by D. W. Buffa
“You came all the way from Berlin just to help me?” he asked with a jaundiced grin.
“Please, Mr. Darnell; I’m not what you think I am. I’m not some charlatan trying to take advantage.”
Darnell looked at him more seriously, though still with caution.
“How is it you think you can help me, Mr. Holderlin? What is it you think you can do?”
“Perhaps I should have come earlier, when I first heard….But you see, I couldn’t really believe it would go this far, that they would actually bring him here and put him on trial.”
“You didn’t believe…? You’re talking about Adam, the young man I’m defending? You’re talking about the trial?”
“Yes, of course. Why else do you think I’ve traveled this distance?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holderlin, but how would I have known what you wanted to talk to me about?”
At first he seemed not to understand, to believe for some reason that it should have been obvious was he was there. Then, a moment later, his eyes flashed with embarrassment.
“Yes, of course; you’re right - how would you have known? I’m so caught up in what I’m doing, I’ve been so preoccupied with this, I’m afraid I haven’t been thinking too clearly. But the important thing is that I’m here now, isn’t it?”
He stood there, waiting, as it seemed, for some sign of approval of what he had done, coming all the way from Germany to help.
“Yes, of course,” he said, berating himself. “You still don’t know what I’ve come to tell you. I was there, Mr. Darnell, on the island.”
Clutching his briefcase with both hands Darnell bent forward at the waist, trying to search the meaning in Holderlin’s unflinching gaze.
“It’s true, Mr. Darnell – I’ve been there. I know quite a lot about it; more, I would venture, than anyone else still alive.”
He said this with a hint of mystery, a suggestion that there was some connection between the island and death.
“The island was discovered less than two years ago. When could you have been there?”
Holderlin acknowledged the truth, or rather the apparent truth, of it.
“Discovered by a Norwegian - Yes, I read about it. But I was there long before he arrived,” he added with a tinge of melancholy in his voice. “Long before. Forty years to be exact.”
Darnell was stunned. He was not sure what to believe. The claim seemed outrageous, but the man who made it seemed not just honest and sincere, but deeply troubled by something that he knew.
“This Captain Johansen,” continued Holderlin “seems like a decent man from everything I’ve read – not some adventurer out to make a name – but he doesn’t know what he found. An island, yes – but nothing about the truth.”
“The truth?”
“The truth that I discovered forty years ago, the truth that no one would now believe.” He made an abrupt movement of his head, reminding himself that there was not much time. “That’s why I have to tell you what I learned, because without it you can’t possibly understand what this young man you’re now defending really did, or what it really meant.”
Darnell checked his watch again. He was in danger of being late.
“But forty years ago,” he remarked as he glanced at the courthouse steps, trying to calculate how quickly he could climb them. “Adam wasn’t even born yet; everything must have been different. Even if you were there – and I’m not saying you weren’t – what could you tell me that could possibly help?”
“I lived there, Mr. Darnell. I lived there for a year. It doesn’t matter that it was forty years ago; it doesn’t matter that I was there before he was born.”
A strange, knowing smile cut straight across his mouth. His eyes were filled with what to Darnell appeared to be the perfect confidence of a man who has spent years, a lifetime, protecting some deep secret of his own.
“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Darnell, because nothing there ever changes; nothing ever has and nothing ever will. What’s on that island has been like that forever.”
Darnell fumbled in his pocket for a card.
“Can you come to my office, later this afternoon, after I’m through in court?”
And then Darnell turned and hurried up the steps.
Chapter Ten
Judge Pierce had just taken her place on the bench when Darnell rushed through the doors at the back of the courtroom.
“Sorry, your Honor,” he apologized as he made his way to the empty chair at the counsel table.
A raised eyebrow and a slight downward turning at the side of her mouth, a look Evelyn Pierce could almost claim to have invented, a look designed to teach lawyers their own inconsequence, was all he got by way of reply. Darnell stood at his chair, lost in admiration.
“That’s really quite good,” he remarked. “Better, more effective certainly, than any verbal scolding.”
She had not expected this. With a sharp glance she was about to warn him of the dangers of insolence, but she could not resist the boyish larceny in his aging eyes, and, more than that, the shrewd judgment passed on her own performance. The quick anger on her lips became wistful and even self-deprecating.
“I’m glad you approve, Mr. Darnell; but now that you’ve finally graced us with your presence, perhaps we can get on with the trial. Ms. Clark, is the prosecution ready with its next witness?”
Serious, composed, and if anything even more intense than usual, Hillary Clark announced that she was.
“The prosecution now calls -”
“Your Honor,” Darnell interjected. “I have a matter for the court.”
A matter for the court meant that it was something that had to be discussed outside the presence of the jury. Judge Pierce began to instruct the bailiff to take them to the jury room, but Darnell again interrupted.
“I think this would better be discussed in chambers, your Honor.”
Adam was curious. Darnell bent close and whispered that it was all right, that there was a legal question that had to be resolved. But the next witness, the last scheduled witness for the prosecution, was the girl and Adam for the first time betrayed his feelings.
