I paused. “But after all this case is not a gladiatorial contest between Mr. Dancer and me. Your verdict is not a television giveaway prize to be awarded the side that puts on the best show. No, ladies and gentlemen, the stakes here are far bigger than Mr. Dancer and Paul Biegler. They have to do with some old-fashioned things, big things like truth and justice and fair play. They have to do with the fate and future of a tormented lonely man who sits here so uncertainly among us strangers.”
The Sheriff brought a glass and pitcher and put it on the court reporter's table, and I nodded gratefully and poured and hurriedly gulped a glass of tepid waterâcourtroom water is always tepidâand turned back to the jury, again eying my favorite juryman. “I wonder if any of you would ever have known that anyone had been raped in this case if I had not kept hammering away through the buzz-saw
objections of Mr. Dancer? And what purpose has all his objections served? Jurymen, we could have been done with this case many hours if not days ago if the People had faced up to the reality of this rape, which like dwellers in a sort of enchanted dream world they still do not admit. We didn't and we won't deny the shooting; we have never denied it. That was obvious from the start of this case and the People knew it long before that, ever since we filed our written plea of insanity 'way back in August. Yet they have spent hour after hour and witness after witnessâand incidentally dollar after public dollarânailing the gory details of that dead and undisputed issue. Just as Mr. Dancer has used up hour after dreary hour trying to hide and suppress this rape, the rape that surely no fair-minded person in this courtroom can any longer doubt took place.”
I then reviewed in detail the evidence pointing toward rape, reminding the jury that practically all of it had got in the case over the repeated objections of Mr. Dancer. I advanced close to Mitch's table and again pointed down at Mr. Dancer. “You still do not admit this rape! You still want to picture Mrs. Manion as a slut! You are still obsessed with your pathological lust to go home with the Lieutenant's carcass lashed to the fender of your state-owned car. Well, Mr. Dancer, I dare you to admit the rape!”
I returned before the jury and took up and reviewed the harmful portion of Detective Sergeant Durgo's testimony. That had frankly to be faced; it would not go away by ignoring it. “People,” I continued, “maybe the Lieutenant did say these things. The fact that Sergeant Durgo says so is pretty good proof that they were said. We cannot have our cake and eat it, too: we cannot fairly pick out the parts of the Sergeant's testimony that please us and reject the rest. Only the hardy Mr. Dancer seems able to undertake that miracle. But supposing the Lieutenant did say these things? Was he still not in the shock of his mental lapse, still gripped by the massive blast to his psychic personality, still groping his way back to reality, still trying to put a rational face on the dreadful thing he was slowly realizing he had done? In any case I believe that the Judge will instruct you that you may acquit this man, even if he said these things and realized he was saying them, if at the actual time of the shooting you believe he was in the grip of what is known as irresistible impulse.”
I again checked my time and hurried on. I pointed out that Mitch was right in warning the jury not to invoke the defense of “natural law” (the Judge would do so anyway); and how, under our law, if
the Lieutenant had awakened and come upon Barney raping his wife and had killed him, there would doubtless have been no trial and the Lieutenant would instead have got a new medal to add to his combat decorations. “But here,” I went on, “the difference is that the woman was not discovered in any act of adultery or
while
being raped, but had, however mistakenly, trusted a wolf who had offered to drive her home. Ah yes, instead she was assaulted, pounded, choked, raped, mauled, tripped, kicked, repeatedly struckâthe last time practically within a stone's throw of her sleeping husbandâbut now the killing becomes murder.
“Ladies and gentlemen, some of you may be asking yourselves why?âwhy have I been spending so much time here trying to show the obvious truth, namely that the dead man Barney Quill was drinking heavily, that he was acting peculiarly, that he was an awesome physical specimen who knew Judo and all manner of the dark arts of self-defense and offense, that he was an expert who possessed pistols and knew well how to use them? Some of you may also have been wondering why our friend Mr. Dancer has so strenuously sought to keep these truths out.”
