False Witness (12 page)

He folded his fingers, stiffened the two index fingers straight out, and tapped them against his mouth for a moment. “I want to ask you a question first.” I waited. “How many people are working on the crime against Ms. Dawson?”

Bobby Jones, on signal from me, answered, “I don’t think that’s relevant to anything you might be able to offer.”

“I
think it’s
relevant
or I
wouldn’t
have
asked.”

“Make your point, Dr. Morris.”

The atmosphere, the almost game-playing atmosphere, abruptly changed: hardened, tightened. Morris dropped his hands and slid them on the arms of the wooden chair. He turned his face and glared at Bobby Jones, then turned back to me.

“My point, Ms. Jacobi: Sanderalee Dawson is a
black
woman who has been brutalized by a
white
man. Now, in the history of our great nation, there is nothing whatever unique about this. Black people have always been victimized and brutalized by white people. What I want to know is ...”

“Are you here to make speeches or to assist us in our investigation?”

He took a slow breath and smiled; his eyes shot into mine again, but that particular connection had been broken and we both knew it.

“All right. Let’s skip the obvious. Let’s skip right over what we all three of us know of the history of race relations in our country. You are prosecutors: you know as much as anyone else. I am interested, as a very close friend of Sanderalee’s, in the progress of the investigation. Is that allowable?”

“More than half of my entire staff is working on this case along with the PD personnel assigned. We are working around the clock and under a good deal of pressure. It is a high priority case. We are handling this case exactly—
exactly—
as we would any similarly vicious assault. We haven’t gotten into the racial—or the
sexual—
politics involved.”

“Oh yes, that’s a new political field, isn’t it?
Sexual politics.
Well, yes, I can see where that might take
you,
Ms. Jacobi. But you see, black women have not yet had the
luxury
to be involved in
sexual
politics. They’re still involved in the injustices of racial politics.”

“Dr. Morris,” Bobby Jones said in his bell-clear accusatory voice, “where were you on Tuesday night, March sixth, from midnight until five
A.M.?”

Regg Morris shook his head in an exaggerated motion, as though he were a swimmer trying to clear the water from his ear.

“Am I being asked for an
alibi?”
The laugh was incredulous. “Well, I’ve been accused of many things in my lifetime. Passing for a
white man
has never been one of them.”

“No one is accusing you of anything, Dr. Morris. We’re just asking you a very standard question. You don’t have to answer, if you’d rather not. You can come back with an attorney, if you’d prefer. We can set up such an appointment for you at your convenience.”

“I was
with
my attorney Tuesday night. We were in Atlanta, Georgia, attending a seminar at Emory University, between eight and ten
P.M.
We returned to New York via Delta Airlines—first class—always first class when it’s business-deductible. We arrived at LaGuardia well after midnight, maybe twelve-thirty, twelve forty-five
A.M.
Shared a cab into Manhattan. Dropped him off first—he lives in Kips Bay. Then I was driven home by the cabdriver. I would guess I arrived home—you know my address: I have an apartment on the top floor of my brownstone—I would guess at around one forty-five or two
A.M.
I’m not really sure. I took a shower and had a late-night snack. I put on my radio and went to bed. I listened to ... I’m not too sure what talk show it was, but I heard my name mentioned in connection with educational testing methods. I’m sure you would be able to check out what show it was; what time my name was mentioned; my radio is set on WOR. At that point, after they discussed my views, I turned off the radio and went to sleep.

“My clock radio woke me up at seven on Wednesday morning. I heard the news then. About Sanderalee. I dressed and rushed to Roosevelt Hospital and learned she’d been taken to New York Hospital. I’ve spent as much time as possible at the hospital for the last week.

“That is my statement. Now suppose you tell me exactly why you asked me for a statement. By what stretch of the imagination are you probing the possibility of putting a black man into the picture?”

“This case is still wide open, Dr. Morris,” Bobby Jones explained. “And will be until we can get some information from Ms. Dawson. The doorman has stated he took her up to her floor in the company of a white man, dressed in running clothes. We have no way of knowing whether or not there was another man waiting inside her apartment, in the apartment next door, or anywhere in the hallway, just waiting for her to return home. We don’t know if this man was someone she knew; was afraid of; had a relationship with.”

