by Kate Wilhelm
Heilbronner and Bailey were in the kitchen, where Frank was sorting tomatoes and peppers, cursing. “Damn fools, look what they did!” He held up a smashed pepper. “Goddamn idiots!”
Bailey asked her if she wanted wine and she said no, she wanted what he had. Heilbronner was not drinking. Then, with bourbon and water in her hand, she sat at the kitchen table. “As good a place as any,” she said, motioning Heilbronner to a chair. Frank’s curses became almost inaudible.
“Your father asked us to put certain people under surveillance,” Heilbronner said. “And of course we can’t do that without cause. Ms. Holloway, will you tell me why you made such a request?”
She sipped her drink. “I think right now the Dodgson group is considering the murder of Royce Gallead, and possibly his stooge, Terry Bossert. And I think those two are trying to figure out how they can get to the Dodgsons without being caught. And meanwhile, I think Kay Dodgson expects to get the hell beaten out of her, if not tonight, then tomorrow.” She took another drink, bigger this time. “If that scenario isn’t quite right, then some, or maybe all of them, are likely wondering if they can get to me overnight, or else they might be checking airlines for parts unknown. And they really should not be allowed to skip, not just yet.”
Heilbronner’s expression did not change even a fraction.
She sighed. “I asked Judge Paltz to advise Kay Dodgson that she could have protection if she felt the need.”
“Ms. Holloway, you know very well that isn’t enough. We need real data or our hands are tied, as you also know.”
“If I told you enough to make you call out the dogs, what would you do? Arrest people? Search and seize? Bring them in for questioning? All of the above? I can’t do that because I haven’t concluded my defense of Paula Kennerman yet, and my primary commitment must be to my client. As soon as the jury starts its deliberation, I’ll tell you everything I know, everything I suspect, give you everything I have, but I really would like to know that all those people will be alive and healthy then.” She picked up her glass and added moodily, “And it would be really fine if they didn’t get together and discuss things overnight.”
Heilbronner regarded her for another minute, then shook his head. His face revealed nothing. Did the FBI have lessons in that? she wondered irritable. Neutral Expression 101?
“You know, don’t you,” Bailev drawled, “that the news hounds out there are national as well as local. We got their attention."
“For Christs sake, get off vour high horse.” Frank snapped from across the kitchen. “What's it going to cost you? If vou lose, you lose big. Cover vour ass!”
Heilbronner continued to watch Barbara. She finished her drink and waved Bailev awav when he reached for her glass. She was so tired another drink might make her fold.
“You understand.” Heilbronner said, “that the FBI doesn't involve itself in local crimes, not even murder.”
“Of course. I understand that.” she said. “Look. I’m really beat. Tomorrow, as soon as the jurv is chargedy I'm asking Judge Paltz to convene a meeting in his chambers. The D.A. will be there. Come if vou want.” She stood up. “If some of the people we discuss turn up dead or missing, well. I tried.”
When he remained deadpan, she shrugged and turned deliberated to Bailev. “Anvthing new on Les Smithers or the watchman?”
“Les was in surgerv for eight hours: he's critical but stable. Thev say that's a good sign. The watchman will make it.”
Heilbronner got up then. “I’ll be on my wav.” he said. Bailey went with him to lock the door again.
“What do vou think?” Barbara asked Frank.
“You kidding? They'll be watched. Didn't do your case any harm at all, bringing up Les and the watchman.” He was still scowling at his ruined vegetables.
Barbara went to the stairs and stepped up. down. up. down.
“What are vou doing?” Bailey asked.
“Exercising.” Up. down. up.
“That can’t be good for her.” Bailev said to Frank in the kitchen.
“You staying for supper? If so, go on out there and pick some beans.”
Barbara stepped up, down, up…
Rich Dodgson was what people meant when they said a fine-looking man, Barbara thought the next morning, studying him. He was fifty-nine, a few pounds overweight, not enough to be unattractive. His eyes were light blue, his hair dark, almost black, with gray at the temples. He was dressed in charcoal-colored slacks, with a lighter gray sports coat, shirt open at the neck, no visible jewelry, not even a wedding ring.
She asked him to fill in his background for the jury, and he did so concisely. When he was done, she shook her head. “You are too modest, Mr. Dodgson. You say you were a salesman, but weren’t you, in fact, at the time of your retirement, the sales supervisor of the entire western district for the Doud Pharmaceutical Company?”
“Yes.”
“How long were you with the pharmaceutical company?”
“Twenty years.” His voice was level, almost bored. He looked at her infrequently, as if he found her tiresome. He was very much at ease. He smiled and nodded to someone in the room behind her.
Today she had her own little cheering section again: her neighbors, Bill Spassero, Lucille and her husband. She had seen Kay Dodgson and Craig in the audience, and a lot of his people. They were being very quiet.
“If you had remained five more years, you could have retired with a full pension and medical insurance, couldn’t you?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Probably.”
“But you chose to leave in order to start your own business, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Were you and your family dependent on your salary, Mr. Dodgson?”
