Anatomy of a Murder

by Robert Traver

  I arose and walked toward the witness. “Did you speak to the Lieutenant when you ‘rushed out the door after him,’ as you have just so dramatically described it?”

  “Yes. I said, ‘Lieutenant Manion.’”

  “I see, and this was the same man you have just testified you weren’t sure you recognized?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “The lights from the barroom weren’t helping you when you correctly called him by name, were they?”

  “Well, I guessed it was him.”

  “My question was, Mr. Paquette, were the lights then helping you?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Now a dozen-odd casual patrons in the bar clearly recognized the Lieutenant but you—who had been standing by the door when he entered and also when he left—you had to guess his identity?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The lying bastard,” I thought. The phrase was becoming a sort of a litany. “What if anything did the Lieutenant do when you spoke his name?”

  “He whirled around.”

  “And then you were able to confirm your shrewd guess as to who he was?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The stage was now set and I pressed on. “Did the Lieutenant say anything?”

  “Yes.”

  I glanced over at Claude Dancer, who was staring up at the ceiling, doubtless with glee-crossed fingers. “Will you please, Mr. Paquette, tell us what it was he said?” I pressed.

  “He said, ‘Do you want some, too, Buster?’”

  “Ah, and was he pointing his gun at you?”

  “I believe he was.”

  “His empty gun?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “You heard all the People’s witnesses here who testified that the Lieutenant kept clicking his empty gun at Barney, didn’t you?”

  “Well yes, but I didn’t know then that it wasn’t loaded.” (Ah, the clever shifty bastard.)

  I glanced around and found Mitch and his assistant with their heads bent together in smiling and busy consultation. “Now, Mr. Paquette,” I said, “I assume of course you have told your story of the incidents of that night to the police, have you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And to Prosecutor Lodwick?”

  “Yes.”

  “And to his part-time helper, Mr. Claude Dancer?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you of course told all of them, did you not, what you have just told me, namely, that the Lieutenant wheeled around and said, ‘Do you want some, too, Buster?’?”

  “Objection!” the Dancer rolled out. “The defense is trying to infer that the prosecution is trying to conceal something. The reason we did not want to bring it out was that it might create error or a mistrial, being possible evidence of the commission of still another criminal offense by the defendant.”

  I turned and stared across at Claude Dancer. “The defendant is touched by your solicitude for his welfare, Mr. Dancer,” I said. “You would only have moved mountains to have brought this out if I hadn’t.”

  “Tut, tut, gentlemen,” the Judge reproved us. “I will take the answer.”

  “Yes, I told all of them about it.”

  “And when did you tell Mr. Dancer?” I pressed on.

  “Last night and again this morning.”

  “And did he or anyone ever warn you not to tell about this Buster business because it might be error or hurt the Lieutenant’s best interests?”

  The witness tried to glance around me at the prosecutor’s table. “Look at me and answer,” I said.

  “No, I don’t believe that subject was mentioned.”

  I glanced at my juror and noted that he was following this fairly intricate courtroom waltz. I paused and thought of what this devious character of a bartender had earlier told Laura and the Lieutenant about Barney, about his expression of sympathy and the “wolf” business and all. Perhaps I had better get into that now, I thought, but I would have to do so obliquely; if I came at him cold and asked him straight out he would probably simply deny the whole thing.

  “Mr. Paquette,” I said, “as a bartender what do you call your cheaper brands of whisky?”

  Surprised: “Oh, pilerun or cooking whisky or rat poison—they’re just slang names.”

  “Yes, of course. And your bonded bourbon?”

  “Well, simply bonded bourbon or sometimes white-vest stuff.”

  He apparently still did not see the drift. “I see,” I said. “Now what do you call a man who has an insatiable penchant for women —any and all women?”

  “What’s ‘penchant,’ sir?”

  “Desire, appetite, passion, taste, hunger, yen, my friend.”

  His eyes flickered and I now saw he’d got the drift. Carefully: “Why, a lady’s man, I guess.” He glanced at the Judge. “Or maybe simply a damned fool.” The courtroom tittered and the Judge glared the onlookers into silence.

  “Anything else?”

  The Dancer was on his feet. “We don’t see the drift of all this, Your Honor. I—”

  “You mean, Mr. Dancer, you do see the drift,” I broke in.

  “Proceed, gentlemen, proceed,” the Judge said sharply.

  “Anything else, Mr. Paquette?” I said.

  “Woman chaser,” he ventured.

  “Hm … . Pretty medieval. Please try again.”

  “Masher.”

  “Come, now, Mr. Paquette-mashers went out with whalebone corsets and hair nets, but you’re getting warmer. Anything else?”

  Studiously, thoughtfully, “No, sir, I guess I’ve run out of terms. You see, sir, I haven’t had the educational advantages you’ve had.”

  The clever little bastard, I thought. “How about the expression ‘wolf’?” I said. “Or perhaps you’ve led too sheltered a life ever to have heard of that?”

  “Naturally I’ve heard it. It slipped my mind.”

