“But rather because you and your organization were then satisfied beyond all doubt that the rape had in fact taken place and that no further confirmation was necessary?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“And at that time, Officer, did you anticipate that any question would ever be raised or issue made over the fact of that rape, least of all by the prosecution?”
The witness shot a look at Claude Dancer's table. “I certainly did not, sir,” he said. Julian Durgo, I saw, had not been happy with his role in the trial of this case.
“Thank you, Officer,” I said. “Your witness, Mr. Dancer.”
Bulldog Dancer was not a man to give up easily. “Officer,” he tugged away, “couldn't the screams at the gate have been those of a man?” (“Ah,” I thought, “Laura is now raping Barney.”)
“Possibly, Mr. Dancer,” the witness answered crisply. “Except that all the tourists said they were a woman's.”
“But did the tourists know it was this woman's screams?” he said, pointing at Laura.
“They did not, sir.”
“Your witness,” Claude Dancer said, looking as triumphant as though he had just uncovered a brand-new batch of Dead Sea scrolls.
“Officer,” I said, “during your investigation did you hear of any
other
woman or women who had screamed in the park that night?âat the gate or anywhere?”
Smiling briefly: “I did not, sir.”
“You were unable to dig up any evidence of a general epidemic of screaming females that night?”
“Only the one occasion at the gate, sir.”
“No further questions,” I said.
“The witness is excused,” Claude Dancer said.
“Fifteen minutes, Mr. Sheriff,” the Judge said
During recess Parnell and I huddled in the conference room where I hastily tried to bring him up to date on my strange moonlit session with Mary Pilant. I told him everythingâwell, almost everything. His white-faced relief over learning that his Nora-Mary was all the things he'd hoped she might be was touching to behold. “Ah, Polly, Polly, I knew it, lad, I knew it all along ⦠.”
I aroused myself from a pensive dream of Mary and shrugged. “Well, Parn,” I said, “it now looks as though all our work and worry over the will contestâmostly your work and worryâwas all in vain.
I
guess it doesn't make much difference now whether the bartender comes our way or not.”
“Not on your life, Polly,” Parnell said. “You've got your rape in, now, yesâand thank goodness for thatâbut that still is not a
legal
defense to this murder. We've still got that problem to face, and also the big twin problem of
why
the Lieutenant went to the bar that night carrying a concealed weapon. The bartender can help us on all that if he will. Do you think he will, boy?”
“Lord knows, Parn,” I said. “I told you what Mary Pilant phoned me. Pretty soon we find out about the slippery bartender. I wish I'd been sweeter to him when I was little. Ah for the days of yesteryear. âO lost and by the windâ'”
Max Battisfore popped his head in the door. “Second act curtain in two minutes, Polly,” he said.
“Thanks, Max,” I said, tightening my necktie.
“You know,” Parnell said thoughtfully as I snapped shut my swollen brief case, “that Sheriff of ours might have possibilities if he'd only get out of politics. Heâhe kind of grows on me.”
Â
Mitch got up following the recess and addressed the court. “Your Honor, we have now obtained the three photographs of Mrs. Manion taken shortly after the shooting, and we tender them to the defense.” He walked over and handed me the three missing photographs. The Lieutenant and Laura and I studied them; Parnell's little old caretaker had described Laura as a “mess,” and these pictures richly bore him out; her hair was streaming in her eyes; her face was streaked with dirt and tears; and she possessed two of the loveliest shiners west of Rocky Marciano's former training quarters.
“Thank you, Mr. Prosecutor,” I said. “The lost sheep have are-turned.
But I don't want these pictures for my scrapbook: I want them in evidence in this court. Your photographer took them, not mine. I can't get them in. Don't you propose to introduce them in evidence as you have all the others? It will not be necessary to recall the photographerâI'll gladly stipulate.”
I had put Mitch on the spot, and he glanced at Claude Dancer for succor, and the little man was shrewd enough to see the red light ahead. He nodded the signal and Mitch murmured “O.K.” and the missing pictures were swiftly marked by the reporter and received in evidence as People's exhibits.
