Giggles and titters sounded throughout the courtroom, but it only took a stern look from Judge Poynter to stifle it quickly.
"Just—never mind, let the record show that the witness has seen Mr. Hardin and Mrs. Bettencourt kiss. Now, with Your Honor's indulgence, I'm going to bring out a diagram and ask Mr. Givens to explain it to us."
A bailiff brought out a three-legged easel and set a large square white board on it. It was the floor plan of the Texas deck of the Helena Rose. He set it up so that the jury, and the entire courtroom, could see it.
"Now, Mr. Givens, will you please go to the drawing, and point out each room, and tell us what each room is, what it is used for, and who inhabits each room?"
Ezra turned to look up at Judge Poynter. "Why do I have to do all that silly fol-de-rol, Judge? Any idiot can look at that there pitcher, and read what it says."
"Mr. Givens, you live on the boat, so you are considered an expert in this matter. Please just do as Mr. Jameson asks."
Ezra rose and went to the easel. As if he were speaking to a roomful of non-English speakers, he enunciated slowly, "This here is the cargo area on the Texas deck. That's where the cargo inhabits.
"This here is the galley, even though some fool printed 'kitchen' on it. At differin' and sundry times, me and Roberty and Mr. Vince Norville and Marvel Bettencourt and Captain Jeanne Bettencourt and Mr. Clint Hardin inhabits this here galley.
"Now over here is the crew quarters. This nice little pitcher here is my bunk. This nice little square here is Mr. Vince Norville's bunk. This nice little square here is Roberty's bunk. This nice little square here is nobody's bunk.
"This here is Captain Jeanne's cabin. Her and Marvel inhabits it.
"And this here is Clint Hardin's cabin. He inhabits here. Now here—" he stabbed a gnarled forefinger—"and here—and here—and here—is where Leo inhabits from time to time."
"Who's Leo?" Judge Poynter blurted out.
"He's our dog. He's been knowed to inhabit lotsa places on that boat. I jist figgered since all you folks is so nosy 'bout where we all place our bodies all the time, you'd best know about Leo too."
This time even Judge Poynter cracked a wintry smile. "Very well, Mr. Givens. Thank you for your expert information."
Ezra resumed his seat. Jameson, whose mouth had twitched also, regained his severe countenance. "Mr. Givens, the reason I wanted to make the arrangements on the Helena Rose is so that I can ask you this question: Mrs. Bettencourt's and Mr. Hardin's cabins are very close to each other, aren't they?"
"They's acrost a six-foot, three-inch-wide hall from each other."
"It would be very easy for either Mrs. Bettencourt or Mr. Hardin to slip into the other's cabin for romantic reasons, wouldn't it?"
"Me 'n you is closer than them cabins, so it would be very easy fer me to punch your face, Lawyer Jameeson," Ezra snarled.
Judge Poynter said, "Mr. Givens, you know very well that is unacceptable. Please answer the question."
"No, it wouldn't be easy a-tall for either Cap'n Jeanne nor Clint to slip around shameful," he said sturdily. "There's yer answer."
Jameson demanded, "Have you ever seen Mrs. Bettencourt either entering, or leaving, or inside Mr. Hardin's cabin?"
"No, siree!"
"Have you ever seen Mr. Hardin entering, or leaving, or inside Mrs. Bettencourt's cabin?"
"On the night of September 2, I saw Mr. Hardin inside it, then leave it, then enter it and be inside it, and then leave it," he answered precisely.
"Did you see Mr. Hardin shoot Mr. Bettencourt?"
"No, sir. I didn't git there in time, or I woulda shot Mr. Lyin' Maxwell Bettencourt my own self. But Mr. Clint Hardin didn't shoot that fool, he done shot his own dumb self with his own gun, and that there is my swore-on-the-Bible-truth testimony, Mr. Lawyer Jameeson!"
"Judge Poynter—" Jameson pleaded.
"Yes, yes, Mr. Jameson. Strike Mr. Given's last sentence from the record, Mr. Evans," he told one of the busily writing clerks. "Do you have any further questions for this witness, Mr. Jameson?"
"I certainly do not, Your Honor."
"Mr. Deshler?"
"No questions at this time, with option to recall, Your Honor."
