Anatomy of a Murder (34 page)

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Authors: Robert Traver

BOOK: Anatomy of a Murder
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“Yes.”
“And to Prosecutor Lodwick?”
“Yes.”
“And to his part-time helper, Mr. Claude Dancer?”
“Yes.”
“And you of course told
all
of them, did you not, what you have just told me, namely, that the Lieutenant wheeled around and said, ‘Do you want some, too, Buster?'?”
“Objection!” the Dancer rolled out. “The defense is trying to infer that the prosecution is trying to conceal something. The reason we did not want to bring it out was that it might create error or a mistrial, being possible evidence of the commission of still another criminal offense by the defendant.”
I turned and stared across at Claude Dancer. “The defendant is touched by your solicitude for his welfare, Mr. Dancer,” I said. “You would only have moved mountains to have brought this out if I hadn't.”
“Tut, tut, gentlemen,” the Judge reproved us. “I will take the answer.”
“Yes, I told all of them about it.”
“And when did you tell Mr. Dancer?” I pressed on.
“Last night and again this morning.”
“And did he or anyone ever warn you not to tell about this Buster business because it might be error or hurt the Lieutenant's best interests?”
The witness tried to glance around me at the prosecutor's table. “Look at me and answer,” I said.
“No, I don't believe that subject was mentioned.”
I glanced at my juror and noted that he was following this fairly intricate courtroom waltz. I paused and thought of what this devious character of a bartender had earlier told Laura and the Lieutenant about Barney, about his expression of sympathy and the “wolf” business and all. Perhaps I had better get into that now, I thought, but I would have to do so obliquely; if I came at him cold and asked him straight out he would probably simply deny the whole thing.
“Mr. Paquette,” I said, “as a bartender what do you call your cheaper brands of whisky?”
Surprised: “Oh, pilerun or cooking whisky or rat poison—they're just slang names.”
“Yes, of course. And your bonded bourbon?”
“Well, simply bonded bourbon or sometimes white-vest stuff.”
He apparently still did not see the drift. “I see,” I said. “Now
what do you call a man who has an insatiable penchant for women —any and all women?”
“What's ‘penchant,' sir?”
“Desire, appetite, passion, taste, hunger, yen, my friend.”
His eyes flickered and I now saw he'd got the drift. Carefully: “Why, a lady's man, I guess.” He glanced at the Judge. “Or maybe simply a damned fool.” The courtroom tittered and the Judge glared the onlookers into silence.
“Anything else?”
The Dancer was on his feet. “We don't see the drift of all this, Your Honor. I—”
“You mean, Mr. Dancer, you
do see
the drift,” I broke in.
“Proceed, gentlemen, proceed,” the Judge said sharply.
“Anything else, Mr. Paquette?” I said.
“Woman chaser,” he ventured.
“Hm … . Pretty medieval. Please try again.”
“Masher.”
“Come, now, Mr. Paquette-mashers went out with whalebone corsets and hair nets, but you're getting warmer. Anything else?”
Studiously, thoughtfully, “No, sir, I guess I've run out of terms. You see, sir, I haven't had the educational advantages you've had.”
The clever little bastard, I thought. “How about the expression ‘wolf'?” I said. “Or perhaps you've led too sheltered a life ever to have heard of that?”
“Naturally I've heard it. It slipped my mind.”
“Naturally it would. Clanking around in there with all those rusty old ‘mashers' it naturally would. Do you ever use the expression yourself?”
“Nat—” he began, but caught himself. “Of course I have. Everybody does.”
“What does it mean?”
“Well, I guess just about what you said—a bear cat for women.”
“Have you used the expression lately?”
“I couldn't remember that any more than you could.”
“Maybe I can refresh your recollection,” I said. “Do you remember driving Mrs. Manion to Iron Bay the Sunday after the shooting?” The witness craned around to look at Claude Dancer. “You needn't look at Mr. Dancer,” I said. “I don't believe he was hunting in the U.P. at that time.
Dancer leapt to his feet. “Let the witness answer,” he shouted hotly. “Don't try to pretend he's being evasive.”
“I wouldn't need to half try,” I said.
The Judge spoke wearily; we were wearing him down. “I suggest both of you gentlemen invoke a little silence and let the witness answer. In fact I order you to. Proceed.”
