When court convened the next morning, Thursday, and my glazed eyes were finally able to focus, I observed that something had been added to Mitch's tableâa tall, dark, rather stooped spare man, with a drooping oily-looking old-fashioned black mustache and lean dagger-like face, who made me think of a romantic-looking concert pianist that had visited our town when I was a child. My mother Belle had thought he was handsome beyond words. All of Belle's “handsome” men had a tendency to look all profile, however viewed, like the tall, willowy, and genteelly fatigued characters drawn by Charles Dana Gibson ⦠. When the jury had been brought in and that pregnant pre-session hush had fallen upon the courtroomâthe time when the Judge would nod to Mitch to reopen hostilitiesâI arose, my head thumping, and addressed the court.
“Your Honor,” I said, “the defense observes that a third person has been added to the prosecution table, and we wonder if the court shares with us our curiosity over his identity and function.”
The fourteen pairs of eyes of the equally curious jury bored into the new arrival, who returned their stare with the languid, faintly disdainful nostrilly look of a T. S. Eliot. The Judge nodded at Mitch's table.
“Your Honor,” Claude Dancer said, rising, “the gentleman at our table is Dr. W. Harcourt Gregory, the People's psychiatrist in this case. We were about to identify him and ask the court's permission that he sit at the prosecution table as an observer when defense counsel, with characteristic bravado and corn, felt obliged to jump the gun and attempt to make a grandstand play out of it. We now respectfully make the identification and request.”
“Mr. Biegler?” the Judge said, rolling his eyes and heaving a sort of heavy here-we-go-again sigh.
I grinned across the room at Claude Dancer, my temples pounding. If this little man felt any irresistible yearning to tilt personalities, I thought, he'd clearly picked himself the wrong day. “The defense regrets boundlessly its bad taste and peasant curiosity in wondering who the strange gentleman might be,” I said with suave cantankerousness, “but nevertheless inquires what it is the People want him to observeâperhaps the view from Pompey's Head?”
The Judge frowned and bit his lip to banish his smile. “Mr. Dancer?”
“To observe the defendant, of course,” Claude Dancer snapped, “as indefatigably grand-standing counsel very well knows.”
Patiently: “Mr. Biegler, the ball is back to youâor should I say stiletto?”
“In that event, Your Honor, the defense has no objection. Not for the world would we impede the course of pure science. In fact I shall move my chair back so that the doctor can get a good look. We express our relief, however, that the new recruit is not, as we fearfully speculated, additional legal reinforcements rushed here from Lansing on behalf of the People.”
Dr. Gregory whinnied appreciatively and quickly covered his mouth with his hand. Claude Dancer glared across at me and if, as the saying goes, looks could have killed I was a dead pigeon.
“The People's request is granted,” the Judge said drily. He gazed out over the heads of the hushed crowd at the far courtroom clock. “Now that you gentlemen have had your morning setting-up exercises and sufficiently stirred up your bile and vented your spleen, may we dare get on with this trial? Or perhaps you would prefer that the court pause and administer a brisk verbal rubdown?”
Mitch and I popped to our feet. “The People are ready,” Mitch said.
“The defense is ready,” I croaked, and another day of combat was under way.
Â
Mitch called Ditlef Pedersen's wife and then her pretty blonde sister. Their testimony was substantially the same as that of Ditlef Pedersen. When I had done cross-examining them Mitch got up and spoke to the court.
“Your Honor, there are seven other eyewitnesses to the shooting endorsed on the information, subpoenas for whom have been issued and placed in the hands of the Sheriff for service. The Sheriff has informed me that he is unable to obtain service on any of them for the reason that the witnesses are beyond the confines of the state. For defense counsel's information I may add that three of them were soldiers temporarily stationed near Thunder Bay and now stationed in Georgia, and the other four were tourists who reside out of the state.” Mitch then called out the names of the seven missing witnesses.
“Mr. Biegler,” the Judge said, “what do you say?”
“The defense inquires of the People whether these witnesses were
interviewed before they left and, if so, whether their testimony would be cumulative of testimony which has been or will be offered in the case?” I said.
“All seven witnesses were interviewed and we represent on the record that their testimony would largely be cumulative,” Mitch said.
In that event I knew that the court could and doubtless would excuse the People from the necessity of producing these absent witnesses, and that in any case all that the prosecution ever had to do was to make an honest effort to obtain service on the out-state witnesses once the trial date was known, which they had apparently done. A little graciousness now appeared to be in order. “In that case, Your Honor,” I said, “the defense waives the production of these seven witnesses and further waives any cross-examination of them. We do this because it must long have been evident to all concerned here that there is not now nor has there ever been any dispute over the fact that the defendant, Frederic Manion, did indeed cause the death of Barney Quill by shooting him. We dispute only that it was murder.”
Claude Dancer was on his feet. “There is no need for counsel to make a speech. Either he waives or he doesn't waiveâ”
“Very well, gentlemen,” the Judge broke in. “One good speech doesn't deserve another. Call your next witness, Mr. Prosecutor.”
“The People will call Alphonse Paquette,” Mitch said, and Clovis Pidgeon arose and dramatically administered his ritual oath and Barney's little bartender, all sleek in a sports outfit and immaculate hair that I suspected had been plastered with goose grease, said “I do” and got up on the witness stand.