  “Naturally it would. Clanking around in there with all those rusty old ‘mashers’ it naturally would. Do you ever use the expression yourself?”

  “Nat—” he began, but caught himself. “Of course I have. Everybody does.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Well, I guess just about what you said—a bear cat for women.”

  “Have you used the expression lately?”

  “I couldn’t remember that any more than you could.”

  “Maybe I can refresh your recollection,” I said. “Do you remember driving Mrs. Manion to Iron Bay the Sunday after the shooting?” The witness craned around to look at Claude Dancer. “You needn’t look at Mr. Dancer,” I said. “I don’t believe he was hunting in the U.P. at that time.

  Dancer leapt to his feet. “Let the witness answer,” he shouted hotly. “Don’t try to pretend he’s being evasive.”

  “I wouldn’t need to half try,” I said.

  The Judge spoke wearily; we were wearing him down. “I suggest both of you gentlemen invoke a little silence and let the witness answer. In fact I order you to. Proceed.”

  “Yes, I remember,” the witness answered.

  I decided suddenly to veer away from all this and let the witness sizzle a little; a slow broil was sometimes good for the memory. “Now, Mr. Paquette,” I said, “you knew the deceased quite intimately, did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you consider yourself to some extent his confidant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would it be fair to say that you were as intimate with him as any of his male acquaintances?”

  Thoughtfully: “Well, yes.”

  “And were you able to tell when he was drinking heavily or not?”

  “I object,” Claude Dancer said. “Nothing in this case involving drinking. Had deceased been dead drunk still no defense to this charge.” The little man had an annoying habit of phrasing his objections as though he were dictating a cablegram, a prepaid cablegram. He also possessed an even more annoying habit of coming up with some pretty shrewd objections. “See no connection, Your Hon
or,” he concluded.

  “You will, Dancer, you will,” I said, recalling in my travail the famous Whistler-Wilde jibe.

  “I think possibly the objection may be well taken,” the Judge said, “but I will let the witness answer this question.”

  I nodded at the witness. “I do not believe he was drinking particularly heavily that night,” the witness answered.

  “I did not ask you if Barney was drinking heavily that night, Mr. Paquette,” I said. “I asked you whether you were able to tell when he was drinking heavily.”

  “Yes.”

  It had to be faced: “And was he drinking heavily that night?”

  “No.” (“The lying dastard,” I thought, varying the formula.)

  “Or that day?”

  “No.”

  “And how much did he drink when he was drinking heavily?”

  “I object. Witness has said flatly that deceased was not drinking heavily that day, which is the day that concerns us. Anyway, don’t see any relevancy or connection.”

  “Well, you’re pushing this pretty far, Mr. Biegler,” the Judge said, “but since we’re into it I’ll take the answer. But I warn you—the limit is near.”

  I decided to veer from this before I got slapped down. “I’ll withdraw the question, Your Honor.” I turned back to the witness. “Now I ask you whether from your intimacy with the deceased you knew whether he was an expert pistol shot?”

  “Objection. No self-defense in this case. All evidence points to fact defendant was unquestionably the aggressor. Immaterial and irrelevant.”

  “Mr. Biegler?” the Judge said.

  I was in a dilemma. I certainly knew why I wanted to get in the drinking and expert pistol business, Heaven knows, and, since the Judge had all our requests for instructions, he too certainly knew. And the Dancer was shrewd enough to sense that I was up to no good, so he was objecting and, in all candor, I had to admit to myself that, as of now, his objections were probably good. I could have asked the Judge to recess the jury and have argued out all my pet theories in front of God, the jury, and the Mining Gazette, but I was not ready to show my hand to the Dancer and thus give him a free road map of my strategy for his future roadblocks. Also my corny sense of drama rebelled at throwing my best curves at this time; I wanted to save a few surprises for the jury. But I couldn’t have my cake and eat it, too; I would have to learn to be patient, and being patient with little Mr. Dancer, I was rapidly learning, was an exercise in self-discipline I did not relish.

  “We believe this evidence may be material, Your Honor,” I said, “and several of the People’s witnesses have already indicated—the Pedersens, I believe-that the deceased was such an expert. We believe it has a connection with certain important issues in this case. However, we will of course abide by the court’s ruling.” It was a lame and reluctant retreat from a tense and touchy courtroom situation.

  “I believe that I must sustain the objection,” the Judge said slowly. “Until proper issues are raised making such questions relevant I don’t think I can permit this line of questions. But I have yet to detect any such issues in the evidence so far in this case. If and when whatever issues you may have in mind should properly be raised here I will allow both sides to go sled length. But not until then. That is the court’s ruling.”

  I glanced at my juror and found him downcast; the only good thing about the Judge’s ruling was that it now showed beyond any doubt that my juror cared. Claude Dancer was beaming his satisfaction and approval over such an erudite judge. In the meantime Paul Biegler had long face to save. “Your Honor,” I said, “may it be understood, then, that the defense can reserve further cross-examination of this witness until these proper issues should be raised?”

