Decision (32 page)

Chapter 1

Earle William Holgren was indicted shortly after 10 a.m. Wednesday in the State Court of General Sessions in Columbia for the murder of Sarah Ann Pomeroy; the attempted murders of Hon. Stanley Mossiter Pomeroy and Jane Margaret Barbour; the murders of a woman identified as Janet Martinson of Pomeroy Station and a male child aged approximately six months, name unknown; and the wanton and deliberate destruction of property at the atomic energy plant at Pomeroy Station, South Carolina. Defendant’s lawyer entered a plea of not guilty and bail was set at one million dollars.
South Carolina v. Holgren
was underway.

Outside the courthouse as the trial began a crowd estimated by local police and the experts of national press and television to be well over ten thousand had gathered, as ugly and hostile to the defendant as might have been expected. Encouraged and in many cases led by members of rapidly growing Justice NOW! the angry spectators waved banners and held signs that summed up the general mood. STRING EARLE HOLGREN FROM A SOUR APPLE TREE, one said. SWIFT DEATH TO ALL MURDERERS, said another. CONVICT HOLGREN, SOUTH CAROLINA’S ENEMY, said a third. YOU HAVE KILLED OUR BEAUTY, HOLGREN: YOU WILL DIE—FAST, promised a fourth.

Everywhere the shield of Justice NOW! danced and shimmered from poles and placards waved rhythmically back and forth above the crowd. A loud, ominous hum filled with a vindictive hatred that appeared likely to erupt at any moment came clearly over the nation’s airwaves and television screens.

“This is a crowd that wants to kill Earle Holgren,” NBC’s man said while Justice NOW! banners, thrust before the cameras, almost obscured his somber face. There was no doubt of it.

Nor was there any doubt that the nation was going to be kept well advised of every step of the proceedings. All major media were represented. Television anchormen and commentators, leading columnists and editorialists, top feature writers were all on hand. The Carolina Inn overflowed with their noisy gossip and cluttering paraphernalia, and out along Interstates 20 and 26 all the major motels were equally crowded.

Limited space in the courtroom excluded the general public, but no one could say, in view of the ominous motley gathered outside, that it was not part of the trial.

A solid wall of humanity crowded the approaches to the entrance, shouting out its sentiments as each new group appeared.

Tay and Mary Barbour were the first. The Justice, face drawn and obviously strained with emotion, gave only the briefest of nods to acknowledge the cry that went up—not exactly a cheer, but rather a sound of universal sympathy and concern. His wife stared straight ahead without expression, her face also white and strained, set in a rigid mask of pain. The crowd’s sympathy seemed to waver, uncertain in the face of her apparent refusal to acknowledge it; but in a moment she and the Justice managed to muster slight but appreciative smiles. The sounds of sympathy rose again as they disappeared.

Two minutes later a limousine drew up, the excitement increased to a new and warmer pitch. South Carolina’s own were arriving. Again there was a cheer, filled with deep affection and support, as Moss and Sue-Ann, both looking desperately tired but composed, stepped from the car and started toward the entrance. They, too, barely acknowledged it at first, but when they reached the entrance they turned, smiled with obvious gratitude, and waved. The sound surged higher, solicitous and protective.

A moment after, almost unnoticed at first in the excitement of the Pomeroys’ arrival, another chauffeured limousine drew up and a couple in their late sixties stepped out, gray-haired, pale, tense, faces drawn with sorrow and unhappiness. Their pictures had appeared very seldom in the papers or on the television screens and at first no one recognized them. Then it dawned on the crowd that they must be the parents of the accused. At first there was a tentative wave of boos, quickly stilled by the sight of their obviously unhappy faces as they hurried toward the entrance. A low murmur of sympathy replaced the boos as they disappeared inside. “It isn’t their fault they have an ungrateful, worthless son,” someone said loudly. The comment seemed to be generally accepted as a wave of almost gentle concern followed them in.

Five minutes after that all gentle sounds abruptly ceased. An ugly roar went up, filled with hate. The defendant, walking in a square of armed police who glared sternly at the nearest watchers as they threatened to break across the ropes and engulf the prisoner, stepped out of an armored van and started for the entrance. His head was bandaged (a protection no longer necessary medically, but with an eye to television he had insisted upon it when his counsel had visited him soon after breakfast). He held his right arm awkwardly against his body and walked with a definite limp, particularly in his left leg. “Stop faking, you phony bastard!” some woman screamed at him, but he only tossed her a contemptuous smile and walked on. The roar swelled, multiplied, became more ominous.