Judge Poynter said, "It's almost noon. I'm going to adjourn this court for two hours. All concerned parties will report back here at two o'clock." He struck his gavel and left.
Jeanne was thinking that perhaps some good had been done by Vince's and Ezra's stout testimonies. Uneasily, she told herself that it seemed that the men of the jury were all paying strict attention to everyone and everything, and surely they would see Max as the evil liar that he was.
But as the bailiffs escorted her and Vince, Ezra and Roberty out of the courtroom first, she saw that the looks directed her way were just as dark and hostile as when she had first entered the court. The court of public opinion may have been amused by Vince and Ezra, but Jeanne and Clint were still in deep trouble.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"Oyez, oyez, oyez! All rise for the Honorable Judge Eugene Poynter, presiding over the Phillips County Criminal Court, State of Tennessee!"
Nathaniel Deshler called his first defense witness, Mrs. Herman Wiedemann. Immediately Cyrus Jameson rose to his feet. "Judge Poynter, I wish to enter a formal protest against the first four defense witnesses that my esteemed colleague has called. They were not present when Mr. Bettencourt was shot, they have no knowledge of the events of that night, they can offer no relevant expert testimonials of any matter with a bearing on this case."
Deshler responded, "Judge Poynter, the prosecution has defamed my client's character, and the character of Mrs. Jeanne Bettencourt. They have offered no proof, no corroborating testimony whatsoever, of the grave moral offenses attributed to them. However, I am able, through these witnesses, to offer testimony that disputes Mr. Bettencourt's charges regarding their moral fiber and, therefore, their motives for this alleged crime."
Judge Poynter nodded. "I'll allow these witnesses' testimony. Proceed."
Mrs. Wiedemann sternly affirmed that Jeanne was an honest, hardworking, conscientious Christian lady of high moral standing. She was such an austere, rigid woman that no one in the courtroom could doubt that if she knew of any failing of Jeanne's, either as an employee or as a woman, she would not hesitate to denounce her. Jameson didn't even attempt to cross-examine her.
Mrs. O'Dwyer was a cheerful, thin woman with a lined, weary, but kind face. Having lived in the same house with Jeanne for four years, she stoutly asserted that Jeanne had never, not once, been seen in the company of any man in their home. She stressed Jeanne's and even Marvel's charity, as they shared wood, household goods, food, and even money, with the O'Dwyers.
She said proudly, "Once my husband, who's a deckhand on the William Crawford, got his foot almost broke in two. That Old Mock's cart broke down whilst they was unloading his pitiful sticks of wood, I swear he'd bring his logs down to the docks in paper bags if he thought it'd cost him a penny less. Anyways, there's Mr. O'Dwyer home, with two of his toes broke and his foot swelt up like a fat ham, and he missed a whole twelve-day turnaround 'cause of it. We lacked two dollars for the rent that month, and what did Jeanne do? She loaned us the money to help us pay! Two whole dollars!"
Cy Jameson had no questions for this eager defense witness either.
Next, Deshler set on his repair of Clint's character. He called old L. F. Warner, whom Clint had been apprenticed to since he was twelve years old. He was almost seventy, wrinkled and walking slowly with a cane. He told the court movingly of how Clint, even as a young boy, had been scrupulously honest, and had worked as hard as two full-grown men.
"Not once in his life has Clint ever asked me for one blessed thing. He never complained about the hard work. In fact, through the years he's thanked me, over and over again, for being so kind to him." The old man wiped a tear away from his eyes. "It got to where he was almost like a son to me, and I'm as proud of him as any father ever could be
."
Sighing, Jameson said, "I have no questions for this witness, Your Honor."
Clint's landlady, Mrs. Archibald Bowlin, was a short, round little woman with childlike bright blue eyes and chubby pink cheeks. She wore a very obvious blonde wig of fat ringlets underneath her bonnet, with a few airy wisps of gray floating about her cherubic face. She was sworn in and gave her residence as Bowlin's Boardinghouse on Adams Avenue.
Deshler established that she was Clint's landlady until he moved onto the Helena Rose, and then said, "Please tell the court of how you came to know Mr. Clint Hardin, and in your own words, what kind of man he is."