“I have to see her, I have to -”
“It’s all right,” Darnell assured him; “you will.”
That was what he said, but it was not what he hoped. He did not want anyone to see the girl before the trial ended, not Adam, and certainly not the jury. And there was a chance – not a very good one, but still a chance – that he might be able to do that, stop the girl from testifying, and with that, force an acquittal.
Evelyn Pierce sat behind her large, heavy desk, leaning forward on her large, heavy arms. She invited both attorneys to take a seat, but did it in the peremptory way of someone who intended to keep the meeting short. She looked at Darnell and waited.
“The defense objects to the prosecution calling its next witness. Despite repeated requests, we’ve never been given the chance to talk to her, to conduct the kind of interview necessary to prepare an adequate defense.”
The judge’s eyes moved immediately to the prosecutor. “Ms. Clark?”
The muscles in Hillary Clark’s smooth, sculpted jaw had tightened as she listened to Darnell’s complaint. She did not look at him; she looked only at the judge.
“Mr. Darnell is right. He did request to interview the victim in this case. The victim, however, refused; and, as Mr. Darnell is well aware, the victim in a case like this has no obligation to speak to anyone, including the lawyer for the defense, before she testifies at trial.”
“That’s correct,” replied Darnell immediately, “as a general statement of the law, but the question here is whether the law has been fully complied with. As Ms. Clark properly points out, the victim has the right to refuse to speak with counsel for the defense, but in a case like this – where the girl is underage, brought to a country she knows nothing about, spoken to in a language – well, I don’t know how much of it she’s learned or how much of it she understands. The point is tha
t in a case like this I should have been given the chance to determine for myself that her refusal to speak to me was made with a full understanding of what she was doing and that she was doing it voluntarily.”
“Voluntarily? What are you suggesting?” demanded Clark, turning to look at him.
“I’m suggesting that I find it difficult in the extreme, given what I know about the relationship between my client and the supposed victim in this case,” replied Darnell with some heat, “that she would refuse to talk to the only person who can help him! Is that clear enough for you?”
“Mr. Darnell!” cried Judge Pierce. “Both of you – that’s enough!” She looked directly at Hillary Clark. “He has a point, Ms. Clark. The girl might easily have been confused. Are you sure that she understood who Mr. Darnell was and the reason he wanted to talk to her?”
“Yes, absolutely. We explained to her that the attorney for the defense wanted to interview her. We explained that she could do so if she wanted, but that she also had the right to refuse.”
Judge Pierce turned to Darnell to see if he had anything to add.
“Unless you have something else, based on the representations of Ms. Clark that the witness understood her rights, I don’t see that I have any choice but to allow her testimony.”
“She doesn’t explain why I wasn’t allowed to see the witness and hear her refusal from her own mouth. Nor, I might point out, has the prosecution provided any documentation to support its claim.”
“Documentation?” asked Clark indignantly. “Show me the statute that requires that!”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” admitted Darnell. “I know what the law requires and what the law doesn’t; but I also know the difference between a prosecutor who wants to do justice and one who only wants to win.” Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out a copy of a letter and handed it to the judge. “This is the last letter I sent to Ms. Clark on this matter. You’ll see that at the end of it I say that if the girl really doesn’t want to talk to me I would like to have a signed affidavit detailing exactly what she had been told and the reasons for her refusal.”
“Just because you ask for something, Mr. Darnell, doesn’t mean I have to give it to you.”
“No, but when you don’t do something that is easily within your power, it does lead to questions about why you didn’t.”
Evelyn Pierce subjected Hillary Clark to a long, silent scrutiny. She did not doubt that Clark would bend the rules to win a case, but it was something else again to believe that she would break them.
“You’re certain that the witness understood everything, certain that she wasn’t in any confusion about Mr. Darnell’s request and that she knew what she was doing when she refused?”
“Absolutely certain, your Honor.”
“And that this was her own, voluntary, decision – no one tried to influence her?”
“Of course not, your Honor. It was her decision and her decision alone.”
It was clear from the way she looked at her, that Evelyn Pierce was not convinced that Hillary Clark was telling the truth.
“I tend to agree with Mr. Darnell that under the peculiar circumstances of this case he should have been given the chance to have her tell him directly that she did not with to talk to him before the trial. But, based on your representations as an officer of the court that her decision was both knowing and voluntary, I don’t really see that there is any choice but to let her testify.”
Hillary Clark rose from her chair and turned to leave.
“Which is not to say that I approve of the way you handled this, Ms. Clark. It’s the duty of a prosecutor to avoid any doubt on a question like this; especially when, as in this instance, it would have been so easy to do so.”
Clark spun on her heel, her eyes hot with defiance. Pierce was out of her chair, both hands planted firmly on the desk. A look of stern resolution stopped Clark from the fatal mistake of saying what she thought. Then, with that same firm expression, she forced the prosecutor into the kind of lie that reminded her who was in charge.
“There was something you wanted to say?”
“No, your Honor.”
