The Magician (17 page)

Thomassy turned to face her. “Would you say that a gun was a dangerous weapon?”

“Oh, yes,” she said quietly, uncomfortable at the distance between herself and her questioner.

“Would you say that a knife was a dangerous weapon?”

“What kind of a knife?”

“Any knife.”

“Yes, I guess so.”

Thomassy went to the table and took an object out of the paper bag. It was a rolling pin.

“Would you call this a dangerous weapon?”

It seemed as if everyone in the courtroom laughed, including the judge.

“No,” she said. “Well, I guess you could get hurt if someone bashed you with it.”

“But if you saw this, would you think of it as a dangerous weapon? Would you call this”—he reached into the bag again—“a dangerous weapon?”

“No.”‘

It was a screwdriver.

“No.”

Judge Clifford ahemmed. “I’m not sure I’m following what you’re trying to develop, Mr. Thomassy.”

“One moment more, please, your Honor.” Once again he took an object from the bag, a garden trowel made of green metal with a wood handle.

“Would you call this a dangerous weapon?”

“No.”

Quickly Thomassy reached in for the last object in the bag and showed Lila a bicycle chain.

“Would you say this was a dangerous weapon?”

She said “No” almost as a reflex, then quickly said, “Yes.”

“Well, which do you mean, yes or no?”

Lila was silent, hoping the judge or Mr. Metcalf would say something.

“I’ll rephrase that. What makes a chain any more a dangerous weapon than a garden trowel or a screwdriver or a rolling pin?” He didn’t wait for an answer to his rhetorical question, but asked the judge, “Your Honor, in your determination as to whether the charges against the defendant should be quashed or tried as first or second or third, the question of whether a dangerous weapon was involved is important.”

“I agree,” said the judge.

“Well, your Honor, this witness thinks correctly that a gun or a knife is a dangerous weapon but says that household or garden articles in common use are not dangerous weapons….”

Mr. Metcalf interrupted at last. “Your Honor, we are supposed to be gathering firsthand facts from the witnesses, which the attorney for the people has tried to do. The attorney for the defendant has a right to question the witness about anything I questioned her about—”

“Well,” said the judge, “in this hearing, he really has a broader latitude—”

“Not to bring a hardware store in here and—”

It was the judge who noticed that the witness was in tears. “Gentlemen,” he said, “please let us remember that the witness is a young girl—how old are you, Miss Hurst?”

“Sixteen.”

Thomassy was excited to the bursting point. “Your Honor, the defendant is sixteen years old. The Japhet boy is sixteen, too. Sixteen-year-olds, whatever their responsibility under the law, are adolescent children who laugh and cry and fight, yes fight, with each other, and these things cannot be seen in an adult context. May I ask the witness a few questions?”

Metcalf was flabbergasted. He didn’t know how to stop Thomassy.

“Are you and Ed Japhet good friends?” Thomassy asked.

“Now, wait a minute!” Metcalf was losing his temper.

“I’ll wait as long as Mr. Metcalf likes, but the line of questioning I’m developing now is extremely pertinent.” To the girl, “Are you and Ed Japhet good friends?”

Lila nodded.

“Please speak up.”

“Yes,” she said, the word filling her throat.

“How good?”

“I don’t know what you mean?” She was on the verge of tears again.

“Why didn’t you go directly home after the dance?”

“Mr. Japhet was giving me a lift.”

“And while you were waiting for Mr. Japhet to come, were you being good friends?”

“We are good friends, that’s all!”

“Would you lie for his sake?”

“I’m not lying.”

“You said the defendant pulled your hair. Did anyone else ever pull your hair?”

“Well, in school—”

“In school what?”

“The boys used to pull your hair.”

“So hair-pulling is not so unusual among kids in school. Yet Ed Japhet attacked young Urek when he was pulling your hair, according to your testimony?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Did you and Mr. Terence Japhet ever discuss the events of that evening, the evening of the fight?”

