Calamity Town (20 page)

‘I'm sick of talk! Pat, I want you so blamed much—' He kissed her mouth; he kissed the tip of her nose.

‘I want to talk to you about Jim, Cart!' cried Pat desperately.

She felt him go cold in one spasm. He let her go and walked to the wall with the windows that overlooked the Courthouse plaza, to stare out without seeing anything, cars or people or trees or Wrightsville's gray-wash sky.

‘What about Jim?' he asked in a flat voice.

‘Cart. Look at me!' Pat begged.

He turned around. ‘I can't do it.'

‘Can't look at me? You are!'

‘Can't withdraw from the case. That's why you came here today, isn't it—to ask me?'

Pat sat down again, fumbling for her lipstick. Her lips. Blobbed. Kiss. Her hands were shaking, so she snapped the bag shut. ‘Yes,' she said, very low. ‘More than that. I wanted you to resign the Prosecutor's office and come over to Jim's defense. Like Judge Eli Martin.'

Cart was silent for so long that Pat had to look up at him. He was staring at her with an intense bitterness. But when he spoke, it was with gentleness. ‘You can't be serious. The Judge is an old man, your father's closest friend. And he wouldn't have been able to sit on this case, anyway. But I was elected to this office only a short time ago. I took an oath that means something to me. I hate to sound like some stuffed shirt of a politician looking for votes—'

‘Oh, but you do!' flared Pat.

‘If Jim's innocent, he'll go free. If he's guilty—you wouldn't want him to go free if he's guilty, would you?'

‘He's
not
guilty!'

‘That's something the jury will have to decide.'

‘You've decided already! In your own mind, you've condemned him to death!'

‘Dakin and I have had to collect the facts, Pat. We've
had
to. Don't you understand that? Our personal feelings can't interfere. We both feel awful about this thing…'

Pat was near tears now, and angry with herself for showing it. ‘Doesn't it mean anything to you that Nora's whole life is tied up in this “thing,” as you call it? That there's a baby coming? I know the trial can't be stopped, but I wanted
you
on our side, I wanted you to help, not hurt!' Cart ground his teeth together. ‘You've said you love me,' cried Pat. ‘How could you love me and still—' Horrified, she heard her own voice break and found herself sobbing. ‘The whole town's against us. They stoned Jim. They're slinging mud at us. Wrightsville, Cart! A Wright founded this town. We were all born here—not only us kids, but Pop and Muth and Aunt Tabitha and the Bluefields and…I'm not the spoiled brat you used to neck in the back of your lizzie at the Grove in Wrightsville Junction on Saturday nights! The whole world's gone to pot, Cart—I've grown old watching it. Oh, Cart, I've no pride left—no defenses—say you'll help me! I'm afraid!' She hid her face, giving up the emotional battle. Nothing made any sense—what she'd just said, what she was thinking. Everything was drowning, gasping, struggling in tears.

‘Pat,' said Cart miserably. ‘I can't. I just can't.'

That did it. She was drowned now, dead, but there was a sort of vicious other-life that made her spring from the chair and scream at him. ‘You're nothing but a selfish, scheming politician! You're willing to see Jim die and Pop, and Mother, and Nora, and me, and everyone suffer, just to further your own career! Oh, this is an
important
case. Dozens of New York and Chicago and Boston reporters to hang on your every word! Your name and photo—Young Public Prosecutor Bradford—brilliant—says this—my duty is—yes—no—off the record…You're a hateful, shallow
publicity hound!
'

‘I've gone all through this in my mind, Pat,' Cart replied with a queer lack of resentment. ‘I suppose I can't expect you to see it my way—'

Pat laughed. ‘Insult to injury!'

‘If I don't do this job—if I resign or step out—someone else will. Someone who might be a lot less fair to Jim. If I prosecute, Pat, you can be sure Jim will get a square deal—'

She ran out.

And there, on the side of the corridor opposite the Prosecutor's door, waiting patiently, was Mr Queen.

‘Oh,
Ellery
!'

Ellery said gently: ‘Come home.'

21

Vox Pops

‘Ave, Caesar!' wrote Roberta Roberts at the head of her column under the date line of March fifteenth.