  “It may be so understood, and I so rule. This witness and indeed all witnesses are under subpoena here. I will not permanently excuse them and they may not leave the jurisdiction of this court without my permission. If and when the proper issues are raised here to warrant these and similar questions, both sides may have at them to their hearts’ content and with the court’s blessing.”

  “Very well, Your Honor,” I said. “With that understanding we have no further questions of this witness at this time.”

  “Any redirect?” the Judge inquired, looking at Mitch.

  Claude Dancer thought a moment, his chin resting Napoleon-ically on his hand. “No, Your Honor,” he said. “No further questions.”

  “There is one more thing, Your Honor,” I said. (There was a moving little speech I had been saving for just such an occasion as this.) “I think the time has come for the defense to object to objectional examining tactics of the People. For example, this People’s witness, the one now on the stand, started out being examined by the prosecuting attorney, Mr. Lodwick. Then I took over and Mr. Lodwick was retired hastily to the showers and Mr. First Assistant Dancer rolled up his artillery of objections. Then, when it came to redirect, the zealous Mr. Dancer forgets all pretense that this man was ever Mr. Lodwick’s witness, and he allows that he has no further questions to ask him. Mr. Lodwick obediently consults Mr. Dancer but like the Lowells Mr. Dancer evidently consults only God.” I paused and glanced at my juror. “Now I am quite willing to take on these two legal giants, any time, any place, but I think in common fairness it should be but one at a time. I don’t want both of them in there pitching their fast knuckle balls at me.”

  It was quite a moving little jury speech, on a par with the best of Amos Crocker’s quavering corn, and, sneaking another look, I was relieved to see that my juror had rallied from his slump.

  “Your objection is well taken, Mr. Biegler,” the Judge said. “I have been waiting for you to raise it. In any case I will lay down a rule on that. Only one counsel on a side will be permitted to examine a given witness. And in view of the number of witnesses in this case I will further rule that that same counsel shall raise any objections to any questions asked that witness.” The Judge glanced at the clock. “Mr. Sheriff,” he said, “take ten—no, fifteen minutes.”

  chapter 11

  The rest of Thursday morning slipped by on leaden wings. The prosecution seemed bent on cleaning up the odds and ends of its remaining witnesses, saving the best for the last—best for it, that is. Mitch was assigned or had assigned himself this dreary task, and I had dire trouble remaining awake. A whole string of alert good-looking young state police troopers paraded to the stand and, like eager young professors in math, talked endlessly and accurately about the charts and floods of measurements: about where the body lay, how far the bar was from the door, the hotel from the trailer park, the trailer from the caretaker’s cottage, measurements ad nauseum. All the while I drank gallons of water and wondered idly where old Parnell had gone and what the old badger was up to.

  Mitch had to get the stuff in, he couldn’t help it, but I could help some and did by not prolonging the agony. My cross-examination was perfunctory and some witnesses I passed entirely. I did not try to get into Barney’s personal life or his habits or his arsenal, which these boys probably didn’t know about anyway, and I steered carefully away from all talk of rape and Laura Manion, and above all from the tender question of any lie-detector test. I was determined now not to risk getting seriously slapped down again by the court or to risk tipping off my strategy to the shifty counter-punching Dancer. If the prosecution wanted to play it that way I would wait to get in my licks until the defense took over, indeed even until Christmas. In any case, if the People were going to save their best witnesses for the last, I would also save what I hoped were my best curves for the last. In the meantime I ran out of water and began to see shimmering mirages of lakes of cold tomato juice.

  Court mercifully adjourned a little early for the noon recess and I tottered out to my car and groped my way out to Parnell’s and my drive-in on Lake Superior. “Closed for the Winter” a sign read. “Ev and Al.” Well, happy winter in Florida, Ev and Al, I thought—and may all your troubles continue to be famished tourists. As
for you, Biegler, suffer, damn you, suffer … . I sat and stared numbly out at the gently heaving lake, at the rolling rhythmically probing waves—“out of the cradle, endlessly rocking”—until at last I had to flee the place to keep from falling asleep.

  Parnell’s little old caretaker, Mr. Lemon, a gentle wispy little man, was the first People’s witness after lunch, with the Dancer in the saddle. With an enviable dispatch and economy of words he adroitly led the witness over the jumps, having him relate how he was indeed a deputy sheriff, that he always wore his deputy badge, and that he was custodian of the trailer park; that his cottage was about thirty feet from the Manion trailer; that he locked the park gate every night at ten and that this was well known to the guests using the park, as he generally told all of them (Dancer was here obliquely veering ahead, in anticipation of our defense story, and I glumly admired the little man’s crisp cleverness); and, finally, how he was awakened the night of the shooting.

  “And who awoke you?” Mr. Dancer suavely continued.

  “Lieutenant Manion,” the witness answered.

  “For what purpose?”

  “He wanted me to take him into custody, sir.”

  “What if anything did he say?” (Here—now it was coming.)

  “He said, ‘You better take me, Mr. Lemon—I’ve just shot Barney Quill.’”