Laura nodded. “I woâ”
The Dancer was on his feet. “No, no! Objection!” he shouted. “Counsel plainly trying circumvent rule against admissibility of polygraph tests.”
The jurors glared at the little man. “Pardon me, Mr. Dancer,” I said. “I keep forgetting how zealous you are that nothing shall get in this case that could possibly harm a hair on the head of Lieutenant Manion. I withdraw the question.” I addressed the court. “Your Honor,” I said, “before I tender this witness I should like to bring in the little dog Rover for a demonstration to the jury, if I may.”
“Demonstration of what?” the Judge asked, startled.
“First, that the dog is both small and friendly and was unlikely either to dissuade the deceased or protect the witness and, second, that the animal and its flashlight could indeed have lit the witness through the stile near the park gate, as she has testified.” I paused. “And there is a third reason, Your Honor,” I said. “To prevent Mr. Dancer from thereby making a slavering mastiff out of this little dog if we are not allowed to produce him.”
Claude Dancer glared at me and leapt righteously to his feet but the Judge held up a warning hand like a traffic cop. “The request is granted. Produce the animal.”
I turned to Laura. “If you please, Mrs. Manion.”
Laura got down off the stand and went to the lawyers' door by the side of the jury, which I held open for her, and was back in a thrice carrying Rover, doubtless herself as surprised to have Parnell thrust the animal at her in the corridor as was everyone in the courtroom to see her back so soon.
“Please release the dog, Mrs. Manion,” I said, and Laura put the dog down, with its flashlight lit in its mouth, and, wagging its tail furiously, it ran gaily up and smelled the Judge, who frowned and turned quickly away, and thenâof all thingsâran bright-eyed to the prosecution table, its tiny feet pattering, and tried to climb up on Claude Dancer's lap. The Dancer flushed and lifted his legs to prevent it, not unlike a maiden lady being suddenly wooed by a mouse, and even the jury tittered. Then Rover spotted Lieutenant Manion and ran to him in an ecstasy of wriggling and whimpering joy, whereupon the Judge, who evidently took as dim a view of dogs in his courtroom as he did of flash cameras, inquired of me in a rather pained voice whether our jury demonstration was done.
“I swear, Your Honor,” I said solemnly, “I wasn't waiting for Rover to be sworn,” and everyone laughed, even the Judge and Mitchâeveryone but Mr. Dancerâand I nodded to Laura to fetch the dog back out to the waiting Parnell, and when she returned, turned and said, “Your witness, Mr. Dancer.”
The Judge looked thoughtfully out at the courtroom clock and then down at the counsel tables. “Gentlemen, it's nearly four-thirty,” he said, “which is too early to suspend for the day and yet perhaps too late to finish with this witness before five.” He glanced at the jury. “I seem faintly to discern a chance to end this case tomorrow, Saturday, and I wonder if the jury and counsel would be willing to work a little overtime tonight, if necessary, on the off-chance that the case will not have to run over into next week.”
Most of the jurors quickly nodded their heads and, swiftly getting our cues, Mitch and I perforce popped up and nodded ours. “Very well,” the Judge said, “suppose we proceed with the cross-examination.” He nodded at Mitch's table.
Claude Dancer quickly arose and padded up before Laura Manion with a sheaf of notes, his lips curled in a toothsomely amiable grin, much like a miniature panther about to pounce upon an unsuspecting rabbit. “Good luck, dear Laura,” I murmured to myself. The lady didn't quite know it, but she was about to be sacrificed to the wolves.
“How long have you been married to the Lieutenant?” Claude Dancer purred silkily.
“Three years,” Laura answered.
“And have you worked during your lifetime?” he purred on.
“I have, naturally.”
“And what was your occupation?”
“Well, I was a housewife for twelve years before I married Manny âI mean, Lieutenant Manion.”
“Oh,” Mr. Dancer queried, in false surprise. “You mean you were previously married?”
“Yes.”
“Hm ⦠. And had you any other occupation beside that of housewife?”