I arose by my chair. “Your Honor,” I said sweetly, “the defense requests the court's permission to have the jury look at these latest exhibits at this timeâthat is, if the People raise no objection.”
Mitch's hot spots were coming in bunches and he again sought a cue from his assistant and again got the nodâall of which little pantomime the intent jurors carefully absorbed, I noted without dismay. “No objection, Your Honor,” he said.
“Very well, Mr. Biegler, the People's photographs of the defendant's wife may be shown to the jury at this time,” the Judge said.
I lolled back in my chair, much like a languid tourist with a hamper of beer plunking for bass from a public pier. “I thought maybe Prosecutor Lodwick would graciously hand them to the jury,” I said. “He now has them, he's so much closer and so much younger, alasâand he's lately enjoyed such a good rest, too.”
Mitch flushed and shot me a dark look, and wordlessly shoved the pictures at the nearest juror. The juror stared at the pictures intently while the others curiously leaned over and craned to see.
“The People will call Dr. Adelord Dompierre,” Claude Dancer quickly announced. His strategy was transparentâto get another witness going to distract the jurors from looking at the pictures of the ravished Laura and her elegant black eyes. This became even more clear when he gestured and nodded at Mitch to start examining the witness, who had now reached the stand.
“Your name, please?” Mitch obediently began.
“Your Honor,” I said, “may I suggest that the examination of this new witness be held up briefly until the jurors have completed examining the exhibitsâthat's if Mr. Dancer should not feel compelled to object to an examination of his own exhibits.” The withering look the little man shot at me made Mitch's a lingering caress by comparison.
“Of course not, Counselor,” Claude Dancer purred suavely, and I grinned back my appreciation of his control and gameness under adverse fire.
The jurors examined the pictures with loving care and finally handed them back to the first juror, who handed them to Mitch, who moved over and dropped them on the mounting pile of People's exhibits as though they were bubbling hot pizzas fresh from the oven.
“The examination may proceed,” the Judge said dryly.
Mitch fought his way through the preliminariesâname, address and allâand brought out the doctor's qualifications and then led up to his taking of the slides from Laura the night of the shooting. For this was the county jail physician, an amiable and moderately distracted little man who pattered along in a state of semi-retirement, occupying his time by occasionally delivering a new baby, but mostly in delivering Max's more regular jail tenants from the screaming meanies.
“Did you make a test on the person of Mrs. Laura Manion for the presence of sperm?” Mitch went on.
“Yes.”
“When?”
Consulting a notebook: “I was called to the jail about five A.M. on August sixteenth.”
“What did you do?”
“Do?” The witness spread his hands. “I take one vaginal slide and I take another deep vaginal slide and I have them tested for sperm.”
“What were the results of your test?”
“They were negative, yes.”
“Your witness.”
I arose and advanced to the People's exhibits and picked up the pictures of Laura and silently handed them to the doctor. “Doctor,” I said, “did you notice any bruises or marks on the person of Mrs. Manion when you examined her?” It was like asking a dripping Eskimo in a freshly tipped kayak if the water was cold.
“Oh, sure, sureâshe was pretty bad, especially on the face and neck, like it shows.”
“Were you instructed to look for and note her welts and bruises?”
“No, no.”
“So your remarks about what you observed about her bruises and contusions was merely incidental to the main business of taking your slides?” I said, relieving the witness of the pictures.
“Yes. A man couldn't help but notice.”
“And did you ever tell the prosecuting officers about your findings concerning any bruises and the like?”
“No.”
“And were you ever asked by them about them?”
“No.”
“Regarding the smear, how did you take it?”
“Well, I had the woman lie down and I took the smears with an applicator.”
“And what's that?”
“A long slender stick with a swab of cotton on the end, so.”
“Did you dilate the vaginal orifice?”
“I didn't have toâthere was no difficulty, no.”
