by J F Bone
Public interest was not entirely titillated by the crime, although female buteherings with implied overtones of sex or rape always have a certain charm. Nor was it because Levenson the Legend was leading the defense, although that helped, since a champion always draws a crowd. It was mostly because what should have been a cut-and-dried psychopathic sex murder had overtones of mystery which gripped the imagination. The victim could not be identified. Her papers were as false as the wig that covered her totally bald head. She had been living in a hotel room in Seattle for the past month and had been noted for staying away for days at a time. There was no record of her Social Security number, her driver’s license, was forged, and when her BankAmericard and Master Charge were checked, the personal data she had given were erroneous. No one in Oshkosh, Wisconsin had ever heard of anyone named Alaina Allen, and the address didn’t exist. Her passport, which was found in her hotel room, was a clever forgery. There was considerable suspicion that Miss Allen was a spy since prime targets for espionage such as Fort Lewis, McChord Field, Bremerton Naval Base, and the rocket launching sites on the Olympic penninsula were all within easy distance of Seattle.
The mystery, the probability that Levenson would lose his first murder case, the certainty of juicy sex revelations, drew the media in exactly the same way succulent carrion draws vultures. And then, the really odd things about the trial held them as it droned on, day after day, while the state built a solid edifice of evidence that established Barry Simmonds as a creep of the first order. To keep readers and viewers interested, the media speculated. How did a cheap psychopath like Simmonds attract a lawyer of Levenson’s caliber? Who was paying the bill? What was the victim’s real identity? Why had Levenson remained silent while day after day of damning testimony exposed Simmonds as a sex deviant and potentially homicidal from preadolescence on? As an adult he was a thoroughly unpleasant psychopathic personality with a record of violence but no conviction.
Lean, gray Judge Lester Gould, a veteran of thirty years on the bench, was apparently as puzzled about Levenson as was the media. His attitude was frostily correct and implied that no legal trickery on the part of the defense would prevent justice from being done. Levenson, on his part, sat glum and silent. His eyes were dull and introspective and seemingly he had no interest in either the courtroom, the proceeding, or the personnel. He sat stolid, emotionless and somehow managed to appear even more drab than the testimony. Yet there was in his bearing such an air of surety and confidence that a sense of unease filled Adam Farnsworth, and the entire courtroom. Levenson simply had to have a legal rabbit in the hat, which would be extracted with the proper ceremony at the appropriate time.
Farnsworth listened to his assistant elicit another piece of evidence to pile upon the mound already accumulated and wondered how far Levension’s rabbit would run. His case was airtight, meticulously fashioned and skillfully hung together. Both jury and spectators were already convinced of Simmonds’ guilt. It was apparent in the studied impassivity of the jurors and the intent feral look that leaped into the eye of the spectators when they looked at the defendent. Such looks, Farnsworth reflected, must have been bent upon fallen gladiators in Roman arenas. Men hadn’t changed much in two thousand years. A thin patina of conscience had been put upon the ancient ferocity, but modern ethics were all too thin when life and death dramas such as bullfights, suicides, floods, fires, earthquakes, wars and murder trials drew their hordes of spectators to watch the drama of death unfold before their eyes.
Farnsworth didn’t like spectators, but he knew how to read them. Right now Barry Simmonds was convicted and condemmed in their minds. Yet as he looked at Levenson, he felt uneasy. Why was the man so calm, so confident, so bored? It was as though nothing which had been shown or said made any difference. The nagging shred of doubt made him prolong the prosecution’s testimony to remove any possible mistake about Simmonds’ character, motivation and guilt. As far as he could see, he had done a good job. There was no visible way Simmonds could avoid punishment. He was guilty and should go to prison for life. And he would go since juries nowadays were much less hesitant about handing down guilty verdicts than in the old days when guilty meant death by hanging. They no longer had to agonize over the life of the accused. Farnsworth shrugged. He wasn’t going to reason away his doubts and fears, and so far they hadn’t affected the prosecution. It would be best to conclude the testimony with Deputy Williams, rest his case, and see what his opponent had to offer . . .
“Is the defense ready to proceed?” Judge Gould asked.
The judge’s voice crossed Levenson’s musings. While the prosecution had droned on, Samuel Levenson had been wondering how in heaven’s name he had been drawn into this case. He didn’t like mountains, forest, or rain, and here were all three to excess. He didn’t like small cities, second-rate restaurants and chintzy night clubs. Hell! There wasn’t even a good play, and as for music, he might as well listen to records. The only halfway decent synagogue was in Seattle and that was forty miles away. It was like living in Los Angeles without the attractions of Santa Anita and the Hollywood Bowl, and he had always considered L.A. to be a cultural desert.
