The River Rose

by Gilbert, Morris

  Max was smooth, and articulate, and emotional in a manly way. He was a magnificent liar. Very slight murmurs of sympathy punctuated his testimony, and the men's glances at the back of Jeanne's head grew more disdainful, and the women's stares became full of disgust. Jeanne kept her eyes glued on Max every moment. Her eyes grew wider, her expression more and more astonished and shocked with every passing moment. She wasn't aware of the stares of the crowd behind her. And she wasn't aware that the gentlemen jurors watched her carefully. Her honest shock was glaringly apparent. Some of them had noticed that though Max spoke skillfully to the crowd in general, he had not once looked directly at either Jeanne nor Clint. Some jurors began to look at Max Bettencourt with a more critical eye.

  "Thank you, Mr. Bettencourt, I know how difficult this is for you," Cy Jameson said fervently, and took his seat.

  "Mr. Deshler, are you ready to cross-examine?" Judge Poynter asked.

  "Yes, Your Honor, thank you." He rose and stood to Max's side, his feet wide apart in a confident stance, his hands behind his back. His tone was exquisitely polite. "Mr. Bettencourt, can you produce any corroborating witnesses that know of your experiences in the Punjab?"

  "No, sir. As I said, I was forced to flee the country secretly, and I made my way out alone. I don't know anything about my comrades."

  "No documentation? No papers at all?"

  "No, sir."

  "And so we have only your word concerning each event, each circumstance, of those six years you were away?"

  "Well, yes, I suppose so, sir. But I'm not lying, I have no reason to lie. I've told you the honest truth!"

  "Please just answer my questions, Mr. Bettencourt. Unlike Mr. Jameson, I don't wish you to embroider your story in any way," Deshler said calmly, allowing the implication to sink in as he paced a step, then returned to his former place.

  "Let's go back further, then, and talk about May of 1849, when you left your pregnant wife to go fight for the Sikhs. You testified that the maharajah paid your travel expenses?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then why, sir, did you take the last penny out of your wife's banking account and leave her penniless and destitute while you merrily went off to gain fame and glory?" Deshler suddenly barked.

  "But—but no, that was our money! It was mine just as much as it was hers! And I had to have some money to travel on. The Sikhs paid for ship's passage, but that didn't include anything like food and—and—supplies!" Abruptly he calmed down and said reasonably, "And I told you, Jeanne encouraged me to go. She didn't want me to go halfway across the world with no money, she's not like that. At least, she wasn't like that back then."

  "Mr. Kurt Langer, Mrs. Bettencourt's father, gave her two hundred dollars upon her marriage to you, isn't that right?" Deshler said.

  "That was her dowry! It was our money!"

  "It was put into a banking account at Memphis Bank and Trust in the name of Max and Jeanne Bettencourt, correct?"

  "Yes! Both of us!"

  "During the year of 1848, the sum of fifty dollars was withdrawn from that bank account in small increments. Each time any monies were withdrawn, the withdrawal slip was signed by both you and Mrs. Bettencourt, since the account was in both of your names. Is that correct?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Yes, or no, Mr. Bettencourt. Now, I have a fair certified bank copy of a withdrawal made on May 10, 1849, for the sum of $151.21, which closed out the account. Please tell the court who signed this withdrawal slip." He flung the piece of paper in Max's face.

  A scowl crossed his smooth features as he barely glanced at it. "I did, and I had every right to do it. I needed that money!"

  Deshler snatched the paper back. "One hundred fifty-one dollars and thirty-two cents," Deshler repeated in outrage. "You deserted your wife and unborn child, and you couldn't even leave them a dollar and thirty-two cents!"

  Jameson jumped up and thundered, "I object, Your Honor! My esteemed opponent is not asking the witness a question, he's testifying himself!"

  Judge Poynter opened his mouth, but Nate Deshler said smoothly, "I beg your pardon, Your Honor, gentlemen of the jury. I am finished questioning this witness at this time, though I do reserve the right to call him again if I absolutely must listen to his drivel."

  "Mr. Deshler," Judge Poynter said ominously, "you are pushing me, and I don't like it."

  "I am so sorry, Your Honor," Deshler said lightly, and resumed his seat.

