‘Miyamoto there didn’t board Carl Heine against his will,’ Josiah Gillanders said. ‘Tie-up’s too tricky, and Carl was no slouch. Had to be, if he boarded at all, some kind of emergency, engine problem or something. Battery, that’s what his missus said. Carl had battery problems.’
‘All right,’ said Nels. ‘Battery problems. Let’s say you had a battery problem. You couldn’t run. No lights. You’re dead in the water. What would you do about it, Mr. Gillanders? Would you, say, put a spare in?’
‘Don’t carry a spare,’ Josiah answered. ‘Be like carrying a spare in your car. Just doesn’t happen much, does it?’
‘But, Mr. Gillanders,’ said Nels Gudmundsson. ‘If you will recall from the county sheriff’s testimony, as well as from his written report, there was, in fact, a spare on board Carl Heine’s boat when it was found adrift in White Sand Bay. There was a D-8 and a D-6 in his battery well, in use, and a D-8 sitting on the floor of his cabin – a third battery, albeit dead, which might presumably be thought of as a spare.’
‘Well,’ said Josiah. ‘All of that’s mighty strange. Three batteries – that’s mighty strange. A dead spare – that’s mighty strange, too. Everybody I know runs off two batteries, a main and the other, an auxiliary. One goes bad you can run off the other ’til you get to the docks again. And something else here, a D-8 and a D-6 side by side in the well – I never heard of that before neither, in all my time on the water. I never heard of no such arrangement – a guy ’d use just one size battery – and I don’t think Carl Heine would’ve run that way, you see, so irregular and all. I think Mrs. Miyamoto there had it true – Carl had battery problems, probably pulled his D-8, set it on his cabin floor dead, and borrowed a D-6 from Miyamoto, who ran off his other the rest of the night – that’s the most likely explanation.’
‘I see,’ said Nels. ‘Say you’re dead in the water and in need of help. What would be your next move?’
‘I’d get on the radio,’ said Josiah. ‘Or I’d hail somebody in sight distance. Or if my net was set and I was doing all right I’d wait for somebody to come into sight distance and hail them at that point.’
‘Your first choice would be the radio?’ Nels asked. ‘You’d call for help on your radio? But if your battery’s dead do you even have a radio? What’s powering it, Mr. Gillanders, sir, what’s powering your radio if you have no battery? Can you really put a call out on your radio?’
‘You’re right,’ said Josiah Gillanders. ‘Radio’s dead. I can’t call. You’re dead to rights.’
‘So what do you do?’ Nels asked. ‘You hail someone, if it isn’t too foggy. But if it is foggy, as it was on the night Carl Heine drowned – sometime on the morning of September 16, a very foggy morning, you might recall – well then, you have to hope – don’t you? – that someone passes closely by, and you have to hail whoever it is, because the chances of your seeing another boat are not too good, are they? You have to take whatever help comes along because otherwise you’re in big trouble.’
‘You’re straight all the way,’ said Josiah Gillanders. ‘Spot like that, you’d better get some help, drifting along in the fog and all, right up next to the shipping lanes out there at Ship Channel Bank. Dangerous spot to be dead in the water. Big freighters come right through all the time. You’d better get yourself some help if you can – whoever, like you say, shows up out of the fog when you start blowing on your horn. All right, I’m ahead of you on this one,’ Josiah added. ‘Carl’d have aboard a compressed-air horn, see. He didn’t need no battery to give his emergency blow. He’d be out there with his hand horn blowing away. He didn’t need no battery to blow his horn.’
‘Well,’ said Nels. ‘All right then. He’s drifting in the fog near the shipping lanes, no engine, no lights, no radio, no spare battery – do you think he would welcome it if help came along? Do you think he’d be thankful if another gill-netter came along and offered to tie up to him, help him out?’
‘Of course,’ said Josiah. ‘Sure he’d welcome it. He’s stranded at sea, he can’t get under way, he can’t even bring his net in, pick fish. He’d better be pretty damn thankful, you bet. If he isn’t, he’s off his rocker.’
