Claude Dancer grinned amiably and glanced knowingly at the jury. “That, Mr. Biegler, still remains to be seen. Wouldn’t it be a pity to spoil your little surprise? I renew my request, Your Honor.”
“Ruling, Your Honor,” I said, not daring to risk a losing objection at this crucial stage of the trial.
“The motion is granted,” the Judge said dryly, glancing at the clock. “Mr. Clerk, you will please endorse the name of Duane Miller on the information as a witness for the People. Proceed, Mr. Dancer. Time’s a-fleetin’.”
“The People will call Duane Miller to the stand,” Claude Dancer announced, grabbing up some papers and moving briskly toward the witness box. The side door by the jury breathed open and a lean sallow ravaged-looking man clad in blue denim shuffled into the courtroom accompanied by a watchful sheriff’s deputy. The surprise witness stood there blinking uncertainly, swallowing his generous Adam’s apple. I had never seen him before.
The deputy pointed at the witness box. “Up there, Duke,” he murmured, as Duane Miller shuffled forward and was sworn and sat down, the Adam’s apple bobbing like an eccentric toy.
“Your name, please?” the Dancer shot at him before he fairly got the seat warm.
“Duane Miller, sir. Folks mostly call me Duke.”
‘Call me Ishmael,’ I thought wildly, restraining an impulse to cackle.
“Where do you presently reside?” the Dancer pressed.
The witness gestured toward the jail. “Across the alley—over in the jail, sir.”
“Do you know the defendant, Frederic Manion?” Claude Dancer purred on.
The witness kept glancing over at me, plainly apprehensive of his impending cross-examination. “Well, sir, kind of, sir, it’s this way, sir. For the last week I’ve been in the cell next to his.” I felt the Lieutenant suddenly stiffen and grow taut at my side. “I can hear him and him me but I’ve never really laid eyes on the man.”
“Have you had any conversation with him during this trial?”
The witness again swallowed and glanced at me, and Claude Dancer repeated the question. “Oh, yes, sir. A little, not very much. The man ain’t much of a hand for talkin’.” (Well, I’d buy that one, anyway.)
“When was the last conversation you had with him?” the Dancer pressed.
“During this very noon hour, sir.”
Claude Dancer paused and glanced back at me, grown fairly elfin with delight. “Will you now please relate that conversation to the court and jury?” he said.
The Judge glanced quickly down at my table. I sucked in my breath so hard and fast that I thought that my gut was glued to my backbone. This was clearly an improper foundation for rebuttal, as the Judge and Dancer and I all knew. The little man was plainly luring me into a temporary winning objection so that he could save his surprise and eventually clobber me twice. I could also have questioned the identification of the Lieutenant by the witness but that would only have been an annoying delaying tactic at best. I breathed deeply and shook my head almost imperceptibly.
“Go on,” the Dancer prodded the witness. “For once Mr. Biegler is miraculously wordless.”
The witness gulped and then spoke rapidly, glibly. “I heard the Lootenant chucklin’ to himself durin’ this noon hour an’ I says, ‘Things lookin’ up, Lootenant?’ and he chuckles some more an’ says, ‘You damned tootin’, Buster,’ or words to that affect, and I says, ‘Buck up, Lootenant—I’ll bet you my tonight’s coffee ration you won’t get more’n manslaughter outa this rap,’ an’ then he laffed out loud an’ says, ‘You got yourself a bet, Buster. I’ve already fooled my lawyer an’ my psy—’ I can’t say it but he meant his brain doctor—‘an’ I’ll bet you my pet lüger against this awful swill they call coffee here that I’ll fool that bumpkin jury too an’ beat this rap all the way.’” The witness paused. “That’s all him and me said.”
“You’re sure he called you Buster?” Claude Dancer inquired inno cently, stroking his chin.
“He called me Buster,” the witness answered firmly, as my heart dropped to my belly.
Lips pursed, Claude Dancer glanced back at the clock, rocking on his heels. “Mr. Biegler,” he said, still looking thoughtfully at the clock as he strove manfully to hide his rapturous glee, “the witness is all yours.”