  "I'm warning you, be careful, Nate," Judge Poynter warned him. "Now, Mr. Jameson, will you call your next witness?"

  "I call Dr. Ernest Slattery." The man who trotted up to the witness stand was the short shabby man that had come into the courtroom with Max. He was sworn in, and Jameson said, "Dr. Slattery, please tell us where you reside and practice medicine, and of the events of the night of September 2."

  He stroked his mustache with his forefinger, a habitual gesture that made the scanty black growth look greasy and limp. "My office is on Front Street, and I live above it. About nine o'clock that night a roustabout came running upstairs and banged on the door, screaming fit to wake the dead. They'd brought a man who had been shot in the chest, and was dying. I hurried downstairs and the two roustabouts brought Mr. Bettencourt into my office.

  "His shirt and coat were covered with blood, and I thought for sure he would die before I could examine him," he said sadly. "And he was moaning fit to rend your heart. 'All I wanted was to talk to her,' says he. 'I just wanted to see her, my own sweet wife, my darling daughter! Oh, how I wish, before I die, that I could kiss her sweet lips one last time!' And such as that."

  "Mr. Bettencourt believed he was mortally wounded," Jameson said gravely. "But he was not, of course."

  "No, sir. I found upon my examination that he had been shot in the chest, but it was somewhat above his heart. It was a through-and-through wound. That means that the bullet entered his chest and came out behind. I stopped the two wounds bleeding, and then bandaged him up. After I made sure he understood that he was going to be all right, I told him that he ought to have the villain that shot him arrested. He was pretty tired, and in a lot of pain, and it seemed like he didn't much care about anything, he was so grieved. But he finally agreed, and I had the roustabouts go fetch the sheriffs."

  "Thank you, Dr. Slattery," Jameson said and resumed his seat.

  "Your witness, Mr. Deshler," Judge Poynter said.

  Deshler asked, "Dr. Slattery, during all of Mr. Bettencourt's long lament, did he tell you that he had been shot with a .22?"

  Slattery blurted out, "Yes. I mean, I guess he did. No, I'm not sure. I figured it was a .22, because the diameter of the entry wound was small."

  "Again, Dr. Slattery. Did Mr. Bettencourt tell you he was shot by a .22?"

  "Uh—I can't remember."

  "That's unfortunate, it's extremely important, and the fact that you can't remember makes you a very poor witness, Dr Slattery. Are you certain that you have absolutely no recollection of how you knew that the wound was made by a .22?"

  "I was busy attending Mr. Bettencourt. I just can't remember that one little thing," he snapped.

  "Very well. Now, about the wound itself. Please tell the court the exact point of entry and exit of the bullet."

  He sniffed and replied haughtily, "It entered between the fourth and fifth left ribs, nicked the posterior fourth rib, then exited through the scapula."

  "Show us, please. Just point to it on your body."

  He sighed with exaggerated impatience. "It hit him here," he said, pointing high on the left of his chest. And I can't reach all the way around to point, Mr. Deshler, but it came out back here." Vaguely he waved toward the back of his left shoulder.

  "Thank you, Dr. Slattery. That is all for now."

  Jeanne had trouble analyzing this witness's testimony. In the first place, it was extremely distracting, the way he twitched and twiddled with his mustache. But she had noticed one thing. The doctor wore a heavy square-cut ruby ring set in gold on his right
middle finger. Jeanne knew that it had been the ring Max had worn on his left pinky.

  The next witness the prosecutor called was Deputy Sheriff Elias Fields, the tall, coolly professional deputy that had placed Clint under arrest. He told the court who he was, and that he was the arresting officer.

  Jameson said, "Deputy Fields, you reported to Dr. Slattery's office to take Max Bettencourt's statement on the night of September 2, correct?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And what was Mr. Bettencourt's statement?"

  "He told me that he was visiting his wife, and that a man named Mr. Clinton Hardin had shot him, intending to kill him. He told me that I could find Mr. Hardin on the steamboat Helena Rose."

  "Mr. Bettencourt's statement was that short and spare? He didn't say anything else?"

  "Yes, he said quite a bit more."

  With exaggerated patience Jameson asked, "Then would you please tell the court what Mr. Bettencourt said?"