The only reason he was here that he could see was to publicize Barry Simmonds, and why anyone should want to publicize that creep was more than he could understand. Any second rate shyster could win this case if he knew the key to it. He almost felt sympathy for Farnsworth; the man was so sincere, so logical, so straightforward. Farnsworth honestly believed that the community would benefit if Simmonds was put away, and his dogged presentation had impressed Levenson with its thoroughness if not its forensic skill. The man was different from the plea-bargaining D.A.’s he met on his home grounds; men who were more interested in the office as a stepping stone to political glory than as a means for bringing law and order to the community. But Farnsworth was a klotz, and he would pay for being a klotz. In feet, most of the people in this area were clods or klotzes. Someone surely should have seen the gaping hole in this case.
But would he have seen it, if it hadn’t been called to his attention? Levenson was honest with himself and admitted there was a strong probability that he might have missed it. After all, it was bizarre enough. And he would have lost the case and his champion standing. He was a little vain about his string of successes, and in recent years had selected cases in order to keep his record intact. He wanted to go down in legal history along with Clarence Darrow. Samuel Liebowitz and Melvin Belli as one of the great trial lawyers of the century. Indeed he wanted to better their records. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have touched this trial with a ten foot pole. It added nothing to his luster if he won, and would destroy his image and ambition if he lost. The ignominy of defeat in this backwoods town would tarnish his reputation forever.
Sure, Clarence Darrow had lost the Scopes Trial, but at least he had the formidable William Jennings Bryan, and the prejudice of the area against him. All Levenson had was Farnsworth.
Looking back on what had happened, it was still unbelievable. There was a dreamlike unreality to it that still made him shy away from examining the matter too closely. A man named Smith had called on him at his office, and had asked him to defend Simmonds. He had given the entire story of the murder, and had left nothing out that was of any importance.
“There’s no way to successfully defend the man,” Levenson had said.
“But if there was?” Smith had asked.
“I still wouldn’t take the case. I don’t like psychopathic killers.”
“But if this man’s freedom was extremely important.”
“Well—if it was important enough . . .” Levenson temporized. “But it would cost you a bundle. I have a reputation.”
“I know. That is why I’m asking you to take the case. It has international implications.”
This went on for about five minutes before Levenson finally accepted a retainer and signed an agreement to defend Simmonds. Smith had shaken his hand, given him the key to the trial, and vanished from the
office and from his life, leaving him in a state of shock, looking at a sheaf of crisp thousand dollar bills and a signed copy of an agreement that was as binding as a contract of chattel slavery.
As sanity slowly returned, he buzzed for his secretary. Emily Warren, the presiding dignitary of the outer office and the guardian of the inner sanctum, was called Cerberus with good reason, A squat bulldoggish woman of great tenacity and equally great efficiency, she never allowed clients into the inner office without an appointment and at least a cursory investigation. She was the guardian of Levenson’s time and privacy and she made a fetish of the task.
“Emily,” Levenson said, “who is that fellow Smith?”
Mrs. Warren looked at him, and suddenly her blue eyes clouded and filled with tears. “I don’t know, sir,” she said.
“You don’t know? Didn’t you investigate him?”
“No, sir. He just came in and talked me into deferring the Lewis appointment long enough to have ten minutes with you.”
“Well—that’s all he had,” Levenson said.
“I don’t know what made me do it,” she said. “I guess it was because he was so sincere—but somehow i couldn’t turn him away.”
“I don’t know what made me sign that agreement,” Levenson echoed. “But there’s fifty thousand dollars on the desk. You’d better get it to the bank. And starting next month. I’ll be gone for about three weeks.”
“Where?”
“Someplace called Tacoma. In the state of Washington. I’ll be defending a murderer, a psychopathic killer.”
“Why?”
“I’m damned if I know. Maybe for the same reason you let Smith get by you. He talked me into it.”
“In ten minutes? That’s weird!” Levenson nodded. “Maybe he’s a hypnotist,” he said.
What had there been about the man that made him so gently overpowering? It certainly wasn’t his appearance, although that was a little odd. People don’t usually have hair so black that it has bluish highlights, and a skin so pale that the contrasting hues of hair and hide gave a Dracula-like aspect only partially offset by cleancut features and an open ingenuous expression.
Emily didn’t really know how weird it was, Levenson thought grimly. Smith’s appeal shouldn’t have gotten off the ground, but it had hit the jackpot. It was only when Smith left that Levenson realized what he had done. Weird wasn’t the word for it; it was incredible!
Of course, Smith was right. Simmonds wasn’t guilty of murder. He was going to walk out of this courtroom free and clear. The injustice of it made Levenson smile. He was used to injustice, but this was about the grossest miscarriage that he had ever encountered. It gave him no sense of satisfaction. He had gotten some pretty low characters off the hook, but he had never before turned a homicidal maniac loose upon the public. Simmonds would, of course, eventually commit another murder for which he would be tried and convicted, but the act that turned him loose was going to weigh upon Levenson’s conscience for some time to come. Levenson was mildly surprised to find he had a conscience. Somehow he had been sure that part of his character had atrophied years ago.
