I turned and looked at the little man, who was livid with rage that a law-enforcement officer should dare do anything to oppose the prosecution in a murder case. “Mr. Biegler?” the Judge said.
“Your Honor,” I said, “the defense would not for a moment try to pit our Sheriff against the erudite psychiatrist for the People. In the first place our Sheriff appears to labor under the disadvantage of having seen the defendant over a longer period and much closer to the time when we claim he was temporarily insane. However, we do not offer this evidence as the Sheriff’s opinion on the sanity or insanity of Lieutenant Manion, but as possible evidence by one of the few witnesses who was in a position to observe and tell, of certain symptoms, from which, persons who are competent to pass an opinion might do so. Mr. Dancer, with his characteristic tactics, seems bent on keeping this out as well.”
“You offer the evidence, Counsel,” the Judge inquired of me, “not as an opinion, then, on either sanity or insanity, but rather as evidence possibly bearing on those disputed issues?”
“Correct, Your Honor,” I said.
“The witness may answer,” he said.
“Well,” Max said, “Lieutenant Manion was practically a harness case when he first came to my jail—”
“Objection, Your Honor, I am unacquainted with the argot, the terminology-”
“Strait jacket, Dancer,” Max broke in, his gray eyes flashing ominously. “Then he went into a sort of gloomy depressed state, like a man in a dream, he didn’t eat or sleep for two days and just wanted to sit and mope in his cell. We were so concerned I put one of our deputies as a phony prisoner in a cell near him to keep watch. When the bartender came on Sunday and gave him that carton of cigarettes he absently handed it to one of my drunks and in five minutes was himself bumming my jailer for a smoke.”
“And how did the Lieutenant appear, say, during the latter part of his stay?”
“Much better. He seemed to get a grip on himself, like a man come out of a fog. After about a week he ate and slept well and has never given us any further concern or trouble.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sheriff,” I said, and turned to Claude Dancer. “Your witness.”
Claude Dancer stood glaring at the Sheriff, who glared steadily back at him, and Dancer, sensing shrewdly that all he could do now was make matters worse by examining, murmured, “No questions,” and abruptly sat down.
I stood for a moment silently reflecting that perhaps I had been culpably lame in not quizzing the Sheriff on all this long beforehand. Supposing Max had not come forward? All this testimony would have irretrievably been lost and it would have been my own stupid fault. But then again, perhaps no; getting sheriffs to testify for the defense in murder cases was something like bird-watching: if you hotly pursued and wooed the birdies they gaily flew away, but if you went calmly and unconcerned about your business the woods were apt to be alive with them. Good old Max … .
“Laura Manion,” I announced, and Laura got up and walked to the stand, and held up her hand for the oath. The jurors, I noted, especially the women, were watching her closely.
“Your name is Laura Manion and you are Lieutenant Manion’s wife?” I asked.
“I am,” Laura replied quietly.
“Did you consent to ride and did you drive in an automobile with the deceased, Barney Quill, on the night of August fifteenth?”
“I did.”
“Will you please tell us what happened,” I said.
Without giving any background of how or why she had ridden with him Laura described briefly how Barney had first driven her and her dog to the gate of the tourist park; how he had expressed surprise on finding the gate closed and had said he would drive her home another way; and then how he had backed up to the main road and driven rapidly down the road and abruptly turned off to the right on a strange, heavily wooded side road. Parnell and I had planned it this way, first, to get her over the hard part before she possibly broke down, and second, so that the jury could judge the rest of the story in the light of what had happened, and third (this was Biegler’s corny reason), because of the greater impact that might be added by satisfying the curiosity of the jurors at once.
The courtroom had grown hushed. “What happened after Barney turned off on this strange side road?” I went on.
In a low voice Laura told what had happened: how Barney had grabbed her arm and driven furiously into the woods and suddenly stopped and turned out the lights and flung the dog out when it had whined; how he had told her he was going to rape her and would kill her if she resisted, of his pounding her on the knees and all the rest; and of how she had finally told him that her husband would kill him if he did that to her; how Barney had then bragged about his prowess as a pistol shot and Judo expert; how he had finally hit her hard with his fist and sworn and called her an “Army slut”; and how she nearly fainted but knew she hadn’t because she could still hear the little dog Rover whining and scratching at the door.
“What happened then?” I said softly.
In the intensity of her recollection Laura seemed to have forgotten that she was being questioned or was talking in a courtroom before a jury; her green eyes glowed as she went on and described how she finally knew that the man had succeeded in his purpose; that finally she realized that the car was turned around and moving again and that little Rover was once again beside her; and how Barney had finally driven her back to the gate … .
At this point I asked her how she happened to have ridden with Barney that night, and she began at the beginning and told of how she had left her husband sleeping in the trailer and gone to the hotel bar to get some beer; of her playing pinball with Barney and, later, his asking her several times to let him drive her home; of his warning against the bears and strange men; of her final consent to let him drive her. She also admitted having removed her shoes to play one game of pinball, but denied having danced with Hippo Lukes or any man, with or without shoes.