“Yes, I remember,” the witness answered.
I decided suddenly to veer away from all this and let the witness sizzle a little; a slow broil was sometimes good for the memory. “Now, Mr. Paquette,” I said, “you knew the deceased quite intimately, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“And did you consider yourself to some extent his confidant?”
“Yes.”
“Would it be fair to say that you were as intimate with him as any of his male acquaintances?”
Thoughtfully: “Well, yes.”
“And were you able to tell when he was drinking heavily or not?”
“I object,” Claude Dancer said. “Nothing in this case involving drinking. Had deceased been dead drunk still no defense to this charge.” The little man had an annoying habit of phrasing his objections as though he were dictating a cablegram, a prepaid cablegram. He also possessed an even more annoying habit of coming up with some pretty shrewd objections. “See no connection, Your Honor,” he concluded.
“You will, Dancer, you will,” I said, recalling in my travail the famous Whistler-Wilde jibe.
“I think possibly the objection may be well taken,” the Judge said, “but I will let the witness answer this question.”
I nodded at the witness. “I do not believe he was drinking particularly heavily that night,” the witness answered.
“I did not ask you if Barney was drinking heavily that night, Mr. Paquette,” I said. “I asked you whether you were able to tell
when
he was drinking heavily.”
“Yes.”
It had to be faced: “And was he drinking heavily that night?”
“No.” (“The lying dastard,” I thought, varying the formula.)
“Or that day?”
“No.”
“And how much did he drink when he was drinking heavily?”
“I object. Witness has said flatly that deceased was not drinking heavily that day, which is the day that concerns us. Anyway, don't see any relevancy or connection.”
“Well, you're pushing this pretty far, Mr. Biegler,” the Judge said, “but since we're into it I'll take the answer. But I warn you—the limit is near.”
I decided to veer from this before I got slapped down. “I'll withdraw the question, Your Honor.” I turned back to the witness. “Now I ask you whether from your intimacy with the deceased you knew whether he was an expert pistol shot?”
“Objection. No self-defense in this case. All evidence points to fact defendant was unquestionably the aggressor. Immaterial and irrelevant.”
“Mr. Biegler?” the Judge said.
I was in a dilemma. I certainly knew why I wanted to get in the drinking and expert pistol business, Heaven knows, and, since the Judge had all our requests for instructions, he too certainly knew. And the Dancer was shrewd enough to sense that I was up to no good, so he was objecting and, in all candor, I had to admit to myself that, as of now, his objections were probably good. I could have asked the Judge to recess the jury and have argued out all my pet theories in front of God, the jury, and the
Mining Gazette
, but I was not ready to show my hand to the Dancer and thus give him a free road map of my strategy for his future roadblocks. Also my corny sense of drama rebelled at throwing my best curves at this time; I wanted to save a few surprises for the jury. But I couldn't have my cake and eat it, too; I would have to learn to be patient, and being patient with little Mr. Dancer, I was rapidly learning, was an exercise in self-discipline I did not relish.
“We believe this evidence may be material, Your Honor,” I said, “and several of the People's witnesses have already indicated—the Pedersens, I believe-that the deceased was such an expert. We believe it has a connection with certain important issues in this case. However, we will of course abide by the court's ruling.” It was a lame and reluctant retreat from a tense and touchy courtroom situation.
“I believe that I must sustain the objection,” the Judge said slowly. “Until proper issues are raised making such questions relevant I don't think I can permit this line of questions. But I have yet to detect any such issues in the evidence so far in this case. If and when whatever issues you may have in mind should properly be raised here I will allow both sides to go sled length. But not until then. That is the court's ruling.”
I glanced at my juror and found him downcast; the only good thing about the Judge's ruling was that it now showed beyond any doubt that my juror cared. Claude Dancer was beaming his satisfaction and approval over such an erudite judge. In the meantime Paul Biegler had long face to save. “Your Honor,” I said, “may it be understood, then, that the defense can reserve further cross-examination of this witness until these proper issues should be raised?”
“It may be so understood, and I so rule. This witness and indeed all witnesses are under subpoena here. I will not permanently excuse them and they may not leave the jurisdiction of this court without my permission. If and when the proper issues are raised here to warrant these and similar questions, both sides may have at them to their hearts' content and with the court's blessing.”