“Yes, in the hospital.”

“You heard his version of the story, and you told him your version?”

“It wasn’t a version. We talked about what happened.”

“Did you talk about what happened between you and Ed before Mr. Japhet arrived to pick you up?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“It’s none of his business. It’s none of your business.” Tears flooded her eyes now, and she could barely see the moving, pointing, stalking figure in front of her.

“Your Honor,” said Thomassy, “I think there’s a real question here about the charge, about whether in fact the alleged victim struck the first blow. There is also a real question as to whether this girl, in close friendship with the boy that struck the first blow, should really be considered an objective witness. I have no further questions.”

Chapter 18

Judge Clifford had asked to see counsel in chambers. The small conference room also served as the law library, three of its walls lined with tomes. On the fourth wall, next to the entrance door, hung portraits of Clifford’s predecessors, painted in oil by a local artist.

When Metcalf and Thomassy came in, Clifford had already removed his robe and lit up a cigar.

“Thomassy,” he said, “what the hell’s gotten into you?”

The lawyer chose to be silent.

“You got a rod up your ass? You were very rough on that girl. What were you trying to do out there?” In the face of Thomassy’s silence, he went on. “I’ll tell you what I think. You were trying to scare the hell out of her and her mother and father so that the next time she’s on the stand, in front of a jury, you’d have a frightened, thoroughly intimidated witness.” He turned to Metcalf. “You’ve got nothing to grin about. Your performance out there’s been C-minus.”

Thomassy stretched his legs under the table. He intertwined his fingers, thrust the palms of his hands toward Metcalf, and stretched his arms. “I was just feeling my way,” Thomassy said. “I’m sorry if I stepped over the line. Metcalf’s got a nice boy victim, nice girl friend, nice school-teacher-father, and I’ve got an inarticulate, hostile kid with a scar on his face. If nature stacks the deck, I’ve just got to work a bit harder.”

Judge Clifford couldn’t help chuckling. Thomassy was really something.

“I guess you know where we’re at,” he said.

“I guess,” said Thomassy.

From Metcalf s expression, it was clear he didn’t.

“The nitty-gritty,” said the judge, “is the tire chain. I appreciate your floor show from the hardware store, but I think we’re into a potentially deadly weapon.”

“And a knife,” said Metcalf.

“Yes, how’re you going to handle that, Metcalf?”

“The nurse’s aide, Alice Ginsler. The one Urek bumped into. She can identify.”

“Tell you what,” said the judge. “You fellows are keeping me awake, for which I’m always grateful. But I see a grand jury finding enough to indict for first-degree assault. I’m passing you on to White Plains.”

“I see,” said Thomassy, wondering how he might keep Urek from making an outburst in the courtroom when he heard the news.

“No hard feelings, I hope,” said the judge, stubbing his cigar out carefully so he could relight it later. “It must have been obvious to you, George, that I would have to hold him.” He slipped his arms into the robe, which Metcalf held out for him.

“No hard feelings,” said Thomassy. He looked at Metcalf, who was now well out of it. All he’d have to do was to pass on his notes to the D.A.’s office. This case was over his head, anyway.

The judge went out into the courtroom first, the hubbub instantly hushing.

“After you,” said Thomassy, letting Metcalf precede him through the door.

Thomassy went directly over to the defense table, where Urek, like everyone else in the courtroom, was standing. The judge sat. They all sat.

Thomassy whispered to Urek. “Take that pad. Write down the names and addresses of the three kids who were with you at the high school that night. If you remember any of the phone numbers, write them down too. Write down a description of each kid, as best you can.” That would keep him busy.

“I have advised counsel,” said Judge Clifford, “that from the information produced thus far, it seems to me necessary to pass the case on to the grand jury. The defendant is continued in bail.” He tapped his gavel once, a note of solemn finality rendered out of habit.