“Did you know when you came to the jail to take the smears that there was some question whether a woman had been raped?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did you know her ageâwhether she was a mature woman or a virgin of fifteen?”
“No.”
“So you took a chance that you might not have to dilate with a speculum?”
“Well, yes.” He spread his hands. “I have no speculum.”
“But isn't that standard good practice, Doctor, to use a speculum or expander when taking a vaginal slide?”
“Not necessarily. Anyway I had none.”
“But aren't there situations where a doctor might
have
to use a speculum to properly take a vaginal slide?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Wouldn't it be fair to say, Doctor, that the taking of vaginal slides is not and has never been one of your specialties?”
“Well, yes.”
“During the last ten years how many vaginal slides have you taken at the county jail?”
The doctor shrugged. “Oh, maybe four-five. I don't keep track.”
“And most of those were for gonorrhea?”
“All of themâexcept this.”
“So that during the last ten years you've taken one set of slides to determine the presence of sperm?âthis one?”
“Well, yes.”
“And what did you do with these slides?”
“I took them to the laboratory at St. Margaret's Hospital.”
“And who worked them up?”
“A technician.”
“What kind of technician?”
“Oh, X-ray, like that.”
“Is he a doctor or a pathologist or an expert in the field of working up slides to detect the presence of sperm?”
“He is a technician.”
“I seeâand how old is this technician?”
“Young fellowâthirty or so.”
“His main job is to take X-ray pictures of people with broken legs and the like?”
“Yes.”
“Doctor, would not the normal or at least the safest procedure have been to take the slides to an expert?”
Shrugging: “Well, the police were in a big hurry and I knew this young fellow came on at seven.”
“It was swifter to have the X-ray boy do it if not safer, is that it?”
“Well, yes, I suppose.”
“But it would have been safer to bring it to an expert if not so swift?”
“Yes.”
“And especially wouldn't this be true, Doctor, if a possible question of rape hung on the results?”
The doctor was getting a little despondent. “Yes,” he said.
“Now the local newspaper for the evening of August sixteenth states that you reported you found no sign of rape. Is that a correct report of your findings?”
“No, I didn't say anything like that.”
“And you don't know, then, whether or not this woman had been raped?”
“No. It is impossible to tell that on a mature woman.”
“And on any question of rape, Doctor, are you for your part willing to accept the word of those who may be in a better position to know?”
Relieved: “Gladly.”
“No further questions,” I said.
“Back to you, Mr. Prosecutor,” the Judge said.
Mitch didn't need a cue from his assistant on this one. “No ques-. tions,” he hurriedly said.
“Call your next witness.”
“Your Honor,” Mitch said, “Lieutenant Webley, who accompanied
and assisted Detective Sergeant Durgo in the investigation of this case has been stricken with a virus infection since the start of this trial. He is presently in the hospital under a doctor's care. We can produce his doctor if ⦠.” Mitch paused and looked over at me.
I arose and addressed the court. I certainly did not want to insist upon another witness coming in and repeating the story of the Lieutenant's damaging admissions on the night of the shooting (during recess the Lieutenant had told me he had no recollection of making them) and I further felt that nobody could have improved on the good things Julian Durgo had had to say.
“The doctor is not necessary, Your Honor,” I said. “I have heard of Lieutenant Webley's unfortunate illness and we are satisfied that his testimony is largely cumulative and the defense waives his production here as a witness.”
“Very well,” Judge Weaver said, “the witness may be excused. Call your next.”
“A moment please, Your Honor,” Claude Dancer said, and the Judge nodded and Mitch and his assistant fell into a prolonged whispered huddle from which Mitch finally emerged to arise and announce, “Your Honor, the People rest.”
A milestone in the trial had been reachedâbut had it? “Your Honor,” I said, “I believe the People inadvertently forgot some unfinished business. I had not completed my cross-examination of the People's witness, Alphonse Paquette, the bartender at the Thunder Bay Inn. I rather think the time is now ripe.”