“It’s a pretty unscientific thing,” my man said thoughtfully. “This insanity business is pretty damned unscientific.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, we can’t prove insanity without a medical expert, you tell me. Yet you and I have already decided I was insane, we know that we’re going to plead insanity—you tell me it’s the only legal defense I’ve got. And even I can see that now. In other words you a mere lawyer and I a dumb soldier have between us decided that I was medically and legally insane. Having decided that, we must now go out and shop around for a medical expert to confirm our settled conclusion. Yet you tell me an ordinary medical doctor won’t do.” The Lieutenant shook his head. “It all sounds damned unscientific to me.”
It irked me unaccountably to hear this Mister Cool so blithely undertake to criticize my profession. It was all right if a member of the family did, but for a perfect stranger … “Lieutenant,” I said, “the easiest thing in the world is for a layman to poke fun at the law. Lawyers and the law are sitting ducks for ridicule and always have been. The average layman may in all his lifetime collide with but one small branch of the law, which he understands but imperfectly. He usually knows whether he won or lost. He may also remember that Dickens, grumbling through Mr. Bumble, once called the law an ass. So for him all the law is henceforth an ass, and, overnight, he becomes its severest critic.”
“But I still don’t get it,” the Lieutenant said. “On this score at least, the law looks like a prime ass.”
“Granted,” I said. “But the point I wish to make is that from this people may not safely proceed to damn all law. You of all men should be grateful that the massive structure known as the law really exists. It so happens that it represents your only hope.”
“How do you mean?” the Lieutenant said, bristling.
“I’ll try to tell you,” I said. “Mr. Bumble was only partly right. He was only part right because, for all its lurching and shambling imbe cilities, the law—and only the law—is what keeps our society from bursting apart at the seams, from becoming a snarling jungle. While the law is not perfect, God knows, no other system has yet been found for governing men except violence. The law is society’s safety valve, its most painless way to achieve social catharsis; any other way lies anarchy. More precisely, Lieutenant, in your case the law is all that stops Barney Quill’s relatives from charging in here and seeking out and shooting up every Manion on sight. It is also what would keep the heavily mortgaged Manions of Dubuque from in turn coming a-gunning for the Quills, in other words what keeps the fix you’re now in from fanning out into a sort of Upper Peninsula version of Hatfield-McCoy.”
I paused, warming to my unfamiliar role as a defender of law. “The law is the busy fireman that puts out society’s brush fires; that gives people a nonphysical method to discharge hostile feelings and settle violent differences; that substitutes orderly ritual for the rule of tooth and claw. The very slowness of the law, its massive impersonality, its insistence upon proceeding according to settled and ancient rules—all this tends to cool and bank the fires of passion and violence and replace them with order and reason. That is a tremendous accomplishment in itself, however a particular case may turn out. As someone has well said, ‘The difference between an alley-fight and a debate is law.’” I paused. “What’s more, all our fine Magna Chartas and constitutions and bills of right and all the rest would be nothing but a lot of archaic and high-flown rhetoric if we could not and did not at all times have the law to buttress them, to interpret them, to breathe meaning and force and life into them. Lofty abstractions about individual liberty and justice do not enforce themselves. These things must be reforged in men’s hearts every day. And they are reforged by the law, for every jury trial in the land is a small daily miracle of democracy in action.”
The Lieutenant stared at me with an amused half-smile as I soared away.
“Why, just look, man—just look at Russia,” I went on. “There the law has been replaced by a stoic joyless gang of lumpy characters in round hats and floppy pants and double-breasted overcoats, men who peremptorily crack down on their Lieutenant Manions and everyone, all in the name of the juggernaut state. They are the law. There you would have ‘confessed’ joyfully days ago.” I shook my head. “In fact, Heaven help us, just look almost anywhere these days. The midnight knock on the door, the whisking before a firing squad, the guttural barked command—then silence, nothing but anonymous dead silence … . No one even dare ask what became of you, much less defend you; such proletarian curiosity is apt to prove abruptly fatal.”