The spectators jabbered. Thomassy constructed the local newspaper headlines in his head. Urek, busy writing on the pad, hadn’t even heard. But his parents got the message, and they were heading toward the defense table. Thomassy rose to meet them.

“Let’s discuss this in your home, not here,” he said to Mr. Urek.

Inside the Urek house, Thomassy said, “No coffee,” before it was offered. “Let’s all talk.”

“Is this very bad?” asked Paul Urek.

“There are two ways of looking at it,” said Thomassy. “I could see early on that the judge wasn’t going to dismiss the case as a schoolyard fight. Clifford’s not stupid. He sees the possibility of first-degree assault with a dangerous instrument, which is a felony and might mean a year in jail or more if we lose. But…”

He could feel them hanging on to his words.

“I think I can handle both Japhets and the girl on the stand, no problem. That nurse’s aide worries me some. The big question mark is one we haven’t faced yet. Metcalf was going to get one of the other kids, one of your friends, to cop a plea. That means plead guilty to a minor offense in exchange for testifying against you.”

“They wouldn’t dare,” said Urek.

“We’ve got to be realistic. Someone always dares. The negative thing now is that in White Plains the prosecution’s case isn’t going to be handled by a bumbler like Metcalf. It’ll be one of the young assistant D.A.s for the county. They’re smart and ambitious, but don’t worry. We’ve got a big plus on our side from now on.”

Urek’s father couldn’t see what was hopeful.

“I think our case rests on the issue of reasonable doubt. If we stayed in this court, I’d have to convince the judge. Tough to do. If he decided on third degree, which is a misdemeanor, we’d have a six-man jury. All I’d have to do is convince one of them that there was a reasonable doubt as to your son’s guilt to get him off. That’s a six-to-one chance in our favor. But if the grand jury in White Plains finds a true bill, then we get a twelve-man jury. And all I have to do is convince
one
of them that there’s a reasonable doubt. That doubles the odds in our favor. It’s much easier, believe me, to hang up one juror out of twelve than one judge.”

Urek had a nervous smile on his face. His father said, “This is going to cost a lot more, isn’t it?”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Thomassy. “When I enjoy something, I charge less. We can always stretch out the payments.”

“Thank you,” said the father.

“One more thing. This is a long shot. I’ve had a call from a New York psychiatrist who’s been studying this case for reasons of his own. I’d like him to have a chat with your son. Depending on what he comes up with, we might call him as a defense witness. The prosecution wouldn’t be allowed to call him, so there’s no risk. Okay?”

All three Ureks nodded, though Thomassy wasn’t certain they had understood. He thought it best to avoid the word “insanity,” especially since he’d only plead it if the Japhet kid died.

“The doctor’s name is Koch. I’ll give you a ring and let you know when he can come.” He went over to the boy. “Remember one thing. The odds are more in our favor in White Plains. Don’t screw up. Don’t run away. Don’t get into any kind of new trouble.”

When he left, Thomassy felt good. He wished it was Tuesday.

*

Dr. Koch took a taxi to the Urek home. The driver asked for seventy-five cents. Koch gave him a dollar bill and hoped it would be enough. As the taxi pulled away, the driver waved, which was most unusual and friendly compared to New York.

The white frame house appeared whiter on the left side than on the right, and as Koch walked up the flagstone path he surmised that the house was in the slow process of being repainted a part at a time. The empty flowerpots on the two windows on either side of the entrance would, when spring came, contain geraniums. This so-called classless society in America had class distinctions even in the choice of flowers. Ah, well. He pushed the doorbell.

It was awkward at first, as he expected it would be, shaking hands with the father and the mother (when would he remember that in America one doesn’t shake hands with the women!) and then being introduced to the boy, who kept perhaps ten feet away as he nodded in response to Dr. Koch’s hello. The doctor thanked them for suggesting coffee, but said he didn’t really want any, nor anything else, and after a bit of shuffling they excused themselves, leaving the uncomfortable boy and the equally uncomfortable interviewer face to face.