I paused. “Well, I'll try to tell you. If Mr. Dancer could suppress these truths he could then argue that Barney Quill was unable physically to overpower and rape this woman and do to her the things he did; that in any case she should have put up more resistance and that therefore this sexual collision was not rape; that Lieutenant Manion did not need to take a gun when he went to grab and hold this man for the police; that he therefore did so solely to slay him; and, last but not least, that the little old unarmed caretaker, Mr. Lemon, was just the man he instead should have sent to gather in this dangerous wild man.” I again paused. “These I believe are the answers in a nutshell; this is why our Mr. Dancer has spent days here trying relentlessly to baffle and block any attempt by me to show Barney Quill as anything other than a nice quiet harmless outdoor boy.”
I hurriedly gulped another glass of water. “Yes,” I ran on, “the People, so zealously represented by Mr. Dancer, will doubtless argue that the Lieutenant should have hunted the little old unarmed caretaker out of his midnight bed to go over and arrest this man crouching in his lair, behind his bar with his arsenal of weapons he so well knew how to use. Wouldn't that have been the fine, manly, legal thing to do?
“People,” I said, “to be competent jurors you need not check
your brains in the jury cloakroom. There is no mystery about your role hereâit is to use your heads and also your hearts. If Barney Quill did this thing to Laura Manion there were exactly three courses open to him. One, he could have given himself up. He didn't. Two, he could have run away or destroyed himself. He didn't. Three, he could have stayed and determined to brazen it out. He did. The great Barney Quill, running true to form, chose the latter role, he returned to his lair and sent his bartender scuttling, whether as lookout or whatnot we shall probably never know. He quickly surrounded his bar with a protective cordon of unsuspecting humanityâhis buffer as well as his witnessesâand waited confidently for the showdown, primed by his whisky and his enormous ego, surrounded by all his pals and his pistols and medals and his ever-faithful lookout. Barney could not stand behind the bar staring at the doorâhe had desperately to play the part of the cool and calm one. That is why he had to give his tired bartender a “rest” so he could
stand
nearly an hour over by the door and give him the signal.
“But, you may ask yourselves, if Barney was waiting for the Lieutenant to come, with or without a lookout, why didn't
he
plug the Lieutenant the moment he entered the door? Ah, folks, that would not only have been murder, but murder added to a tacit confession of rape. That would have given the show away. Barney was on the spot. Barney knew what he had done but the others didn't. Had Barney mounted a Tommy gun on the bar and shot the Lieutenant down as he entered the door he would by that very act have confessed his rape. Don't you see? Barney
had
to wait for the Lieutenant to advance into the room so that when the expected showdown came, the big scene, the accusation, the argument, the attempted laying on of hands, even a hostile move for a gun, then the great marksman Barney could shoot the man down in front of witnesses and plausibly claim the whole thing was done in self-defense. He had to gamble that he was faster on the draw than Lieutenant Manion. Can't you seeâthis tense barroom drama was all carefully staged?” I lowered my voice. “The only thing that went wrong was that Barney forgot, or didn't know, the Lieutenant was left-handedâthat and the fact that at last he had met his match. He lost his grim gamble, he at last lost his first pistol shoot. This time the medal he lost happened to be his own life.”
Time was fleeting and I rushed on. “No, the Lieutenant didn't send a sleepy unarmed old man, but went himself and did so legally, as I believe the Judge will so instruct you.” (This was the instruct-tion
Parnell had toiled over so long.) “Surely, people, this Barney was either a dangerous maniac at large or at least a dangerous criminal. In either case he was a man who had just committed, in aggravated form, one of the gravest felonies on our books. I believe the Lieutenant had every right to go there and grab that man. I believe the Judge will tell you so. Because the taunting sight of his wife's tormentor may have unhinged the Lieutenant's reason, you are now asked to ruin his life.”
