Starring the Defense - Henry Slesar

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Miles Crawford, deep in a dream of the past, was sprawled in the library armchair and looking boyish, gray hairs and all, boyish. Jenny, his maid, clucked over him maternally before shaking him awake.
“Mr. Crawford? You know Mr. Brody been outside half an hour? You forget he was coming over?”
“Sam?” Miles got to his feet, agile for his sixty years, and went to the door. “What the hell are you doing out there? Why didn’t you wake me?”
On the sofa, Sam Brody looked up with bloodhound eyes and raised his glass in salute. “You’re an old man,” he said. “You need your rest.”
“Look who’s talking,” Miles grunted, and went to pick up a heavy wool sweater from the back of his chair. “Jenny!” he bellowed. “Turn up the thermostat, it’s an icebox in this room!” He flopped into a seat and shivered. “What do you say, Sam? You and me for the golden west this year?”
“Phooey,” Sam said. “What do you take me for? I let you within ten miles of a movie camera, you’ll be talking about comebacks. Stick with the law business, it’s not so bad.”
“We’re not getting rich at it,” Miles grumbled. “You know I settled the Dearborn case today? The old lady who smashed his car offered $300, and he took it. The court will probably award us a hundred if we’re lucky.”
“What do you expect in a town like this? You want big-money cases, you picked the wrong partner.”
“I got the right partner,” Miles said, smiling. “Who else loses at gin rummy like you do? Come on, let’s crack a deck.”
Miles, chuckling, padded over to the breakfront and took a fresh pack of cards from the top drawer. He was slitting the seal when they heard the front door slam, and he exchanged a look with Sam that communicated curiosity and concern.
“Must be Tod,” he whispered. “Funny. It’s still early.”
He walked rapidly to the front hallway. It was Tod, all right, and his concern deepened at the sight of his son’s blanched face. Tod was in his early twenties, lightboned like Miles, but half a head taller. He had the brown eyes of his mother. Miles’ second wife Elena, but the deep sockets that hid their brown warmth were Miles’.
“What’s this, a new leaf?” Miles said, with forced levity. “Only ten o’clock and home already?”
Tod was holding the elbow of his left arm. He looked at his father sullenly, but didn’t answer. Then he went to the staircase that rose steeply to the second floor of the house.
“Tod!” (Keep the anger out. Miles said to himself, you know this moody kid.) “You could at least answer me. Just a word?”
“I’m going up,” Tod said.
He did, and in a hurry, and Miles heard the slam of his bedroom door. He turned to find Sam beside him, sharing the worry. “What’s up?” Sam said. “The kid all right?”
“Sure he’s all right,” Miles snapped. “Like a tiger’s all right, after it takes a chunk out of you. Don’t you know my son by now?”
Sam walked over to the stairs.
“Well, let’s go, what are you waiting for?” Miles said furiously. “You came to play cards, let’s play!”
“Miles,” Sam said.
“What is it?”
“Take a look. Am I crazy, or is somebody bleeding around here?”
Miles went to him, stooped where he stooped, touched the carpet where he touched, and looked dumbly at the red stain on his fingertips. Then he backtracked the boy’s footsteps to the front door and saw the other crimson traces.
Sam said: “You want me to come up with you?” Miles shook his head. He took the steps two at a time, and didn’t make the customary hesitation at the door of Tod’s room. He was never fully welcome here, but now he walked in without invitation.
Tod had stripped off his jacket and was coming out of the bathroom. His left shirt sleeve had been rolled, and there was a white towel wrapped about the forearm. He looked at his father sharply, critical of the intrusion, but there was also a commingling of guilt and shame in his eyes. The towel became some sort of indecent, humiliating object.
“What happened?” Miles said. “How did you hurt yourself?”
“Scratch,” Tod mumbled. “Little car accident, nothing serious. Would you mind. Pop! I feel like hitting the sack.”
“That’s no scratch,” Miles said. “It’s bleeding pretty bad. Let me see it.”
He put his hand out, and Tod whirled away. “I said it’s nothing! Will you stop picking on me?” The towel edge flapped over, and Miles saw the termination point of the wound. He winced, and gestured helplessly.
“Let me call a doctor. You could get blood poisoning from that. How did it happen? Did you hit somebody?”
“The car’s all right.”
“I’m not asking about the car! I want to know what happened!” He stepped forward too quickly to be avoided and grasped the boy’s shoulder. “What kind of accident. Tod?”
“All right! It wasn’t an accident. It was a fight!”
“A fight? What kind of a fight?”
“Like any other kind!”
There were thumpings outside; Sam, breathing heavily, was coming up to the landing. “Miles,” Sam was saying, trying to breathe and talk at the same time, and too short-winded for both. “Miles, you better come down here.”
“What is it?” Sam leaned in the doorway, panting. “Car pulled up, police car. They’ll be in the driveway in a minute. Is Tod okay?” He searched the room with his weak eyes. Tod was pacing now, making noises in his throat.
“Police?” Miles said. He glared at his son accusingly. “A little fight, huh? For God’s sake. Tod, what did you do?”
“Nothing, I told you!”
“Miles,” Sam said, “you better come down.”
“I’m coming. I’m coming!”
They went down the stairs together. Tod didn’t trouble to close the door after them. By the time they reached the front hallway, the doorbell was ringing.
