of a Hollywood movie about the Old South, treated her as someone who even after three months was still in deep mourning for the loss of her childhood friend. Gently, he guided her through the events of the fatal night. Once again, she described her arrival with Sarah and Brick at the dance, discussed Sarah’s drinking habits, which had become even more moderate since the preliminary hearing, went through the events at the dance leading up to the departure of Sarah and Williams at intermission. Once again, she testified that Sarah had not known Williams well.
“Would you say,” Whidden asked, “that while she might agree to go outside with Private Williams for a breath of air, she would not likely consent to anything more than that and might even resist if Private Williams were to make advances?”
“Yes,” Vinny said.
“You said that Private Williams had danced with Miss Coile once or twice. Do you think he may have conceived an attraction for her?”
“Yes, I think that he might have. He seemed very keen to dance with her that night.”
“Tell me. What did girls like you and Miss Coile think of Private Williams?”
“We thought he was very shy. And sort of funny. Sort of strange.”
“Someone who was probably not very attractive to girls?”
“Yes.”
“Someone who might easily misunderstand and think a girl was more inclined to be friendly with him than she really was?”
“Yes.”
“And who might be inclined to be angry—perhaps even violent—when he discovered his mistake?”
“Yes.”
Enough was enough. Dorkin rose.
“I must object to this. The prosecution is putting words into the mouth of the witness and leading her into areas of speculation about which she can have no possible knowledge.”
“Objection sustained,” Dunsdale said. “Mr. Whidden, you must stick to the facts.”
Whidden shot a look at the jury, s
lyly and endearingly suggesting a mischievous boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Dorkin saw two of the jurors smile.
“Tell me, Miss Page,” Whidden said. “Was Private Williams someone whom you would have been uneasy to be alone with?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Would you say that you would be wary about being alone with Private Williams?”
“Yes.”
“You might even be afraid of him?”
“Yes.
“Miss Page,” Dorkin said, when Whidden had resumed his seat, “you testified at the preliminary hearing that Sarah Coile never told you that she was going to have a child. Am I correct?”
“Yes,” she said, hesitantly.
She had obviously been thoroughly coached but not evidently for this line of questioning.
“I understand that you were her closest friend,” Dorkin said. “Do you have any idea why she did not confide in you about this?”
“No, I don’t.”
“And you have no idea who the father of her child might have been?”
“No.”
“You know of no one whom she was going steady with?”
“No.”
“It seems very strange to me,” Dorkin said, “that she should not have said anything to you about being in trouble. Do you imagine that this was perhaps because the father was someone whom she was too afraid—or too ashamed—to acknowledge?”
“Your Honour,” Whidden said. “I cannot understand the purpose of these questions. Private Williams is not being tried for being the father of Sarah Coile’s child, but for murdering her.”
“I hope that the purpose of these questions will appear in due course,” Dorkin said. “I am trying to make it clear to the jurors that while Private Williams had no obvious motive for murdering Sarah Coile, there is someone who did have a very strong motive for doing so.”
“Very well,” Dunsdale said. “You have made your point. Have you further questions?”
“Just one, your Honour. I have heard, Miss Page, that Sarah Coile was talking about leaving Wakefield.”
“Yes.”
“I understand that she also talked about getting money from someone to help her get settled somewhere else. Is that correct?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“She never told you who she was going to get the money from?”
“No.”
“Why do you think she was so secretive with you?”
“I don’t know.”
“She never suggested that she was going to get money from Private Williams?”
“No.”
“Given the unknown father of her child and this talk of getting money and going away, it would seem that there were some very mysterious things going on in the life of Sarah Coile in the couple of months before she was murdered,” Dorkin said.
“Yes,” Vinny said, “I guess so.”
“My next witness, your Honour,” Whidden said, when Vinny Page had stepped down, “is Mr. Hubert Whittaker.”
This took Dorkin completely by surprise. What followed Vinny Page’s name on the list of witnesses was not that of Hubert Whittaker, but half a dozen names that Dorkin recognized as those of residents of the Broad Street and Hannigan Road area.
He rose.
“Excuse me, your Honour,” he interrupted, “but my list of wit-nesses does not include Mr. Whittaker.”
“Your Honour,” Whidden said, “we changed our plans some-what. I believe my learned colleague was given a list of the changes this morning.”
“I was given a list,” Dorkin said, “but it is the same list that I was given yesterday.”
“Ah,” Whidden extravagantly apologized, “a thousand pardons. There has been some mistake. Mr. Cosgrove, will you give my colleague the new list?”
He motioned and one of his minions rose and brought Dorkin a sheet of paper, on which the names of Mr. Hubert Whittaker and a Dr. Martin Sachs followed that of Vinny Page.
“These little slip-ups are bound to happen now and then,” Whidden said, smiling his wicked-schoolboy smile at the jury, and Dorkin recognized that all of this had been carefully choreographed beforehand.
“We may proceed then, Lieutenant Dorkin?” Dunsdale asked.
