The River Rose

by Gilbert, Morris

  About twenty people, mostly women, but with a couple of jaunty-looking young men, were scattered around. Deshler seated Jeanne and Vince on the front bench, then said, "I'm going to go to Mr. Hardin. Wait for me until after he's arraigned, please."

  The judge came in, and one by one the prisoners were brought in. Two toughs were charged with public drunkenness and disturbing the peace, and then they brought Clint in. He glanced at Jeanne and Vince, and smiled as if he hadn't a care in the world. He looked well, too, considering. He wasn't pale, he was clean, and he stood straight and tall. Jeanne longed to rush to him, to at least talk to him, but Deshler had warned them that this arraignment would only take a minute or two at most, and that Clint wouldn't be allowed to speak to them. Still, Jeanne had insisted that she had to at least see him.

  The judge read the charges and asked, "How do you plead, Mr. Hardin?"

  "Not guilty," he said firmly.

  "So entered," the judge said. "Mr. Deshler, you are representing Mr. Hardin?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'd like to set his trial date for next Monday, the tenth. Is that agreeable to you?"

  "Yes, Judge Poynter. Thank you, sir."

  Immediately after the arraignment Deshler insisted that Jeanne see a doctor. "But I don't need a doctor," Jeanne argued. "I know it looks horrible, but really it doesn't hurt that badly. I know nothing's broken, my teeth aren't loose or anything."

  Deshler said, "I told you that charging your husband with assault and battery wouldn't do us much good. What I didn't say was that the fact that he assaulted you and battered you will indeed help. I want a doctor to be able to attest to it. I know a good man, a well-respected man that has a reputation for being forthright and honest. Now don't tell him the whole story, Mrs. Bettencourt. Just answer his questions."

  He took her to an obviously very successful Dr. Augustus Hightower, whose office looked more like a governor's office than a doctor's clinic. He looked familiar to Jeanne, and finally she recalled that he was one of the Calvary Choristers. He must know Clint, and Jeanne knew that if he knew Clint at all, he would know that he was innocent.

  The next week was extremely stressful for Jeanne. The newspapers had gotten word of the sensational story, and they came to the Helena Rose every single day to shout out questions at anyone that showed their face aboard the boat. Sometimes they were people that looked like ordinary citizens, men dressed in frock coats, well-dressed women, couples who came to goggle at the boat and talk among themselves. Every day for a week some article in the Memphis Appeal appeared concerning her, the female riverboat pilot, or the Helena Rose, or Clint, entailing his careeer as a master machinist and playing up sensational stories of his astonishing voice.

  All parties had been warned not to publicly discuss the case at all, but that didn't stop Max Bettencourt. He gave interviews to all and sundry, bragging about his service in the United States Army and bemoaning the horrors and terrors of being "a prisoner" of the Sikhs. Several articles were written about him, all of them sympathetic. Max Bettencourt was smooth and slyly clever and wholly believable.

  The district attorney's office sent two investigators, attorneys who were actually deputized to the sheriff but who wore plain clothes. They crawled all over the boat, and even drew pictures of it, the outside and every single room on the inside. In Jeanne's room they included diagrams of every stick of furniture, every whatnot set around, including Marvel's dollhouse, and even measured the room to the inch.

  They questioned every person, and Jeanne balked when they wanted to question Marvel alone. "I won't allow it," she said stiffly. "Unless you have some kind of order from a judge, I will not allow it."

  One of them, a coolly professional older man, said, "Mrs. Bettencourt, she is an eyewitness. She may be summoned to testify. I promise you that we will be perfectly courteous to the little girl. Wouldn't it be better if she were exposed to questioning now, without you at her side?"

  Jeanne asked Marvel about it. "It's okay, Mama. I can just tell them what happened, I'm not scared." Jeanne relented.

  They talked to her for what seemed like a long time to Jeanne. When they came out of the cabin the detective said, "She's a very smart, observant child."

  "I'm so proud of you, little girl," she told Marvel. "You're so grown up, and so smart. I'm very, very proud that you're my daughter."

  In a small voice, Marvel said, "Thank you, Mama. I didn't mind talking to them, they were nice. But if I had to tell it in court, would my daddy be there?"