Behind him came Debbie, eyes straight ahead, face expressionless. Rotten eggs, two rotten pumpkins, several small rocks, a brick, gobs of spittle flew after them as they were hurried to the entrance. As he reached it, Earle Holgren turned and gave them a jaunty finger, his contemptuous grin broadening into a sardonic grimace that plainly said,
I
am superior to all you poor, pathetic bastards.
The ugly roar surged to fill the world. Across America, as his jeering face and gesture reached millions of his countrymen from their television screens, many and many a watcher grimly echoed Justice NOW!:
Enough is enough.

Inside the courtroom he sobered somewhat but there was still an air of unrepentant defiance about him that communicated itself instantly to those he had hurt as they glanced, trying not to glance, at his stocky, bearded figure. He turned and surveyed the room with the same contemptuous expression in his eyes, though his face now was not jeering but suddenly watchful.

“I feel as though I am looking at an animal,” Mary whispered to Tay with a shudder he felt in his arm alongside hers.

He nodded grimly.

“Treed,” he whispered back, “but not yet cornered.”

Next to her Sue-Ann Pomeroy drew in her breath sharply and seemed to flinch away a little as Earle’s slow and careful gaze swept across hers; but Moss stared back at him with a somber and expressionless appraisal that for just a second seemed to disconcert him. Then the second passed and quite deliberately, taking his time and letting them feel his contempt and superiority, he let his eyes wander on across the room until he had completed his examination. Then he turned his back on them and leaned his shoulder against Debbie, who had been watching his performance with tightly compressed lips.

“Stupid bunch of jerks,” he muttered.

“Don’t get too smart for them,” she remarked. “They might not like it.”

“Hell,” he said, “that’s what you’re here for, sweets. You’ll get me out of it.”

“Not if you act like a God damned preening egomaniac,” she told him savagely. She pulled away from his intimately pressing shoulder and began to go through her papers. He studied her for a moment, then snorted and turned with an again-contemptuous smile toward the bench.

“The court will be in order,” the bailiff announced loudly. The audience stood up, the judge came in. Last to rise, with an elaborate show of boredom and disinterest noted in a sharp quick glance by the judge, was the defendant. He did, however, finally manage it; and after studying him for a moment with an amused little smile and an intent gaze that alarmed Debbie, the judge said, “Please be seated.” Quickly the audience obeyed. Slowly, so did Earle Holgren.

The judge, carefully chosen, was Regard Stinnet’s friend, Perlie Williams—James Perle Williams in full, a transplanted Yankee from Pennsylvania who had been a South Carolinian since his parents had moved there when he was ten. His handling of the proceedings was crisp and to the point. Like Regard he was a hick only in season and this was not the season. He was a smart man and a judicious one and he tolerated no nonsense in his court. He too was aware of the publicity aspects of the case. His opening move caught both counsels off guard, though not for long.

“The court is cognizant,” he said into the silence that abruptly descended over the standing-room-only audience of family, legal attendants, media, “that because of the nature of the crimes alleged against this defendant and because of the personal and emotional aspects of the matter insofar as this particular state is concerned, the selection of an unbiased jury may be an almost insurmountable task. However, it can be accomplished, providing counsel show a reasonable and equal determination to expedite. Will counsel approach the bench, please.”

“Watch out for tricks!” Earle Holgren hissed. Debbie gave him an impatient look and hissed back, “Certainly!” But it was with considerable inner perturbation that she went to the bench.

Regard, apparently not at all perturbed, gave her an ironic little bow and then turned, impassive, to Perlie Williams.

“Now, I just want to tell you, young lady,” the judge murmured confidentially in his pleasant voice, “and you, too, Regard, that I am not standing for any frivolous challenges or any deliberate stalling. The state, and I think the nation, demand and expect a speedy trial and a swift conclusion. I realize that this may seem to be playing into the hands of opposing counsel, Miss Donnelson. On the other hand, if you must rely, as I think you largely must, on such public sympathy as you can muster for your client, your cause will not profit if it is generally perceived that you are deliberately delaying things. It is to everybody’s advantage to move right along; not to the endangerment of a fair trial, Miss Donnelson, but in the interests of justice and also of your own cause. Does that seem a reasonable conclusion?”