The officer was polite. “This the home of Tod Crawford? Excuse me, Mr. Crawford, is your son home? Little trouble on Route 4. Well, no, maybe more than a little. For questioning.”
Then they were in the house, both of them, polite still but wary, hands leaning on the shiny leather gun belts.
“Tod!” Miles shouted. “Tod, come down.” When there wasn’t any answer, he looked at Sam pleadingly, sharing fearful thoughts about what Tod might do.
Then Tod appeared. He surveyed them from the second floor railing, the towel knotted around his wounded arm, his jacket slung over his right shoulder. He had the sneer of a movie tough on his face, but Miles knew a performance when he saw one. Behind Miles, one of the officers snapped the button on his holster. But there wasn’t going to be any trouble. Tod was coming down.
“Your name Tod Crawford?”
“That’s right.”
“Listen officer—” Miles came between them, and the patrolmen frowned and shifted uncomfortably and asked him not to interfere. Tod thought that was funny; he smiled at this ironical twist.
“Don’t you know my old man?” he said. “Don’t you know Miles Crawford, the movie star?” He made them glance at Miles, but the glance was empty of interest or recognition. “It’s okay,” Tod said. “I won’t give you a hard time. Should I take some things with me?”
“What did he do?” Miles said. “For God’s sake, you can’t just drag him out of here without an explanation! Have you got a warrant?”
“Yes, sir, we have a warrant. Your son got into trouble with a boy named Jules Herman, they had a fight out on Route 4. The boy was cut up pretty bad.”
“How bad?” Miles said.
“Take some overnight stuff,” the other officer told Tod. “Your father can bring you anything else you need in the morning. Sorry, but we got to be going now.”
“Wait, wait!” Miles said quickly. “I’m coming with you.” He reached the hall closet in two strides and began fumbling for his coat. “Where are we going? What’s your precinct?”
“Eighth Precinct, Mr. Crawford, only you’ll have to take your own car. Maybe you’d be better off waiting until morning, nothing much is going to happen tonight.”
“I’m coming with you!” Miles said. “Don’t worry,” he told Tod. “I’ll get your things for tonight. Then we’ll get you out on bail first thing tomorrow.”
“Mr. Crawford—” Miles blinked at the officer. “Look, don’t count on too much. About bail and all that. I mean you’re a lawyer, you know about these things.”
“What do you mean?”
“This boy, this Jules Herman, he’s dead.”
Sam gripped Miles shoulder, hard. “You’re not driving,” he said. “I’ll drive you to the precinct, myself. You’re a terrible driver, even at the best of times. Come on. Miles.”
Sam went to get his coat. Miles had to be led out of the house like a child.
It was after two A.M. when they returned home. They had accomplished little. They hadn’t even seen Tod; he had been booked, fingerprinted, and shut away like a quarantine case. A detective named Raphael had given them ten minutes of his time, but they hadn’t learned much more than the bare cold facts. Tod and two other youths had been out on a drinking and driving spree; not the first. There had been an argument; it had been settled on the side of the road, with four-inch knife blades. Tod had won the argument, and Jules Herman, the loser, was stretched out in the precinct freezer while his divorcee mother wept over his body and blamed her louse of a husband. Now they were back home, and Miles was blaming himself.
“What could I do?” he said, imploring his law partner. “What could I have done different? You know what kind of crazy life I led, Sam. First that Hollywood business, then the Crash, then that nickel-and-dime law office I opened.”
“Cut it out,” Sam growled. “Don’t eat your heart out. What good does it do?”
“Then came the divorce from Elena. That didn’t make it easier. You know that’s why I married again, for Tod’s sake. You know that, Sam.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, his bloodhound eyes downcast.
“All right. Fern wasn’t a mother type, but you think she didn’t try? He’s a moody kid, moody and sullen. I couldn’t blame her for giving up.”
“You ought to be in bed,” Sam said.
“I thought things would be different after I was through with pictures. I thought I’d give him a nice, normal life. But this coldness in him, Sam, it’s like a chronic disease. That’s why he drinks so much. They said he was drunk tonight, he didn’t know what he was doing. That’ll be in his favor, won’t it?”
“You know the law. Miles. Drunk or sober, juries don’t like murderers.”
Miles pounded the coffee table with his fist. “I’ll talk to them myself, Sam, I’ll tell them what a rotten father I am. Then they’ll see whose fault it is. Mine!”
He put his face in his hands, and Sam got up and went over to him. But Miles wasn’t crying, he was just hiding his face. Sam went to the table lamps and turned them off, hinting for Miles to retire. When he turned around. Miles was looking at the patterns in the carpet.
“Why not?” he said softly. “Why couldn’t I do that, Sam?”
“Do what?”
“Defend Tod. In court.”
“Look, Miles, you’re no criminal lawyer. Liabilities, house closings, civil suits, stuff like that, okay. But not this.” Sam rubbed at the heartburn in his chest. “Are you serious?”
“Why not?” Miles eyes glittered. “I’m a member of the bar; there’s no law against defending a member of your family. Who could do it better? Sure, I’ll get a criminal man, somebody to prepare the case, but you know what a jury is, Sam, you’ve seen enough of them. It’s just twelve people, twelve people you’ve got to convince. People you have to make feel for you. Who could do that better than a father?”
“Do you mean a father? Or an actor?”
“Is that so bad?” Miles said vehemently. “God knows I played a dozen lawyers in pictures. That’s what gave me the idea of studying for my degree, after I left Hollywood. I can do it, Sam, I know I can!”