"Oh, Mr. Hardin came to my boardinghouse when he was but sixteen years old," she said, fanning herself vigorously with a violently purple silk fan. "But even then he was such a fine young gentleman! So tall, so handsome, so charming! Such fine manners, so respectful he always was. And mind you, he paid his rent on time every single month of those six or so years. He loves my cooking, and always brags on it and thanks me, which is a great deal more than I can say for most of my boarders, with all their nattering and complaining.
"Now I must say that Clint wasn't above asking me for little extra tidbits every now and then," she continued her gossipy chatter, "in particular, he loves my raspberry sponge cake. He always asked for a second piece of my raspberry sponge cake, and sometimes he'd ask the next day if there was any left, the sly thing, and I have to admit that I spoiled him somewhat, with cakes and cookies and sometimes we'd even have our own little tea, if he was in of an afternoon."
"And what about Mr. Hardin's social life? Did he ever introduce you to any lady friends?"
"No, he did not, though I don't mind my boarders having callers, or bringing young ladies, if they are ladies, to introduce me to them. I pick and choose my boarders, Mr. Deshler, and I only take in respectable, clean people. Oh, yes! I must tell you that Mr. Hardin is the cleanest man, the cleanest person I ever have known. He was in the kitchen all hours heating up my big copper pot for water for washing, I've never seen—"
"Yes, Mrs. Bowlin, thank you, I believe we understand your observance of Mr. Hardin's personal habits," Deshler said with amusement. "So, you never met Mr. Hardin's friends?"
"Of course I've met Mr. Hardin's friends," she said indignantly. "Haven't I known that scoundrel Vinnie Norville as long as I've known Mr. Hardin? And Duffy Byrne, and Eddie Long, and, oh, there are about half a dozen young men that Mr. Hardin introduced me to over the years. But no ladies, oh, no."
"In view of your strict Christian morals, Mrs. Bowlin, do you think it possible that Mr. Hardin could not introduce you to his lady friends, because they might not be the clean respectable persons that you might countenance?"
She stopped fanning and summoned up a surprising amount of dignity in her answer. "I think that Mr. Hardin is a discreet man that keeps himself to himself, for the most part. But in the six years I've known him, I have found him to be a kind, honest, hardworking man. And he has always, without fail, shown the utmost gentlemanly respect to me."
"Thank you, Mrs. Bowlin. Now I am going to ask you some questions, not as Mr. Hardin's landlady, but as a lady who owns a boardinghouse. How many boarders do you have at this time?"
"Four rooms I let out," she answered. "Right now I have three gentlemen and one lady."
"I see. May I assume that the four boarders' rooms are in close proximity to each other?"
She looked puzzled. "You mean, are they close together? Why, yes. It's my upstairs, you see, what used to be, until poor Mr. Bowlin passed on, the master bedroom and three other bedrooms. Two on one side of the hall and two on the other."
Deshler said carelessly, "So the lady must be across the hall from a gentleman?"
"Well, yes."
"So naturally this lady and the gentleman across the hall from her are lovers?"
Mrs. Bowlin's eyes grew as big as china plates. "What! No, sir, no sir, not in my house, not under my roof! And Miss Carew wouldn't—what kind of terrible question is that, sir? How dare you?"
"I apologize, Mrs. Bowlin, it is quite a shocking thing to assume that just because two unrelated people live under the same roof they must, in fact, be lovers. Yes, Judge, I know, I'll stop testifying. I have no more questions for this witness."
"Neither do I," Jameson said grumpily without even rising.
Dr. Augustus Hightower was called to the stand, and he clinically described Jeanne's injuries, and affirmed that they were consistent with a blow from a strong person.
Jameson asked him, "Dr. Hightower, is it possible that Mrs. Bettencourt might have received this small injury in any other way than from a blow?"
"It is possible, but highly unlikely."
"But couldn't she have accidentally just bruised her face in a fall?" Jameson persisted.
Icily, Hightower replied, "The cheekbone is a curve, Mr. Jameson. Mrs. Bettencourt's cheek was contused, and her lip was abraded. If she sustained these two injuries in a fall, then she must have bounced."
Jameson, looking chastised, gave up.
"Judge Poynter, at this time I wish to recall Mr. Maxwell Bettencourt," Deshler said.
Max came up to the witness box, and the judge reminded him that he was still under oath.
Deshler crisply asked, "Mr. Bettencourt, when you went to the Helena Rose on the night of September 2, and went up to the Texas deck to Mrs. Bettencourt's cabin, did you knock?"
