“I'd just like to walk barefoot in itâand show her the paths of truth,” I said wistfully.
“What do you mean when you just said the bartender had clammed up with the Manions?” Parnell demanded. “When was the little man ever unclammed?”
“I'll tell you,” I said. “Things are breaking so fast I haven't had time to tell you.” I told Parnell and Maida what I had just learned from the Manions about the bartender's expression of sympathy the day after the shooting, and all the restâthis followed by his sudden aloofness. “It's all tying in, now,” I continued. “He's Mary's star witness and her key man to sustain the will. The Lord knows what his slice of the boodle will be. Probably a cut out of the bar.” I paused.
“Let's sell the plot to the movies,” Maida said, “and all take a trip on the proceeds.”
“A trip to the monkey house,” I said morosely. “Plot these days is anti-intellectual and verboten, the mark of the Philistine, the huckster with a pen. There mustn't be too much story and that should
be fog-bound and shrouded in heavy symbolism, including the phallic, like a sort of convoluted literary charade. Symbolism now carries the day, it's the one true ladder to literary heaven.”
Parnell grinned and shook his head. “Ah, the woe of it, the impenetrable mystery. And, since the region is reputed to be somewhat murkier than most, it is better that what little action there is should take place in the womb.”
“Whatever are you two talking about?” Maida pouted, “I'm sorry I ever mentioned plot. The deal's off.”
Parnell was smiling from ear to ear. “And what are you grinning about, you overweight old satyr?” I said. “I'm almost getting sorry I got mixed up in this incredible mess. Ifâif I didn't see it I wouldn't believe it.”
“The records show that old Martin Melstrand of town here is Mary Pilant's lawyer,” Parnell said. “As you know, Martin's a shrewd old probate and estate lawyer, but lazy as tropical sin. He won't brief his case till he has toâand unfortunately our trial will be over and done before this will contest is heard. That's still another good reason why our murder case should be continuedâby then the will contest and all would be over and done, win or lose, and the heat would be off.”
“Hell, Parn,” I said morosely, “there'll doubtless be an appeal from probate whichever way it goesâso a continuance in our case is no answer. God, what a maddening case.”
“But just think of the law, Polly, the law,” Parnell breathed ecstatically. “Think of all the sweet lovely law we've got to search for. I can scarcely wait to get at it. Shall we go home and start now?” He was like a boy uncrating his first bicycle.
“Starting tonight I'm going fishing all weekend, Pam,” I said. “I'm going to hole up out at the South camp. I've simply got to crawl off somewhere by myself and submit this case to a jury of my peers âthe trout. And, it's probably my last crack at fishing. Monday we've got to start turning over the law books in earnest.” I shrugged. “But if you can't wait I won't object to your getting a head start.” Parnell's face fell and I recalled with a pang that he had long since drunk up most of his dwindling law library. “Just to play safe I'll give you an extra key to my once,” I said, handing him the key. “Any time of the day or night, Counselor,” I said. “Remember, we're partners now. If during your nocturnal research any strange dames come prowling around the place they'll be my nieces. Invariably they're my nieces. Send them firmly away.”
“Thanks, Polly,” Parnell said, soberly pocketing the key. “Thank you, my friend, I'll use it tonight.”
“And there's one interesting subject you might start brushing up on right off the bat,” I said. “The law of the right of a private person to make an arrest without a warrant for a felony committed out of his presence. Thanks to you, that subject is now right smack in the middle of our case.”
Parnell's eyes lit up with quick eagerness. “You remembered to ask him?” he said gleefully. “You really asked him my question? Tell me what he said? That's another one I dreamed up last night in my sleepless bed, Polly. Don't you see?âitâit opens up vistas.” He paused and blinked his eyes and shook his head. “Beautiful rolling vistas of lovely law and instructions. Boy oh boy!”
At that moment Parnell looked almost indecently happy; like a man about to cast a fly over the steadily rising granddaddy of all trout. I envied him, for here was one of those rare and lucky mortals whose main hobby, at least next to whisky, happened also to be his profession: the jealous mistress of the law.