“Look, what do you think this is, a double-feature? This is for real. Miles!”
Miles stood up. “I’ll call Charles Macklemore tomorrow. I’ll ask him to recommend a good criminal man. Then we’ll see.”
He limped toward the doorway, leaving his discarded shoes under the sofa. It was late, and he was tired, but he went up the stairs grandly, with dignity, like a star.
Macklemore didn’t sound pleased when Miles roused him from sleep at eight the next morning, but he was quickly responsive when he learned the reason. They talked for half an hour. At the end of the conversation. Miles wrote the name of an attorney on the phone pad: EDWIN C. RUTHERFORD, 74 Wall. Macklemore was hardly more enthusiastic about Miles’ plan than Sam had been the night before, but he didn’t prolong the argument. Obviously, he was leaving the job of discussion up to Rutherford.
Rutherford was a loose-limbed, shambling man who seemed to straddle his desk like a horse. He shifted, mumbled, scratched his face and chest as Miles talked. He slapped at flies, ingested coffee noisily from a cardboard container, and his thick, clumsy fingers broke two pencil points as he took notes. But at the conclusion of Miles’ summary, Rutherford surprised him with a sharp, concise analysis of Tod’s legal situation and possible pleas, and most unexpected, a sympathetic view of Miles’ idea of the defense team.
“I don’t see why not,” he said gruffly. “You’re a qualified attorney, even if you haven’t handled cases of this nature. Of course, your personal interest in the case might he a hindrance. You know the old adage, ‘He who keeps his own counsel has a fool for a lawyer.’”
Miles smiled back. “I’ve got a better quotation for you, Mr. Rutherford. ‘Men seldom understand any laws but those they feel.’ Lord Halifax.”
Rutherford swatted an imaginary fly on his blotter.
“And that’s what you think you can do, Mr. Crawford? Make them feel? Arouse their emotions?”
“I’m the boy’s father.”
“But it’s not just that, is it? I mean, Charlie Macklemore once told me that you used to be some kind of actor. In the movies.”
“That was a long time ago, Mr. Rutherford, way back in the forties. I made my last picture in 1953. I was admitted to the Bar, and that’s been my business ever since.”
Rutherford was looking at him oddly.
“All right!” Miles said. “Maybe that’s what I do mean. I was an actor. I could make people feel things, that was my job.”
“I see.”
“I don’t want to run your case for you,” Miles said. “I just want to play my part.” It might have been an unfortunate phrase; Rutherford scowled and scratched himself with evident irritability, but Miles didn’t bother to correct it.
“We’ll see about it,” the lawyer said, “We’ll see how it goes. To me, the big question is the boy. What’s his name?”
“Tod.”
“Tod,” Rutherford said. “I mean, he’s got something to say about this, too. How do you know he wants you to do this? It’s a murder charge. He’s old enough to face the chair. The least you can do is ask him if he wishes this.”
Miles twitched with a sudden doubt. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right, of course. I have to ask him.”
He saw Tod the next morning. After his indictment by the grand jury, the boy had been transferred to the county prison on Fleet Avenue and had already been smoothly incorporated into the routine. When he came out into the visitor’s room, the gray shirt and trousers fitted him too well, and his manner was docile.
“How are you?” Miles said. “How are they treating you?”
Tod shrugged. He seemed bored with the visit already.
“It’s going to be all right,” Miles said. “I’ve been talking it over with Rutherford, the lawyer you saw yesterday afternoon. I’m afraid we can’t get you out on bail, but—”
“When’s this arraignment he told me about?”
“Next week some time. That’s when we’ll enter our plea for manslaughter. You understand the difference, don’t you?”
Tod looked at his hands.
“You see, it’s all a matter of premeditation,” Miles said, lowering his voice. “That’s the big difference between murder and manslaughter, premeditation and provocation. Do you know what I’m talking about? A mutual combat, as long as the fight wasn’t provoked for the purpose of killing, that’s what they call a provocative act. Didn’t Rutherford tell you?”
“He talked for two hours,” Tod said indifferently. “I couldn’t follow him very well.”
Miles leaned closer. “Listen to me. Tod, I want to ask you something. Something important.”
“What?”
“How would you feel if I acted as your defense counsel? Me, personally. Oh, not alone; Rutherford would do all the real work. I’ll just be the front man. How would you feel about that. Tod?”
The boy looked bewildered.
“I don’t get it. You’re no criminal lawyer.”
“No, I’m not. I won’t be so clever about it, maybe I’ll make some stupid mistakes. Rutherford will help me out there, but I could still look pretty stupid. But I think I can make that jury listen to me. Tod. I think I can make them—understand.” He paused, hurting at the blankness of his son’s expression. “I won’t do it unless you say it’s all right. It’s a serious business, I don’t have to tell you that. You’ve got the right to say no.”
“You’d do that for me?” Tod said softly.
Miles found his eyes. They were filling with tears.
“Gee, Pop,” Tod said.
He put out his hands and clasped the hands of his father. He held on to them, firmly, and looked into Miles’ face with wonder and a sort of discovery.