He who is about to be tried for his life finds even the fates against him. Jim Haight's trial begins on the Ides of March before Judge Lysander Newbold in Wright County Courthouse, Part II, Wrightsville, U.S.A. This is chance, or subtlety…Kid Vox is popping furiously, and it is the impression of cooler heads that the young man going on trial here for the murder of Rosemary Haight and the attempted murder of Nora Wright Haight is being prepared to make a Roman Holiday.

And so it seemed. From the beginning there was a muttering undertone that was chilling. Chief of Police Dakin expressed himself privately to the persistent press as ‘mighty relieved' that his prisoner didn't have to be carted through the streets of Wrightsville to reach the place of his inquisition, since the County Jail and the County Courthouse were in the same building. People were in such an ugly temper you would have imagined their hatred of the alleged poisoner to be inspired by the fiercest loyalty to the Wrights. But this was odd, because they were equally ugly towards the Wrights. Dakin had to assign two county detectives to escort the family to and from the Courthouse. Even so, jeering boys threw stones, the tires of their cars were slashed mysteriously and the paint scratched with nasty words; seven unsigned letters of the ‘threat' variety were delivered by a nervous Postman Bailey in one day alone. Silent, John F. Wright turned them over to Dakin's office; and Patrolman Brady himself caught the Old Soak, Anderson, standing precariously in the middle of the Wright lawn in bright daylight, declaiming not too aptly to the unresponding house Mark Antony's speech from Act III, Scene I of
Julius Caesar
. Charlie Brady hauled Mr Anderson to the town lockup hastily, while Mr Anderson kept yelling ‘O parm me thou blee'n' piece of earth that I am meek an' zhentle with theshe—hup!—bushers!'

Hermy and John F. began to look beaten. In court, the family sat together, in a sort of phalanx, with stiff necks if pale faces; only occasionally Hermy smiled rather pointedly in the direction of Jim Haight, and then turned to sniff and glare at the jammed courtroom and toss her head, as if to say: ‘Yes, we're all in this together—you miserable rubbernecks!'

There had been a great deal of mumbling about the impropriety of Carter Bradford's prosecuting the case. In an acid editorial Frank Lloyd put the
Record
on record as ‘disapproving.' True, unlike Judge Eli Martin, Bradford had arrived at the fatal New Year's Eve party
after
the poisoning of Nora and Rosemary, so he was not involved either as participant or as witness. But Lloyd pointed out that ‘our young, talented, but sometimes emotional Prosecutor has long been friendly with the Wright family, especially one member of it; and although we understand this friendship has ceased as of the night of the crime, we still question the ability of Mr Bradford to prosecute this case without bias. Something should be done about it.'

Interviewed on this point before the opening of the trial, Bradford snapped: ‘This isn't Chicago or New York. We have a closeknit community here, where everybody knows everybody else. My conduct during the trial will answer the
Record's
libelous insinuations. Jim Haight will get from Wright County a forthright, impartial prosecution based solely upon the evidence. That's all, gentlemen!'

Judge Lysander Newbold was an elderly man, a bachelor, greatly respected throughout the state as a jurist and trout fisherman. He was a square, squat, bony man who always sat on the Bench with his black-fringed skull sunk so deeply between his shoulders that it seemed an outgrowth of his chest. His voice was dry and careless; he had the habit, when on the Bench, of playing absently with his gavel, as if it were a fishing rod; and he never laughed.

Judge Newbold had no friends, no associates, and no commitments except to God, country, Bench, and the trout season. Everybody said with a sort of relieved piety that ‘Judge Newbold is just about the best judge this case could have.' Some even thought he was
too
good. But they were the ones who were muttering. Roberta Roberts baptized these grumblers ‘the Jimhaighters.'

It took several days to select a jury, and during these days Mr Ellery Queen kept watching only two persons in the courtroom—Judge Eli Martin, defense counsel, and Carter Bradford, Prosecutor. And it soon became evident that this would be a war between young courage and old experience. Bradford was working under a strain. He held himself in one piece, like a casting; there was a dogged something about him that met the eye with defiance and yet a sort of shame. Ellery saw early that he was competent. He knew his townspeople, too. But he was speaking too quietly, and occasionally his voice cracked.

