The next morning, Saturday, the cars were parked solidly for blocks around the courthouse and I was glad that the thoughtful Sheriff had reserved parking space between the courthouse and jail. The line of people waiting to get in the courtroom, mostly women, stretched clean down the marble stairs and along the entire main downstairs corridor and through the door and down the cement stairs and out upon the leaf-strewn sidewalk. I recalled a picture I had once seen of a long straggling file of Alaskan gold-rushers toiling and plodding their way over Chilkoot Pass. These dedicated native pilgrims seemed to sense that this was the big day and most of them had paper bags and lunch boxes so that they would not lose their places, such was their passion as students of homicide, as Judge Weaver had wryly observed.
When I had fought my way upstairs the jurors and the Manions were already in their respective places; I nodded at Dr. Smith, who sat in one of the lawyers' chairs behind Laura; Parnell sat gravely by his door; and the Sheriff's men were just admitting the clacking advance guard of the thundering lunch-laden horde. A whole flock of city reporters was huddled earnestly around the press table talking with Bob Birkey, the local
Gazette
man; it seemed reinforcements had arrived on the night train. Rover and his flashlight had triumphed over all ⦠. Laura leaned over and whispered to me, nodding toward Parnell. “That old man sitting over there just left this envelope on the table for youâthe same nice old man who handed me Rover when I testified yesterday. Who is he, anyway?”
“He's my chief veterinarian, Laura, in charge of kennels and flashlight batteries in all my murder cases,” I said, smiling and tearing the envelope open.
“Polly,” Parnell's note read, “call the hotel desk clerk as your first witness. His name is Clarence Furlong. Credit Maida with a touchdown on this one. The rest of us clean forgot. Don't forget the money. Good luck. Parn.”
I glanced anxiously over at Parnell and he winked and looked away like an innocent choirboy. What a man, what a man ⦠.
The door to the Judge's chambers sighed open and the Judge came swishing out with long purposeful strides, followed by Claude Dancer and Mitch, like two altar boys in the wake of a priest. When the Judge had mounted to his place Max hammered us to our feet, bawling for his lost dogies, and the courtroom was finally seated. At
length a bated silence fell over the courtroom, a sort of rustling uneasy hush, like a shower of autumn leaves. The Judge's nod at my table abruptly lit the wick of combat.
“The defense will call Clarence Furlong,” I said, praying silently that Parnell knew what he was about.
Mary Pilant's little desk clerk padded his way to the stand, taking short dancing-master steps, not unlike the dog Rover, and it would not have surprised me had he held a lighted flashlight in his mouth as he turned timidly after the oath to face me from the witness chair. It was a curious sensation to be about to examine a witness one had never properly interviewed. I took a deep breath and plunged ahead on the assumption that we two had been raised on the same neighborhood sand lot.
“Your name please?” I asked.
“Clarence Furlong,” the witness answered.
“Where do you live?”
“Thunder Bay, Michigan.”
“Occupation?”
“Desk clerk at the Thunder Bay Inn.”
“How long have you been so engaged?”
“Nearly four years.”
“And were you so engaged on the night of the shooting in this case, that is, on the night of August fifteenth and the early morning hours of August sixteenth?”
“I was.”
“And where in the hotel were you working?”
“At the desk in the main lobby.”
“And I ask you whether or not your desk commanded a view of the main entrance?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And also the stairway to the bar?”
“It did.”
“In other words you could see any one who entered or left the lobby by either route?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“Now I ask you, Mr. Furlong,” I said, “if you saw your late ein-ployer Barney Quill in the lobby the night of the shooting?”
Quietly: “I did.”
“When?”
“He came into and passed through the lobby at approximately midnightâpossibly five minutes before.”
“Using what entrance?”
“The main entrance.”
“Was there anyone else in the lobby?”
“There was not. I was alone.”
I paused and took the plunge. “Will you now please describe the general appearance of Mr. Quill when you saw him?”
Mr. Dancer was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. The appearance of the deceased would have no bearing on the issues of this case. Irrelevant, immaterial.”
“Mr. Biegler?” the Judge inquired. “Why do you offer this testimony?”
I arose by my table. “Both the defense and certain of the People's witnesses have now clearly injected the issue of possible rape into this case. If there is anything to this, Your Honor, the deceased must have come fresh from his attack.” I paused. “It occurred to me that the jury might be mildly interested in learning about the appearance of Mr. Quill. I shall of course abide by the court's ruling.” I sat down.
I now felt that it did not make much difference which way the court ruled: if the Judge kept the clerk's story out, the jury would undoubtedly resentfully imagine it; if he let it in, well, then it was in. Perhaps it was even better to let it out, or at least safer. The Judge resolved the dilemma. “I am going to permit the answer,” he ruled.
“Mr. Quill was disheveled and panting as though he had been running,” the witness replied. “His hair was mussed and his trousers and white shirt were soiled as though he had fallen.”
“Did he pause or speak to you?”
“No, he hurried through the lobby and up the stairs without a word.”
“Did you see him later that eveningâin the lobby, I mean?” I asked.