Something happened to Rutherford immediately after Tod’s arraignment. The casual, shambling manner disappeared, the soft sleepy eyes became hard and brilliant. The cram course he gave Miles in criminal law turned out to be an ordeal, a combination of lecture, scolding, and castigation. Every day he told Miles that he was making a mistake, that he was playing games with his son’s life, that he would make a fool of himself in court. He called Miles an ambulance chaser, and once he called him a movie lawyer, with great contempt. He even threatened to drop the case if Miles displayed any Hollywood theatrics in court. But through it all he managed to build a defense theory, and instructed Miles Crawford in the part of presenting it to a jury.
Rutherford produced references by the stack. He dug quotations from court language, and made Miles listen to paragraph after paragraph.
“‘Design must precede the killing by some appreciable space of time. But the time need not be long. It must be sufficient for some reflection and consideration upon the matter, for choice to kill or not to kill, and for the formation of a definite purpose to kill.’ That’s from the People vs. Majone,” Rutherford said. “It all depends on what you call deliberation. That’s our whole case. Cold blood vs. hot blood, that’s what we have to prove.”
“But can we? You heard what Tod said. They parked the car. They parked the car and got out and had the fight. They knew what they were doing, Ed!”
“Did they? We’ve got to show that they didn’t. It’s a fine line between murder and manslaughter, and we’ve got to draw it. We’ve got to show there wasn’t any cooling-off period, not a minute’s worth. And it won’t be easy. I know this fellow Hanley, the prosecuting attorney. He’s a tough cookie. He’s from the eye-for-an-eye school.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Miles said gloomily. “Maybe you ought to handle the whole thing.”
“You really mean that?”
Miles scowled.
“No! You said it yourself, it’s not just a bundle of facts. The important thing is what was in Tod’s heart. That’s what I can do. I can tell them!”
Rutherford sighed resignedly.
“Same time tomorrow,” he said.
When Miles returned home that evening, he found Jenny flustered with excitement and four reporters parked at his front door. He pushed past them into the house, and Jenny protested vigorously about the invasion. Sam was waiting for him, too, in the living room, and offered to go outside and get rid of them. Miles said no, that he wanted the Press on his side, that it would be good for Tod, and Sam frowned and settled into a corner of the sofa. The reporters were allowed in, accompanied by cries of “wipe your feet!” and “watch those ashes!” from Jenny. They fired questions at Miles, wanting to know his plans for Tod’s defense. When they started talking about the movies, Sam, on the sofa, squirmed and grunted, but Miles let them talk.
“What about it, Mr. Crawford?” one of the reporters said. “Didn’t you use to play criminal lawyers in pictures?”
“Yes, that’s right, but that has nothing to do with this.”
“How long you been out of pictures, Mr. Crawford, isn’t it about thirty years?”
“Yes, it’s about that.”
“Miles!” Sam Brody stood up and shook his head in warning. “Get rid of them. Miles! Now!”
“How about it, Mr. Crawford? You think your experience in the movies will help your son?”
“No, of course not.”
“You ever lose a case in the movies?”
“That’s a stupid question—”
“You thinking of getting back into pictures, Mr. Crawford?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” He glared at the young reporter who asked this question. “I’m a lawyer, young man, I’ve been a lawyer for most of my life.” The newsman smiled back amiably.
“Isn’t this a sort of comeback, Mr. Crawford? I mean, if you give a good performance in court, isn’t it possible that some producer—”
The slap came more suddenly than anyone was prepared for. The sound of it hung in the quickly silenced room even as the imprint of Miles’ fingers faded from the cheek of the reporter. It was Sam who moved first, moved in and took over, herding the reporters back to the front hallway, smoothing over their indignation and getting them out without answering questions or words of anger.
When he came back to the living room. Miles was in the same place, looking at the hand that struck the blow.
“Have a drink,” Sam said. “And next time, don’t talk so much. Try the case in court, not in the papers.”
Miles looked at him.
“Sam,” he said, “What do you think?”
“I think you’re pretty tired.”
“I swear that’s not my reason, Sam. About the movies, about getting back. I put those ideas away long ago. You know that, don’t you?”
“As long as you know it,” Sam Brody said.
Then he went to get the drink.
Miles had been in courtrooms before. He had faced jury boxes and judges and argued cases for his clients. But the stakes had never been as high or as meaningful to him before, and when the court was called into session, he was almost prompted to tell Rutherford that he had changed his mind, that he wasn’t competent to play this role, that he belonged among the spectators and not within the bar.
But he said nothing. The process of law began, the seating of the jury, the entrance of the judge, solemn in his black robes. Rutherford walked up to the raised desk and handed over a copy of the brief he had prepared, and the prosecuting attorney, Hanley, a surprisingly gentle-appearing man in his fifties, with fair hair and a scholarly look enhanced by rimless glasses, stood up to make his opening statement. He talked softly, without passion, and his simple, declarative sentences concerning the events of the night in question seemed to interest the jury without moving them. Miles felt more hopeful as he listened; the man was underplaying too much, it was a drab performance. He whispered his opinion to Rutherford, and the attorney shook his head in disagreement. Miles listened more intently then, and knew that Hanley was understating the facts deliberately, keeping the dramatic details in reserve for the statements of witnesses, making a promise of revelations and conclusive evidence to come. By the time he sat down, the jury was still unmoved, but they were eager to be convinced.
Miles and Rutherford had agreed to withhold their statement to the jury for the conclusion of the People’s case. It was time for the first testimony.