I then led her back to the gate, after the rape, and the telling of Barney’s second attack and her temporary escape, with Rover lighting her way through the stile; of the recapture and struggle and blows and her final frantic screams for help; of her making her way to the trailer and falling finally into the arms of her husband. Then, her entire testimony taking but little over a half-hour, she quickly recounted the rest of the events of that evening: the arrest of her husband, the ride to the jail, the attempted smear taken by Dr. Dom-piere, her co-operation with Detective Sergeant Durgo and the other police and of her telling them the story several times, the last time at the state police post with various gadgets attached to her body and arms. I then turned and glanced casually at Parnell who arose and quickly left the court by way of the judge’s chambers.
“And have you yet been officially informed of the results of that lie-detector test?” I asked her.
“I have not,” Laura replied.
“Would you like to know the results?”
“I would.”
“Would you for your part be willing that everyone in this room should know the results?” I said.
Laura nodded. “I wo—”
The Dancer was on his feet. “No, no! Objection!” he shouted. “Counsel plainly trying circumvent rule against admissibility of polygraph tests.”
The jurors glared at the little man. “Pardon me, Mr. Dancer,” I said. “I keep forgetting how zealous you are that nothing shall get in this case that could possibly harm a hair on the head of Lieutenant Manion. I withdraw the question.” I addressed the court. “Your Honor,” I said, “before I tender this witness I should like to bring in the little dog Rover for a demonstration to the jury, if I may.”
“Demonstration of what?” the Judge asked, startled.
“First, that the dog is both small and friendly and was unlikely either to dissuade the deceased or protect the witness and, second, that the animal and its flashlight could indeed have lit the witness through the stile near the park gate, as she has testified.” I paused. �
�And there is a third reason, Your Honor,” I said. “To prevent Mr. Dancer from thereby making a slavering mastiff out of this little dog if we are not allowed to produce him.”
Claude Dancer glared at me and leapt righteously to his feet but the Judge held up a warning hand like a traffic cop. “The request is granted. Produce the animal.”
I turned to Laura. “If you please, Mrs. Manion.”
Laura got down off the stand and went to the lawyers’ door by the side of the jury, which I held open for her, and was back in a thrice carrying Rover, doubtless herself as surprised to have Parnell thrust the animal at her in the corridor as was everyone in the courtroom to see her back so soon.
“Please release the dog, Mrs. Manion,” I said, and Laura put the dog down, with its flashlight lit in its mouth, and, wagging its tail furiously, it ran gaily up and smelled the Judge, who frowned and turned quickly away, and then—of all things—ran bright-eyed to the prosecution table, its tiny feet pattering, and tried to climb up on Claude Dancer’s lap. The Dancer flushed and lifted his legs to prevent it, not unlike a maiden lady being suddenly wooed by a mouse, and even the jury tittered. Then Rover spotted Lieutenant Manion and ran to him in an ecstasy of wriggling and whimpering joy, whereupon the Judge, who evidently took as dim a view of dogs in his courtroom as he did of flash cameras, inquired of me in a rather pained voice whether our jury demonstration was done.
“I swear, Your Honor,” I said solemnly, “I wasn’t waiting for Rover to be sworn,” and everyone laughed, even the Judge and Mitch—everyone but Mr. Dancer—and I nodded to Laura to fetch the dog back out to the waiting Parnell, and when she returned, turned and said, “Your witness, Mr. Dancer.”
chapter 19
The Judge looked thoughtfully out at the courtroom clock and then down at the counsel tables. “Gentlemen, it’s nearly four-thirty,” he said, “which is too early to suspend for the day and yet perhaps too late to finish with this witness before five.” He glanced at the jury. “I seem faintly to discern a chance to end this case tomorrow, Saturday, and I wonder if the jury and counsel would be willing to work a little overtime tonight, if necessary, on the off-chance that the case will not have to run over into next week.”
Most of the jurors quickly nodded their heads and, swiftly getting our cues, Mitch and I perforce popped up and nodded ours. “Very well,” the Judge said, “suppose we proceed with the cross-examination.” He nodded at Mitch’s table.
Claude Dancer quickly arose and padded up before Laura Manion with a sheaf of notes, his lips curled in a toothsomely amiable grin, much like a miniature panther about to pounce upon an unsuspecting rabbit. “Good luck, dear Laura,” I murmured to myself. The lady didn’t quite know it, but she was about to be sacrificed to the wolves.
“How long have you been married to the Lieutenant?” Claude Dancer purred silkily.
“Three years,” Laura answered.
“And have you worked during your lifetime?” he purred on.
“I have, naturally.”
“And what was your occupation?”
“Well, I was a housewife for twelve years before I married Manny —I mean, Lieutenant Manion.”
“Oh,” Mr. Dancer queried, in false surprise. “You mean you were previously married?”
“Yes.”
“Hm … . And had you any other occupation beside that of housewife?”
“Yes, I once sold lingerie in a department store and another time demonstrated and sold cosmetics.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, I worked as a telephone operator and junior instructress.”
“Anything else?” Claude Dancer pressed, appearing to consult a dossier he held in his hands, which indeed he might have held or, like a clever cross-examiner, it might have been only an old time-table ; on this score neither the witness nor opposing counsel could ever be sure.