“Yes, I once sold lingerie in a department store and another time demonstrated and sold cosmetics.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, I worked as a telephone operator and junior instructress.”
“Anything else?” Claude Dancer pressed, appearing to consult a dossier he held in his hands, which indeed he might have held or, like a clever cross-examiner, it might have been only an old time-table
; on this score neither the witness nor opposing counsel could ever be sure.
“No, I think that's all.”
Still consulting his notes: “Weren't you once a beauty operator?”
“No.”
“You mean you did not graduate from a beauty course you took in St. Louis?”
“You didn't ask that. I had the training but never actually became an operator.” (It was now plain to me that the little man did have some information on Laura's backgroundâshe hadn't even told me some of these things.)
“But you did sell cosmetics on the road?”
“Yes.”
It was also plain that the Dancer was trying to show Laura up as a well-traveled bag, but I did not object, first, because I saw no valid grounds to do so and further because I wouldn't have objected if I could, because so far Mr. Dancer was doing precisely what I'd hoped he'd do: trying subtly to attack Laura's character but not her story of the rape.
“Now, how long after the death of your first husband did you marry your present husband?” little Mr. Dancer asked with disarming innocence. I caught my breath for this was one of those trick loaded questions that I had warned Laura against. His question was so framed that he might either deliberately lure her into a lie or she might innocently fall into one if she was not on her toes.
“Two weeks,” Laura replied, and Claude Dancer could not resist shooting a look of triumph at me as my heart sank. Good Lord, she had fallen into the trap.
“So that two weeks after you became a free woman you got married to the Lieutenant?” the Dancer pressed, luring her on and nailing down her lie.
“Yes, two weeks after my divorce was granted,” Laura said, and once again I was able to breathe.
“Divorce?” Claude Dancer said. “I thought you just testified that your first husband
died
two weeks before your remarriage.”
Laura shook her head wonderingly, and I was sure then that her flub had been innocent, she had misunderstood the earlier trap question. “He was and is very much alive, sir. I have never told anyone he was dead. In fact he has recently written my husband and me offering to help.” (This, too, I had not known. )
“Objection,” Claude Dancer said. “The answer is irrelevant and unresponsiveâat least the portion about the former husband offering to help. I move that portion be stricken.”
“Yes,” the Judge ruled, “the reference to the offer to help by the former husband may be stricken and the jury is asked to disregard it.”
I arose. “Your Honor,” I said, “now that three people have already drilled into the jury the import of the offending testimony, I might as well make it unanimous. We agree that the reference to the offer of help by the former husband may be stricken and disregarded. I am sure now that the jurors will resolutely banish it from their memories.”
Claude Dancer glared at me. “I further object to defense counsel commenting on an objection after the court has ruled,” he said.
“Mr. Dancer,” I said, “I apologize for commenting on the fact that the former husband still wants to help. If it will comfort you I am willing to stipulate that he is jealously sulking or dead.”
The Judge stifled a smile and lightly tapped his bench with his gavel. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said. “Time's a-flying. Let us get on with the examination. Proceed, Mr. Dancer.”
Claude Dancer took his little setback like a little man; it was all part of the game; he would now bore in with something else. “How long had you known the Lieutenant before your marriage to him?” he pressed on.
“Five months.”
“And where was your first husband during all this time?”
“With the Army in Europe.”
“So that all the while your husband was in the service in Europe you and the Lieutenant were conducting your little romance over here?”
Laura's green eyes flashed behind her glasses. “I did not say that. You asked me how long I had known Manny, not how long he had courted me.”
“Well, then, please tell us how long he courted you,” Mr. Dancer complacently purred on.
“One month.”
“In other words, you and he were going steady, then, before you were actually divorced?”
“Well, yes.”
Claude Dancer glanced at the jury and I noted ruefully that several of the women were glancing significantly at each other. “Now,
coming to the night of the shooting,” the Dancer pressed on, “I believe you just told the jury you went to the hotel bar that night to get a six-pack of beer?”
“Yes.”
“And that was for your husband?”