Judge Martin was superb. He did not make the mistake of patronizing young Bradford, even subtly; that would have swung the people over to the prosecution. Instead, he was most respectful of Bradford's comments. Once, returning to their places from a low-voiced colloquy before Judge Newbold, the old man was seen to put his hand affectionately on Carter's shoulder for just an instant. The gesture said: You're a good boy; we like each other; we are both interested in the same thing—justice; and we are equally matched. This is all very sad, but necessary. The People are in good hands. The People rather liked it. There were whispers of approval. And some were heard to say: After all, old Eli Martin—he
did
quit his job on the Bench to defend Haight. Can't get around that! Must be pretty convinced Haight's innocent…And others replied: Go on. The Judge is John F. Wright's best friend, that's why…Well, I don't know…The whole thing was calculated to create an atmosphere of dignity and thoughtfulness, in which the raw emotions of the mob could only gasp for breath, and gradually expire.

Mr Ellery Queen approved. Mr Queen approved even more when he finally examined the twelve good men and true. Judge Martin had made the selections as deftly and surely as if there were no Bradford to cope with at all. Solid, sober male citizens, as far as Ellery could determine. None calculated to respond to prejudicial appeals, with one possible exception, a fat man who kept sweating; most seemed anxiously thoughtful men, with higher than average intelligence. Men of the decent world, who might be expected to understand that a man can be weak without being criminal.

For students of the particular, the complete court record of
People v. James Haight
is on file in Wright County—day after day after day of question and answer and objection and Judge Newbold's precise rulings. For that matter, the newspapers were almost as exhaustive as the court stenographer's notes. The difficulty with detailed records, however, is that you cannot see the tree for the leaves. So let us stand off and make the leaves blur and blend into larger shapes. Let us look at contours, not textures.

In his opening address to the jury, Carter Bradford said that the jury must bear in mind continuously one all-important point: that while Rosemary Haight, the defendant's sister, was murdered by poison, her death was not the true object of defendant's crime. The true object of defendant's crime was to take the life of defendant's young wife, Nora Wright Haight—an object so nearly accomplished that the wife was confined to her bed for six weeks after the fateful New Year's Eve party, a victim of arsenic poisoning.

And yes, the State freely admits that its case against James Haight is circumstantial, but murder convictions on circumstantial evidence are the rule, not the exception. The only direct evidence possible in a murder case is an eyewitness's testimony as to having witnessed the murder at the moment of its commission. In a shooting case, this would have to be a witness who actually saw the accused pull the trigger and the victim fall dead as a result of the shot. In a poisoning case, it would have to be a witness who actually saw the accused deposit poison in the food or drink to be swallowed by the victim, and moreover who saw the accused hand the poisoned food or drink
to
the victim. Obviously, continued Bradford, such ‘happy accidents' of persons witnessing the Actual Deed must be few and far between, since murderers understandably try to avoid committing their murders before an audience. Therefore nearly all prosecutions of murder are based on circumstantial rather than direct evidence; the law has wisely provided for the admission of such evidence, otherwise most murderers would go unpunished.

But the jury need not flounder in doubts about
this
case; here the circumstantial evidence is so clear, so strong, so indisputable, that the jury must find James Haight guilty of the crime as charged beyond any reasonable doubt whatsoever. ‘The People will prove', said Bradford in a low, firm tone, ‘that James Haight planned the murder of his wife a minimum of five weeks before he tried to accomplish it; that it was a cunning plan, depending upon a series of poisonings of increasing severity to establish the wife as subject to attacks of “illness,” and supposed to culminate in a climactic poisoning as a result of which the wife was to die. The People will prove,' Bradford went on, ‘that these preliminary poisonings did take place on the very dates indicated by the schedule James Haight had prepared with his own hand; that the attempted murder of Nora Haight and the accidental murder of Rosemary Haight did take place on the very date indicated by the same schedule.

‘The People will prove that on the night under examination, James Haight and James Haight alone mixed the batch of cocktails among whose number was the poisoned cocktail; that James Haight and James Haight alone handed the tray of cocktails around to the various members of the party; that James Haight and James Haight alone handed his wife the poisoned cocktail from the tray, and even urged her to drink it; that she did drink of that cocktail, and fell violently ill of arsenic poisoning, her life being spared only because at Rosemary Haight's insistence she gave the rest of the poisoned cocktail to her sister-in-law after having merely sipped…a circumstance James Haight couldn't have foreseen.