Evelyn Pierce nodded. “Just as well, I think. One other thing,” she added, her eyes cold, determined, immediate. “Because Mr. Darnell had no opportunity to interview the witness, the court will grant the defense considerable latitude in its cross-examination. That seems only fair, don’t you agree?”
Hillary Clark’s chin came up, her face grew red; she made an effort to control herself.
“Whatever the court decides,” she replied as they continued to stare at one another.
“That will be all,” said the judge abruptly. “We’ve kept the jury waiting long enough.”
She did not wait, as she normally would have, for the lawyers to get back to their places. She marched back into the courtroom first and busied herself with some paperwork as a way to let her anger subside. She was not angry at Hillary Clark; she was angry at herself, angry that she had not made her understand at the very outset that in her courtroom only the highest standards of conduct were acceptable. Shoving the paperwork aside, she drummed her fingers on the cold hard wooden surface of the bench she had occupied for nearly as many years as Hillary Clark had been alive. Her eyes moved in quick, rapid bursts, as she glanced first one way, then the other, examining, as it were, every nook and cranny, all the bricks and mortar, of the stage on which had been played out the human drama of all the trials of the past. She understood, and took a certain pride in the knowledge, that she was the link that connected all of them, the dozens, the hundreds, of trials over which she had presided. It gave her a sense of not just purpose, but of permanence. When she looked at the empty witness chair just below on her left, she could hear the dead echo of every witness who had either told the truth or lied.
The two lawyers had made their way back into the courtroom, but she did not see them. The courtroom crowd, the audience of which she was, during the intensity of a trial, only dimly aware, now by its very silence reminded her that she still had work to do. Her eyes focused and alert, she looked at Hillary Clark as if no cross word had ever passed between them.
“Is the prosecution ready to call its next witness?”
No amount of backstage bickering could affect Hillary Clark’s performance. The sharp-eyed glance, the evil tongue, the pious attitude of barely suppressed superiority – all of it was gone, replaced with a gentle, almost worried look of apprehension. Her only concern, that look seemed to say, was how she could help the next witness, the victim of these awful crimes, get through the ordeal of having to testify against her assailant and the man who had killed her child.
“The prosecution calls Alethia.”
Every eye turned toward the double doors in back, straining to get a first glimpse of the young woman who had been so much the subject of their attention. Alethia – the name itself had the sound of something distant and exotic, ancient poetry and the youthful stirrings of a romantic soul. And the moment she entered, the moment she walked inside, she seemed to prove that no matter what might have been imagined about her, none of it had been exaggerated. There was an audible murmur, a heart-stopping pause, as the crowd got its first close look. She was more than beautiful, she was exquisite; a woman, though not old enough to be one, a child still innocent, but far from ignorant of the things a woman knows.
Dressed in a simple shift, a pair of sandals on her feet, she moved with a lithesome grace, ignoring, or oblivious, of all the staring faces, all the prying eyes, until she reached the railing that marked the boundary between the benches reserved for spectators and the area where only those with business before the court could sit. Her hand on the gate, she held her head high, sensing, as it seemed, something, or someone, she had not seen. Then, in an instant, she understood. She turned and with a desperate, wounded look stared at Adam who was on his feet, staring back at her.
Darnell held him fast by the wrist, afraid of what he might do; but
Adam did not move. They kept looking at each other, Adam and the girl, with a gaze so strong that, though neither of them took a step, distance seemed to lose all meaning as the measure of separation.
Hillary Clark put her arm around the girl’s shoulder and led her toward the witness chair, but the girl, unrelenting, would not take her eyes away. She kept looking back with what struck Darnell as an utterly astonishing combination of anguish and pride, as if, having captured Adam with her eyes, she was afraid that, now that she had found him, if she looked away he might disappear. If Hillary Clark still wore a worried expression, she wore it now for another reason.
“Would you please state your name for the record?”
Instead of looking at her, the girl kept staring at the defendant.
“Alethia.”
The same murmur that had swept through the courtroom when she first appeared, repeated itself. The girl’s voice was strange, uncanny, almost mystical; a cool, vibrant, rhythmic sound that lingered in your mind, the sound the sirens must have made luring Odysseus to his death, gentle as a feather and as unforgettable as a kiss.
“You have no other name, just the one?”
“Alethia,” the girl repeated, a smile, proud and knowing on her face as she continued to stare into Adam’s eyes.
Clark had no choice. She had to ask the court’s help if she was going to stop it.
“Your Honor, would you please instruct the witness that she isn’t to keep looking at the defendant?”
“Miss – Alethia, this is a court of law, and it is expected of any witness that she pay attention to the attorney who happens to be asking her questions. Do you think you could do that?”
The girl tossed her head and looked up at the judge. She seemed to recognize some quality in Evelyn Pierce’s eyes – simple honesty, perhaps, or a basic decency – that gave her confidence. A radiant smile exposed a line of perfect white teeth.
“Yes, I think so.” The smile faltered, grew faint, and then dwindled into shy reserve. “I’ll try.” Her eyes darted back to Adam as if asking for his approval, and then, but only then, she looked into the waiting gaze of Hillary Clark.