“No, I think that’s all.”
Still consulting his notes: “Weren’t you once a beauty operator?”
“No.”
“You mean you did not graduate from a beauty course you took in St. Louis?”
“You didn’t ask that. I had the training but never actually became an operator.” (It was now plain to me that the little man did have some information on Laura’s background—she hadn’t even told me some of these things.)
“But you did sell cosmetics on the road?”
“Yes.”
It was also plain that the Dancer was trying to show Laura up as a well-traveled bag, but I did not object, first, because I saw no valid grounds to do so and further because I wouldn’t have objected if I could, because so far Mr. Dancer was doing precisely what I’d hoped he’d do: trying subtly to attack Laura’s character but not her story of the rape.
“Now, how long after the death of your first husband did you marry your present husband?” little Mr. Dancer asked with disarming innocence. I caught my breath for this was one of those trick loaded questions that I had warned Laura against. His question was so framed that he might either deliberately lure her into a lie or she might innocently fall into one if she was not on her toes.
“Two weeks,” Laura replied, and Claude Dancer could not resist shooting a look of triumph at me as my heart sank. Good Lord, she had fallen into the trap.
“So that two weeks after you became a free woman you got married to the Lieutenant?” the Dancer pressed, luring her on and nailing down her lie.
“Yes, two weeks after my divorce was granted,” Laura said, and once again I was able to breathe.
“Divorce?” Claude Dancer said. “I thought you just testified that your first husband died two weeks before your remarriage.”
Laura shook her head wonderingly, and I was sure then that her flub had been innocent, she had misunderstood the earlier trap question. “He was and is very much alive, sir. I have never told anyone he was dead. In fact he has recently written my husband and me offering to help.” (This, too, I had not known. )
“Objection,” Claude Dancer said. “The answer is irrelevant and unresponsive—at least the portion about the former husband offering to help. I move that portion be stricken.”
“Yes,” the Judge ruled, “the reference to the offer to help by the former husband may be stricken and the jury is asked to disregard it.”
I arose. “Your Honor,” I said, “now that three people have already drilled into the jury the import of the offending testimony, I might as well make it unanimous. We agree that the reference to the offer of help by the former husband may be stricken and disregarded. I am sure now that the jurors will resolutely banish it from their memories.”
Claude Dancer glared at me. “I further object to defense counsel commenting on an objection after the court has ruled,” he said.
“Mr. Dancer,” I said, “I apologize for commenting on the fact that the former husband still wants to help. If it will comfort you I am willing to stipulate that he is jealously sulking or dead.”
The Judge stifled a smile and lightly tapped his bench with his gavel. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said. “Time’s a-flying. Let us get on with the examination. Proceed, Mr. Dancer.”
Claude Dancer took his little setback like a little man; it was all part of the game; he would now bore in with something else. “How long had you known the Lieutenant before your marriage to him?” he pressed on.
“Five months.”
“And where was your first husband during all this time?”
“With the Army in Europe.”
“So that all the while your husband was in the service in Europe you and the Lieutenant were conducting your little romance over here?”
Laura’s green eyes flashed behind her glasses. “I did not say that. You asked me how long I had known Manny, not how long he had courted me.”
“Well, then, please tell us how long he courted you,” Mr. Dancer complacently purred on.
“One month.”
“In other words, you and he were going steady, then, before
you were actually divorced?”
“Well, yes.”
Claude Dancer glanced at the jury and I noted ruefully that several of the women were glancing significantly at each other. “Now, coming to the night of the shooting,” the Dancer pressed on, “I believe you just told the jury you went to the hotel bar that night to get a six-pack of beer?”
“Yes.”
“And that was for your husband?”
“Yes, I rarely drink beer myself.” She smiled a little and glanced nervously at the jury. “Too fattening.”
“I see,” Mr. Dancer said and paused. “But if you went there for beer for your husband, why didn’t you get it and fetch it home instead of staying there over two hours?”
The little man was giving Laura a bad time. I held my breath hoping she would have the wits to wriggle her way out of this question.
She did, and with a vengeance—she told the simple truth. “I did not go there primarily for beer, Mr. Dancer. If you must know, going to the bar to get the beer was more or less of an excuse to get out of the trailer. I had been ironing all afternoon and I was dying to get out.”
“To get out so that you could go drink whisky and play pinball with Barney Quill?” Mr. Dancer pressed, no longer purring.
“No. Not at all,” Laura shot back. “Just to get out. If you were a woman you would understand what I mean.”
“But you did drink whisky and play pinball with Barney Quill?”
“Yes. I’ve already told that here today and many times to the state police.” (Laura was getting her dander up and, I felt, was doing much better—if she would only keep her head.)
“And how many drinks did you have?”
“Four.”
“Double shots?”
“No.”
“And over what space of time?”
“About two hours, with a large glass of water. My dad taught me that.”
“Did you feel the effects of these drinks?” the Dancer asked, and cleverly, since if she said no, she perforce made herself out a bit of a rum pot and if she said yes he would purr over that too.
Anatomy of a Murder Page 40