Hanley was bold. He called the most important witness of all to the stand, the defendant. Tod Crawford. Tod seemed in a daze. He looked surprised to find himself in the witness chair; he hadn’t expected this first call. When Hanley asked him to describe the events of that night, he stammered them out without order or logic, and had to be led back to sequence by the prosecutor. He told them about the drinking bout; he admitted that it was a frequent event. He named the other two youths who were with him, and related the cause of the argument. “We were going to see these girls,” he said. “They lived on the other side of town. They were giving a party. Juley had a bottle in the car, and we were all drinking. I didn’t want him to, because he was driving, and it’s not my car, it’s my father’s. He got sore about that, and that brought up some other things. About one of the girls we knew. That was when he stopped the car and wanted to fight. The other guy, Rudy, pulled us apart, but we were pretty hot. Then somebody suggested we settle it on the road.” “Who?” Hanley said. “I don’t know, I don’t remember. But we got out, and I didn’t know Juley meant to make a knife contest out of it, not until he showed it. So I took out my knife.” “You always carried a knife?” “Most of the time.” “Go on.” “That’s all there was. We began to fight. Juley cut me first, and then I got him. I didn’t know he was dead. I just got back into the car and drove home. I was pretty upset. I just left both of them there.” “You left the knife in his body?” “Yes,” Tod said. “That’s how it was.” At Rutherford’s instruction. Miles didn’t ask to cross-examine; it was their intention to call Tod as a defense witness later on. Miles got his first chance to perform when the prosecution called Rudy Trask to the stand. Hanley had Trask identify himself as the third youth in the car that night, and then extracted his version of the events. It matched Tod in all respects, but Hanley added one more vital question. “Mr. Trask, had there been any trouble between Tod Crawford and Jules Herman prior to the night of the slaying?” “Yes, sir,” Trask mumbled. “What sort of trouble? Had they fought before?” “Not with knives. They had fist fights.” “Then there was a definite animosity between them?” “On and off.” “What was the cause of their differences?” “A lot of things. Sometimes girls. Sometimes, it was Tod’s old man.” Against a background of murmuring spectators. Miles squirmed at the defense table, and coughed. “Juley like to rib Tod a lot. He used to ask him why he didn’t go out to Hollywood and be a movie star, like his father used to be. That always made Tod sore. You never could kid around with Tod much, he didn’t like it.” “How serious were these fist fights?” “Tod sprained Juley’s wrist once.” “Was the incident reported to the police?” “No,” Trask said blankly. “That’s all,” Hanley said. It was Miles’ turn. He stood up, with more inner quivering than he had ever felt before a camera. He stepped to the witness stand, aware of the intensity of the eyes about him. “Mr. Trask, how long would you say that my—that Tod Crawford knew Jules Herman?” “Maybe eight, ten months.” “How often did they see each other?” “Maybe two, three times a week.” “So then they were really friends, wouldn’t you say? Not enemies?” Hanley stood up and suggested mildly that Miles was asking for a conclusion. The judge agreed. “This fist fight,” Miles said. “The one in which the wrist was sprained. Had they planned to have it, like they ‘decided’ to have the knife fight? You should know.” “No. It was just one of those things that happen.” “All of a sudden, out of a clear blue sky?” “Yeah, I guess you’d say that. Juley jumped Tod, and—” “You say Juley jumped him? Then Juley instigated the fight?” “Well, Tod called Juley a—” “Never mind what he called him! Jules Herman made the first aggressive move?” “That’s right.” “Did the same thing happen on the night of September 14? You witnessed the fight, Mr. Trask. Didn’t Jules Herman instigate that, too? Didn’t he strike the first blow?” “That’s hard to say.” “Didn’t Jules Herman slash Tod’s arm? Wasn’t that the first wound inflicted? Were you watching the fight, Mr. Trask, or weren’t you interested?” “Sure I was watching! Tod was cut first, all right, but that doesn’t mean —” “That’s all, Mr. Trask!” Miles wheeled away from the stand and went quickly back to the defense table. His heart was pounding, and he wasn’t seeing straight, but his vision was good enough to take in the expression on Rutherford’s face. The smile was minimal, but it was there, and Miles was cognizant he had done well. The trouble came on the second day. Hanley came into the courtroom with most of his scholarly reserve gone. His first witness of the day was a red-mouthed, flamboyantly pretty girl named Barbara Riordan; she had an insolent manner and too much makeup for her age, barely seventeen. She was the “girl” of the quarrels between Jules and Tod, and Miles sickened at the sight of the would-be trollop his son had fought over. Rutherford had warned Miles about women witnesses, either out of misogyny or experience; he had claimed that they were born partisans, given to violent, uncompromising loyalty to the side they elected to serve. His warning proved true in the case of Barbara Riordan. “You saw Jules Herman and Tod Crawford argue?” Hanley asked. “You even saw them fight?” “I sure did,” she said, tossing her hair. “They fought all the time, over anything. Sometimes me,” she smiled. “Yet they were together constantly, weren’t they? Didn’t you find that strange?” “Sometimes people are friends because they hate each other.” She offered it as an aphorism, and looked pleased. “You think they hated each other?” “I know they did.” “How can you be so sure?” “Not just on account of the quarrels. It was what Tod used to say to me. He once told me he’d kill Juley some day. How do you like that?” She looked defiantly at Tod, and listened with gratification to the courtroom reaction. “You mean he actually threatened Jules Herman’s life?” “More than once, and that’s the truth. He told me that if Juley didn’t stay away from me, he’d cut his throat.” Rutherford gave Miles