  Jeanne hugged her hard. "You won't have to tell it in court, my darling. I promise."

  No women were allowed to visit the jail, but they did allow Vince to see Clint. He told Jeanne that Clint was cheerful and confident, and that the most complaining he did was that he couldn't take a bath. "But don't they give him water for sponge baths?" she asked.

  "Yeah, but he's like some kinda otter when it comes to dunking," Vince answered. "He's got a bathtub in his cabin. I know you didn't know that. Sometimes it takes him hours to heat up enough water for it, but he doesn't care. He's like a drunkard, only with bathing instead of drinking."

  Vince also took paper and pen to Clint, and he wrote Jeanne a note every single day. He never was romantic, for he knew that in spite of what had happened, she still felt in her heart that she was married to Max Bettencourt and she would always be mindful of it. His quick notes were always lighthearted, with some encouraging words for her and Marvel.

  The three best things that have ever happened in my life are this: That the Lord loves me and saved me. That I met you, Jeanne. That I met you, Marvel. I love you both very much. No matter what happens, I will love you always. One day we'll all be together, a family. Never doubt it.

  On Friday before the trial on Monday, Nate Deshler came to the Helena Rose with his clerk. "You remember Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Bettencourt. He's here to document for me, because I'm going to be conducting my own little investigation and I don't want to be distracted by trying to make notes. Mr. Beebe is conversant with the case, and I have full confidence in him and his discretion."

  "Mr. Deshler, I do trust you implicitly," Jeanne assured him. "Mr. Beebe, you are welcome here. Thank you so much for helping us."

  Deshler went over the boat, but he showed little interest in anything except Jeanne's bedroom. "This is what I want us to do," he told Jeanne and Vince. "We are going to act out that night, exactly as it happened, as closely as possible to the real events."

  "I want to be Clint," Vince said, grinning.

  "Very well," Deshler said with amusement. "Mr. Beebe will be happy to act as Maxwell Bettencourt."

  Mr. Beebe was five feet, five inches tall, with a round prim face and thick spectacles teetering on the end of a long thin nose. He rolled his eyes at Deshler's suggestion, but he gamely took part in the pantomime.

  Marvel went through her part, explaining in her high little voice what Max had said to her, and how he had yanked her to the door and thrown her out. "No, Mr. Beebe," she said patiently. "You have to grab my arm this way. We'll play like you yank it hard."

  Jeanne started out doing very well, but it became extremely hard for her to even say out loud what Max had done to her. Deshler, sitting by the door in one of Jeanne's desk chairs, said firmly, "Mrs. Bettencourt, I want you to be very clear about these events. Clear and detailed. I must insist."

  "Yes, sir," she gulped, and looked at Beebe helplessly.

  He said with feeling, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Bettencourt, but it really is very important."

  "All right. Then—" she took Beebe's right hand, lifted it, and said, "He hit me across the face with the back of his hand. And I fell." She went on, relating everything about those awful few minutes.

  Vince acted the part of Clint heroically. Ezra and Vince and Roberty and even Leo duly played out their parts, with a continual dire mutterings from Ezra.

  Deshler had Vince take Beebe down the stairs, just as Clint had done to Bettencourt, though perhaps not quite as roughly, and h
e allowed no one to follow them, since Clint and Bettencourt at that time had been alone.

  When all the players had returned, he asked, "I want to be perfectly clear about this. The only persons who actually witnessed the shooting were Mrs. Bettencourt, Marvel, Mr. Hardin, and Bettencourt, correct?"

  Vince replied, "I followed Clint after we heard Marvel screaming, but he's a lot faster than I am. By the time I got here it was all over but the cryin'." Roberty and Ezra both regretfully told him that by the time they got to Jeanne's cabin Clint was already dragging Max out the door.

  Deshler nodded. "This is very important. Did anyone see the gun?" They all looked at each other, then shook their heads mutely. "Ah, the weapon, the weapon," Deshler murmured. "This mysterious, invisible weapon. Very well. Now, what happened when Mr. Hardin returned to the room?"

  He made them all go through everything, from Clint stripping Jeanne's bed, Ezra's activities in the galley and attending to Jeanne, from Vince and Clint repairing the door, from all of them scrubbing, and Roberty burning the mattress and bedclothes. He insisted on knowing every single detail, no matter how small, from the time Max had entered Jeanne's room until the deputies had come to arrest Clint.