The Lieutenant was smiling now. “I didn’t know you cared,” he said. “I only hope you’re half as eloquent during my trial.”
I hadn’t quite known myself how much I cared, and I couldn’t help smiling. “Having said all that, Lieutenant, it remains to be added that you’re absolutely right on insanity. The present outlook and ritual of the law on legal insanity is almost as primitive and nonsensical as when we manacled and tortured our insane. I agree with you.”
The Lieutenant frowned and looked concerned. “I hope you haven’t talked yourself out of my defense of insanity. And supposing our chosen psychiatrist, when we find him, says I’m not nuts?”
“In that event we keep shopping around, as you say, till we can live-trap one who does.” I shook my head. “So a-shopping we must go. I love that word. I can’t wait to tell it to Parnell.”
The Lieutenant eyed me sharply. “Who is Parnell?”
“Oh, just an old lawyer friend. My legal whetstone, I call him.”
“I see. Where do we—ah—go shopping to find this psychiatrist?”
I thoughtfully lit a cigar. “That may be a real problem,” I said. “Either nobody in the Peninsula is insane or else all of us are nuts. In any case psychiatrists seem to shun the place. The only psychiatrists I know about are connected with public institutions of some kind: the veterans’ hospital at Iron Mountain, the prison over at Marquette, the insane asylum at Newberry, the various children’s clinics, that sort of place. Most are salaried staff men and I’m afraid we can’t expect to get any of them. The People are much more likely to pop up with one of those.”
“What do we do, then?”
“We go shopping, my friend.”
The Lieutenant shrugged. “Well, I suppose if we must we must. Where do we start?”
“Not where, Lieutenant—the burning question is what with? I rather suspect that psychiatrists are no more philanthropic than us lawyers. In fact less so than one foolish lawyer I happen to know. They’ll expect to be well paid—and on the line.”
“You’re making it rather difficult. How can I pay a psychiatrist? You know I’m broke. Hell, man, I can’t even pay you.”
I spoke not unkindly. “You might try helping me, that’s all. And stop feeling so goddam sorry for yourself.” I paused. “There’s one other place we could get a psychiatrist. I was half hoping you might have suggested it.”
“Where’s that?” the Lieutenant said evenly.
“From the United States Army,” I replied.
“I don’t know whether the Army would.”
“I don’t know either, but you might tell me where and who to write. It might also be well to pause here for a little review to impress you with how serious this thing is. One, your only legal defense is insanity. Two, to prove it you must have a psychiatrist. Three, you can’t afford a psychiatrist. Four, then we’ve got to go out and live-trap one some other way. Do you have the picture?”
“I’ll give you the name and address of my C.O. before you leave,” the Lieutenant replied. “Don’t let me forget.”
“You better do it now. I’m phoning or writing him tonight. For this, my friend, happens to be the heart of your case.”
chapter 10
As my client sat writing out the address, a woman drove up to the side of the courthouse in a black sedan. She got out and a small frisking short-haired terrier followed her, the dog carrying in i
ts mouth a lighted flashlight, of all things. The woman wore dark glasses and as she advanced across the lawn toward us I thought for a moment it was a certain Hollywood tigress: she had the same buoyant step, the same free-swinging stride and same generous blouseful; she had even the same mass of piled-up russet hair, the high color, the full cherry-red lips. But, no, it wasn’t my lovely celluloid dream queen. Before she reached my car I knew this was the woman over whom my client had killed Barney Quill.
“Hello, Manny,” she said in a low musical voice. “How come you’re out here in the sun? Did that nice Sheriff finally decide to let you go?”
“Hi, Laura,” my client said. “How are you? How’s Rover? Did you get the trailer moved?” By this time we were both out of the car. “This is Paul Biegler, Laura. He’s taking my case. He’s arranged for us to talk out here.”
“How do you do, Mr. Biegler,” Laura Manion said, extending her hand. She smiled ruefully. “I do hope you can help Manny out of this terrible mess I’ve got him in.”