swift instruction about the cross-examination: to deprecate character, to suggest a bias against Tod that would explain her hostile testimony. But when he tried to make the girl admit to a grudge, she smiled sweetly and said: “Of course I like Tod, I always liked him a lot. I wouldn’t want to see him in any trouble. But I couldn’t lie about what he told me, could I?” She looked at Miles boldly, aware of the point she had scored. There were three other prosecution witnesses, all testifying to the wild nature and irresponsibility of Tod Crawford’s behavior, to the obvious enmity between him and the dead boy. There were police testimony about the scene of the conflict, the knife that Tod had left behind in Jules Herman’s body, his quick flight home, his arrest, his ready admission of guilt, and, perhaps worst of all, his seeming lack of remorse. The prosecution took two more days to present its case, and the wall of evidence grew higher, wider, and more impenetrable with every hour. The defense cross-examinations proved dangerous; Rutherford had predicted they would be. Harmful witnesses could be doubly harmful when their statements were repeated and sometimes reinforced by defense questions. Yet there were no alternatives; the defense had no witnesses of its own; they had to use the material on hand. They pinned their hopes on Tod. He took the stand at his father’s bidding, and harshly, leaning over backwards to show his objectivity. Miles questioned him about the killing of Jules Herman. “Did you mean to kill Jules Herman when you went out on that road?” “No, I didn’t.” “Did you even mean to injure him? Or were you must trying to defend yourself?” Tod hesitated. “I don’t know what I thought. I was drunk, I was all muddled up.” Miles took a deep breath. “Did you hate Jules Herman?” “No.” “But you were always fighting, weren’t you? Why was that?” “I don’t know. We just seemed to get on each other’s nerves. But we made up again, every time.” He paused. “Things were better before we met her.” “Do you mean Barbara Riordan?” “Yes.” “Were you in love with this girl?” “I don’t know. A little, maybe.” “Did you ever tell her you wanted to kill Jules?” “I don’t remember saying anything like that.” “Then why do you think she said you did?” Tod shrugged. “She liked Juley. She hates me for what happened. She wants to get even.” There was a prosecution objection to the answer, and it was sustained. Miles was sweating heavily; he had lost his sensitivity to cold in the past month; the sweat slid from his forehead to his eyes, and he kept mopping at his face. “Did you ever have any thoughts of killing your friend?” Tod looked at the floor. “No,” he said. “I told you that.” “Was killing him in your mind the night of the slaying?” Tod didn’t answer. The pause didn’t help; Miles’ jaw tightened and he leaned forward. “Please answer the question!” “I don’t know,” Tod said. “I just don’t know what I was thinking about when it happened.” “But were you thinking about murder?” Tod’s shoulders slumped. “I wasn’t thinking about anything. I just did what I had to do. That’s all there was to it.” The silence was heavy, even oppressive, in the courtroom. The very air seemed to have changed. A cough in the rear of the room sounded like an explosion. “That’s all,” Miles whispered to his son. He went back to the table, and Rutherford took over. The attorney got to his feet and announced that the case for the defense was concluded. Then he asked the judge for a directed verdict of manslaughter. The judge replied negatively, and told Miles and the attorney to prepare to give their concluding remarks to the jury that afternoon. “It’ll be all right,” Miles told Rutherford as they left the courtroom. “You’ll see, Ed. I’ll make them feel for Tod, you see if I don’t!” At two that afternoon, Miles rose to address the jury. They had been only faces before, alternately hostile and sympathetic, but now they were unified as audience. He stood before them, as if humbled into silence by the weight of the burden he bore. It was a full ten seconds before he began, in a quiet monotone. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, a boy is dead, and men who are the caretakers of human justice are crying out for revenge. You see them here before you, demanding life for life, all in the name of that blindfolded statue who stands outside this courthouse. When you leave this room, it will be your responsibility to say yes or no to their demands for a total penalty. But before you decide, I ask you to think about one more question. “Is there really a perfect justice? Complete, impartial, blind to prejudice or special interest? If there is, I say thank God! Thank God that we imperfect human beings have been given such a great gift, such generous forgiveness of our own sins, that we can still mete out perfect justice to other sinners. “If you have never sinned, not even outside the law’s power to punish, then what I have to say is not for you. If you are blameless, never made an error, never wronged someone, never caused a hurt or an injury to another fellow human, you have the right to choose the way and manner of this boy’s punishment.” His voice rose, gained in volume. “If you’re ready to close the account books on Tod Crawford—to say that with one moment’s action, one movement of his hand, one flicker of his eye, one bewildered second of his existence, he forfeited his right to live, to breathe, to regret, to change, to make reparation for sins past and present— this is your privilege. “But be sure about what you do!” “Have you ever spoken a hurtful word in anger to your wife, your husband, your child, and then felt sorry? No problem, was it? A kiss, a gentle phrase, and all was well again. Have you ever flung a stone, smashed a dish, shouted a curse? Slapped a cheek? Struck a child? Spoken a lie? Broken a promise? What was your punishment? Remorse, self-torture, recrimination? Yet the book was never closed on your mistakes, the key was never turned on the lock, with never again a chance to say, ‘I regret, I am sorry, I will live to be a better person.’ “But this boy did more than break a dish or a promise. He took a life. In a single moment, blind with the meaningless rage of living in a world he didn’t understand, he took a life. Premeditated? No more than the angry word, the broken dish, the stone flung or the cheek slapped. Premeditated? Deliberated? To kill in the sight of witnesses, in the sight of God, under the harsh eyes of a vengeful law?” He had been shouting; he fought for control; he dropped his voice. He leaned on the edge of the jury box. “You may close Tod Crawford’s account book. The law gives you that right. He is twenty-three years old. Perhaps he is old enough to face a justice diviner than ours. “But remember this. Before that divine court. Tod Crawford must make this statement: ‘My last act on earth was to kill a man who was my friend. I was given no time to do anything more with my life.’” Miles loosened his fingers from the jury box, and turned slowly. He went back to the defense table, terribly aware of the hushed silence of the courtroom, unable to appraise its meaning. Then they were applauding. The sound broke like a sudden storm among the spectators, and Miles tried to hide the exultation of the moment, tried to take his seat beside Rutherford without a change of expression. The judge, hesitating for a moment, picked up the gavel and rapped the courtroom into order. The applause died quickly, but its echoes clung. Hanley was on his feet. He was calm no longer; he had been moved by the peroration, but only to a tightly-controlled anger. “Your honor—” “Yes, Mr. Hanley?” “Your Honor, in view of the fine response of the, er, spectators to Mr. Crawford’s speech, I would like to reserve the closing argument of the prosecution until tomorrow morning.” “Very well, Mr. Hanley. Court is adjourned until ten A.M. tomorrow.” Miles didn’t hear the final words of the day; he was watching Rutherford, and Rutherford was watching the jury. Then, as they left the courtroom, the attorney squeezed Miles arm and whispered something Miles couldn’t hear. He repeated it in the corridor outside. “I didn’t think it was possible,” he said. “I wouldn’t have believed it. But I think you did all right in there, Mr. Crawford!” Hanley, his mouth thin, his briefcase clutched tightly under his arm, passed them; then he stopped and came back, the thin lips turning upwards in a congratulatory smile. “Good speech,” he said to Miles. “You’re a talented man, Mr. Crawford, I always thought so.” “Thank you,” Miles said. “Yes, I’ve always been a fan,” Hanley said, his eyes glinting oddly. “You’ll remember that, won’t you? Even after tomorrow?” Then he chuckled dryly, and strode away. Rutherford looked after him with worried eyes. “What is it? What’s bothering you?” Miles said. “I don’t know. But I do know Hanley. And in my opinion, that was a threat.” There was something different about the prosecution table the next day; when Miles took his seat beside Rutherford, he regarded the strange clutter of objects curiously, and then, with a shock, recognized their function. Hanley was on his feet, addressing the court. “Your Honor, before making my final remarks to the jury, I have a rather unusual request. I make it in the sincere belief that this case, as any other, must be judged upon the facts, and not on the emotional displays of the participants.” The judge twisted his mouth wryly. “I’m sure we all believe that, counselor. Please go on with your request.” Hanley took an audible breath. “Your Honor, I would like permission to show a portion of motion picture film to the court.” Rutherford glanced at Miles apprehensively; Miles was staring at the portable screen and projector on the table. “Is this in the nature of new evidence, Mr. Hanley?” “No, Your Honor. This is the final reel of a motion picture entitled The Guilty One, produced in 1941 by Allied American Studios. I was fortunate in locating the film at a warehouse in Long Island City. It was, I’m afraid, what is commonly known as a “B” picture. It had a very short run, as a second feature. However, I believe this film is relevant, if not to the case of Tod Crawford, then to the conduct of his defense.” Hanley stepped forward and dropped his voice to a conversational level. “Frankly, Your Honor, the contents of this film might even cast some doubt about the quality of this trial, and I think it is in the best interests of all that it be shown. May I come forward?” The judge nodded. Hanley went to the bench, and spoke briefly to the man in the black robes. He seemed startled by what he heard; he ended by consenting to the exhibit. Rutherford watched Miles. He had sunk into his chair, his eyes glassy, his expression detached. The attorney whispered questions at him, but Miles didn’t reply. A clerk from the prosecuting attorney’s office, with the assistance of the bailiff, set up the screen in front of the judge’s desk; the projector was placed on a small table in mid-aisle. The spectators murmured excitedly; the white rectangle of the screen became a question mark. Only Miles remained disinterested, eyes fixed into space. “We’re ready now,” the clerk said. The bailiff dimmed the courtroom lights. And on the screen, there appeared another courtroom. A jury of actors sat in the box. A gray-haired professional presided gravely as the judge. And, stepping forth to address the make-believe jury, was the youthful, dark-haired, slim figure of Miles Crawford. Age: thirty. Profession: Star. There was a momentary difficulty with the sound; then it emanated loudly from the projector’s speaker, filling the real and the cinematic courtroom with the actor’s rich, emotion-laden voice. “A boy is dead!” the movie lawyer said. “A boy is dead, and the men who are the caretakers of human justice are crying out for revenge. You see them here before you, demanding life for life, all in the name of that blindfolded statue who stands outside this courthouse.” Rutherford gripped Miles’ arm. On the screen, the youthful defendant, smoothly handsome even in the wide-shouldered, wide-lapeled fashion of the day, put his hand over his troubled eyes.
“Justice?” the actor said to the camera. “Complete? Impartial?”
The murmur was growing in the courtroom, the realization of what was being seen and heard, the terrible meaning.