Fierst objected. She didn’t dispute him.
“Mr. Dodgson, when you came to Oregon you bought land from Mrs. Canby, and a year later built your house, didn’t you?”
“Yes, we did.”
“And you bought the printing plant, the building housing it, added new equipment, computers. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Seven years ago you bought your yacht. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“How much does your newspaper cost, Mr. Dodgson?”
For the first time he hesitated, but only for a second. “Fifty cents an issue. A subscription is fifteen dollars a year.”
“And how many copies do you print?”
He shrugged again. “About a thousand.”
“How long have you published on a weekly basis?”
He glanced at her and away. “About two years. Before that we were a monthly.”
“So the newspaper has never been your primary source of income from the company. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” he said, a sharpness entering his voice, as if he had lost patience with her and her questions. “We always printed whatever jobs came along. We are a printing company. And we have advertisers.”
“Your Honor, I object to this line of questioning,” Fierst said, rising to his feet. “Mr. Dodgson’s company, his occupation, have nothing to do with the matter before this court. Counsel is simply fishing.”
Judge Paltz sustained the objection, and then said, “Ms. Holloway, I suggest you get to another topic.”
Barbara nodded. When she looked at Dodgson again, she caught a hint of a gleam in his pale eyes, before he registered indifference once more.
“Your masthead lists you as the publisher and editor of the paper, Mr. Dodgson. Do you have reporters?”
“No.”
“You write all the material yourself?”
“Yes.”
“What are your news sources, Mr. Dodgson, if you have no reporters?”
“People tell me things. I write them,” he said. He raised his arm and looked at his watch.
“You are solely and completely responsible for the content of your newspaper?”
“That’s what I said. That’s what I meant. S
hould I say it again?”
“You wrote this?” She picked up the top newspaper from a stack on the defense table and read: “The so-called feminists are screeching at the gates, folks. Pay attention. What they want now are classes for our boys to teach them what they call nurturing. What that means, folks, is they want to teach our boys how to cook and sew and baby-sit while they go out and steal away men’s jobs. What can you do? Scream back at them, for openers…” She looked at him. “You wrote that?”
“Objection!” Fierst yelled. “Mr. Dodgson’s private philosophy is not on trial. We have and honor freedom of speech in this country. He can write what he wants.”
“Your Honor,” Barbara said, “I agree absolutely with Mr. Fierst. However, it is possible that the witness misspoke when he said he writes all his own material. This editorial, for instance, appeared in three different local papers in the state. I think Mr. Dodgson deserves the opportunity to clarify his statement, if he spoke hastily.”
Judge Paltz overruled Fierst.
“The question, Mr. Dodgson, was, did you write that?”
“Yes. They might have copied it, if anyone actually published that same article.”
“Oh, someone did,” she said, lifting another paper. “This is the Belharn County Bugle, a monthly, I believe. The editorial in it is from February, nineteen ninety-one. Your article is dated May, nineteen ninety-one. How do you suppose they copied it before you published it, Mr. Dodgson?”
“Objection!” Fierst cried. “Counsel knows that’s an improper question.”
“Sustained.”
“I suppose it was,” Barbara murmured. “Mr. Dodgson, here is another copy of your editorial, dated January of the same year, and a fourth one, dated June. Mr. Dodgson, I ask you, did you write the editorial?”
“Yes. I said I wrote it.”
“And you can’t account for the exact editorial appearing in these other papers?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Very well,” she said, handing the papers to the clerk to be admitted. “Let’s take this one.” She lifted another newspaper, and watched his gaze leave her, fasten on the stack of papers on her table. Well, she thought, she had his attention. He no longer looked bored.
She read another editorial, this one attacking birth-control pills, with three duplicates. He said he wrote it. Another one, about IUDs, with two duplicates. He said he wrote it. A third one about the morning-after pill, one duplicate. He said he wrote it. He had become steely-eyed, his jaw set; he was grating the words now. Barbara could well understand why Kay was terrified of him.
“Mr. Dodgson, the last three editorials all deal with birth control of various sorts. Is it a fair assumption to understand that you are opposed to all birth control?”
“Those aren’t birth-control methods. They’re murder methods,” he said with cold precision. “I am morally opposed to any and every kind of murder of innocent children.”
“I see,” she said, and picked up another paper. This one bewailed the use of spermicidal gels. “Mr. Dodgson,” she asked after she read it, “do you claim that the use of a spermicidal gel is also murder?”
“If the girls don’t want to get pregnant, they should stay out of the bedroom.”
“Do you claim that the use of spermicidal gel is murder?” she repeated.
“It can be considered murder.”
“Mr. Dodgson, will you explain to the jury what a spermicide is?”
“It is an agent that kills male sperm.” He was staring at her with an almost hypnotic intensity. His eyes looked inhuman with a metallic sheen.
“You mean it kills the sperm before it reaches the ovum?”
“Yes. I mean that.”
“So the ovum cannot be fertilized? Pregnancy cannot take place?”
“You know that’s what I mean.”