“I’ll try, Mrs. Manion. If all of us do our part I think there’s a fair chance.” I sounded, I thought, a little like a professionally pessimistic football coach on the eve of the big game.
There was a small thud of silence. Lieutenant Manion knelt and petted the little dog. The animal was in an ecstasy of yipping joy over seeing him. “Rover hasn’t seen Manny since—since that awful night,” Laura Manion explained.
“And you?” I asked quietly. “When did you last see your husband?”
“Why, Sunday afternoon. Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered, that’s all. Just making talk.” I paused. “By the way, when can you and I talk?”
“Why, any time you wish,” she said, tilting her head. “I came here today to see you. Now, if you like.”
“The sooner the better,” I said. “Do you think all of us should talk together?”
There was a perceptible pause. She pursed her moist red lips. “Why, just as you and Manny think best,” she said.
The Lieutenant was still kneeling, petting the dog. “What do you think, Lieutenant?” I said.
Lieutenant Manion looked up at me sideways. “Suppose you call the shot, Mr. Biegler? Whatever you think is best.” I glanced at his wife and it seemed to me that she shook her head.
“I think we two had better talk alone, at least for now, Lieutenant,” I said. “Do you think you can stand going back to the loving care of Sulo? I’d prefer to talk out here in the car.” There was another little jolt of silence, almost like that of relief. “There’s one other thing,” I said. “It seems quite likely that all of us are going to see quite a lot of each other from now on. I’m no particular slave to the modern cult of informality, but may I suggest that we call each other by our first names?”
“O.K., Paul,” the Lieutenant said, rising and saluting. “I’ll leave you and Laura to talk.” He turned to his wife. “I’ll see you later, Hon.” He started for the jail. “Come on, Rover,” he called and the little dog ran joyfully after him. Frederic and Laura Manion, I observed, had not touched each other during this encounter.
I held the car door open for Mrs. Manion. She got in and I closed it and then walked around and sat in the driver’s side. “Will you please remove your glasses, Mrs. Manion?” I said.
“The name is Laura,” she said. “Remember? If you can stand what you’re going to see, I guess I can.” She removed her glasses.
“Good Lord!” I said. In my ten years as D.A. I had never seen a pair of more grievously blackened eyes, and professionally I had been exposed to plenty. “Did Barney Quill really do that?”
I caught my breath. Her eyes were large and a sort of luminous aquarium green. Looking into them was like peering into the depths of the sea. I had never seen anything quite like them before and I was beginning, however dimly, to understand a little what it was that might have driven Barney Quill off his rocker. The woman was breathtakingly attractive, disturbingly so, in a sort of vibrant electric way. Her femaleness was blatant to the point of flamboyance; there was something steamily tropical about her; she was, there was no other word for it, shockingly desirable. All this was something of a trick, too, for a woman with two of the loveliest shiners I ever saw. I remembered something Parnell McCarthy had once said. “Some women radiate sex,” he had said. “All the others merely trade in it.” She raised her long eyelashes and regarded me solemnly, nodding her head. “Yes,” she whispered. “Barney Quill did this to me.”
“You’d better put on those dark glasses,” I said wryly, feeling a little giddy. I fumbled for a cigar. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all,” she answered in her low voice. “That’s if you’ll give me a light.”
We smoked in silence for a while. “I guess the first thing I’d better find out,” I began, “is whether you plan to stay for the trial—to stay, that is, and help?”
The dark glasses abruptly swept around and bored into my eyes; I could almost see the round staring of those greenish depths. “Why how can you ask such a thing, Mr. Biegler?” she said evenly. “Whatever made you think I wouldn’t stay?”
“Look, Mrs. Manion,” I said, “I ask it because as your husband’s lawyer I have to know. You’re a key witness in this case, and if you don’t plan to stay—stay and help out—I would say your husband’s chances for beating this rap are pretty slim. I figure they’re only about fifty-fifty as it is. And you still haven’t answered my question.” I was sorry that I had asked her to cover her eyes. I felt that about now they might be revealing to watch. “The question is, are you with him or against him?”