“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye!” Sheriff Max Battisfore sang out in his clear baritone voice, holding poised the gavel he had just used to rouse the courtroom to its feet. “The Circuit Court for the county of Iron Cliffs is now in session.” He lowered his gavel along with his voice. “Please be seated.”
It was ten o'clock on Monday, the first morning of the September term. Most of the lawyers of the county were present and awaiting the call of the court calendar, seated in the reserved chairs which ran along the inside of the long mahogany railing. Parnell sat next to me. His hair had been freshly trimmed and he was wearing a brand-new suit of hounds-tooth gray that he had purchased out of his share of the retainer fee the Lieutenant had paid me. This was the garment's maiden flight, and I observed rather wistfully that the tattersall vest had been banished. And where had he got that rich-looking maroon knit tie? The old boy looked really distinguished and, leaning over and whispering, I told him so.
“G'wan wid ya!” he whispered back hoarsely, beaming with pleasure.
“We will now take up the call of the criminal docket,” Judge Weaver announced quietly, consulting his printed calendar. He cleared his throat. “People versus Clarence Madigan,” he said. “Breaking and entering in the nighttime.”
The criminal defendants who had not posted bail and had perforce waited in jail sat arrayed in the jury box under the watchful eye of Sulo Kangas. Sulo now extravagantly motioned the defendant Madigan to go take his place before the judge's bench. I smiled and winked at Lieutenant Manion, who was sitting next to the hapless Madigan. The Lieutenant frowned as Madigan stumbled and nearly fell stepping down out of the jury box. Madigan and I were old professional acquaintances from my days as D.A., and he grinned at me as he turned to face the Judge. “Poor old Smoky,” I thought. “He's gone and done it again.”
Mitch Lodwick stood by the court reporter's desk with his mound of pending criminal files. He fished into the first one and found the criminal information and, clearing his throat, began reading.
“State of Michigan, County of Iron Cliffs,” Mitch read. “I, Mitchell Lodwick, prosecuting attorney in and for the county of Iron Cliffs, for and in behalf of the People of the State of Michigan, come into said court in the September term thereof and give the
court to understand and be informed, that Clarence Madigan, alias âOne-Shot' Madigan, alias âSmoky' Madigan, late of the City of Iron Bay, in said county and state aforesaid, heretofore, to-wit, on the 4
th
day of July, last, at the city of Iron Bay in the county aforesaid, in the nighttime of said day, with force and arms, feloniously did break and enter the dwelling house of one Casper Kratz, there situate, with intent to commit a felony therein, to-wit: with intent to commit the crime of larceny, contrary to the form of the statute in such case made and provided and against the peace and dignity of the People of the State of Michigan. Signed: Mitchell Lodwick, Prosecuting Attorney in and for the County of Iron Cliffs, Michigan.”
Mitch handed the information up to the judge, returned to his place, and stood examining his nails as Judge Weaver took over. This was the way the law charged Smoky Madigan with running amuck on the Fourth of July and stealing a case of whisky from the basement of the home of a saloonkeeper called Kratz and then going on a blast that made even Smoky's valiant past efforts pale into a sort of uneasy sobriety.
“Mr. Madigan, have you consulted an attorney?” the Judge inquired.
“Nope,” Smoky answered airily. “No money. A man's gotta have money to ask 'em the time of day.” There was a quick squall of laughter from the lawyers' chairs.
“Do you understand that you have a right to counselâthat is, an attorneyâand that if you are financially unable to employ counsel that the court may, if requested, appoint counsel for you at public expense?”
“Yup, I've had 'em before.” Smoky had been around and he had also evidently heard that Judge Weaver was from downstate; he wanted no doubt on that score.
“Do you want counsel now or an opportunity to consult with counsel?”
Smoky grinned amiably. “Nope. I went in Casper's place an' stole the whisky, all right. I was sober then an' I remember so I guess I don't need no lawyer to tell me what I did.” Smoky paused thoughtfully. “Later, though, I guess I'd of needed all the lawyers here today to help me keep track.”