‘Mr. Gillanders.’ Nels coughed into his hand. ‘I want you to think back to a question I asked you just a few moments ago, sir. I want you to ponder this matter of murder – of first-degree murder, premeditated. Of planning to kill someone in advance of the fact, then executing the following strategy: approaching your victim while he fished at sea, tying up to his boat against his will, leaping aboard, and hitting him in the head with the butt of a fishing gaff. I want to ask you – I’m asking you again – from the perspective of a man who has been fishing for thirty years, from the perspective of the gill-netters association president – a man who presumably hears about almost everything that happens out there on the sea at night – would you, sir, consider this a good plan? Is this the plan a fisherman would make if he wanted to kill someone?’
Josiah Gillanders shook his head as if offended. ‘That, Mr. Gudmundsson,’ he said emphatically, ‘would be the most cockeyed procedure imaginable. Absolutely the most cockeyed, see. If one fellow wanted to kill another he could find a way less foolhardy and dangerous, I guess you’d have to say. Boardin’ another man’s boat against his will – that, I’ve told you, isn’t possible. Leapin’ at him with a fishing gaff? That’s just laughable, sir. That’s pirates and stories and such like. I guess if you could get close enough to tie up – you couldn’t – you’d also be close enough to shoot him, wouldn’t you? Just shoot him, you see, then tie up to him real easy, then toss him overboard and wash your hands. He’s going down hard to the bottom of the sea and twon’t be seen again. I’d shoot him, I would, and skip being the first gill-netter in the history of the profession to make a successful forced boarding. No, sir, if there’s anyone in this court thinks Kabuo Miyamoto there boarded Carl Heine’s boat against his will, bashed him in the head with a fishing gaff, and tossed him over-board – well, they’re just daft, that’s all. You’d have to be daft to believe that.’
‘All right, then,’ Nels said. ‘I have no further questions for you, Mr. Gillanders. I thank you, however, for coming down here this morning. It’s snowing hard outside.’
‘It’s snowing hard, yes,’ said Josiah. ‘But it sure is warm in here, Mr. Gudmundsson. It’s mighty warm for Mr. Hooks there, in fact. It – ’
‘Your witness,’ interrupted Nels Gudmundsson. He sat down next to Kabuo Miyamoto and put his hand on Kabuo’s shoulder. ‘I’m all through, Mr. Hooks,’ he said.
‘Well then, I suppose it’s my turn,’ Alvin Hooks answered calmly. ‘I have just a few questions, Mr. Gillanders. Just a few things we need to turn about in all this heat – is that all right with you sir?’
Josiah shrugged and clasped his hands over his belly.’ Turn ’em then,’ he advised. ‘I’m all ears, cap’n.’
Alvin Hooks stood and strolled casually to the witness box with his hands deep in his trousers pockets. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Mr. Gillanders. You’ve been fishing for thirty years.’
‘That’s right, sir. Thirty. Count ’em.’
‘Thirty years is a long time,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘A lot of lonely nights at sea, yes? Plenty of time to think.’
‘Landlubber might see it as lonely, I s’pose. A man like you might get lonely out there – a man who talks for a living. I – ’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘I’m a landlubber, Mr. Gillanders. I’m the sort of man who would feel lonely at sea – all of that’s true, yes. Fine, fine, perfectly fine – my personal life is out of the way, then. So let’s talk about the case instead and skip these other matters for just right now – would that be all right with you, sir?’
‘You’re calling the shots here,’ said Josiah Gillanders. ‘Ask me whatever you want to ask me and let’s be done with it.’
Alvin Hooks passed in front of the jurors with his hands clasped at the small of his back neatly. ‘Mr. Gillande
rs,’ he said. ‘I understood you to say earlier that no gill-netter would board another’s boat except in the case of an emergency. Is this correct, sir? Did I hear you right?’
‘Correct,’ said Josiah Gillanders. ‘You got me.’
‘Is it a matter of principle among gill-netters, then, to help out another in distress? That is, Mr. Gillanders, would you consider yourself duty bound to assist a fellow fisherman in an emergency at sea of some sort? Is that about the size of it?’