  Blank-faced the deputy replied, "I can't repeat it word for word, Mr. Jameson, but I'll try to be as clear as I can. He said that he loved Jeanne with all his heart, and he loved Marvel with all his heart, and all he was trying to do was come back to his dear love and his sweet daughter, and Clint Hardin that villain, and some other descriptive words I won't repeat, that was doing things to his wife that I won't repeat, tried to murder him, and he wanted Mr. Hardin arrested and hanged and dead as a dog."

  "Yes, thank you," Jameson said hurriedly. "When you went to the Helena Rose, you did find Clint Hardin there, and you did place him under arrest. Did Mr. Hardin protest at his arrest?"

  "No, sir."

  "Did he say anything at all in his own defense? Did he protest his innocence?"

  "No, sir."

  Jameson nodded with satisfaction. "Please tell us what you saw when you arrived on the Helena Rose, Deputy."

  "I first saw a young boy burning something, a big bonfire, at the foot of the gangplank. I boarded the boat, and I saw Mr. Norville and Mr. Givens down on their hands and knees, scrubbing the main cargo deck. Mr. Hardin was down on his hands and knees scrubbing the top of the landing stage."

  "And you arrested Mr. Hardin at that time, and he was taken away by three other deputies, and you remained behind on the Helena Rose to question the other two men and the boy, correct?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And what was the nature of your questioning, and the result?"

  "I asked Mr. Norville what they were doing. Both he and Mr. Givens said that they were cleaning up Mr. Bettencourt's blood from the boat. I then observed that there was a trail of blood still remaining down the gangplank. Then I questioned Roberty, the young boy who was tending the fire. He told me that he was burning Mrs. Bettencourt's mattress, sheets, quilts, and pillows because Mr. Bettencourt had bled on them. He said that no one, especially 'Captain Jeanne', wanted any reminder that Max Bettencourt had ever been on that boat."

  "They were systematically destroying the evidence that Mr. Hardin had, for all they knew, murdered Max Bettencourt," Jameson intoned.

  "Objection," Deshler said mildly. "Mr. Jameson is not questioning the witness, he is testifying, Your Honor."

  "Objection sustained."

  Jameson lifted his head and said quietly, "I need ask no further questions of this witness."

  Judge Poynter said, "Your witness, Mr. Deshler."

  Deshler rose. "I have no questions for this witness, Your Honor."

  "Very well. Mr. Jameson?"

  "I call for my next witness, Mr. Vincent Norville."

  Vince sauntered up to the witness stand, swore to tell the truth, sat down in the witness chair, and stared up at Cy Jameson as suspiciously as if he were a cheating poker player. "Clint didn't shoot that fool," he said loudly.

  Judge Poynter pounded his gavel angrily, and Jameson shouted, "I object!"

  "He's your witness, Cy, you can't object," Judge Poynter rasped. "Everyone simmer down! I won't have this silly hullaballooing in my courtroom!" He pounded his gavel twice more.

  When the laughter quieted down Jameson said, "Your Honor, this man is a very reluctant witness. I'm going to beg your indulgence if I am forced to question him in a more leading manner, with more assumption than is conventional."

  "I'm fully cognizant of the situation, Mr. Jameson, and you may question the witness as you see fit, within the bounds of the rule of law. Mr. Norville, you will answer the questions put to you, and that is all. Another outburst like that one and I'll slap you in jail for contempt."

  "Yes, sir," Vince said blandly.

  "Now, Mr. Norville. You've been friends with Mr. Hardin for a long time, haven't you?" Jameson asked.

  "Yes, sir."

  "You know him very well, as well as anyone?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And so," Jameson said heavily, "you know that he is a violent, brutal man, correct?"

  "No, sir."

  "He has beaten men severely. Eleven men, in fact. In the last fight he had, he almost blinded a man, did he not?"

  "No, sir."

  "He's a fighter, isn't he? He participates in brutal bare-knuckle fistfights, vicious knock-down free-for-all brawls, doesn't he?"

  "He is an athlete in the sport of fistic competition. He is an expert pugilist."

  "That's simply a sly way of saying he's a savage fighter, isn't it?"

  "No, sir."