I could vaguely visualize Smoky's meteoric course once he had got his hot hands on Casper's whisky. There was a ripple of subdued laughter and the Judge frowned stonily and the laughter quickly died. “Now, Mr. Madigan,” the Judge pushed on, proceeding patiently
through the prescribed ritual, though he and every lawyer in the courtroom now knew that Smoky was dying to cop a plea of guilty and get it over with, “do you understand that you have a constitutional right to a trial by jury?”
Smoky nodded his head yes, and Grover Gleason, the court reporter who was busily taking all this down, looked up and frowningly demanded that the defendant answer yes or no.
“The reporter must record all that we say,” the Judge explained. “He can't very well hear a nod, you see.”
“Yup,” Smoky obediently said, glancing rather proudly at the reporter as though to confirm that anyone might be recording for a deathless and panting posterity anything that old Smoky Madigan ever had to say. “I unnerstan' the Constitution says I kin have a jury.”
“Do you wish to have a trial by jury?” the Judge quietly persisted.
Smoky shook his head no and then glanced guiltily at the court reporter and added “Nope” in a loud voice. He plainly appreciated the Constitution's efforts on his behalf, but, no thanks, he'd pass this time.
“Now you are charged in the information filed against you, and which you have just heard read, that you broke into a man's house after dark with intent to steal. Do you understand the nature of the offense charged against you?”
“Sure, sure,” Smoky replied airily. “Except I didn't actually
break
into no houseâI got into old Kratz's cellar through the coal chute. I simply slid in anâ
âbomp!â
there I was, practic'ly inside Casper's furnace. An' I not only intended to steal somethin', Judge Your Honor, I really did steal it”âSmoky's voice took on a note of wistful nostalgiaâ“a hull case of booze.” He shook his head over the treasured memory.
Judge Weaver smiled slightly and pushed on. “I must remind you that a basement is part of the dwelling and that if you did steal some thing while there the law indulges a mild presumption that you probably also intended to steal it. As for the âbreaking' part it is not necessary that one break or smash anything to gain entry; to constitute a âbreaking' in law it is sufficient if one merely lifts a latchâor even the lid of a coal chute. Do you understand that?”
Smoky was getting bored with all this laboring of the obvious. After all, wasn't this his fifth B. & E. rap?âthe fifth that he had got caught at, that is? “Sure, sure,” he answered. “Speakin' technical, I guess I busted in, Judge, like you say.”
“Then you fully understand the charge against you?”
Smoky sighed. “I sure do, Judge. I got nailed fair and square. If I'd a stood sober, though, they'd never of catch me. The shape I was in I was a sittin' duck.”
“Then what is your pleaâguilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty, of course,” Smoky said, turning away to leave.
“Just a minute, Mr. Madigan,” the Judge continued patiently. “Before I can accept your plea of guilty there are a few more questions I must ask you. This duty is imposed upon me by law for the protection of the public and of you and men like you, so please bear with me a little longer.”
“Shoot,” Smoky said indulgently, shrugging his shoulders as though to say, “If this talky old beaver wants to prolong the agony old Smoky ain't going to spoil his fun ⦠.”
The Judge aimed and shot: “I ask you, Mr. Madigan, if this plea of guilty you have entered to this information is freely, understandingly and voluntarily made?”
“You bet. I got caught an' I might's so well face it.”
“Has there been any undue influence, compulsion or duress on the part of the prosecuting attorney, the officers of this court or any other person to induce you to enter a plea of guilty?”
“I don't understand all them words, Judge, but nobody bulldozed me into coppin' out, if that's what you mean. I've thunk it all outâsince the night of July sixth across de alley dere.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the jail. “That's when they catch me.”
“Very well. Did you enter your plea of guilty because of any threats, inducements or promises made to you by the prosecuting attorney, any officers of this court or any other person? Did anyone promise to go easy on you?”
“Nope. Dey knew dey had meâdey caught me good dis time.” Earnestly: “You see, Judge, da coppers never promise a man nuttin' when dey got you dead to rights.”
A quiet ripple of laughter ran along the row of waiting lawyers, most of whom were boredly awaiting the call of the civil calendar. The Judge frowned and stared hard and Parnell and I glanced significantly at each other. Whatever else this judge might or might not be, he was plainly going to run his court, there'd be no fooling.