“You may sit down,” the Judge said.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” the witness said.
“State your name, please,” Mitch said.
“Alphonse Paquette.”
“Where do you live?”
“Thunder Bay, Mich.”
“Where do you work?”
“At the Thunder Bay Inn.”
“In what capacity?”
“Bartender in the new Lake Superior cocktail lounge and bar.” A little tasteful free plug for the home industry was always good, even in court, I thought.
“Were you on duty the night of Friday, August fifteenth, and during the early hours of Saturday, August sixteenth, this year?” Mitch continued.
“I was.”
“Did you know the deceased Barney Quill during his lifetime?”
“I did.”
“How long?”
“About a year and a halfâhe was my boss, I worked for him that long.”
“Did you know the defendant Frederic Manion prior to that night?”
“I did.”
“How long?”
“Approximately three weeks; he was an occasional patron at our bar.”
“Can you identify in this courtroom the man you know as Lieutenant Manion?” (I again prodded the Lieutenant, who shot up straight as a ramrod.)
“I can.”
“Will you do so?”
“That gentleman in the Army uniform standing next to his lawyer, Mr. Biegler.”
“Were you in the bar when the shooting occurred?”
“I was.”
“Where were you?”
“I was standing near the table of the Pedersens who last testified here.”
“Did you see the actual shooting?”
“No.” (“The lying bastard,” I thought.)
“Did you hear it?”
“Yes, sirâI heard six shots fired. After about the second shot I looked over and saw a man in an Army fatigue jacket bending down over the bar.”
“Then what?”
“Well, then this man raised up and turned and walked out the door near where I stood.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“I wasn't sure,” the witness answered. (This was, I felt, arrant hogwash; a dozen casual patrons had recognized the Lieutenant at a glance but the hour-long “lookout” hadn't, the cool lying bastard.)
“What did you do then?” Mitch asked. (Ah, here come the “Do you want some, too, Buster?” part, I thought.)
“I rushed out the door after him.”
“Were you able to identify him outside?”
“I was. He turned and faced me and I recognized him.”
“Who was the man that faced you?”
“Lieutenant Manion.”
Mitch turned casually around and glanced at Claude Dancer and again I saw the little telltale nod. “Your witness, Mr. Biegler,” Mitch said.
For a moment I sat there stunned. Here was one of the few People's witnesses who possessed vital prosecution informationâ“Do you want some, too, Buster?”âto help batter down our insanity defense. They had led this witness up to the portal of that damaging information and then quit cold and turned him over to me. What in hell was cooking?
“Reviewing my notes,” I lied gently to the Judge, who nodded that I could have more time. I stared sightlessly at the blank pad before me.
If Mitch had been trying the case alone I would not have smelled so strong a rat, but with the little nodding Dancer in there ⦠. But what was the rat? Wait! Ah, the strategy was coming to me ⦠Mr. Dancer was by now panting to catch me with my pants down, of course. If they let me blunder ahead with this witness then I, the defense
lawyer
, would doubtless myself bring out the damaging words. That way I would not only mightily please the Dancer by looking like a blundering fool, but, more important, I would at the same time invest the bartender's testimony with greater impact and weight. This is not a witness, the jury could say, who was ready and anxious to spill anything he knew that might hurt the Lieutenant; see, the defense itself had to drag it out of him. It simply must be true ⦠. And then if I still escaped the clever trap and failed to ask the magic question, the People could still bring it out on redirect. It was a fine Dancerian spider web. Probably the reason I recognized it was because in the past I had used the same strategy so many times myself.
I arose and walked toward the witness. “Did you speak to the Lieutenant when you ârushed out the door after him,' as you have just so dramatically described it?”
“Yes. I said, âLieutenant Manion.'”
“I see, and this was the same man you have just testified you weren't sure you recognized?”
“Well, yes.”
“The lights from the barroom weren't helping you when you correctly called him by name, were they?”
“Well, I guessed it was him.”
“My question was, Mr. Paquette, were the lights then helping you?”
“No.”
“I see. Now a dozen-odd casual patrons in the bar clearly recognized the Lieutenant but youâwho had been standing by the door when he entered and also when he leftâyou had to guess his identity?”
“That's right.”
“The lying bastard,” I thought. The phrase was becoming a sort of a litany. “What if anything did the Lieutenant do when you spoke his name?”
“He whirled around.”
“And then you were able to confirm your shrewd guess as to who he was?”
“Yes, sir.”
The stage was now set and I pressed on. “Did the Lieutenant say anything?”
“Yes.”
I glanced over at Claude Dancer, who was staring up at the ceiling, doubtless with glee-crossed fingers. “Will you
please
, Mr. Paquette, tell us what it was he said?” I pressed.
“He said, âDo you want some, too, Buster?'”
“Ah, and was he pointing his gun at you?”
“I believe he was.”
“His
empty
gun?”
“I wouldn't know.”
“You heard all the People's witnesses here who testified that the Lieutenant kept clicking his empty gun at Barney, didn't you?”
“Well yes, but I didn't know
then
that it wasn't loaded.” (Ah, the clever shifty bastard.)
I glanced around and found Mitch and his assistant with their heads bent together in smiling and busy consultation. “Now, Mr. Paquette,” I said, “I assume of course you have told your story of the incidents of that night to the police, have you not?”