Emphatically: “I certainly would have. In my opinion the necessity for them was clearly indicated.”
“I see,” I pushed on, nailing him down. “So that your main complaint, then, over the findings of Dr. Smith is that he failed to give the proper psychiatric tests available to him?”
The awaited objection came. “No, no, Your Honor. This witness has made no complaint. Question assumes something not in evidence. The witnessâ”
“The objection is overruled,” the Judge quickly ruled. “Proceed.”
“Yes,” the witness replied, compressing his lips.
“So that it would be fair to say that your criticism of Doctor Smith's findings, Doctor, would largely be one of the methods he employed?” I pressed, pinning him down further.
“It would,” the witness answered reprovingly, glancing darkly toward
Dr. Smith and deftly combing his mustache between his fingers.
I paused to let all this sink in. I was aware that the world of psychoanalysis was split into almost as many squirming schools and theories and methods and warring cliques and splinter groups as the artists on the Left Bank. But I was not aware that any of these schools preferred no theories or no methods to any of those they quarreled with, and I went baying along the scent.
“Doctor,” I said, “do you assume and want this jury to believe that no personal screening or observation or examination or tests of the Lieutenant whatever were better than the methods employed by Dr. Smith?”
The drift of things was impinging upon the witness, and he drew himself up tall in his chair. “I did not say that,” he replied stiffly.
“I know you did not actually say it, Doctor; but you have plainly inferred it and that is why I am asking you now. Were no tests at all better than those given? Was it better to screen or not to screen?”
A light was beginning to dawn. “What do you mean?” the witness parried uneasily.
“I mean this, Doctor,” I said, spelling it out. “Do you mean to testify here that the newly announced Gregory system of no tests or no examination whatever is better than Dr. Smith's test or even the tests Mr. Dancer so glibly inquired about?”
The full import of my question now struck the witness broadside. He shifted and glanced at Claude Dancer. “I would not say that” He frowned. “Are you trying, sir, to make a joke out of my profession?”
I drew closer to the witness and observed that there were large drops of perspiration on his long chin.
“Joke,
Doctor?” I said softly.
“I
making a joke out of your profession?” It was time to lower the boom. “Look, Doctor, I asked you a simple question and I'd like a simple answer: are no psychiatric tests or personal observation and examination
ever
better than where such an examination or tests are given? Is that what you want this jury to believe?”
“Objection, Your Honorâ”
“The objection is overruled.”
The witness was fairly trapped. “No,” he replied, and it seemed to me that even his mustache wilted ever so little. He stroked the sweat off his chin with his hand and damped his hand in his limp handkerchief.
“No, what?” I dug away.
“No, it would have been better to have personally observed and tested the subject.”
“So as a diplomate of the American Board of Psychiatry and Neurology you no longer claim or wish to infer here that your failure to examine and observe the Lieutenant would afford you the necessary. scientific detachment so that it would be a positive advantage not to have examined him?”
“I have already answered that.”
“Will you please answer it again?” I pressed harshly.
Curtly: “My answer was and is âno.'”
“So that it was and is a disadvantage not to have examined him?” I hammered away relentlessly.
There was a long hushed pause. “Yes,” he finally said, fairly hissing the sibilant, and I noted the jurors glancing quickly at each other.
“Did you make any request or was any request made on your behalf to examine Lieutenant Manion?” (This question was as shabby as anything Amos Crocker could have dreamed up in his finest hour: we would cheerfully have beheaded anyone who tried to examine our man.)
“No request was made.”
My voice rose. “And yet you would dare come in here and pit your professional opinion against that of a reputable colleague who had actually examined him?”
“Objection, Your Honor. Iâ”
“Objection sustained.”
My next question, like the last, was largely rhetorical, intended more for the jury than for the witness. “Perhaps, Doctor,” I said, “since you were not inconvenienced by having ever even
seen
himâperhaps you would care to venture an off-the-cuff opinion on the psychiatric state of the dead man himself?”
“Objection! Clearly improper.”
“Sustained.”
I paused, noting a grin on the faces of several jurors. “Now, Doctor, let us forget all about hypothetical questions and hypothetical lieutenants and get to the real man”âI pointedâ“sitting over there under a real charge of first degree murder. I ask you if you agree with your fellow diplomate, Dr. Smith, that the man is presently sane?”
“I do. It is obvious to a child.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Now I ask you if you have an opinion as to whether the real Lieutenant was suffering from insanity at the time of the shooting? Now please forget any shadowy or fictional lieutenants.”
“I object. That would not be proper,” Mr. Dancer said.