“Very well, Your Honor,” I said. “With that understanding we have no further questions of this witness at this time.”
“Any redirect?” the Judge inquired, looking at Mitch.
Claude Dancer thought a moment, his chin resting Napoleon-ically on his hand. “No, Your Honor,” he said. “No further questions.”
“There is one more thing, Your Honor,” I said. (There was a moving little speech I had been saving for just such an occasion as this.) “I think the time has come for the defense to object to objectional examining tactics of the People. For example, this People's witness, the one now on the stand, started out being examined by the prosecuting attorney, Mr. Lodwick. Then I took over and Mr. Lodwick was retired hastily to the showers and Mr. First Assistant Dancer rolled up his artillery of objections. Then, when it came to redirect, the zealous Mr. Dancer forgets all pretense that this man was ever Mr. Lodwick's witness, and
he
allows that
he
has no further questions to ask him. Mr. Lodwick obediently consults Mr. Dancer but like the Lowells Mr. Dancer evidently consults only God.” I paused and glanced at my juror. “Now I am quite willing to take on these two legal giants, any time, any place, but I think in common fairness it should be but one at a time. I don't want both of them in there pitching their fast knuckle balls at me.”
It was quite a moving little jury speech, on a par with the best of Amos Crocker's quavering corn, and, sneaking another look, I was relieved to see that my juror had rallied from his slump.
“Your objection is well taken, Mr. Biegler,” the Judge said. “I have been waiting for you to raise it. In any case I will lay down a
rule on that. Only one counsel on a side will be permitted to examine a given witness. And in view of the number of witnesses in this case I will further rule that that same counsel shall raise any objections to any questions asked that witness.” The Judge glanced at the clock. “Mr. Sheriff,” he said, “take ten—no, fifteen minutes.”
The rest of Thursday morning slipped by on leaden wings. The prosecution seemed bent on cleaning up the odds and ends of its remaining witnesses, saving the best for the last—best for it, that is. Mitch was assigned or had assigned himself this dreary task, and I had dire trouble remaining awake. A whole string of alert good-looking young state police troopers paraded to the stand and, like eager young professors in math, talked endlessly and accurately about the charts and floods of measurements: about where the body lay, how far the bar was from the door, the hotel from the trailer park, the trailer from the caretaker's cottage, measurements ad nauseum. All the while I drank gallons of water and wondered idly where old Parnell had gone and what the old badger was up to.
Mitch had to get the stuff in, he couldn't help it, but I could help some and did by not prolonging the agony. My cross-examination was perfunctory and some witnesses I passed entirely. I did not try to get into Barney's personal life or his habits or his arsenal, which these boys probably didn't know about anyway, and I steered carefully away from all talk of rape and Laura Manion, and above all from the tender question of any lie-detector test. I was determined now not to risk getting seriously slapped down again by the court or to risk tipping off my strategy to the shifty counter-punching Dancer. If the prosecution wanted to play it that way I would wait to get in my licks until the defense took over, indeed even until Christmas. In any case, if the People were going to save their best witnesses for the last, I would also save what I hoped were my best curves for the last. In the meantime I ran out of water and began to see shimmering mirages of lakes of cold tomato juice.
Court mercifully adjourned a little early for the noon recess and I tottered out to my car and groped my way out to Parnell's and my drive-in on Lake Superior. “Closed for the Winter” a sign read. “Ev and Al.” Well, happy winter in Florida, Ev and Al, I thought—and may all your troubles continue to be famished tourists. As for you, Biegler, suffer, damn you, suffer … . I sat and stared numbly out at the gently heaving lake, at the rolling rhythmically probing waves—“out of the cradle, endlessly rocking”—until at last I had to flee the place to keep from falling asleep.
 
Parnell's little old caretaker, Mr. Lemon, a gentle wispy little man, was the first People's witness after lunch, with the Dancer in
the saddle. With an enviable dispatch and economy of words he adroitly led the witness over the jumps, having him relate how he was indeed a deputy sheriff, that he always wore his deputy badge, and that he was custodian of the trailer park; that his cottage was about thirty feet from the Manion trailer; that he locked the park gate every night at ten and that this was well known to the guests using the park, as he generally told all of them (Dancer was here obliquely veering ahead, in anticipation of our defense story, and I glumly admired the little man's crisp cleverness); and, finally, how he was awakened the night of the shooting.
