(1969) The Seven Minutes (89 page)

And there were still dark patches that hid reality from him too. He knew more than the jurors, more than the People’s counsel, but he did not know it all, and he did not know enough. Then, unaccountably, his mind went to Maggie Russell, who had not been in the apartment when he had returned last night. There had been a cryptic note propped against the telephone: ‘Had to go away on important business. See you tomorrow.’ Tomorrow was now today, and where had she gone, and on what business?

And Faye, Faye Osborn, damn her for having predicted this outcome of the case. She had been wrong about the wrongness of their cause, but she had been right about the hopelessness of their winning and about the disastrous effects the case would have on his morale and reputation.

He wished it were over. He could not bring himself to return to the court and the scene of carnage.

An old, old boyhood refrain that had come into his head last night and not gone away, but had continued to hector him in the night and throughout the morning, was monotonously replaying in his head. He was not a baseball fan, except at World Series time, but he was acquainted with the literature and the lore of baseball, and once in his high-school auditorium he had heard E. L. Thayer’s poem recited from the stage, and at moments of impending defeat the last stanza always mocked him. The stuck needle replayed the last stanza once more.

Oh! somewhere in this favored land

the sun is shining bright. The band is playing somewhere, and

somewhere hearts are light, And somewhere men are laughing, and

somewhere children shouts But there is no joy in Mudville -

mighty Casey has struck out.

And there is no joy in free men - poor Barrett has struck out

He opened his eyes to rejoin the others.

Zelkin was addressing Phil Sanford. ‘Well, Phil, when the court reconvenes in a half hour, Duncan will go back to completing his crossexamination of our Dr Finegood. Then we’ll be asked to present our next witness. We have no next witness. So I’ll simply rest our case. Then Duncan will offer his closing argument, and Mike will offer the final sum-up for us. As you know, it’s even better than the excerpts you just heard on tape. Then Upshaw will instruct the jury, and away they go, and back they come. Yes, I think we’ll have our verdict by midafternoon.’

Ben Fremont ceased polishing his glasses. ‘I can’t wait,’ he said bitterly.

‘You’re not the only one who’s in trouble,’ said Sanford to the bookseller. ‘Think what’s going to happen to me.’

Zelkin squinted across the table at Barrett. ‘You ready to wind it up, Mike?’

‘No,’ said Barrett dully. ‘But I will.’

‘Maybe you can still put a small fire under that jury,’ said Ben Fremont.

‘Without a light?’ said Barrett.

By word association, an old aphorism surfaced in his mind. Burning stakes do not lighten the darkness. No, they don’t, he thought. Listlessly he tore off a corner of his sandwich and chewed it. He had never realized before that bread could taste like ashes.

There were three distinct raps on the door behind him, and he called over his shoulder, ‘Come in.’

The door opened partally as Barrett swung around. A police officer stuck his head into the room. There’s a lady here asking for Mr Barrett.’

‘A lady ? Who - well, who is it?’

The officer stepped aside, and Maggie Russell came hastily into the room, her eyes luminous and her features reflecting some secret excitement.

‘Maggie -‘ Barrett said, half rising. ‘Where have you - ?’

‘Chicago,’ she said quickly. ‘I went alone. But I’ve come back with someone. You’ve met him, Mike, but I’ll introduce him to the rest of you.’ She opened the door wide. “They’re all here,’ she called into the corridor.

A dignified, stately figure filled the doorway, surveyed them, came forward, and closed the door behind him.

‘Gentlemen,’ Maggie said, ‘may I introduce Senator Thomas Bainbridge!’

Barrett, who had scrambled awkwardly to his feet, righted his toppling chair as he stared at Bainbridge, dumbfounded.

‘Senator,’ he gasped, and he heard the others stand up behind him.

Thomas Bainbridge moved across the room in a measured tread, and when he reached Barrett he halted, and then he did what Barrett had not seen him do before. He smiled. Not easily. But he smiled.

‘Mr Barrett,’ he said, ‘yesterday you were persuasive. But in the end, it was your young lady who was convincing. This young lady, and - and another once-young lady in Chicago, I should say, were the ones who were convincing. I was made to remember by one -man’s responsibility to the past - by another - man’s responsibility to the future.’ Then he said unexpectedly, ‘Are you a reader of poetry, Mr Barrett?’