Â
I looked at the clock and stepped forward. One of the constant and worrisome defense problems in any criminal caseâsince it has but one chance at the jury argument while the prosecution has twoâis not only to cover its own case in the allotted time, but to try as well to anticipate and cover the possible arguments the prosecution might advance in its still unheard and forever unanswerable closing argument. About all that Mitch had given me to fulminate about in his routine opener was the business about Barney and the gate. Claude Dancer had graciously tossed Mitch that solitary forensic bone, thoughtfully saving the rest for himself. I moved quickly on to that.
“Our prosecutor has pointed out in his opening argument that if the deceased had intended any harm to Mrs. Manion he would not have bothered to drive her to the park gate in the first place,” I said. “The implication of that argument is, of course, that some mysterious thing happened between the bar and the gate that led Barney to believe his romantic advances would not be unwelcome, that Love and Four Roses finally conquered all. Now that argument has a certain glib plausibility, a surface persuasiveness, but I wonder if it will stand analysis? I wonder, people, whether this is not the true reason why Barney Quill drove her first to the gate: He knew the gate was locked. He had already formed his design to have at this woman. He already knew that she was reluctant and nervous about riding with him. By first driving her to the gate, which he well knew was locked, he could thus allay her suspicions and hide his real intentions. If on the contrary he had simply driven past the gate road without turning inâa point which the chart shows is still right in townâshe would immediately have become suspicious and could have raised an effective hue and cry while still in town. His plan worked; when he made his final turn off on the “rape” road, far down the main road, it was too late, any screams then would have been futile, she was finally in his power.” I paused. “Is that not
more probably the real reason why he drove her in to the gate at all?”
My favorite juror was all but nodding his head at me. Embarrassed, I looked at the woman next to him, a plump, pop-eyed, folded-armed, middle-aged lady who, doubtless through some wry trick of the thyroid, had sat wide-eyed during the entire trial, watching or rather beholding the proceedings, a look of perpetual astonishment stamped on her face. She stared at me, oily-eyed and unblinking, and I wondered vaguely if she had any pulse ⦠.
I swiftly reviewed the testimony of the bartender concerning Barney's drinking and the guns and all the rest; the revealing wolf designation he had pinned on Barney; the unsought sympathy he had bestowed on the Manions; the gift of cigarettes and the expression of regret over the broken mirror and bottle of “white-vest” bourbon. “Surely this crafty shifty little man must have known when he did and said these things that they would come back to haunt him if he had not really meant them.”
My argument was verging on a sensitive area and for Mary Pilant's sake I had to try to cover it obliquely. “And who was it that dragged whatever truth of these things we finally got out of this witness? Not our Mr. Dancer, certainly. You will recall how hostile this bartender was when I first cross-examined him. At first he would have nothing unusual with Barney, either in his drinking or otherwise. The Thunder Bay Inn was the setting for a summer idyl.”
I glanced back at the frowning bartender and then returned to the jury. “I wonder why the witness changed? Could it have had something to do with Barney's estate or his insurance? Or was someone growing afraid of perjury?” I paused. “In any case, when I got him back again on the stand
something
certainly had changed, for whatever reason. I then dragged out of him over Mr. Dancer's trip-hammer objections that things had been so normal, indeed, that Barney was still gulping his double shots as hungrily as ever; that his behavior was still normally queer; that things were so placidly normal and fine, in fact, that some of his arsenal of guns had to be locked up while at least two others were unaccounted for. Yes, that's how really
normal
things were around that seething hotel and bar.” I paused. “And isn't that what the bartender really meant when he told Mrs. Manion it was too bad they had come to Thunder Bay when they did? Weren't the Manions indeed like two lost characters who had wandered unwittingly onto the stage of some dark Greek drama they knew not of?”
I turned toward the clock; my time was rapidly running out. “We now come to our defense of insanity, to the battle of the psychiatrists. Doubtless Mr. Dancer will call our young doctor a charlatan and a faker for failing to use the impressive-sounding tests that he, Dancer, had so glibly learned by heart from the People's doctor. In this connection I ask you why, if this young man were no good at his workâwhy would this able and poised young doctor be put in charge of all this modern psychiatric equipment by the U.S. Army itself?”