“Yes, I know that. And you state in this editorial that it’s another form of murder.” She put the paper down, grateful that no one had challenged it; there was no duplicate of that editorial. She picked up the next paper. “Mr. Dodgson, what is the substance you wrote about in this editorial, RU-486?”
“It’s an abortion agent.”
“It isn’t used in this country, you say here, and yet you have a long editorial about the dangers it presents. Why is that?”
“There is intense pressure to have it approved here. It’s a very dangerous drug used to murder babies, and one that has killed countless women in Europe.”
“I see. It is used in France, England, and Sweden, approved by their governments. Are they aware of its dangers?”
“Objection!” Fierst called out. She withdrew the question.
“In the past two years you have published one hundred thirteen issues of your newspaper, one a week. Of that number, eighty percent have dealt with birth control, pregnancy, illegitimate births, single mothers, teenaged mothers, feminism, or abortion. Ninety editorials. You have railed against every form of birth control available to women except abstinence. Many of your articles and editorials are duplicated throughout the state. Mr. Dodgson, are you part of a national network to propagandize against the use of birth control for women?”
“I write the truth as I see it.”
Barbara read: “The sperm is the sacred bearer of life. With its penetration of the ovum, the ovum itself becomes sacred, and the body that carries it to birth is sacred.” She put down the paper. “Until the ovum is penetrated it is not sacred. Is that what you mean?”
“You read it. You know what it means,” he said. “Alone the ovum is nothing.”
“Is the body that produces the sacred sperm also sacred?”
He stared hard at her and nodded. “It is.”
“And the body that produces the ovum, is it nothing until there is fertilization?”
“Woman was created to carry the seed of life to birth. If she shirks that God-given blessing, she is nothing.” He enunciated the words carefully.
“And you believed the women at the Canby Ranch were shirking their duty?”
“They ran away from their husbands,” he said.
“Were they shirking their duty?”
“Yes. They were.”
“So in your eyes they were nothing. Is that right?”
“If they were counseling abortions, performing abortions, they were less than nothing. They were murderers and accessories to murder.”
“You didn’t know that,” she said. “All you knew was that they were seeking refuge from situations that had become intolerable. Were they nothing?”
“In my opinion, women who run away from their husbands are nothing,” he said flatly.
“Is there never a sufficient cause for a woman to leave a husband, then?”
“Objection,” Fierst said. “This line of questioning is nothing but an undergraduate debate. Mr. Dodgson’s philosophy is irrelevant.” The objection was sustained.
“Mr. Dodgson, your wife came to court beautifully dressed every day. You buy her clothes, you run the household, you oversee the domestic help. She lives in a doll’s house, doesn’t she, Mr. Dodgson? Is that your duty to her? To maintain her like a beautiful possession to show off to the world? And if she gets out of line, is it your sacred duty to chastise her? To beat her? Do you beat your wife, Mr. Dodgson?”
“Objection!”
It was sustained and the jury was told to disregard her remarks, and then it was time for a recess.
“Disregard them, hah!” she muttered to Frank as Judge Paltz left the courtroom.
“Mr. Dodgson, is this your editorial? Did you write it?” She read: “All over the country so-called Safe Houses are springing up… What can you do? Be alert! … Visit the house, demonstrate against this assault on every family value you hold dear. Write a letter to the editor, talk to your neighbors. Don’t let them get away with it!” She read the entire editorial, and he said yes, he had written it.
“This exact editorial appeared in six different newspapers within the state within a month’
s period, Mr. Dodgson. I ask you again, are those your words, is that your original editorial?”
“Many people have access to the same national news—”
“Mr. Dodgson, please. A simple yes or no. Did you write those words as if they were your original thoughts?”
“Yes!”
“Do you make a distinction between your editorials and the articles that pass as news?”
“Of course.”
“Do you check the sources of news information for accuracy?”
“If possible. I trust my sources and don’t—”
“Do you check them for accuracy?”
“Sometimes, if there—”
“Mr. Dodgson, just a simple yes or no, that’s all that is required. Do you check for accuracy? Yes, you do, or no, you don’t.”
“No,” he snapped. “There’s no need with the people I deal with.”
“Where did these figures come from, Mr. Dodgson? I quote, ‘Sixty percent of women who have abortions have severe psychological problems that must be treated by qualified medical specialists’?”
He shrugged. “I read it in a medical article.”
“Where? What was the article?”
“I don’t remember. I read a lot of articles.”
“Was it in the print media? A magazine?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Was it, perhaps, an item you downloaded on your computer?”
Fierst objected. The witness had said he didn’t remember; he couldn’t be forced to remember.
“Are you aware of national networks that issue regular lists of books to be banned by religious or political organizations?”
“Yes, I know about them.”
“Do you subscribe to them?”
“Yes. As a publisher I need to know what—”
“You subscribe, yes; isn’t that your answer?”
“Yes,” he snapped.
Through the same process she forced him to admit that he subscribed to other networks that issued facts and figures about abortion, birth-control methods, morning-after pills, IUDs