The old Thayer stanza lingered in Barrett’s head, but now he was ashamed of it, and he banished it.

Senator Bainbridge had not waited for his answer. ‘Well, Mr Jadway has always been interested in poetry, and there is one particular verse from James Russell Lowell that speaks most eloquently for Mr Jadway’s own feelings. In effect, Lowell says he honors the man who is willing to sink - half his present repute for the freedom to think - and then there’s more to the effect that be this man’s cause strong or weak, he’ll risk the other half for the freedom to speak.’

He stopped, without embarrassment, as Barrett and the others waited in confused silence.

He cleared his throat. ‘A wretched rhyme,’ he said, ‘but a perfect sentiment.’ His gaze went past Barrett to the others and then returned and held on Barrett. “There is your answer, sir. Yes, you shall have your star witness. I personally will lay the foundation.

And then, if it is still your wish, I shall produce J J Jadway on the witness stand, before the world, today.’

‘You may call your next witness, Mr Barrett,’

‘Thank you, Your Honor.’

He announced the next witness, heard the rustle in the courtroom, then summoned the witness.

As the clerk hastened to the box with his Bible, and the witness came forward to meet him, Mike Barrett stood beside the court reporter and stared down at the softly clacking stenotyper and the phonograms speeding across the spindle of moving paper. Watching the symbols, mesmerized by their portent, he could visualize them in the final typed transcript of The People of the State of California v. Ben Fremont:

SENATOR THOMAS BAINBRIDGE

called as a witness by and on behalf of the defendant, having been first duly sworn, was examined and testified as follows:

THE CLERK: State your name, please. THE WITNESS: Senator Thomas Bainbridge. THE CLERK: Spell the last name, please. THE WITNESS: B-a-i-n-b-r-i-d-g-e. THE COURT: Be seated, Senator.

Barrett turned to the witness box.

He knew that he had the jury’s attention, the Judge’s, the concentrated attention of everyone in the packed courtroom, because he had before him the most puzzling and most distinguished witness yet to appear in the trial.

‘Senator Bainbridge, what is your present occupation?’

‘I am a member of the United States Senate, in Washington, D.C., recently appointed by the Governor of Connecticut to finish the term of the late Senator Mawson.’

‘What was your immediate occupation preceding your present one?’

‘I served as Dean of the School of Law at Yale University, in New Haven, Connecticut.’

‘And before that?’

‘I was a judge for the Court of Appeals in Connecticut.’

‘Have you ever held any position that was not connected with the law?’

‘Yes. When I was younger, for a period often years, I was president of a manufacturing company inherited from my father, who had inherited it from his father before him.’

‘It was after that, after those ten years, that you became a judge?’

‘Yes.’

‘May I ask why you left private business for the law?’

‘Because the family firm no longer required my services. I

thought that what abilities I did possess might be put to better use in the service of my state and my country.’

‘During the time when you were an officer and teacher of the law, and now as a senator, did you ever write and publish any books ?’

‘I did.’

‘Were they works of fiction ?’

‘Hardly. They were nonflction. I wrote and published two legal textbooks.’

‘Are you acquainted with fiction, classical or modern?’

‘As a reader, yes, I am. Classical and modern. I find reading novels a prime way to relax.’

‘Have you ever read a novel entitled The Seven Minutes, by J J Jadway?’

‘I have, sir.’

‘Have you read it more than once?’

‘I have read it many times.’

‘How recently have you read the book in its entirety?’

‘As recently as last night.’

‘Are you familiar with Section 311.2 of the California Penal Code?’

‘I am.’

‘Do you know that The Seven Minutes is being charged as obscene matter under that section of the Penal Code?’

‘I do know that.’

‘Senator Bainbridge, do you consider The Seven Minutes to be an obscene book?’

‘I do not. I consider it to be a highly moral book.’

‘Do you believe that the author of this work was pandering to prurient interest, to shameful or morbid interest in nudity, sex, excretion, in writing this book?’

‘I not only believe that he was not pandering to the prurient interest of the reader in writing that book, but I know for a fact that he was not pandering to prurient interest.’

‘You know the book was not written to appeal to prurient interest. May I inquire, Senator, how do you know?’