‘We’re men of honor,’ said Josiah Gillanders. ‘We fish alone but we work together. There’s times at sea when we need each other, see? Any man worth his salt out there is going to come to the aid of his neighbor. It’s the law of the sea – you bet it is – to put away whatever you’re doin’ and answer any distress call. I can’t think of a single fisherman on this island who wouldn’t make it his business to help another man in an emergency out there on the water. It’s a law, see – not written anywhere exactly, but just as good as something written. Gill-netters help each other.’
‘But Mr. Gillanders,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘We’ve heard here in previous testimony, sir, that gill-netters don’t always get along very well, they’re silent men who fish alone, they argue about the placement of their boats at sea, about who is stealing fish from who, and so forth, et cetera, et cetera. They’re not known to be particularly friendly men, and they prefer to fish alone, keep their distance. Now, sir, even with all of this – with this atmosphere of isolation, of competition, of disregard for the company of others – is it fair to say that a gill-netting man will always help another in an emergency? Even if he doesn’t like the other man, even if they have argued in the past, even if they are enemies? Does all of that get pushed aside, become suddenly irrelevant, in the face of distress at sea? Or do men harbor grudges and ignore one another, even take pleasure in the difficulties of a stranded enemy – illuminate us, sir.’
‘Bah,’ said Josiah. ‘We’re good men through and through. Don’t matter what sort of scrap there’s been, we help each other, that’s the way we do things – why, a man’ll even help his enemy. We all know that someday we could need a hand, too; we all know we’re subject to grief, see. Much as you get fried with someone else, much as he gets under your skin, you don’t just let him drift away – that’d be plain sour, wouldn’t it? We help each other in an emergency, it don’t matter what else is going on.’
‘Well then,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘We’ll take you at your word, Mr. Gillanders, and move on to other matters. We’ll take you at your word that even enemies help each other in an emergency at sea. Now, did I understand you to say earlier that a forced boarding at sea was impossible? That conditions prevent a gill-netting man from boarding the boat of another gill-netter unless there is mutual consent? Unless the two of them agree and work together? Is that, sir, also correct? Did I understand you clearly on this?’
‘You got me plain,’ said Josiah Gillanders. ‘That’s exactly what I said – you won’t see no forced boardings.’
‘Well,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘Mr. Gudmundsson here, my esteemed colleague for the defense, asked you earlier to imagine a scenario at sea in which one man seeks to kill another in a premeditated fashion. He asked you to imagine a forced boarding, a leap, a thrust of a fishing gaff. You, sir, said it wasn’t possible. You said such a murder couldn’t happen.’
‘It’s a sea yarn if it includes a forced boarding, and that’s that. It’s a pirate story and that’s all.’
‘All right, then,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘I’ll ask you to imagine another scenario – you tell me if it sounds plausible. If this sort of thing could have happened, sir, or if it’s just another sea yarn.’
Alvin Hooks began to pace again, and as he paced he looked at each juror. ‘Number one,’ he began. ‘The defendant here, Mr. Miyamoto, decides he wishes to kill Carl Heine. Is that part plausible – so far?’
‘Sure,’ Josiah answered. ‘If you say so.’
‘Number two,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘He goes out to fish on September 15. There’s a bit of mist but no real fog yet, so he has no trouble motoring out within sight distance of his intended victim, Carl Heine. He follows him out to Ship Channel Bank – how’s all of that, so far?’
‘I guess,’ said Josiah Gillanders.
‘Number three then,’ continued Alvin Hooks. ‘He watches Carl Heine set his net. He sets his own not too far off, deliberately up current, and fishes until late in the evening. Now the fog comes in thick and strong, a big fog, obscuring everything from sight. He can’t see anything or anybody, but he knows where Carl Heine is, two hundred yards off, down current in the fog. It’s late now, two A.M. The water is very quiet. He has listened over his radio while other men have motored off to fish at Elliot Head. He is not sure how many are still in the area, but he knows it can’t be more than a handful. And so Mr. Miyamoto at last makes his move. He hauls in his net, cuts his motor, makes sure his trusty fishing gaff is handy, and drifts down current toward Carl Heine, perhaps even blowing his foghorn. He drifts nearly right into Carl, it seems, and lies to him, says his engine is dead. Now you tell me – you told us earlier – wouldn’t Carl Heine feel bound to help him?’