“I asked your expert, Mr. Dancer, if he had an opinion?”
The witness remained silent, his face twisted into a sort of dark saurian frown. “Do you have an opinion or not?” the Judge pressed with a rare show of impatience. “Answer yes or no.”
The witness tugged nervously at his mustache and seemed to slide lower in his seat. “I have an opinion,” he answered, taking the final plunge.
“Good,” I said. “Will you please state it?”
“Just a moment,” the Judge broke in, turning toward the witness. “I want you fully to realize, Doctor, what you may be about to venture. Now if you have a real opinion I will permit you to state it. But I don't want any guess. And you must be prepared to back your opinion up. I want you to be sure you understand the situation exactly before we get into it. Are you still prepared to offer an opinion?”
The Doctor was hopelessly committed now. “I am,” he said, sitting bolt upright and again wiping his sweat-beaded chin.
“What is your opinion?” I asked.
The unhappy doctor clasped the arms of the witness chair and went sled length. “My opinion is that the real Lieutenant Manion was not insane at the time of the shooting,” he replied.
Softly: “And upon what psychiatric bases do you ground that opinion, Doctor?”
“From what I have seen and heard here.”
“You mean to venture an opinion on the sanity of this man that night without the benefit of any personal observation or tests or history whatever?” I shot at him.
The answer was now inevitable. “Yes, sir.”
I paused for nearly a minute. “Doctor,” I said slowly, “is that the normal and accepted psychiatric practice for a diplomate of the American Board of Psychiatry and Neurology?”
“I object to that,” Mr. Dancer quickly cut in. “Counsel asked a question and got the answer and now he doesn't like it.”
“I'll show you how much I like it, Mr. Dancer.”
“The objection is overruled,” the Judge said shortly. “Answer the question.”
The Doctor seemed to sink even lower in his seat, his fingers gripping and gripping the chair rails. “No, it is not normal psychiatric practice to make a psychiatric diagnosis without the complete history and personal examination of the individual,” he said, patting his wet chin.
I stood looking at the man for several moments. “No further questions,” I said. “Your witness, Mr. Dancer.”
“No further questions,” Mr. Dancer quickly said.
“Call your next rebuttal witness,” the Judge said to Claude Dancer.
Claude Dancer arose with his air of invincible aplomb and portentously cleared his throat. He made me think of a Japanese wrestler as he hunched his shoulders, preening his coat collar tight against the nape of his squat muscular neck. “May it please Your Honor,” he said quietly, “at this time the People wish to move to endorse the name of Duane Miller on the information as a rebuttal witness. His identity and testimony have just come to our attention. I respectfully so move, Your Honor.”
Judge Weaver blinked in surprise and looked down over his glasses at me. “Any comment, Mr. Biegler?” he said.
“This is it,” I thought wildly, scrambling to my feet. “This is the little surprise package we've been waiting for.” Duane Miller? Duane Miller? Who the hell was he? What could he rebut? What was back of this sudden last-minute move?
“Mr. Biegler?” the Judge prodded gently.
“Counsel inquires who the new witness may be,” I said lamely, my mind racing. I knew that I could not successfully object to the addition of a good-faith rebuttal witness whose identity was previously unknown to the People; yet I could not bring myself to consent blindly without some sort of clue. The Judge looked inquiringly at Claude Dancer.
“The name is Duane Miller,” the little man repeated loudly, affectionately mouthing the name with irritating articulation. “Presently an inmate of the county jail. Iron Cliffs County jail, Iron Bay, Michigan.”
“Thanks, Dancer,” I grated harshly at him. “I once heard of the place.”
“Back to you, Mr. Biegler,” the Judge hastily cut in.
“This witness is being called to rebut what?” I said, sparring for timeâboth time and inspiration.
Claude Dancer grinned amiably and glanced knowingly at the jury. “That, Mr. Biegler, still remains to be seen. Wouldn't it be a pity to spoil your little surprise? I renew my request, Your Honor.”
“Ruling, Your Honor,” I said, not daring to risk a losing objection at this crucial stage of the trial.
“The motion is granted,” the Judge said dryly, glancing at the clock. “Mr. Clerk, you will please endorse the name of Duane Miller on the information as a witness for the People. Proceed, Mr. Dancer. Time's a-fleetin'.”
“The People will call Duane Miller to the stand,” Claude Dancer announced, grabbing up some papers and moving briskly toward the witness box. The side door by the jury breathed open and a lean sallow ravaged-looking man clad in blue denim shuffled into the courtroom accompanied by a watchful sheriff's deputy. The surprise witness stood there blinking uncertainly, swallowing his generous Adam's apple. I had never seen him before.