“Yes,” Dorkin said. “I trust I may have a list of tomorrow’s witnesses.”
“I’m sure you will,” Whidden assured him.
While all this was going on, Hubert Whittaker was edging his way uncertainly down the aisle. Dorkin had not seen him since the day of the preliminary hearing when he had absolved himself from any responsibility for the plight of his nephew.
Whidden waved him on, and he took his place on the stand, carefully not looking at Williams or Dorkin.
“Mr. Whittaker,” Whidden said, “would you be so good as to explain your relationship to the accused?”
“I am his uncle by marriage. His father was my wife’s brother.”
“Thank you,” Whidden said. “Before we proceed, I think that I should explain to the court that it was only with the greatest reluctance that I summoned Mr. Whittaker as a witness in these proceedings, and only with the greatest reluctance that he agreed to appear. But he has information which I hope to show is relevant and which no one else could easily provide.
“Now, Mr. Whittaker, I would like you to help me develop for the court an outline of Private Williams’s background. Tell me first of all about Private Williams’s relationship with his mother.”
“Well,” Whittaker said, “his father died when he was quite young, and he was brought up by his mother. He had two brothers, but they died when they were only two or three years old, so he and his mother were the only ones.”
“Would you say that his mother had a strong influence on young Williams?” Whidden asked.
“Yes. He pretty much did what she said.”
“A mummy’s boy, as people sometimes say?”
“Yes, you could say that.”
“And Mrs. Williams? What sort of woman was she?”
“Very religious. Very strict. Like many people from the old country. From Wales, I mean.”
“And she communicated these feelings to her son?”
“Well, she made him abide by them anyways. I couldn’t say what he thought of them.”
Through all this, Dorkin watched Whittaker, who never once so much as glanced at Williams. Once his eyes met Dorkin’s, and he looked quickly away. As for Williams, the anger he had expressed about Whittaker a few weeks before seemed to have been crowded out, and he stared at him now with something between stupefaction and bewilderment.
“Tell me,” Whidden was saying, “did young Williams have many friends among the other boys?”
“No, not as I ever saw. He didn’t play games or fish or hunt or anything like that. Kept home to himself a lot.”
“I see. And girls? Was he popular with girls? Did he have girl-friends when he got to be high-school age?”
“I don’t believe so. I think his mother disapproved.”
“And after high school?”
“No, not then either, so far as I ever heard. But I couldn’t be sure of that because he was away working in Fredericton then.”
“Was Williams much affected by the death of his mother?”
“Yes, I would say so.”
“So much that her views about life—about girls and that—could continue to affect him even after she had died?”
“Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Dorkin was on his feet.
“I must object to this. How can this man pronounce on such a question? Once again you are inviting this witness to speculate about matters which are beyond his—or anyone else’s—capacity to know.”
“Objection sustained,” Dunsdale repeated. “You must stick to the facts, you know, Mr. Whidden.”
“Did you notice any change in Williams’s manner or mode of life after his mother died?” Whidden asked.
“No,” Whittaker said.
“Thank you. You h
ave been most helpful.”
“I have not had the advantage of having coached this witness like my learned friend,” Dorkin said, borrowing Whidden’s term a little sarcastically, “but perhaps I might use him to fill in some other aspects of Private Williams’s background. You mentioned that Private Williams’s father died when Williams was very young. Perhaps you might tell us what he died of.”
“He died from lung trouble.”
“As a result of being gassed in the Great War?”
“So they said.”
“I believe that two of the senior Williams brothers were also killed in the war, were they not? And a brother of Mrs. Williams also?”
“Yes.”
“All, I believe within a few months of each other, so that it is not perhaps surprising that Mrs. Williams may have discouraged her only remaining child from volunteering for another war.”
“Maybe not.”
“Tell me, Mr. Whittaker, what happened to Mrs. Williams’s farm when she died?”
“It came to me.”
“What do you mean, it came to you?”
“I helped her out, and when she died the farm came to me to pay off the debt.”
“How much was that debt?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You are under oath.”
“Three hundred dollars.”
“You already had a large farm of your own?”
“Yes.”
“It didn’t occur to you that since this woman was your sister-in-law you might have let her son have the farm rather than seize it for debts which were a fraction of its worth?”
“I object,” Whidden said. “These are matters which have nothing to do with this trial.”
“I must agree,” Dunsdale said.
“I am establishing,” Dorkin said, “that this witness is hostile to my client as people often are towards those whom they have wronged and that his testimony, which has obviously been orchestrated by the prosecution, is not to be trusted. Reluctance or no reluctance, I ask the jury to reflect on the character of a man who would agree to come into a court of law in order to slander a nephew who is on trial for his life in the way that Mr.Whittaker has done here today.”
“You are out of order, Lieutenant Dorkin,” Dunsdale said. “Do you have any further questions for this witness that are of relevance to these proceedings?”
The Case Against Owen Williams Page 22