  After that was over he sat down with them all at Jeanne's dining table. Even Leo was allowed to attend, and he laid his head on Jeanne's lap even though they weren't eating. The dog had been especially attentive to Jeanne since that night.

  "I'm going to interview each of you separately after we talk," Deshler said. "But first I want to talk to all of you. Normally a defense lawyer will guide his witnesses, he will teach them exactly what to say and how to say it. I do have some suggestions for you, and I'll discuss that when I talk to each of you alone. But just for the record I want to tell you this: you must tell me the absolute, honest, perfect truth about everything. Even if you don't understand why I'm asking some question, I want you all to promise me now that you'll tell me the truth."

  They all agreed. Deshler went on, "I believe you all are truthful people, anyway, but it helps us all, me included, to say it out loud. Now the only other thing I want to tell you is how you can best help Mr. Hardin with his defense." He gave them one of his rare smiles. "This is most unusual advice for a criminal defense attorney to be giving. My advice to you is this: tell the truth. If the prosecutor comes up with something that you wish he didn't know, don't try to cover. Just answer his questions honestly. Don't volunteer any information; when possible, just answer, 'Yes, sir' and 'No, sir.'" Any sensible man or woman can tell that you, and Mr. Hardin, are honest people. And that is going to be Mr. Hardin's best defense of all."

  Ezra scowled. "Thet's all fine and good, Lawyer Deshler, but me and Vinnie here has been called up by the prostecuter's office fer the prostecution! Now I ain't gonna lie, but I've a mind not to answer their fool questions a-tall!"

  Jeanne was shocked; she had no idea. She assumed that they hadn't told her so she wouldn't worry.

  "I know you have," Deshler said soothingly. "And if you simply refuse to answer the prosecutor's questions, they will put you in jail until you agree to testify. Even if you decide never to answer the questions, then you'll die in jail. And, Mr. Givens, please trust me, and take my advice about your testimony. Answer their questions, and tell the truth. I guarantee you that will help Mr. Hardin much more than you rotting in jail for contempt."

  "Well, I got me some contempt, all right," Ezra grunted. "But I b'lieve you, Lawyer Deshler. I'll answer their tomfool questions, and make 'em wish they woulda left me alone."

  Then Deshler interviewed Ezra, Vince, and Roberty alone. He returned to Jeanne's room and said, "Mrs. Bettencourt, my client Mr. Hardin has directed me that under no circumstances am I going to be allowed to summon Marvel to testify. At first I argued with him, but now that I've seen what I've seen today, and talked to Mr. Givens and Mr. Norville at length, I must say that I don't think that Marvel's testimony will be crucial to Mr. Hardin's defense."

  Jeanne asked hesitantly, "You don't think that the prosecutor's office may summon her?"

  "I doubt it. In my opinion, she would be a very credible witness for the defense, not the prosecution. The prosecutor is a very intelligent man, and from her statement that she gave to his investigators, and their opinion of her, he's going to realize that Marvel could do some serious damage to the way people perceive Mr. Bettencourt." He added wryly, "That's why I would really like to call her for Mr. Hardin's defense. But I cannot, since he's forbidden me to. And ma'am, I would never do such a thing unless you agreed. I hope you know that."

  "I do," Jeanne said with overwhelming relief. "Thank you, Mr. Deshler."

  "You're welcome, ma'am. Now, let me explain something to you about Cyrus Jameson, the district attorney. I know him very well. He's somewhat older than I, I would imagine he's about in his mid-fifties. He's a fair man, but he's strict. He got elected because he is a no-nonsense law-and-order man, and the major reason he won his election is because he promised to clean up the docks, it's sort of his mission. He works very hard, and harshly prosecutes all violent crimes committed on the docks. And I have to say that he is very old-fashioned about women. He believes that their place is in the home, by their husband's side, caring for the children, and never airing their opinions or views in public."

  Jeanne sighed. "He's going to think that I'm a loose, cheap, tawdry woman. But then I suppose that most people do."