Until this moment, he had considered resigning from the case and to hell with the agreement, but he realized that this would serve Smith’s purposes just as well, and all it would do would be to cost him his retainer and make him the defendent in a lawsuit. Conscience wasn’t worth a hundred thousand dollars. It was probably better to bear the evils that he had agreed to, than to break his contract. He shrugged. He’d play this farce out to the end. He didn’t have to worry about setting Simmonds free. That was Smith’s burden. Smith had given him that information before he had left the office in New York. But he didn’t like the idea that he was being used as a stalking horse for publicity. Smith had admittedly bankrolled the defense because Levenson’s name held a certain magic, and whatever he did in court was news. Well, this time the news would be explosive enough to make a sound that would be heard around the world. And maybe that was the right way to do it. But he still had his doubts. Barry Simmonds was a dreadful thing to allow loose in society.
“Is the defense ready?” Judge Gould repeated.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Levenson said. He hardly seemed to raise his voice, but it filled the courtroom. It was a wonderful voice, clear, mellow, gentle and sincere. It was a voice that had many times persuaded juries that black was white, sin was virtue, and guilt was innocence. It made quivers of unpleasant anticipation crawl down Farnsworth’s spine.
Levenson rose and faced the bench, a slender man in a beautifully tailored gray silk suit. His body was erect, and his movements were graceful without being feminine. He was the epitome of a gentleman and his manners were as polished as an actors. “I respectfully move for a directed verdict of acquittal. Your Honor,” he said. “The state has not proved that a murder was committed.”
A faint gasp came from the audience, Levenson had given such an air of importance to the conventional opening gambit that the buzz of question and whispering nearly drowned Judge Gould’s dry reply.
“Motion denied,” the judge said. “Proceed.”
“If the court please,” Levenson said. “The defense would like to present argument before the court that makes a final refusal of the motion. There is no reason to continue this trial since it does not have a legal base on which to rest.”
“I will give you all the rope you wish,” the judge said. “I am not going to lay this court open to any charge by some smart New York attorney that there is any unfairness or lack of proper care for the rights of the accused. I know your reputation, Mr. Levenson, and I shall give you every opportunity, within reason, but beyond reason you shall not go.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. I am merely trying to save time.” Levenson shrugged and a thin smile split Judge Gould’s face. “I would like to present one witness. After that, Your Honor, if it is proper to continue the trial, we shall proceed.”
“Objection,” Farnsworth said. “This is improper procedure.”
“Denied. The procedure is proper if the argument and testimony are germane, and I shall be the judge of that.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Levenson said.
“Exception,” Farnsworth said. “Noted,” said the judge. “Proceed.” Levenson walked over to the jury box and rested one hand on the rail. He talked to the judge, but somehow he managed to include the jury in the compass of his voice.
“In the first place, the defense agrees that the evidence the prosecution has presented is essentially correct. We take no exception to any of the testimony that has been given. Nevertheless, the state has foiled to prove murder, and since by law a defendent cannot be subsequently tried upon a lesser charge within the compass of the greater, the court is obliged to direct a verdict of acquittal. “
“You do not need to instruct me in the law,” Judge Gould snapped.
“I beg your pardon, Your Honor. I had no intention of doing that. I merely wanted to explain to the jury what was going on. If an improper charge is made and a person is brought to trial upon that charge, he cannot be tried later on a lesser charge related to the same circumstances. That would be double jeopardy, and that is forbidden under our laws.”
“You are quite correct, counsellor,” Judge Gould said coldly. “But it is my province to instruct the jury. One more action like this and I shall find you in contempt. This court does not take kindly to any accusation or implication of a tack of impartiality or efficiency.”
Levenson bowed his head to the bench, and a buzz of comment came from the spectators. The noise quickly rose to disturbing proportions as the silence before the bar continued, and Judge Gould finally banged his gavel and announced into the silence that followed that he would clear the court if any further disturbance occurred.
Even the whispers ceased, since no one wanted to miss what was coming, levenson did have something up his sleeve, and what was about to happen might be worth all the previous days of boring testimony.
Judge Gould
stared at Levenson. “Is that your argument—that there has been no murder?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“In the face of a dead body with three bullets in it?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Judge Gould shook his head.
“You’re straining my credulity and my patience to the breaking point.”
“I realize that this sounds peculiar, Your Honor, but this is a most unusual case. It is not as simple as it appears.”
“You seem very sure of yourself.”
“Not of myself, Your Honor, but of the law. May I now present my witness?”
“You may proceed,” the Judge said.
“I would like to call Dr. William Kerans to the stand,” Levenson said.
“Doctor Kerans,” the bailiff repeated.
The repetition was unnecessary. A round, well-groomed man with a small white beard that gave him the appearance of a well-barbared Santa Claus had risen from his seat in the audience and was already at the bar when the bailiff spoke. Levenson escorted him to the witness box where he was sworn.
“I would like to have Dr. Kerans qualified as an expert witness,” Levenson said.