An aching fractured sigh swept through the courtroom, a sort of rueful breath-catching, like that of a street crowd seeing a stranger suddenly tossed and mangled in traffic before their eyes. I sat very still and closed my eyes. “Oh Lord, oh Lord,” I thought, over and over. I glanced at the Lieutenant. “Lieutenant!” I whispered sibi-lantly.
The color had drained even from his hands. Waxlike, he sat very still, only the muscles of his jaw quivering. “Lieutenant!” I repeated. He turned slowly and his eyes glowed like a lynx’s. I felt every boring eye in the courtroom upon us. Slowly, slowly he shook his head. Then he sat staring stonily at the other wall, the maximillary muscle still leaping and twitching. “Dear Lord,” I thought, rising and facing the witness. “What am I ever going to ask this sorry bastard?”
“What you in for, Duke?” I began.
“Arson,” he answered tonelessly, resignedly folding his hands for the ordeal.
I lifted my brows. Arson was a felony for which prison not jail was the normal site of atonement. “Hm … . Confined in the county jail for arson?” I said.
“Waiting sentence. I copped out last Monday.”
“I see. Where you from? We two haven’t met before, have we?”
“No. I usually belong around Detroit. There and Toledo.”
“Ah, so Ohio has shared the wealth,” I said. “Ever happen to have been in jail or prison before, Duke?” I asked, swiftly sure of the answer.
Tonelessly: “Yes, sir.”
“How many times?”
The larynx bobbed and the witness blinked out at the clock. “Let’s see—two, no three prison raps an‘—an’ I can’t remember about the jails.”
“Anything else?”
“I guess maybe that’s all.”
“Are you sure you’re not being too modest, Duke?”
Firmly: “That’s all, Mister. A guy ought to know how many times he’s been in stir.”
“Of course. Please forgive me, Mr. Miller.” I turned to Mitch’s table. “I request that Prosecutor Lodwick produce and loan me this man’s official criminal record to assist me in cross-examination,” I said. “As an ex-D.A. I know he has one. This man is a surprise witness whose very existence I did not know about until a few minutes ago.” Mitch and Claude Dancer fell to whispering. “Your Honor, I repeat my request.”
Claude Dancer arose apparently to give battle but the Judge held up a warning hand. “Do you or do you not have in your possession a copy of this man’s official criminal record, Mr. Lodwick?” the Judge asked
“Yes, Your Honor,” Mitch said, flushing.
“Please produce it for defense counsel,” the Judge swiftly ruled
Mitch dug in one of his pregnant brief cases and finally pulled out a three-page criminal identification record which he walked over and handed to me. I sat poring over the imposing document.
Mr. Duane “Duke” Miller had really lived. His record went back to early depression years, starting in juvenile reformatories in Ohio. He had been in Midwest prisons five (not three) times for offenses ranging from aggravated assault to indecent exposure and on through perjury. He had dwelt in various scattered jails countless times for offenses ranging from common drunkenness to window peeping. He possessed more aliases than a moderately fastidious dog has fleas—although Buster was regretfully not among them … . Consulting this alarming dossier I brought all this out from the witness. He denied nothing and, both his pride and memory being stimulated, even recollected for me that he had deserted from an Army labor battalion during the War, a peccadillo which his record failed to disclose. Duke Miller was by way of being one of society’s finer little assets. Yet he had just testified that the Lieutenant had told him hi
s defense was a hoax. And, almost worse yet, that he had called him Buster while doing it.
“How come you so promptly told the prosecution about this alleged conversation this noon with Lieutenant Manion?” I pressed on.
“How do you mean?” the witness sparred uneasily.
“Did they ask you or did you go tell them?”
“They asked me. I unnerstan’ they been quizzin’ prisoners the last coupla days.”
“When did they quiz you?”
“Just before court took up here after dinner.”
“Who quizzed you?”
The witness looked at Claude Dancer. “That little bald-headed guy sittin’ there. Prancer or Dancer, I think his name is called.”
“You’re quite sure it wasn’t Dunstan?” I asked, remembering the People’s photographer.
“Huh? Yes, positive.”
“Where did he ask you?”
Gesturing: “Back in the D.A.’s office behind this here room.”