“Yes, in about ten minutes or so he came downstairs and, after pausing at my desk a moment, proceeded down to the bar. I never saw the man alive after that.”
“What was his appearance then?”
“He appeared to have changed his clothes and washed and tidied himself up.”
“How about his hair?”
“It was combed.”
“How about his breathing? Was he still panting?”
“He seemed very calm and composedâalmost icily so.”
I paused and felt my way: “You have mentioned his pausing at your desk. Did any words pass between you?”
The clerk grew thoughtful. “No,” he said. “Not any words.”
The witness had stressed “words” and I still felt my way along. “Did
anything
pass between you?” Pamell had cryptically mentioned money.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Money. He handedârather slid meâa twenty-dollar bill.”
Ah, so Parnell had scored again. There was a rustle and stir in the courtroom and I paused to ponder the situation. The obvious thing was to press on and ask the witness why money had passed, but since no words had passed I sensed he could not very well testify to that but could only guess, which would only give Mr. Dancer a free pounce with another successful objection. Perhaps it was better to let it rest right there and let Mr. Dancer dig it out himself if he dared. There was one final question.
“Mr. Furlong,” I said, “had Mr. Quill ever done anything like that beforeâsilently given you twenty-dollar bills or any amount?”
“No, sir,” the witness answered.
“Your witness, Mr. Dancer,” I said.
Claude Dancer and Mitch were engaged in a whispered huddle while all of the jurors sat watching them with interest. I glanced at Parnell who sat staring pensively at the jury.
Mitch arose to his feet. “No questions,” he said.
“Next witness,” the Judge said.
I arose to my feet. “Lieutenant Frederic Manion,” I said.
I had to admit that the Lieutenant made an imposing figure as he marched to the stand, erect and military looking in his fresh uniform, with all the colorful campaign ribbons and battle stripes; and the female contingent among the students of homicide evidently agreed, as their heavy sighs indicated. The Judge scowled and tentatively fondled his gavel as the Lieutenant was sworn and sat down and faced me. I felt like a tired old horse on a muddy track heading into the home stretch. “Don't falter now, Biegler,” I thought. “Run, dammit, run.”
“Will you please state your name?” I said.
“Frederic Manion,” he replied.
“What is your business or profession?”
“Professional soldier.”
“What is your rank?”
“First lieutenant in the United States Army.”
“How long have you been a soldier?”
“Nearly sixteen years.”
“Now, Lieutenant, where were you when your wife left the trailer for the hotel bar the night of the shooting?”
The Lieutenant went on in a calm low voice and told of his napping after supper; how Laura had awakened him to ask him if he wanted to go to the hotel bar; how he had told her to go along and he would join her later; and how he had then again fallen asleep.
“When did you next wake up?” I said, plunging into the midst of it.
“When I thought I heard the sound of screaming.”
“Go on, tell us what happened,” I said.
“Well, I got off the bed and went to the door and then Lauraâmy wifeâfell into my arms.”
“Please describe what you saw.”
“She was hysterical; her face was swollen; her skirt was tom; her hair was in her eyes; she was crying and couldn't speak.”
“What did you do?”
“I got her in on the day bed and got some cold cloths and tried to quiet her down and find out what happened.”
“Did you finally find out?”
Quietly: “I did.”
“Now, without going into details now, will you tell us what your wife told you had happened to her?”
“Yes. She told me she had been beaten and raped by”âthe Lieutenant paused as though he hated to say the words, and indeed he fairly spat them when he spokeâ“by Barney Quill.”
“What happened then?”
“I stayed and tried to comfort her and quiet her down. Then I tried to get her out of her clothesâshe was helpless and still half-hystericalâand then IâI saw the evidence on her legs.”
“What did you do?”
“I wiped it off and burned it in our incinerator.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I went to a little stand and took my pistol out of the drawer and put it in my pocket and left.”
“Did you tell your wife you were leaving or to your knowledge did she see you take the pistol?”
“No, I said nothing and I don't think she knew I was leaving. She has already testified she did not.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I stepped outside the trailer and stood in the dark for a few minutes to adjust my eyes. I also wanted to make sure thatâthat the deceased wasn't lurking around out there. Then I went to the tavern.”
“Walk or ride?”
“I rode in my automobile.”
“Do you remember opening the gate?”
“I do not.”
“Or remember driving to the tavem?”
“I do not.”
I paused. I was coming to one of the crucial parts of our case and I wanted to get it right and make sure the jury heard it. “Lieutenant,” I said, “what was your purpose in going to the hotel bar?”
The Lieutenant flushed darkly as he spoke. “I was going to grab that individual, so help me.”
“What were you going to do with him?”
The Lieutenant spoke rapidly. “I'm not quite sure. Grab him and hold him. A man like that could not be at large.”
“I ask you whether or not you had any intention of killing or harming him?”
The Lieutenant breathed deeply before he spoke. “I had no intention of killing or harming him but if that man had made one false move I would have killed him.”
I paused. Well, it was in now; for better or worse our man had now declared that he had gone to the bar to “grab” Barney Quill, an assertion which I hoped gave us sufficient evidence to warrant an instruction from the court on the right of arrest. If so, it would help answer many perplexing defense questions.