“Or in fact if he existed,” I added.

“And if he existed, of course he’d be a
black man?”
Regg Morris smiled bitterly. “And I would be black man number one to question. My God, you people are marvelous. If she doesn’t come around soon, you’ll be dragging in every ...”

“She
has
come around, Dr. Morris.”

“What?”

He rose from his chair and leaned across the desk. “When? How is she?
What did she say?”

“She said your name. She said ‘Regg Morris.’ And that’s all she said.”

T
HE HOSPITAL HAD MADE
provision for the numbers of people involved in the waiting, guarding process. An intern cot had been set up in the tiny lounge room connecting with the private ICU where Sanderalee Dawson lay. Lucy Capella and I arranged a rotating on/off schedule between us and we informed the Police Department personnel that under no circumstances was a male officer to enter either room. We delegated their women officers to the outer, larger waiting room. That annoyed Chief of Detectives Jim Barrow and we had a few not too friendly phone conversations, but since I was already in residence, he reluctantly agreed to the arrangement. His people were stationed in the very pleasant, sunny “family waiting room” where VIP visitors of VIP patients did not have to observe any visiting hour regulations. It was beginning to look like a branch of Chicken Delight or Carvel. Each new shift came loaded with paper bags of fast food.

Also firmly established and sharing space with the police personnel were studio representatives; a few of Sanderalee’s crewmen who dropped by with flowers and a kind word to be relayed; some surly looking, but nicely dressed, gentlemen who let it be known that they were PLO. They tried to tape poster-sized pictures of Sanderalee, dancing around their campfires, rifle overhead, to the wall, but were forbidden by hospital officials.

Outside the hospital, there were pickets from various Zionist organizations protesting the presence of PLO people inside the hospital; some PLO pickets protesting the Zionist pickets; and, of course, NYC cops keeping the two groups apart.

By late Saturday afternoon, Sanderalee had not come fully awake again, although she had stirred from time to time. The visitors cleaned up after themselves, although the greasy food smells lingered, and I remembered I was hungry. I’d have eaten anything anyone offered me, but no one offered. The visitors had left behind enough flowers to start a shop. The police personnel gathered up the cards from the various offerings and gave the flowers to a terminal-children’s ward a few floors down.

During this time, Regg Morris and Bobby Jones moved around to other areas of the hospital where no one would recognize Regg: no interviews, no photographs, no assumptions, no guesses. He agreed fully with our suggestion. He stated he would wait “forever, or however long it took” to speak with Sanderalee. He would be present the next time she mentioned his name. Bobby contacted me on the hospital phone at regular intervals. At about eight o’clock that night, when all the sounds around the ICU had settled into a quiet, soothing, rhythmic humming of medical equipment, Lucy and I stood on one side of the bed watching the nurse perform the regularly prescribed rites upon Sanderalee: temperature, pulse; professional, competent fingertips touching along the swollen jaws, applying some clear semi-liquid medication to the torn lip area; testing the shapeless, curled fingers for warmth. Then the nurse smiled and said. “Well. Hello. Are you with us again?”

Sanderalee’s voice seemed to come from a deep, dark, measureless place, the words rising heavily, laboriously.

“Please. Help. Me.”

“You bet, sweetie. You are doing fine, just fine.” The nurse dipped the edge of a washcloth into the pitcher of water, then carefully dabbed at Sanderalee’s mouth. “Just suck on it a little bit. After a while, I’ll give you a nice piece of ice and it will feel
so
good.”

There was a loud sucking sound, then a moan and the nurse took the cloth away.

“Hand?” the far-off voice said.

“Well, I’ve got some good news for you,” the nurse answered in a friendly, loud voice as though what she was saying was the most normal, natural thing in the world. “That hand of yours is doing just fine. Now, how about that? It’s right back where it belongs.”

“What? Where ... it ... belongs?”

“You bet, honey. You’ve got circulation going in those fingers, and a nice warmth and we’re well past the danger point. Now, isn’t that good news?”

It was obvious to everyone but the nurse that the patient hadn’t the vaguest idea what she was talking about. Lucy and I waited impatiently as the cheerful nurse made her notations, and told us in her unnaturally loud hospital voice that she’d see us all later.