“Do you plead guilty to this charge, then, Mr. Madigan, because you are guilty, because you did the things charged against you by the People in their information?”
“Yup, Your Honor.”
“And are you fully aware that you may be punished for your crime?”
Smoky's voice was like a benediction. “I sure am, Judge. I'm kinda like da June brideâit ain't a matter of if but when. All I hope is you send me any udder place but Marquette prison. Any place a-tall but dat crummy joint.”
Nobody tittered this time. “I will accept your plea of guilty,” the Judge said gravely. “You will be sentenced later, Mr. Madigan. You may now return to your place.”
Smoky shrugged and resignedly rolled his eyes up at me as he turned away to resume his seat next to Lieutenant Manion in the jury box. I swallowed a lump in my throat. “The poor dumb likeable kindly bastard,” I thought. There but for the Grace of Godâ
The Judge consulted his calendar. “People versus Clyde Tate,” he called out. “Forgery.” Sulo waved the luckless Mr. Tate to his feet and he advanced blinking and stood before the Judge, where the whole dreary ritual would again be repeated. I must have witnessed it a thousand times ⦠.
Smoky's was the first case on the criminal docket and the Lieutenant's was number twenty-three, numbered democratically on the basis of first come, first served. I whispered to Parnell that I was going out to have a smoke. I left the courtroom and made my way out to the empty jury roomâthe jury was not due to report for two daysâand stood staring out across Lake Superior, watching the long undulant smoke plume of an invisible boat, probably an ore boat, thinking how glad I was that I was no longer prosecuting attorney of Iron Cliffs Countyâthat and reviewing, the swift and tangled events of the past two weeks.
Â
We had finally pried a psychiatrist out of the Army, but not before I had all but picketed the Pentagon, not before Parnell and I were ourselves practically candidates for a psychiatrist's couch. In retrospect there was an unreal Alice-In-Wonderland quality about the whole thing, an air of shimmering fantasy, as though we had partaken in some grotesque and unsmiling comedy waveringly enacted at the bottom of the sea. There had been a reverberating silence to my second Army letter; I had waited nearly a week and gotten frantically on the phone; an aide had said that the officer I had written had been in sick bay; the matter would be looked into; I would be duly notified. âBut â¦' I argued. More days had dragged by and I had reopened fire over the phone; the matter was still
being looked into; the request was very unusual and had to be studied ⦠. This time I had sworn, the Army had sworn, and someone had hung up ⦠.
Then I had launched an alarming series of communications: letters, phone calls, telegrams. For a spell I even wildly contemplated launching guided missiles. I had got the Lieutenant and Laura to join me; we had pulled out all the organ stops; we had pelted the Army with words. Then at last I had received a phone call; the matter had crept up the ladder of brassâit had at last come to the attention of the General himself; it was in turn being referred to that patron saint of all Army snafus, the Judge Advocate; it was hoped that I understood that the situation was most unusual; also very ticklish; I must realize that things like this could start a bad precedent; the Army traditionally never liked to interfere with the affairs of the civil courts and certainly didn't want to appear to do so now. Finally, one did not want to predict the ruling in Washington (“smart boy,” I thought) but we shouldn't be too disappointed if ⦠“What!” I had shouted and then I had sworn, the Army had sworn and someone had hung up ⦠.
There the matter uneasily rested. Early the Tuesday morning before court openedâless than a week to goâI tottered out of bed after a sleepless night and fired a telegram at the General himself. Perhaps my wire possessed the eloquence of desperation. I reminded him that our request for a psychiatrist had been pending nearly three weeks; that now it was far too late to turn elsewhere; that surely this was not the first time since Valley Forge that an Army man had run afoul of the civil law and had needed and requested medical or similar aid from the service; that we didn't want to bother them any more than they apparently relished being bothered, but that my man was stony broke, there was no choice, there was simply no other way; that to turn down the Lieutenant's request now was not only to sentence him to three more months in jailâthe case having thus to be continuedâbut possibly for life, since insanity was the heart of our defense. I pointed out that all we requested now was an examination; and I dangled the bait that the Army psychiatrist might still find him sane on the fatal night, in which case we would quietly fold our tents ⦠.