“That's correct. He went back to sleep, as I expected. I waited a moment, then tossed a pebble at Wilma. When she awoke I said, 'It's three-thirty, going to sleep the afternoon away?' She then awoke Joel, and I told him I'd just finished reading an article in a magazine lying on the table, that my eyes hurt. The implication was I'd read it during the supposedly three quarters of an hour Joel had been sleeping. I then sent May down to the dock to tell Fran to come back and join us in a swim. Naturally, she screamed upon seeing Fran hanging over the side of lie boat. I told her to call a doctor and the police as I swam out. Although I was still dazed, still terribly upset, I knew I was putting on a good act, that I could avoid a scandal. As it turned out, luck was with me—at first.”
“In what way, Mr. Anthony?”
Matt shook himself again. He was no longer smiling, had a far away look in his eyes. “What? Oh, the luck—the lousy luck. Fran must have caught a shoe lace on the duckboards of the rowboat, broke the lace when she fell. Well, the medical examiner decided, in view of that and the 'fact' we were all on the lawn while she was fishing, that she had stood up to cast, lost her balance or tripped over the lace, and fell. He called her death accidental.”
“Were you pleased with your cleverness, Mr. Anthony?”
“No. The full impact of losing Fran had hit me, I was sick. Just before supper, while I was dictating, May brought in—”
“You worked the same day?”
“Yes. Work is not only a habit, but also an escape for me. I had to think of something else, get my mind off Fran. Well, May brought Detective Kolcicki into my study. He told me flatly he didn't believe it was an accident, kept stressing that I'd threatened Fran. I... I tried to explain it really wasn't a threat. Then... the cobra struck up.” Matt was staring at the floor, his voice low but clear.
Jackson asked quickly, “Are you feeling well, Mr. Anthony?”
Matt nodded.
“Did you say something about a cobra?”
Matt stared at Jackson for a moment, as if seeing a stranger. “Did I? It's an expression of mine, meaning the fat's in the fire. You see, the fact is a cobra can't strike up.”
“Let us get back to what happened between you and Detective Kolcicki.”
Matt rubbed his hands together, then looked at the palms. “Of course. Well, I realized how silly my story sounded, that if I stuck to it, things would only be more involved. So I told him the truth. It was a relief, a great load off my mind. He typed it up and I signed the confession. Yes, I signed it!” Matt rose in the chair and then fell back, a cockeyed grin on his big mouth. He looked very sickly.
An attendant rushed over with a glass of water. Matt thanked him in a small voice, drank some. The judge asked if he wanted a recess. Matt shook his head gamely, whispered, “I want to get this ordeal over with, your Honor.”
Clair said, “Matt, perhaps a rest...?”
“No. I'm able to continue. Let's go.”
Jackson played with his beaded belt. “I have only one more question, Mr. Anthony. You have told us in great detail exactly what happened—except for the moment when you struck your wife. You obviously have a mind trained for detail, why are you vague about that all-important moment? Can't you recall if you struck her with your left hand, or your right...
“I don't know!” Matt shouted hoarsely. “She came at me and in a blind rage I struck out. That's all I know! Perhaps I blacked out. The next thing I knew she was hanging over the side of the boat... That's all I know.”
“Did you ever strike your wife before?”
“Never.”
Jackson said, “That will be all, Mr. Anthony.”
As Wagner stood up the judge recessed the court for 15 minutes. A guard led Matt away. I noticed Mart's shirt front was wet with sweat.
Leaving my hat on my seat, I took out my pipe and headed for the hall. May Fitzgerald was already there, blowing her smoke rings. She said, “I feel sorry for him. Several times I thought he was about to faint.”
I nodded. “At times I thought he was acting but—”
“That's a bloody thing to say.”
I grinned at her. “I was about to add but at the end I knew he wasn't.”
“Seems strange their final argument should be over something as trivial as a diving toy.”
I was about to say something trite, like, “That's life,” but didn't. May said it.
I said, “I suppose the case will go to the jury on Monday. Are you staying over?”
“I expect to. Missing a few classes won't hurt me.”
“Where are you staying?”
“With a colored family I know. Where else could I stay?”
There wasn't any comment to make and I smoked my pipe.
When Matt was brought back to the stand he seemed his old self, grinning at Wagner like a pug looking across the ring at his opponent.
Wagner stood beside the witness chair for a moment, then asked in his hard, emotionless voice, “Mr. Anthony, you have testified under oath you think about your work—your writing—practically 24 hours a day: is that what you said?”
“A part of my mind is thinking about my work all the time.”
“You let the plots 'cook' is the exact word you used. In other words, some part of your mind is concerned with your writing 24 hours a day.”
“That's right.”
“And you write seven days a week?”
“I do.”
“What part of your writing is fiction?”
Matt smiled. “It's entirely fiction.”
“Would I be correct in saying that since your writing is entirely fiction, all the characters, incidents and details in your books are a product of your own mind, Mr. Anthony?”
“You would be correct, Mr. Wagner.”
Jackson, was leaning forward, his long frame ready to leap to his feet his rugged face listening intently.
“In brief, the subject matter of your books is part of your mind, your thoughts, day after day?”
Matt nodded and the judge told him to speak up. Matt said, “That's correct.”
Wagner returned to his table where an assistant handed him a bulky briefcase. Wagner dumped about a dozen books, mostly paperbacks, and a mimeographed paper out on the table. The striking cover of the book we had recently reissued stood out. Wagner turned toward the judge. “Your Honor, these books represent the writings—the work—of Matt Anthony for the last 10 years. I wish to enter them into evidence as the State's exhibits, C, D, E...”
Jackson made his leap. “I object, your Honor. These books are works of fiction, therefore can not be considered as evidence!”
The judge held up his hands, called both lawyers to the bench. For a few minutes the three of them talked in low voices, both Jackson and the D.A. arguing vehemently. Finally they returned to their tables and the judge said, “The witness will step down. The jury will retire until I settle a point of law.”
When the jury left, Wagner stood up, said, “Your Honor, the witness has said that all day long, seven days a week, he thinks about his work. These books represent Matt Anthony's published writings for the past 10 years. In order to prove intent and premeditation, I strongly urge that it is entirely relevant to the State's case to show exactly what the defendant was thinking these last 10 years. His own writings will prove he was constantly thinking about physical violence, promiscuous sex, crime, murder and rape.”
“This is ridiculous, your Honor,” Jackson said. “The very nature of fiction means it is imaginary, therefore cannot be considered on a factual basis, nor as evidence.”
“I do not claim the contents of these books are factual, but it is a fact, according to the testimony, that these books constitute the major part of Mr. Anthony's thinking during the last 10 years. This is not my statement, but his own.”
“Your Honor,” Jackson said, “These books are a commodity manufactured by my client for a certain type market. He has to slant these books to the demands of that market, therefore—”