The deputy pointed at the witness box. “Up there, Duke,” he murmured, as Duane Miller shuffled forward and was sworn and sat down, the Adam's apple bobbing like an eccentric toy.
“Your name, please?” the Dancer shot at him before he fairly got the seat warm.
“Duane Miller, sir. Folks mostly call me Duke.”
âCall me Ishmael,' I thought wildly, restraining an impulse to cackle.
“Where do you presently reside?” the Dancer pressed.
The witness gestured toward the jail. “Across the alleyâover in the jail, sir.”
“Do you know the defendant, Frederic Manion?” Claude Dancer purred on.
The witness kept glancing over at me, plainly apprehensive of his impending cross-examination. “Well, sir, kind of, sir, it's this way, sir. For the last week I've been in the cell next to his.” I felt the Lieutenant suddenly stiffen and grow taut at my side. “I can hear him and him me but I've never really laid eyes on the man.”
“Have you had any conversation with him during this trial?”
The witness again swallowed and glanced at me, and Claude Dancer repeated the question. “Oh, yes, sir. A little, not very much. The man ain't much of a hand for talkin'.” (Well, I'd buy that one, anyway.)
“When was the last conversation you had with him?” the Dancer pressed.
“During this very noon hour, sir.”
Claude Dancer paused and glanced back at me, grown fairly elfin with delight. “Will you now please relate that conversation to the court and jury?” he said.
The Judge glanced quickly down at my table. I sucked in my breath so hard and fast that I thought that my gut was glued to my backbone. This was clearly an improper foundation for rebuttal, as the Judge and Dancer and I all knew. The little man was plainly luring me into a temporary winning objection so that he could save
his surprise and eventually clobber me twice. I could also have questioned the identification of the Lieutenant by the witness but that would only have been an annoying delaying tactic at best. I breathed deeply and shook my head almost imperceptibly.
“Go on,” the Dancer prodded the witness. “For once Mr. Biegler is miraculously wordless.”
The witness gulped and then spoke rapidly, glibly. “I heard the Lootenant chucklin' to himself durin' this noon hour an' I says, âThings lookin' up, Lootenant?' and he chuckles some more an' says, âYou damned tootin', Buster,' or words to that affect, and I says, âBuck up, LootenantâI'll bet you my tonight's coffee ration you won't get more'n manslaughter outa this rap,' an' then he laffed out loud an' says, âYou got yourself a bet, Buster. I've already fooled my lawyer an' my psyâ' I can't say it but he meant his brain doctorââan' I'll bet you my pet lüger against this awful swill they call coffee here that I'll fool that bumpkin jury too an' beat this rap all the way.'” The witness paused. “That's all him and me said.”
“You're sure he called you Buster?” Claude Dancer inquired inno cently, stroking his chin.
“He called me Buster,” the witness answered firmly, as my heart dropped to my belly.
Lips pursed, Claude Dancer glanced back at the clock, rocking on his heels. “Mr. Biegler,” he said, still looking thoughtfully at the clock as he strove manfully to hide his rapturous glee, “the witness is all yours.”
An aching fractured sigh swept through the courtroom, a sort of rueful breath-catching, like that of a street crowd seeing a stranger suddenly tossed and mangled in traffic before their eyes. I sat very still and closed my eyes. “Oh Lord, oh Lord,” I thought, over and over. I glanced at the Lieutenant. “Lieutenant!” I whispered sibi-lantly.
The color had drained even from his hands. Waxlike, he sat very still, only the muscles of his jaw quivering. “
Lieutenant
!” I repeated. He turned slowly and his eyes glowed like a lynx's. I felt every boring eye in the courtroom upon us. Slowly, slowly he shook his head. Then he sat staring stonily at the other wall, the maximillary muscle still leaping and twitching. “Dear Lord,” I thought, rising and facing the witness. “What am I ever going to ask this sorry bastard?”
“What you in for, Duke?” I began.
“Arson,” he answered tonelessly, resignedly folding his hands for the ordeal.
I lifted my brows. Arson was a felony for which prison not jail was the normal site of atonement. “Hm ⦠. Confined in the county jail for arson?” I said.
“Waiting sentence. I copped out last Monday.”
“I see. Where you from? We two haven't met before, have we?”
“No. I usually belong around Detroit. There and Toledo.”
“Ah, so Ohio has shared the wealth,” I said. “Ever happen to have been in jail or prison before, Duke?” I asked, swiftly sure of the answer.