  Jameson was clearly frustrated, so he moved on. "Mr. Norville, Mr. Hardin is well-known as what is called a 'ladies' man.' Has he—"

  "Your Honor, I must object," Deshler said. "Mr. Jameson is stating pure gossip as fact, and his phrasing in no way poses a question to the witness."

  Judge Poynter frowned. "Mr. Jameson, I will allow you some leeway with this witness, but you must submit questions to him. Objection sustained."

  Jameson sighed heavily and asked, "Mr. Norville, have you ever talked with Mr. Hardin about his lady friends?"

  "No, sir."

  "That is not a satisfactory answer, sir. Remember, you are sworn to tell the whole truth. Have you ever, in your entire life, talked to Clint Hardin about ladies?"

  "Well, why didn't you ask me that in the first place? Yes, sir."

  "Mr. Hardin has talked to you about ladies of his acquaintance?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Mr. Hardin has told you about his relationships with ladies of his acquaintance?"

  "No, sir."

  "Mr. Norville! I must insist that you tell this court the truth, and stop lying! If you and Mr. Hardin have had conversations about ladies, he must have told you of his relationships to them, isn't that correct, Mr. Norville?" Jameson almost shouted.

  "No, sir. See, all Clint ever says about any ladies is compliments about them, in general," Vince said expansively. "He says this lady is nice, that one is sweet, the other one has pretty eyes, over there, she has great teeth. Things like that. He never, not one time, has ever said one single word to me about his personal relationships to any ladies at all."

  Jameson looked honestly aghast. "You've been friends with Mr. Hardin since childhood, and your sworn testimony is that he has never told you about his lady friends. Are you certain that you want that recorded as your testimony, sworn to truth with your hand on the Bible, in front of this judge and this jury and these people?"

  "Yes, sir," Vince said confidently.

  "Very well," Jameson said darkly. "Now, Mr. Norville, did you see Clint Hardin shoot Max Bettencourt?"

  "I already told you, Clint didn't shoot Bettencourt," Vince said impudently.

  "Answer the question, Mr. Norville!"

  "No sir, I did not see the shooting. But Clint couldn't have shot Bettencourt anyway."

  "Since you weren't there, how can you possibly swear to that?" Jameson demanded angrily.

  "Because Clint Hardin doesn't know the upside from the downside of a gun. He's never had anything to do with them. He's never carried a gun in his life, never owned one, wouldn't have one if you gave it to him."

  "Mr. Norville, acco
rding to the law your assertion is meaningless, because one cannot prove a negative," Jameson said with superiority. "What do you say to that?"

  Vince shrugged carelessly. "Then prove a positive, Mr. Lawyer. You prove he had a gun that night."

  "Your Honor, I'm through with this witness," Jameson said with disdain.

  "Mr. Deshler?" Judge Poynter asked.

  "Your Honor, I don't wish to question this witness at this time. However, I would like the opportunity to recall him if necessary."

  "So noted."

  The next witness, who was also pointed out to be an unwilling prosecutorial witness, was Ezra Givens. He sat in the witness chair, his arms crossed, and glared at Jameson.

  "Mr. Givens, you live on the riverboat Helena Rose, with Mrs. Jeanne Bettencourt, Mr. Clinton Hardin, Mr. Vince Norville, Marvel Bettencourt, and Roberty, is that correct?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir."

  Jameson obviously didn't want to get into a quagmire as he did with Vince Norville, so he asked Ezra blunt, pointed questions. "You saw Mr. Clint Hardin and Mrs. Jeanne Bettencourt kissing, didn't you?"

  Ezra's eyes narrowed. "Yes, sir," he bit off.

  "In fact, you saw them in a passionate embrace, didn't you?"

  "No, sir."

  "But they were kissing, and had their arms around each other, and so it was an embrace, was it not?"

  "I don't got no idear where their arms was. I only saw 'em for a second, and I tuck off 'cause it weren't none of my bidness," he said sourly.

  "But you have seen them, many times, show physical affection?"

  "Thet there question don't make no sense, and I ain't a-gonna answer it."

  "Oh, come now, Mr. Givens. You're a grown man, you know perfectly well what I mean. I insist that you answer the question."

  "I ruffle up Roberty's hair sometimes, 'cause I care about the boy. Is that what you mean? No, I ain't never seed Clint nor Miss Jeanne mess up one 'nother's hair."