“And who awoke you?” Mr. Dancer suavely continued.
“Lieutenant Manion,” the witness answered.
“For what purpose?”
“He wanted me to take him into custody, sir.”
“What if anything did he say?” (Here—now it was coming.)
“He said, ‘You better take me, Mr. Lemon—I've just shot Barney Quill.'”
Claude Dancer paused like a good actor to let these pregnant words sink in. “And what time was that?” he continued.
“Just before one A.M.”
“What did you do?”
“I told him to go wait in his trailer, that I would go uptown and notify the state police.”
“And did he go wait?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the police finally arrived and took over.”
“They did. Somebody else notified them first.”
Mr. Dancer turned toward me and smiled, he actually smiled, and I swiftly concluded, as I had with Barney's bartender, that if I had to take him at all I much preferred him frowning. He was in a benevolent mood, the day was going nicely, and somehow Biegler was flubbing his shots … . “Your witness, Mr. Biegler,” he smiled sweetly and padded nimbly back to his assistant boss. I heaved myself to my feet, feeling not a day older than the witness I was about to face.
“How old are you, Mr. Lemon?” I said.
“I'll be sixty-nine in February,” he answered.
“And how long have you been custodian of the Thunder Bay tourist and trailer park?”
“Going on nine years, sir.”
“And who do you work for—who pays your salary?”
“The township—Mastodon Township.”
“And how long have you been a deputy sheriff?”
“Going on three years.”
“And who pays your salary for that office?”
Surprised: “Why no one, sir—there just isn't any salary.”
“So your sole income—from your work at least—comes from the township of Mastodon as custodian of the tourist and trailer park?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, as deputy sheriff was it your practice to serve legal papers; roam highways, chase speeders, pinch violators, quell riots, patrol strikes, case the outlying taverns on Saturday nights and pay days—and all the many things that our busy Sheriff here and his loyal deputies are required to do day and night?” (I glanced at the Sheriff. This was Max's pay-off and in his moment of glory he was all flushed and swollen out like a pouter pigeon. At that instant, at least, the Lieutenant could plainly have gotten up and strolled off unhindered to Georgia.)
“Oh, no sir,” the witness replied, recoiling in horror at the thought. “I only work at the park.”
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Lemon, you've never done any of these things, have you; your deputyship is purely a convenience in connection with your duties in the park; you've never made a dime as deputy; you don't wear a uniform or carry a gun; and you've probably never arrested a man in your life?”
“All that is correct, sir. I don't even own a gun.” He hesitated and smiled. “Perhaps I can explain. You—you see, Mr. Biegler, about three years ago some of our town boys began coming around the park at night, singing and disturbing the tourists. Nothing vicious, you know—just being boys. Well, I—I thought if I got to be a deputy sheriff that might scare them a little.”
“And did they scare, Mr. Lemon?” I said, smiling.
“Not readily,” he said timidly. “It was Mrs. Lemon who finally, solved the problem.”
“How?”
“Cookies.”
“Cookies, Mr. Lemon?”
“Cookies, Mr. Biegler. Isabelle—Mrs. Lemon, I mean—discovered that the best way to silence the town boys at night was to fill them up with homemade cookies.” He held out his hands. “We haven't had any trouble since.”
What a lovely little man, I thought. I glanced over at Mr. Dancer,
who was sunk in profound thought—probably yearning for Isabelle's recipe. “Passing now to the locked gate,” I said. “I believe you testified that you close and lock this gate at ten every night, and that this is well known to the patrons of your park?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I assume then that this would be even
better
known to the residents of Thunder Bay?”
“Oh yes, sir—everybody knew that. It's been locked at that hour since the park opened—long before I became caretaker.”
“So that if any local resident suggested driving a tourist, say, into the park after that hour, he must surely have known that the gate would be closed and locked?”
“Objection,” the Dancer said. “The gate is irrelevant and immaterial.”
“Mr. Biegler?” the Judge said.
I was beginning to feel a little benevolent, too. “I'll abide by your ruling, Your Honor.”
“The objection is overruled. The People have opened the gate, so to speak, and within reason, the defense may close it. Take the answer.”