“Yes, I rarely drink beer myself.” She smiled a little and glanced nervously at the jury. “Too fattening.”
“I see,” Mr. Dancer said and paused. “But if you went there for beer for your husband, why didn't you get it and fetch it home instead of staying there over two hours?”
The little man was giving Laura a bad time. I held my breath hoping she would have the wits to wriggle her way out of this question.
She did, and with a vengeanceâshe told the simple truth. “I did not go there primarily for beer, Mr. Dancer. If you must know, going to the bar to get the beer was more or less of an excuse to get out of the trailer. I had been ironing all afternoon and I was dying to get out.”
“To get out so that you could go drink whisky and play pinball with Barney Quill?” Mr. Dancer pressed, no longer purring.
“No. Not at all,” Laura shot back. “Just to get out. If you were a woman you would understand what I mean.”
“But you did drink whisky and play pinball with Barney Quill?”
“Yes. I've already told that here today and many times to the state police.” (Laura was getting her dander up and, I felt, was doing much betterâif she would only keep her head.)
“And how many drinks did you have?”
“Four.”
“Double shots?”
“No.”
“And over what space of time?”
“About two hours, with a large glass of water. My dad taught me that.”
“Did you feel the effects of these drinks?” the Dancer asked, and cleverly, since if she said no, she perforce made herself out a bit of a rum pot and if she said yes he would purr over that too.
“Well, yes, I felt relaxed and was enjoying myself.”
Claude Dancer paused and rolled up another spitball. “Is it your practice to remove your shoes when you drink whisky?” he said, hurling it.
“It is not.”
“Or when dancing?”
“No, I did notâ”
“And were you served drinks with your shoes off?” the Dancer pressed on.
“Your Honor,” I said, rising, “I don't want to spoil the gallant Mr. Dancer's funâhe's waited so long for itâbut I wish he would let the witness complete her answers before he gets on to the next question. I object to his cutting her off.”
“The objection is sustained. The witness will be allowed to complete her answer,” the Judge ruled.
Laura glanced gratefully up at the Judge. “I was going to say that I did not dance with anyone and that I only removed my shoes once briefly during the last game of pinball.”
“Are you sure you did not dance with anyone?” the Dancer pressed.
“I am sure.”
“Didn't you dance with a tall red-faced man?” (At this point I began wondering whether the lurching Hippo Lukes had made another switch.)
“No, not even a short pale one. I danced with no one, not a soul.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am positive I did not dance. I am a poor dancer and I do not particularly like to.”
“Do you recall any man having your shoes in his pockets while you danced with him? Answer yes or no and leave out the comments.” (Ah, this was the great Hippo, all right.)
“No.”
“Now, after the shooting when your husband returned to the trailer did he then go to the cottage of the caretaker, Mr. Lemon?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear the conversation between them?”
“No. I only saw Mr. Lemon when he came to our trailer.”
“Did your husband turn over his pistol to Mr. Lemon?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you tell Mr. Lemon what happened?”
“Yes, I did; I said, âLook what Barney did to me.'”
Claude Dancer appealed to the court. “Objection. The answer is unresponsive and I move it be stricken.”
“But you have asked the witness what she told the caretaker,” the Judge said, “and she has answered. If you have something particular in mind, then ask it. Your motion to strike is denied.”
“Did you tell Mr. Lemon your husband had shot Barney?”
“I did not.”
“Now did you and your husband ever go out socially in Thunder Bay?”
“Several times.”
“And did you and he once attend a cocktail party in the hotel shortly after your arrival?”
“Yes.”
“And at one of those parties did your husband have an altercation with a young second lieutenant?”
“Altercation?” Laura said. “My husband knocked him down.”
“Why?”
“I cannot tell. You had better ask him. The young man kissed my hand.”
Suavely: “Did you approve of your husband's behavior?”
“I did not and I do not,” Laura replied.
Claude Dancer turned and beamed at me. “Your witness,” he said.
I pondered the skylight but found no inspiration. “No questions,” I said.
“Mr. Sheriff,” the Judge said, “I guess we'll call it a day.”