“But if you have never sinned, not even outside the law’s power to punish, then what I have to say is not for you. If you’re blameless, never made an error, never wronged someone, never caused a hurt of an injury. . .”
“Make them stop,” Miles said to the attorney. “For God’s sake, Ed, make them stop it!”
“Your Honor!” Rutherford shouted. “Your Honor, please—”
“. . .one flicker of his eye, one bewildered second of his existence,” Miles Crawford said on the screen, “he forfeited his right to live, to breathe, to regret, to change, to make reparation for sins past and present—”
“Stop it!” Miles screamed.
Hanley said something to the clerk; there was a hurried movement to the light switches in the back of the courtroom, and a hand flicked the device that made the light die on the screen, and the picture fade into blank, unaccusing whiteness.
Hanley came back to the bar, his face solemn.
“Your Honor, I see no reason for continuing the film at this point, and am happy to accede to the request of the defense.” He turned to Miles. He didn’t look triumphant, but neither was he ashamed. “I have always been an ardent fan of Mr. Crawford’s. I couldn’t help but recall something familiar about his fine address to the jury. Fortunately, I was able to remember where I had heard it before. I have not shown it to embarrass Mr. Crawford. I have shown it because of what I said earlier, in the interests of having the facts determine the outcome of this trial, and not the emotional power of a —very fine performer.”
He went back to his seat.
Miles was still standing, looking helplessly at the faces turned to him, asking unspoken questions too difficult for answers.
“Your Honor,” he said hoarsely. “Your Honor, it’s true. The speech wasn’t mine. It was written for me, many years ago. I used it because it made sense to me then, as it does now. I used it because it was the only thing I thought of saying.”
The response was silence. He saw Tod’s face, once again blank, uncaring, resigned. In the last few moments, he had lost his role as his son’s defender; he was the Actor, the Star that Tod despised.
“I’ve deceived you,” Miles said. “I’ve made you feel foolish, and made myself even more of a fool. I admit that, I can’t avoid the blame. But don’t make Tod suffer for it, not my son. Don’t punish him when I’m the one who should be punished.”
He turned to the jurybox, and met the cold, impassive faces he feared to see. There was nothing more to say. He took a step in the direction of his chair.
Then he stopped.
“Wait a minute. Wait.” He pointed at the man who was taking the projector from the table in the center of the aisle. “Your Honor, if I could say something—”
“Go ahead, Mr. Crawford, no one’s stopping you.”
He came closer to the bench. “Your Honor, in the name of fairness—”
The judge stiffened.
“Since you were good enough to permit the prosecution to show this film, will you permit it to be shown to its conclusion? Will you allow that?”
“I hardly see the point, Mr. Crawford.”
“There’s one more scene. Your Honor, after the trial episode. One final scene. May it be shown?”
Hanley grunted and went to assist in the disassembly of the screen. “Your Honor, I hadn’t intended to turn this courtroom into a movie theatre. I merely wanted to show—”
“Please!” Miles said. “It’s only fair! Show the film to its conclusion. Let them see what happens. To him, to the boy in the case. I beg you!”
The judge rubbed his lips, faced with a curious problem of equal treatment. Then he sighed, and said:
“Very well. Since I acceded to the first request, perhaps it is only right that I accede to yours. Mr. Hanley, you will instruct your assistant to show the reel to its completion.”
“But Your Honor—”
“Please comply, Mr. Hanley.”
The prosecutor shrugged, and then signaled to his clerk with an airy gesture. The projector was readied once more, and Miles went over and fixed the reel into place himself, keeping his finger on the knob that produced sound from the film track. The lights were dimmed, and he threw the switch that cast the pictures on the screen. It was the end of the trial scene.
The jury was filing into the box, and the foreman was rising to present its verdict to the court.
“We, the jury, find the defendant guilty as charged.”
The scene faded.
The setting was a death cell.
On the narrow bunk, the boy sat with head in hands, awaiting the hour of his last judgment.
The cell door opened, and the prison chaplain entered. His face was solemn; he came to offer consolation, not hope. He dropped a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and the boy wept. The chaplain opened the Bible in his hand, and read the words that would introduce the condemned man to eternity.
The warden entered, flanked by two prison guards. There was no news of reprieve. The time of the execution had been fixed at eleven o’clock. It was ten minutes to the hour.
The boy stood up. He put his arms out in supplication. He sobbed, and swore repentance, and pleaded in the name of his dead mother for mercy. The warden’s face was moved, but he was powerless to act. Gently, he pushed the arms aside, and spoke to the guards.
It was time to prepare him. The boy’s shoes were removed and carpet slippers were placed on his feet. His trousers were slit. He was taken by the arms, his body sagging between the guards.
Then the march began. Slowly, to the sepulchral music of the chaplain’s mumbled prayers, to the sound of the boy’s sobbing voice, begging for the right to live another day, another hour, another moment.
They reached the small door at the corridor’s end, and disappeared inside. When the door clanged shut, the scene faded, and it was
THE END.
The lights went up, and in the sudden vacuum of sound and motion, Ed Rutherford sought out the faces of the jury, to witness, if possible, the result of a verdict not yet cast.
Their decision was made after less than an hour’s deliberation. It sent Tod Crawford to prison for a term of not more than twenty years on the charge of manslaughter. It was greeted with tears by Miles Crawford, but he brushed them aside as he took his son into his arms for a loving embrace.