"What?" he asked, startled.
"Did you knock on the door, and announce yourself, and ask for permission to enter?"
"Why—why, no! She's my wife! We've been married for eight years! I am her husband! Her home is my home!"
This time Deshler didn't instruct him to simply answer the question; he seemed content to let Max bluster on.
"So although you had not seen Mrs. Bettencourt for six years, you thought it permissible to just break into her bedroom?"
"I didn't break in! And—and I had seen her the day before, she knew I was here and I wasn't dead and I am her husband, I have a perfect right to be in her bedroom."
"Did you lock the door behind you?"
"No! I know Jeanne says that I did, but she's lying. I never did any such thing."
"Did you grab your daughter by the arm, call her a brat, haul her bodily out into the hallway, and then lock the bedroom door?"
Bettencourt had regained his composure, and he answered with apparent deep regret, "That is not at all what happened, sir. All I wanted to do was talk to Jeanne, try to win back her love. But she had so corrupted my sweet daughter's mind against me, that Marvel panicked and kept interrupting so that it was simply impossible for me to be able to speak to Jeanne at all. I took Marvel's hand, and explained to her that we were adults, and we needed to talk about grown-up things, and we needed to talk privately." He sighed deeply. "Marvel has been thoroughly spoiled, and certainly she's not likely to obey me. I'm sure that she's said that I treated her more roughly than I actually did. I certainly did not 'grab' her nor 'haul' her. And again, sir, I never locked that bedroom door at any time."
Like rapid-fire, as soon as Max finished Deshler asked, "Did you hit Mrs. Bettencourt?"
"No! I—I didn't even know that she had a bruise on her face until I heard that doctor's testimony!" He visibly calmed himself, then went on, "While I was trying to talk to Jeanne, she flew at me. I don't know if she was going to try to scratch me or hit me or what. I naturally tried to defend myself, and we struggled. Jeanne is strong for a woman. Somehow she fell, and that must have been how she bruised her face."
"When Clint Hardin came into the room, where was Mrs. Bettencourt?"
"She was sitting on the bed when that animal came bursting into the room like a mad dog," Max said darkly. "By that time I had calmed her down somewhat, and we were just going to sit down and talk, as we used to."
"What exactly did Mr. Hardin do when he came into the room?"
"He charged right at me like a maddened bull. He drew very close, and then I saw
a small gun in his hand. I realized later, since I am an expert on firearms, that from the diameter of the gun barrel it must be a .22 caliber or even smaller, and those guns are only accurate at a distance, at best, of six to ten feet. He aimed that gun right at my heart and he knew he would have to be close for his shot to be accurate. And then he shot me, an unarmed man, in cold blood."
"And so, to sum up your narration of the events of that night, Mrs. Bettencourt is lying, your daughter is lying, and Clint Hardin is lying, is that correct?"
"Well, yes."
"How tall are you?"
"What?"
"How tall are you?"
"I'm—uh—six feet tall."
"Do bullets travel in a straight line?"
"What?"
"Since you are an expert on firearms, I am asking you if bullets travel in a straight line."
"What—that's a stupid question! Of course they travel in a straight line!"
Deshler turned to Judge Poynter. "At this time, Judge Poynter, I would like to make a demonstration to the courtroom. I request that Mr. Bettencourt stand out here, in front of the witness box, and I request that Dr. Ernest Slattery assist me."
"Objection, Your Honor! This is a court of law, not a theater! My client has no obligation whatsoever to assist the defense!"
Judge Poynter pursed his lips, then asked Deshler, "Is the point of the demonstration vital to an understanding of this case?"
"Your Honor, it is absolutely crucial. The point must be visibly, not verbally, illustrated."
"Then I'm going to allow it. Dr. Slattery, please come forward, remembering that you are still under oath."
"At this time I would like to introduce into evidence my set of fountain pens, Your Honor," Deshler said, bringing up a velvet box to show first to the judge, then to the clerks. He walked over to the jury box and walked slowly down, allowing the men to clearly see the two slim silver pens in the blue velvet case.
Judge Poynter looked interested, Cy Jameson looked puzzled, and Max Bettencourt looked enraged. But he said nothing, and merely stood tall and stiffly in front of the witness box.
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