Laura Manion crushed her newly lit cigarette out in my ash tray. Her hand shook as she found a fresh one and turned toward me for a light. She inhaled the smoke deeply and held it and when she exhaled it seemed to escape her like a sob.
“Steady,” I said quietly. “One can never tell how a case like this will turn out.” I paused, cautiously feeling my way, following my nebulous but growing hunch that all was not well between this woman and her husband. “One can never bank on the result of a jury trial. A key witness might go away, and a man still get off. Or a key witness might stay, and the man still go to prison. One never knows about these things.”
She had listened tensely. “What did Manny tell you?” she said. “I don’t mean about the case, but about us, about our lives together, about any plans we may have had for the future?”
Ah, so they’d planned to separate, I thought. “Not a thing, Mrs. Manion; not a hint, not a clue,” I said truthfully. “That I swear.”
“How could you know then—how can you sense—” She broke off and again rubbed out her cigarette and turned and faced me. “Tell me,” she said, speaking swiftly, “how could you doubt but what I’d stay and help? Did it seem so—so obvious to you that there was any question that I mightn’t? Tell me, please tell me.”
“Why, Mrs. Manion,” I said blandly, “I’ve never doubted for a moment but that you’d stay. It’s just routine for us lawyers to try to make sure of our witnesses. I guess perhaps I was a little clumsy and blunt about it. I’ve been away from this business for a little while.”
“Was it because there was no sign of affection when we met just now—was that it?” She removed her glasses and her eyes glistened with tears.
“Are you staying, Laura?” I said.
“Yes,” she said slowly, closing her wet eyes. “Yes, I’m staying. That’s the least I can do for poor Manny.”
“Then I noticed it, yes. You knew I did and I wanted you to know I did. And if you’re staying I don’t think it will be good if too many other people notice it. This is a small watchful community, doubly alerted by this murder, and, as in all such places, nasty harmful little rumors, often baseless, have a habit of traveling with the speed of light.” I opened the car door on my side. “Excuse me, Mrs. Manion, I’ve got to go speak to the jailer. I’ll be back in a moment. We’ve still lots and lots to talk about.”
She leaned sw
iftly toward me with one hand on the seat. “Not a word to Manny,” she said. “Please, not a word.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Laura,” I said, smiling. “But whatever it is, nary a word.”
chapter 11
As I was leaving the jail I ran smack into the prosecutor, Mitch Lodwick, just leaving the sheriff’s office. We greeted each other and shook hands. The young prosecutor was a manly picture in tan: light tan summer suit, a pleated tan shirt and silk polka-dot tie, rich two-toned tan sport oxfords, a smart-looking waffle-colored soft straw hat with a folded tan ribbon. Then there was his tanned smiling face which made his flashing white teeth seem almost indecently incongruous. He looked as though he belonged more on the front porch of a country club than prowling Max Battisfore’s jail.
“Well, Polly,” Mitch said, “Max just tells me you’re in the Manion case. So I guess we’re going ‘round and ’round again. This one looks like a real little daisy.”
“It has everything but Technicolor, Mitch,” I said. “Murder, rape and even a little dog. Hollywood couldn’t have done better.”
Mitch smiled. “Alleged rape, don’t you mean, Polly?”
“I wouldn’t know for sure, Mitch. I just got into the case and have barely met the lady.”
Mitch grinned evilly. “Barely, Polly? I hear tell in some quarters that the last man who barely met up with her died from lead poisoning.” He lowered his voice. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”
“Well, here I am, Mitch. What’s up?” Was this, I thought, to be the word on the lie-detector test?
“It’s about a continuance,” Mitch said. “What do you say to our agreeing to continue the case from the September term over until the December term? We’ve both got this damned Congressional election. coming up—remember?—and I can’t imagine your wanting to forsake your beloved trout for any mere murder case. And Judge Maitland is still at Mayo Brothers’ and quite likely will not be able to sit in September. I assume you’d prefer, as I do, to have him try the case rather than gamble on some unknown grab-bag judge assigned from downstate. What do you say?”
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