  "That's possible. You are unorthodox, Mrs. Bettencourt. When a person differs in the slightest from the norm—particularly women—people have a tendency to believe the worst. But you knew, did you not, when you decided to pilot the Helena Rose, that you would be subject to all kinds of gossip about you and your character?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "And when you decided to pilot the Helena Rose, did you feel that it was the right thing to do?"

  "Yes, I do. I still do. I believe it was a gift from God, for both me and Marvel."

  "And your character. Have you done anything at all unladylike, or as you said, loose, cheap, or tawdry?"

  "No, I have not."

  "Are you and Clint Hardin lovers?"

  Jeanne drew in a sharp breath. "What? No! That is—I—we love each other, we're betrothed. I mean, we were until I found out that Max is alive. But no, we are not intimate, at all!"

  Deshler nodded knowingly. "Get it out of your system. You're going to be asked that question in front of a lot of people, Mrs. Bettencourt. Do not react as you've done just now. Please remember what I told you. Answer the question, tell the truth, but never volunteer information to the prosecutor. When Cy Jameson asks you, in whatever form, if you and Mr. Hardin are physically intimate, say, 'No, we are not and never have been.' You have no obligation at all, either legal or moral, to offer or volunteer information of any kind. I wanted you to comprehend that completely, that's why I was so impertinent."

  "Mr. Deshler, you couldn't be impertinent if you had a tutor to teach you," Jeanne said gratefully. "I'm beginning to understand that 'tell the truth' sounds very simple, but it's really not, in a court of law. I promise you I will think about it more until the trial."

  "Good. Now, there is one more thing that I must tell you, Mrs. Bettencourt." He hesitated for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind and went on, "I had a telegram from George Masters. He offered to engage me for Mr. Hardin's defense. And he requested that I call him as a character witness."

  Jeanne was so shocked that her mouth actually opened a bit. "I had forgotten completely about poor George! Oh, I am awful! But he offered to pay for Clint's defense? They weren't—exactly—good friends. And he offered to be a character witness for Clint? He hardly knows him!"

  "I refused his offer of payment, of course, as Mr. Hardin had already engaged me," Deshler answered. "It was, I must say, extremely charitable of Mr. Masters, under the circumstances. Oh, yes, I do know the circumstances, Mrs. Bettencourt. George Masters has been a friend of mine for many years. And I was obliged to tell him that it would do far m
ore harm than good for him to act as a character witness."

  "Harm?" Jeanne said with confusion.

  "Yes. Because you see, Mr. Masters offered to be a character witness for you, Mrs. Bettencourt. He understands, as perhaps you do not, that you will be on trial, and will be judged in the court of public opinion, just as surely as Mr. Hardin will."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  On Monday morning, the day of Clint's trial, Jeanne's face was almost back to normal. The swelling had gone down both on her cheek and mouth. The only evidence left was a faint yellow spot on her right cheekbone, and a very small cut remained on her lip. She was relieved. It was going to be hard enough to be seen in public—in fact, to be a public spectacle—without her face looking all beat up. Perhaps it was vanity, but somehow it made her feel less like hiding.

  Shannon Byrne, a sassy, redheaded Irish lass, watched Jeanne searching her face in the mirror. "You're as pretty as a spring day, Miss Jeanne. A little pale, but oh how I wish I had that face! And your hair. Mine looks like a house afire."

  Jeanne had been planning to ask Mrs. O'Dwyer to babysit Marvel during the trial, but she had found out that Mr. Deshler had called her as a witness, for some reason. Deshler hadn't told her much about Clint's defense, explaining to her that her obvious innocence and lack of inside knowledge would be a plus. She didn't understand that, but she believed him. So Vince had suggested that Shannon Byrne, the wife of his and Clint's close friend, Duffy Byrne, would make an excellent babysitter. Shannon was twenty years old, lively and cheery, and she was seven months pregnant. She had promised that Marvel could feel the baby next time he or she kicked, and Marvel had been delighted.

  Roberty had begged Jeanne to let him attend the trial. At first she had refused, for she knew that some of the testimony would be graphic. But Roberty was so upset, so anxious to help, that finally she had changed her mind and gave him her permission to attend. Living on his own, he already had seen much worse things anyway. And it was sad but true, Jeanne realized. It was different from Marvel; Roberty was a boy.