“Oh, yes sir,” Mr. Lemon said. “Everybody knew that.”
After that I had myself a time swinging gaily on the creaking park gate, showing that while the caretaker had told the Lieutenant about the gate and given him a key, he hadn't told Laura; that on the few occasions they had stayed out together past ten that he, Mr. Lemon, had left the gate not only unlocked but standing open for them; that there was indeed a foot-stile at the side of the gate but that the tourists rarely, if ever, used it and instead either drove through the gate in cars, or, when walking, used the more northerly short-cut footpath to town which passed near Mr. Lemon's cottage. I also showed that bears were frequently seen in or near the tourist park, especially at night near the garbage dump on the south or entrance end. I finally showed that there was no other automobile road into the park proper except that which passed through the main gate.
“Closing the gate, now, Mr. Lemon,” I said, “how did Lieutenant Manion appear when he told you what you say he told you?” Claude Dancer's failure to get into this on direct might be a trap, I sensed, but on the other hand one never knew … .
“He was white as a ghost and stood very straight, very erect and soldierly. He—he seemed to have trouble speaking; it seemed like he talked through his teeth. He—he acted like a man in a dream.”
“A little caretaker shall lead them,” I thought, pausing to let this answer soak in. While it was not entirely inconsistent with cold rage, it was even less inconsistent, I felt, with the picture of a man in the grip of some grave emotional or mental disturbance. I decided to rest the subject there.
“And Mrs. Manion,” I said. “Did you see her?”
“Oh yes. I walked over to the trailer with the Lieutenant and she came to the door crying and said, ‘Look what Barney did to me.'”
I half crouched, waiting for the booming objection, but no, the Dancer was too smart to nail the point home twice by objecting—the thing had slipped out and maybe it would go away.
“And what was her appearance?” I said, trying to make sure it wouldn't go away.
“She—she was a mess.” The witness closed his eyes as though to banish a bad dream.
Everybody in the courtroom and county knew, of course, that Laura Manion had
claimed
that Barney had raped her. But this was the first sliver of actual evidence of the fact. The jury now knew that we were skating on the very edge of the rape. And like the hushed and slack-mouthed women sitting in the courtroom, they were also probably dying to hear about it. But I was damned if I was going to risk getting slapped down again; on the other hand, I had to try to lay the jury's disappointment at some other door. I was beginning to rather like it this way. I looked up at the Judge.
“Your Honor,” I said, “we seem to be veering rather close to a keep-off-the-grass subject. I have no desire to annoy the court or to try to circumvent its earlier ruling, and I shall push ahead on the subject or not, as the court will please indicate.”
I stood glancing curiously about the room as though it was the first time I had ever seen the place, as unconcerned as any bored and sun-blistered tourist being shown through the place by Sulo. “Hm …” said the Judge, leaning back and studying the domed skylight. I had passed him a little poser and we both knew it. But he was equal to the challenge-like a good halfback in trouble he promptly lateraled the ball off to Claude Dancer. “The People, Mr. Dancer?” he said. “What do you say?”
“Absolutely not,” the Dancer came faithfully storming through; you could always count on the little man. “The Court has ruled; counsel is aware of it; and there is not a scintilla of evidence of any—” he paused and for once the boy orator was at a loss for words. I was certain he had nearly said “rape.”
“Yes, Mr. Dancer?” I leered at him helpfully.
“—of any issue to which this line of questioning would be relevant,” he concluded, glaring at me and plumping to his chair.
“Perhaps, Mr. Biegler,” the Court suggested, “perhaps in view of the People's attitude you had better push on with something else. You may recall this witness later, of course, as per our earlier understanding.”
The entire courtroom sighed a collective sigh, as though someone had punctured a balloon. Nearly everybody seemed to be glaring at somebody else. Most interesting to me, however, was that to a man the jury was now glaring at Claude Dancer. I studied the dusty portraits of the deceased judges until everybody could get thoroughly glared out and then I cleared my throat.
“Now, Mr. Lemon,” I said, coming slowly to another delicate subject, “what time did you retire that night?”
“About ten-fifteen, my regular hour, right after closing the gate and listening to the radio newscast.”
“And was your rest disturbed between that time and when Lieutenant Manion awoke you around one?”

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