“Who brought you over to see him?”
“Charlie, the deputy there.”
“Is it fair to say, Mr. Miller, that if nobody had asked you you would not have mentioned this alleged conversation to anyone?” I held my breath awaiting the answer.
“Nope, I spose not. I got troubles enough of my own.”
“Perhaps little troubles like awaiting sentence on your plea of guilty to arson?”
“Well, yes.”
“And of course nothing, not a whisper, was said about your pending arson sentence when you talked to Mr. Prancer or Dancer?”
Claude Dancer half rose and the Judge frowned and waved him down.
“Nope, nary a word.”
“And of course no promises were given you?”
“Nope.”
“And of course, Duke, you weren’t thinking even faintly about your impending sentence for arson when you told the People the kind of story you thought they might possibly be panting to hear?”
Claude Dancer again shot up, bristling, and this time the Judge glared him back down.
“Nope, nary a thought.”
I paused. There was still some unfinished business, Buster business. If this man was lying he had doubtless dredged the name Buster from jail gossip or the newspaper accounts of the bartender’s testimony at the trial. Buster … . Wasn’t that an inspired diabolic touch? I stroked my chin, my mind galloping. Perhaps I could trap him into a transparent lie. “Where’d you find the name Buster?” I demanded suddenly. “I suppose from the newspaper accounts of the trial, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“You mean no newspapers were available in the jail?” I pressed softly, trying for a demonstrable lie. I knew that during the trial the place was awash with newspapers.
The witness glanced quickly at Claude Dancer, then the Judge, then back at me, the Adam’s apple gyrating. “Oh, yes, plenty of newspapers,” he answered. “But I haven’t read any accounts of the trial. Bum eyes.” His voice rose. “The man called me Buster, I tell you.”
“And of course you also didn’t discuss the trial with any of the other inmates.”
“What? Oh, no. No, I got troubles enough of my own.”
“So I suppose the bet you claim you made of your precious coffee ration with Lieutenant Manion was based solely upon intuition?”
“What’s that there?”
“Guesswork.”
Swallowing: “I s’pose,” the witness answered, spreading his hands. “Musta been.”
“Tell me, Duke,” I said. “If you didn’t read the newspapers or discuss the case with your fellow inmates how did you know that the prosecution was ‘quizzing’ inmates, as you have already testified?”
“Well, we did discuss that some.”
“So for at least a day before you yourself were quizzed you knew the prosecution was asking prisoners what they knew bad about Lieutenant Manion?”
“Well, yes.”
“And you’re as sure of this alleged conversation you claim you had with the Lieutenant as you are that you were previously in prison only three and not five times?”
Sullenly: “I flubbed that part about prison. I told you what the man said.”
“Thank you, Mr. Miller,” I said with a show of assurance I did not feel. “This has been a most illuminating encounter. It is always nice to meet a man of such varied talents and broad experiences. Especially one with such an intuitive and dedicated concern that the processes of justice shall prevail.”
The witness answered as Claude Dancer arose to object. “You’re welcome,” he said, with a final parting swallow.
“Your witness, Dancer,” I said, abruptly sitting down.
“No further questions,” the little man said, bestowing on me one of his more winningly toothsome grins.
The courtroom had grown as still as a convention of enchanted mice. All of the jurors were avoiding my eyes and I quickly glanced away. I could still sense the curious air of ruefulness all about me, an air of puzzled and even faintly horrified resentment. Up to now this murder trial had been within the rules of the game, it seemed to whisper; now something disturbing had been added, something that didn’t belong, that wasn’t quite cricket. True or false, there had been a switch to strange dialogue that somehow didn’t belong in this play … .
“Oh Lord, oh Lord,” I thought. “Can this egotistic bastard of a soldier man of ours have possibly been so stupid?” I choked back a sudden welling impulse to retch and again closed my eyes. Was all Parnell’s and my weeks of work and worry to be in vain? Was our case shooting straight up through a shattered courtroom skylight?
“Call your next rebuttal witness,” the Judge said to Claude Dancer.
“No further rebuttal,” Claude Dancer said.