‘Sea yarn,’ Josiah Gillanders spat. ‘But a ripping good one. Go ahead.’
‘Wouldn’t Carl Heine feel bound to help him? As you said earlier – men help their enemies? Wouldn’t Carl Heine have helped?’
‘Yes, he’d have helped. Go ahead.’
‘Wouldn’t the two men have tied their boats together? Wouldn’t you have the mutual consent necessary – an emergency situation, even if feigned – for a successful tie-up at sea? Wouldn’t you, Mr. Gillanders?’
Josiah nodded. ‘You would,’ he answered. ‘Yes.’
‘And at this point, sir, in the scenario, could the defendant not – a trained kendo master, remember, a man proficient at killing with a stick, lethal and experienced at stick fighting – could the defendant not have leapt aboard and killed Carl Heine with a hard blow to the skull, hard enough to crack it open? As opposed to doing the job with a gunshot? Which potentially – which might – be heard across the water by somebody else out there fishing? Am I, sir, still plausible? Does my scenario sound plausible to a man of your expertise? Is all of that, sir, plausible?’
‘It could have happened,’ said Josiah Gillanders. ‘But I don’t much think it did.’
‘You don’t much think it did,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘Your opinion is otherwise, it appears. But on what do you base your opinion, sir? You have not denied that my scenario is plausible. You have not denied that this premeditated murder might have happened in precisely the fashion I have just described, have you, Mr. Gillanders – have you?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ Josiah said. ‘But – ’
‘No further questions,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘The witness can sit down. The witness can sit in the pleasant warmth of the gallery. I have no further questions.’
‘Bah,’ said Josiah Gillanders. But the judge held his hand up, and Josiah, seeing this, left the stand carrying his hat between his fingers.
27
The storm winds battered the courtroom windows and rattled them in their casements so vigorously it seemed the glass would break. For three days and nights the citizens in the gallery had listened to the wind beat against their houses and echo violently inside their ears as they struggled against it to make their way to and from the courthouse. They had not at all grown accustomed to it. They were habituated to the sea winds that blew across the island each spring when the mud was up and the rain fell steadily, but a wind of this magnitude, so frigid and elemental, remained foreign to them. It seemed improbable that a wind should blow so consistently for days on end. It made them irritable and impatient. The snow was one thing, falling as it did, but the whine of the storm, the stinging force of it against their faces – everyone wished unconsciously that it would come to an end and grant them peace. They were tired of listening to it.
Kabuo Miyamoto, the ac
cused man, had not heard the wind at all from his cell, not even a murmur of it. He had no inkling of the storm outside except when Abel Martinson led him up the stairs – handcuffed for his journey to Judge Fielding’s courtroom – so that emerging into the twilight of the courthouse’s ground floor he felt the wind shaking the building. And he saw through the windows in each of the stairwells how the snow fell hard out of a glowering sky and boiled, borne by the wind. The cold, cottony light of a winter storm was something he gave thanks for after living without windows for seventy-seven days. Kabuo had passed the preceding night wrapped in blankets – his concrete cell was especially cold – and pacing and shivering endlessly. The deputy appointed to watch him through the dark hours – a retired sawyer named William Stenesen – had shone a flashlight on him just before midnight and inquired if he was faring well. Kabuo had asked for extra blankets and a glass of tea, if possible. ‘I’ll see about that,’ William Stenesen had answered. ‘But Jesus, man, if you hadn’t gotten yourself into this mess, neither of us would be here in the first place.’
And so Kabuo had pondered the mess he’d indeed gotten himself into. For when Nels Gudmundsson had asked for his side of the story after their chess game two and a half months ago he’d stuck with the lie he’d told Sheriff Moran: he didn’t know anything about it, he’d insisted, and this had deepened his problems. Yes, he’d spoken with Carl about the seven acres, yes, he’d had an argument with Etta Heine, yes, he’d gone to see Ole. No, he hadn’t seen Carl out at Ship Channel Bank on the night of September 15. He had no idea what had happened to Carl and could offer no explanation to anyone, no information about Carl’s drowning. He, Kabuo, had fished through the night, then gone home and gone to bed, that was all there was to it. That was all he’d had to say.
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