Tonelessly: “Yes, sir.”
“How many times?”
The larynx bobbed and the witness blinked out at the clock. “Let's seeâtwo, no three prison raps anââan' I can't remember about the jails.”
“Anything else?”
“I guess maybe that's all.”
“Are you sure you're not being too modest, Duke?”
Firmly: “That's all, Mister. A guy ought to know how many times he's been in stir.”
“Of course. Please forgive me, Mr. Miller.” I turned to Mitch's table. “I request that Prosecutor Lodwick produce and loan me this man's official criminal record to assist me in cross-examination,” I said. “As an ex-D.A. I know he has one. This man is a surprise witness whose very existence I did not know about until a few minutes ago.” Mitch and Claude Dancer fell to whispering. “Your Honor, I repeat my request.”
Claude Dancer arose apparently to give battle but the Judge held up a warning hand. “Do you or do you not have in your possession a copy of this man's official criminal record, Mr. Lodwick?” the Judge asked
“Yes, Your Honor,” Mitch said, flushing.
“Please produce it for defense counsel,” the Judge swiftly ruled
Mitch dug in one of his pregnant brief cases and finally pulled out a three-page criminal identification record which he walked over and handed to me. I sat poring over the imposing document.
Mr. Duane “Duke” Miller had really lived. His record went back to early depression years, starting in juvenile reformatories in Ohio. He had been in Midwest prisons five (not three) times for offenses ranging from aggravated assault to indecent exposure and on through perjury. He had dwelt in various scattered jails countless times for offenses ranging from common drunkenness to window
peeping. He possessed more aliases than a moderately fastidious dog has fleasâalthough Buster was regretfully not among them ⦠. Consulting this alarming dossier I brought all this out from the witness. He denied nothing and, both his pride and memory being stimulated, even recollected for me that he had deserted from an Army labor battalion during the War, a peccadillo which his record failed to disclose. Duke Miller was by way of being one of society's finer little assets. Yet he had just testified that the Lieutenant had told him his defense was a hoax. And, almost worse yet, that he had called him
Buster
while doing it.
“How come you so promptly told the prosecution about this alleged conversation this noon with Lieutenant Manion?” I pressed on.
“How do you mean?” the witness sparred uneasily.
“Did they ask you or did you go tell them?”
“They asked me. I unnerstan' they been quizzin' prisoners the last coupla days.”
“When did they quiz you?”
“Just before court took up here after dinner.”
“Who quizzed you?”
The witness looked at Claude Dancer. “That little bald-headed guy sittin' there. Prancer or Dancer, I think his name is called.”
“You're quite sure it wasn't Dunstan?” I asked, remembering the People's photographer.
“Huh? Yes, positive.”
“Where did he ask you?”
Gesturing: “Back in the D.A.'s office behind this here room.”
“Who brought you over to see him?”
“Charlie, the deputy there.”
“Is it fair to say, Mr. Miller, that if nobody had asked you you would not have mentioned this alleged conversation to anyone?” I held my breath awaiting the answer.
“Nope, I spose not. I got troubles enough of my own.”
“Perhaps little troubles like awaiting sentence on your plea of guilty to arson?”
“Well, yes.”
“And of course nothing, not a whisper, was said about your pending arson sentence when you talked to Mr. Prancer or Dancer?”
Claude Dancer half rose and the Judge frowned and waved him down.
“Nope, nary a word.”
“And of course no promises were given you?”
“Nope.”
“And of course, Duke, you weren't thinking even faintly about your impending sentence for arson when you told the People the kind of story you thought they might possibly be panting to hear?”
Claude Dancer again shot up, bristling, and this time the Judge glared him back down.
“Nope, nary a thought.”
I paused. There was still some unfinished business, Buster business. If this man was lying he had doubtless dredged the name Buster from jail gossip or the newspaper accounts of the bartender's testimony at the trial.
Buster ⦠.
Wasn't
that
an inspired diabolic touch? I stroked my chin, my mind galloping. Perhaps I could trap him into a transparent lie. “Where'd you find the name Buster?” I demanded suddenly. “I suppose from the newspaper accounts of the trial, didn't you?”
“No.”
“You mean no newspapers were available in the jail?” I pressed softly, trying for a demonstrable lie. I knew that during the trial the place was awash with newspapers.
The witness glanced quickly at Claude Dancer, then the Judge, then back at me, the Adam's apple gyrating. “Oh, yes, plenty of newspapers,” he answered. “But I haven't read any accounts of the trial. Bum eyes.” His voice rose. “The man called me Buster, I tell you.”