The Judge looked at me. “Any rebuttal for the defense, Mr. Biegler?” he said, well knowing that I simply had to recall Lieutenant Manion.
“The defense recalls Lieutenant Manion,” I said, prodding him in the side.
The Lieutenant, terse and grim, categorically denied having talked with Duke Miller, that noon or any time. No, he had never called him Buster or anything. No, Claude Dancer did not care to cross-examine, thank you.
“Any further rebuttal, Mr. Biegler?” the Judge inquired.
“Nothing further, Your Honor,” I said.
“Both sides rest?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Claude Dancer and I said.
“Let us take ten minutes before the jury arguments,” the Judge said. “Mr. Sheriff.”
I wheeled around and looked at the courtroom clock. It was 2:17 —Wechsler-Bellevue time—on Saturday, September the thirteenth. The battle was nearly over. Was the battle also lost?
chapter 27
I sat alone in the conference room staring out at the lake. This was the lowest moment of the case. After all our work and toil were Parnell and I to lose on the word of a convicted felon? Had the Lieutenant really told him that? Why hadn’t I warned him to clam up?
The door opened and Parnell joined me, his eyes rolled up in his head. “There’s only one more thing you might have done, boy,” he said softly.
“What’s that, Parn?”
“Asked the Lieutenant during. rebuttal if he was willing to take a lie-detector test on whether he talked with this lovely Miller character.”
I nodded my head glumly. “I thought of that, Parn, but rejected it for two reasons. First, the jury and everybody now knows that the results would be inadmissible, and Dancer could then argue that the offer was just a safe and cheap grandstand play. Then there’s an even bigger reason.”
“What’s that, boy?”
I stared at him a moment and sighed and lowered my voice. “Because the People might just possibly have taken us up,” I said. “Just between us, Parn, I was and am deathly afraid of what a lie-detector test might show.”
“Yes,” Parnell said thoughtfully, nodding his head. “I see what you mean, boy. Ah yes, I see exactly what you mean. Please forget that I ever mentione
d it.” He shook his head. “May the Lord save us from the claws of a cat and seven homy animals.”
The door opened and Dr. Smith hurriedly joined us. During recess he had discovered he could catch a plane home if he hurried. Parnell, bravely hiding his disappointment over missing any of the argument, gallantly volunteered to drive him to the airport; we could do no less.
“I’ve never seen a shabbier performance in my professional life,” the young doctor said, shaking his head sadly, referring to the testimony of his fellow diplomate. “But at least I think your scorching cross-examination will discourage him from venturing an early repetition.”
“Thanks, Doc,” I said, grasping his hand. “You were our rock and I’ll surely send you word. As for Doc Gregory, I intend in my argument to burn his soft diplomatic ass.”
“To a crisp, I hope,” Dr. Smith said with feeling.
“Let’s hurry, gentlemen,” Parnell said, looking at his watch. “I want to get back for the arguments. I’ve waited over three weeks for this hour.”
“Two minutes,” Max said, popping his head in the door, and I sighed and grabbed up my brief case.
Recess was over and the whispering thronged courtroom slowly fell silent. The Lieutenant and I sat alone at our place (I had purposely retired Laura to one of the lawyers’ chairs behind us), and our long table was bare except for the accumulated dust and the notes for my jury argument and a small scratch pad. The pad was small because I guessed that Mitch would probably open, saying little or nothing that I could gnaw on; then would come my turn; and then, I suspected, the little giant-killer Claude Dancer would arise and wind it all up.
The tense courtroom grew as hushed as a graveyard and the Judge nodded at the People’s table. A mote-streaming shaft of sunlight penetrated the skylight. Mitch got up and formally addressed the court and jury and walked up to the court reporter’s table, where he rested his pad of notes. He then proceeded to make a very capable review of the People’s case, very capable and very dull: capable, because it was all there and yet gave me little or nothing to argue about; dull, because all of us had heard all of it at least once and much of it almost a dozen times. He briefly outlined the elements of murder and reviewed the possible verdicts. He pointed out that the People would speak twice and the defense once; that the People had the privilege of making the opening and closing argument; that I would speak after him; and that the People, doubtless meaning Claude Dancer, would then finally close.
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