“In due time, the case will be officially dropped, over insufficient evidence.” He shrugged. “There’s no way you can undo something like this, not entirely. In the eyes of the white population, both here and at home, yes, the Ala Moana boys will remain forever rapists. To the various ethnic groups on this island, these boys are heroes, tragic heroes perhaps, but heroes nonetheless—and Joseph Kahahawai a martyred hero.”
“I suppose.”
He grunted a humorless laugh. “What do you think, Nate?” He nodded toward the photos of Lyman and Kaikapu. “Your informed opinion—did they rape her? Or just rob her and thrash and throttle her?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “and I don’t care.”
Darrow shook his head, smiled sadly. “Don’t get hardened so soon in life, son. That poor girl went for a moonlight walk and came back damaged for life….”
“Joe Kahahawai went for a morning ride and never came back at all.”
Darrow nodded, slowly; his eyes were moist. “You must learn to reserve the lion’s share of your pity for the living, Nate—the dead have ceased their suffering.”
“What about Horace Ida and his buddies? They’re alive—with that one little exception. Are you going to meet with them, now, finally?”
A pained frown creased his brow. “You know I can’t do that. You know I can’t ever do that.”
It was time for his afternoon nap, and I left him there, and that was the last time I suggested he meet with Ida and the others.
There is a rumor, however—unsubstantiated but persistent to this day—that the old boy and the Ala Moana defendants sat together for dinner in a private alcove at Lau Yee Ching’s; and that the only word spoken of the case, at this unique and singular meeting, was C.D. raising his teacup of oke in a toast to an empty chair at the table.
21
Even in Hawaii, mornings in May came no more beautiful. Sunlight glanced through the fronds of palms and a sublimely sultry breeze riffled lesser leaves as reporters—who the night before had been given the news that the sentencing had been moved up two days—milled about the sidewalk. The only hitch in this perfect day was some grumbling from a surprisingly modest crowd of gawkers, annoyed over Governor Judd’s order banning the public from the courtroom; only those involved in, or reporting, the case would be allowed inside.
It was nearly ten, and I’d been here since nine, accompanying Darrow and Leisure; the old boy had met Kelley here and together they had disappeared into Judge Davis’s chambers, and hadn’t been seen since. Leisure was already at the defense table inside. I was leaning against the base of the King Kamehameha statue, just enjoying the day. Soon enough I’d be back in Chicago, watching spring get bullied aside by a sweltering summer.
Four Navy cars drew up to the sidewalk, armed Marine guards in the first and last, Tommie and Thalia and Mrs. Fortescue in the second, Jones and Lord in the third. Chang Apana met them, and escorted them through the swarming reporters, who were hurling questions that went unanswered.
For defendants in a murder case, they seemed curiously calm, even cheery. The Massie contingent was smiling, not bravely, just smiling; Thalia had traded in her dark colors for a stylish baby blue outfit with matching turban, while Mrs. Fortescue wore dignified black, though trimmed with a gay striped scarf. Tommie looked dapper in a new suit with a gray tie, and Lord and Jones also wore suits and ties; the sailors were laughing, smoking cigarettes.
The fix, after all, was in.
I wandered in and joined Leisure at the defense table. The ceiling-fan whir seemed louder than usual, probably because what had seemed a tiny courtroom when packed with people now felt cavernous, with the spectators limited to that one table of press.
Soon a beaming Darrow and glum Kelley emerged from a door near the bench, their session in the judge’s chambers complete; the lawyers took their positions at their respective tables. Judge Davis entered and took the bench. The clerk called the court to order, and the bailiff called out, “Albert Orrin Jones, stand up.”
Jones did.
Judge Davis said, “In accordance with the verdict of manslaughter returned against you in this case, I hereby sentence you to the term prescribed by law, not more than ten years’ imprisonment at hard labor in Oahu Prison. Is there anything you wish to say?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Jones was grinning. Not the usual response to such a sentence. Darrow seemed suddenly uncomfortable: it would have been nice if this seagoing dolt had had the decency to put on a poker face.
The same sentence was passed on the other defendants, who at least didn’t smile through it, even if they did seem unnaturally calm in the face of ten years’ hard labor.
Kelley rose, smoothed out his white linen suit and said, “Prosecution moves for a writ of mittimus.”
Judge Davis said, “Motion granted, Mr. Kelley, but before turning these defendants over to their warden, I want the bailiffs to clear the courtroom of all except counsel and defendants.”
Now it was the press who were grumbling as the bailiffs herded them out, where they joined other gawkers in the corridor.
As the reporters were leaving, a tall, rather commanding figure moved down the aisle; though he wore a brown suit with a cheerful yellow tie, there was something immediately military about his bearing, this hawkishly handsome man with hard, amused eyes.
“That’s Major Ross,” Leisure said.
I had to smile as I watched the judge issue the writ turning the defendants over to the man whose name Mrs. Fortescue had forged on the summons that had lured Joe Kahahawai into “custody.”
Ross led the defendants out of the courtroom, with Darrow, Leisure, and me close behind. Kelley didn’t come along—my last glimpse had him half-seated on the edge of the prosecution table, arms folded, a sardonic half-smile eloquently expressing his opinion of the proceedings.
In the corridor, the press and a few friends and relatives of the defendants (Isabel among them) joined the parade as we streamed into the streaming sunshine. Passing the statue of King Kamehameha, the group paused for traffic at the curb where Joe Kahahawai had been abducted.
Then Major Ross led the way, across King Street, through an open gate and up the wide walk past manicured grounds, like the Pied Piper leading his rats, on up the steps of the grandly, ridiculously rococo Iolani Palace. The major led the group past the massive throne room with its hanging tapestries, gilt chairs, and framed pompous portraits of Polynesians in European royal drag, and soon the press and other camp followers were deposited in a waiting room, while the rest of us headed up a wide staircase to a large hall, off of which were governmental offices—including the governor’s.
I was walking alongside Jones, who was grinning like a goon (he’d had the decency to discard his cigarette, at least), glancing up at the high ceiling and elaborate woodworking.
“This is a swell jail,” the sailor said. “A lot better than your pal Al Capone’s. Wonder how he’s doin’? I hear they took him to the Atlanta pen the other day by special train.”
“He should’ve had your lawyer,” I said.
The major showed us into the spacious, red-carpeted office where Governor Judd—a pleasant-looking fellow with an oval face and black-rimmed round-lensed glasses—rose politely behind his formidable mahogany desk. He gestured to chairs that had been arranged. We were expected.
“Please sit,” the governor said, and we did. When everyone was settled, Judd sat back down, folding his hands; he seemed more like a justice of the peace than a governor. He said, respectfully, “Mr. Darrow, I understand you have a petition you would like me to hear.”
“I do, sir,” Darrow said. He held out a hand and Leisure, beside him, filled it with a scroll. To me this formality was a little ridiculous, but it fit the surroundings.