‘Because I am intimately acquainted with the circumstances surrounding the creation and publication of The Seven Minutes’

There was a low buzz of perplexity from the press corps and the spectators. Before Judge Upshaw could find his gavel, Barrett’s resumption of questioning had stilled the room.

‘Will you explain to the jurors and the court how you came by this intimate knowledge?’

‘Gladly, Counsel. No person alive, not even the estimable Miss Cassie McGraw, was closer or better acquainted with the author J J Jadway than I’

Barrett could see the curious jurors leaning forward intently in their chairs, and again he could hear, from the rear, the whisperings among the spectators. Then the court was hushed, eager for more.

‘Senator, are you saying that you were present in Paris when J J Jadway wrote The Seven Minutes?’

‘I am saying that I was in Paris when he wrote the book.’

‘Do you know his motivations for writing it?’

‘I do.’

‘Do you know his mode of living when he wrote the book?’

‘I do.’

‘Are you acquainted with the events of his life that followed the underground publication of his book?’

‘I am.’

‘Does this firsthand knowledge which you possess about J J Jadway and The Seven Minutes confirm or contradict the testimony given in this courtroom by the People’s witnesses?’

‘My information about the real Jadway and his real purpose in writing and publishing this book completely and entirely contradicts the evidence so far presented to this court.’

Listening to the rising murmur of excited voices behind him, Barrett waited for the Judge’s gavel, and when he heard it he swiftly took advantage of the silence it brought.

‘Senator Bainbridge, you do understand that the previous witnesses were sworn, gave their testimony under oath, and risked facing a charge of perjury if they lied - that they were under oath just as you are this moment?’

‘They did not lie. They simply did not tell the truth. Because they did not know the truth. Everything heard in this courtroom until now about J J Jadway, everything concerning his writing of the book, concerning his feelings about it, concerning his intent and purpose, concerning his character and habits and condition and his end has been the purest fiction, and this fiction was planned and perpetrated by Jadway himself for reasons involving his private life.’

‘Senator, are you prepared to give us your version of Jadway’s life and the circumstances that surrounded the publication of The Seven Minutes?’

‘I am.’

‘Senator Bainbridge, before you begin, I believe the court would be interested in knowing why you have come forward now to give this testimony.’

‘Why I have come forward? It was John Milton who gave my answer three centuries ago. “As good almost kill a man as kill a good book; who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God’s Image; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the Image of God.” That, Counsel, tells why I am here.’

‘To save The Seven Minutes?’

‘To save all books, the pleasure and wisdom and experience in all books, and to save those who would profit by reading them.’

‘Senator Bainbridge, will you now tell us what you personally know of J J Jadway and his book that contradicts the testimony so far presented to the court?’

‘I will.’

‘Senator Bainbridge, please tell us what you consider to be the true story, as opposed to what you have labeled the false story invented by Jadway about himself which has been given currency to this day by those who did not know better. Please proceed under the oath of truth, Senator.’

“The truth, then, as I am qualified to speak it. J J Jadway did not write The Seven Minutes for money. He had money. He had a fortune. He came from a wealthy family. Jadway was not addicted to drink or drugs, nor was he in any way dissolute. He had been brought up strictly, but belonged to no religious faith. He had been well disciplined and well educated in his youth. His rebellion was the rebellion that all youth must finally make against parental authority, if youth is to stand alone one day, with the strength to develop its own individuality and authority. Jadway had left his family and his home in New England and gone to Paris to find his own freedom, his own identity, to become a man instead of merely a father’s son. He had gone to Paris with a problem, the result of his upbringing and environment, and there he met Cassie McGraw and freed himself from the bondage that had restrained and crippled him. He had wanted to know love, and Miss McGraw taught him the meaning of love. He had wanted to be well after being sexually ill, and she made him well. He had wanted to be a creative writer, in defiance of the traditions of his background, and she encouraged him to express himself and to write. He wrote The Seven Minutes as a memorial to Cassie McGraw and their love, for it was the only personal experience entirely his own that he had ever known. He wrote this book to celebrate his own salvation from sexual fear and sexual shame, to celebrate the riddance of an infirmity that had grown out of this fear and shame, and out of his feelings of guilt about sex -‘