Lucy leaned forward. “Sanderalee. It’s Lucy.”

“Lucy?”

“You want that little bit of water again? On the cloth?”

Lucy held the washcloth, newly dipped, to Sanderalee’s mouth and glanced at me. The sucking sounds were terrible. Her eyes were locked tight in concentration. Finally, eyes snapped open, looked at me thoughtfully.

“Lynne? Jacob?”

“Jacobi. Right. District Attorney.”

“Regg. Regg Morris.”

Lucy started to say “Did
he
... but caught herself before I interrupted.

“You want to
see
Regg Morris? Is that it, Sanderalee?”

“Yes.
Must see Regg.”

“Okay. I’ll have him here in five minutes. You hang on and I’ll get him.”

“Oh please. Regg. Help me. Regg. Help me.”

We had the Police Department personnel clear not only the family waiting room, but also the corridors. Not even the people at the nursing station were in a position to see Bobby Jones and Regg Morris enter the area of the ICU where Sanderalee Dawson lay waiting. Uniformed police then stood guard in the hallway to keep curious recuperating patients and their visitors away.

Regg Morris grabbed my arm for a few seconds as he looked down at Sanderalee. We had forgotten the effect of seeing her for the first time. He turned his face away, took a long, heavy breath. I could feel him steadying himself.

His voice was very low and controlled.

“Hey, Sanderalee? Hey, lady? Whatcha doing here, lazying away a fine Saturday night?”

“Regg? Regg?
Regg?”

She struggled to rise. Lucy, standing on the opposite side of the bed, carefully held her shoulders. It wasn’t much of a contest. Sanderalee could hardly hold her eyelids open.

“We got him for you, Sanderalee. You talk to him. It’s okay now.”

There were long streamers of tears running down Regg Morris’s face. He smeared his cheeks with the back of his hand. Gently, he reached out and rested his fingertips on her brow. It seemed the only uninjured place.

He leaned toward her and whispered, “I’m here now, Sanderalee. No one, ever, will hurt you any more. Regg is here, baby. Don’t you try to talk just yet. We got forever to talk. Gonna stay with you.”

“Regg. Listen. Listen.”

She slipped away again. He turned to me, then looked at Lucy in a sudden panic.

“It’s okay. She’s in and out of coma still. It’s the aftereffects of the concussion. This was the longest she’s been awake. She knows you’re here. She’ll sleep easier now. You want to sit in this little room where Lynne and I ...”

“I’m going to stay here. At her bedside. No one is going to move me anywhere else.”

Lucy left, then came back with a chair, which she brought to him. “Dr. Morris, here. Sit down. You want anything at all, you let us know. Lynne and I are taking turns staying in the room with her.”

I don’t know if he even heard her. He stood, watching Sanderalee, his face a study of despair, his long fingers hovering above her restored hand, wanting to touch, afraid to touch.

“Lucy, come on in here for a minute. Bobby Jones just brought some coffee. Let’s just leave them alone for now.”

I
T WAS A TEDIOUS
, uneventful weekend. Bobby and I spent a cold wet Sunday afternoon watching new bootleg movies on Jhavi’s seven-foot Advent. Regg Morris left Sanderalee’s side only for a quick trip home for a shower and change of clothing. He sat through the night and Lucy, resting next door, heard his soft voice humming, singing, whispering nonsense syllables whenever Sanderalee groaned or stirred.

Although it was absolutely coincidental, the minute I arrived at my office on Monday morning, a little after nine-thirty, at least two people commented on the fact that Bobby Jones and I were dressed alike: dark gray flannels, a shade deeper than sky blue wool knit turtlenecks, rough tweedy blazers. We hadn’t shopped together or dressed together or discussed what we’d wear.

Arnold, one of the office legal secretary-assistants (we have two young law students who work part-time), tapped lightly on my door and entered. He had a collection of phone messages for me and a comment he considered important enough to whisper.

“Wait’ll you see the
person
with Bobby Jones. She’s a real knockout, Ms. Jacobi.”

Bobby was at my door and with him was a young woman. He stepped aside to allow her to enter as he announced her name. “Ms. Glori Nichols.”