“Suits me fine, your honor,” Regard replied briskly. Debbie hesitated.

“The court is only asking reasonable restraint and prudence, after all,” Judge Williams pointed out. “I am determined not to have a circus.”

“Very well, your honor,” she said at last. “In that understanding I shall certainly do what I can to speed it along—always reserving my just rights and those of my client, however.”

“Certainly, counsel,” Perlie Williams said with some impatience. “No one is going to try to take them away.”

“I hope not,” she said, giving Regard a sternly quizzical glance.

“Absolutely not,” he agreed. “That’s the best way I know to get reversed on appeal. And,” he added grimly, “I don’t intend to get reversed on appeal on this one. Not by anybody, no time, no way.”

“Very good,” Judge Williams said. “Court will be in order, please.” He turned to Regard. “Proceed, counsel.”

But before Regard could speak, Debbie was on her feet.

“Your honor,” she said, “I would like to request a change of venue.”

There was a ripple of startled sound across the room.

“Dear me,” Judge Williams said dryly. “Why is this, counsel?”

“It is nothing personal, your honor,” she said hastily. “You appear to be scrupulously fair and my client and I are much heartened by this. My request is for transfer to the appropriate court in Charleston, South Carolina.”

“It is indeed a charming city,” Perlie Williams conceded, and many in the audience laughed, “but is that sufficient reason for going there? Perhaps counsel can enlighten me.”

“Your honor,” she said earnestly, “my reasons for this request are, I think, self-evident in view of the situation that prevails around this courthouse at the moment. It is no secret that we are in a very hostile climate here. Displays of hostility were so great when we entered that for a moment I actually feared for the life of my client”—a hoot of scorn came from somewhere, and Judge Williams rapped his gavel sharply—“and I certainly fear for any chance of a fair trial in this area. Not where your honor is concerned, as your honor knows. But simply because popular sympathy is very strongly on the side of Justice Pomeroy, perhaps to the exclusion of any possibility of a fair trial. That is the ground for my request, your honor.”

“You will find,” Perlie Williams remarked, “that Pomeroys are fully as popular in Charleston as they are in Columbia, Miss Donnelson. And as for hostility toward what has happened and toward the one who, rightly or wrongly, is held responsible by many citizens, I am afraid that it is not only statewide but nationwide. Therefore, while I sympathize with your concern about demonstrations of hostility outside the courtroom—which,” he added, looking sternly about—“will not be tolerated inside it—I am afraid I must reject your request for change of venue. Now, if we might proceed with the selection of a jury—?”

“We are bitterly disappointed, your honor,” Debbie said, and looked it, “but must bow to your decision.”

“Thank you,” Judge Williams said with some irony. “Bailiff will call the first prospective juror, please.”

“Your honor,” Regard said smoothly, “before we proceed to that, the state would like to suggest most respectfully to your honor the possibility that television be admitted to these proceedings as well as the printed media.”

“We agree, your honor,” Debbie said quickly.

“Do you, now,” Perlie Williams said.

“Yes, sir,” Debbie replied. “We believe the public interest, both here and throughout the nation—”

“Throughout the world,” Regard interjected. She nodded.

“—and in all probability throughout the world, would make it most advisable, or certainly most considerate of that interest, if television could be admitted. It would be an education for the public, we feel. And, I might add,” she said with a glance at her opponent, “a good protection for my client in case anyone tries to pull any tricks.”

“Does counsel for the state agree with these arguments?” Judge Williams inquired with an amused expression to which Regard decided to respond with equal amusement.

“Not entirely, your honor,” he said with a fatherly chuckle, “because counsel is obviously quite alert enough and determined enough to protect her client without help from television or anybody else. In addition to which, of course,” he remarked, less amicably, “nobody is goin’ to try to ‘pull any tricks’ on one who obviously, considering everything, deserves the most tender and solicitous treatment from the law—at least equal to the tender and solicitous treatment he has given others.”