“The undersigned defendants,” Darrow read, “in the matter of the Territory of Hawaii versus Grace Fortescue et. al., and their attorneys, do hereby respectfully pray that your Excellency, in the exercise of the power of executive clemency in you vested, and further in view of the recommendation of the jury in said matter, do commute the sentences heretofore pronounced in said matter.”
Darrow rose, stepped forward, and handed the scroll to the governor. The old boy sat down while the governor—who damn well knew every word of the document—held it and read it and pretended to ponder it awhile. Who was he trying to kid?
Finally, Judd said, “Acting upon this petition, and upon the recommendation by the jury of leniency, the sentence of ten years at hard labor is hereby commuted to one hour, to be served in custody of Major Ross.”
Mrs. Fortescue bolted to her feet and clasped her hands like a maiden in a melodrama. “This is the happiest day of my life, Your Excellency. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Then Judd was subjected to a round of pump-handle handshakes, including Lord and Jones, who said, “Thanks, Guv! You’re okay!”
Eyes tight behind the round lenses, Judd was clearly uncomfortable, if not ashamed of himself, and after some mindless chitchat (Tommie: “I only wish I could be in Kentucky to see the smile on my mother’s face when she hears this!”), Judd checked his watch.
“We’ll, uh, have that hour begin with the approximate time you left Pearl Harbor this morning, which means…well, your time is up. Good luck to you all.”
Before long, our little group (minus the governor) was posing for the press photogs on a balcony of the palace. When the press found out I wasn’t one of the attorneys, just a lowly investigator, I was asked to step outside of the already crowded grouping. That was fine with me, and I stood smiling to myself at the absurdity of these group portraits; it was as if the class honor students had been gathered in all their self-congratulatory glory, not some convicted murderers and their lawyers and the woman who had inspired the crime.
Darrow was smiling, but there was something weary and forced about it. Major Ross seemed frankly amused. Only George Leisure, arms folded, staring into the distance, seemed to have second thoughts. Playing second chair to the great Clarence Darrow had been an education for him, but maybe he hadn’t got quite the schooling he expected.
Grace Fortescue was flittering and fluttering around, social butterfly that she was, making one silly comment after another. “I will be ever so glad to get back to the United States,” she told a reporter from the Honolulu Advertiser, who did her the courtesy of not reminding her she was already standing on American soil.
But her silliness stopped when a reporter asked her if she would ever come back, under more normal, pleasant circumstances, to enjoy the beauty of the Islands.
The repressed bitterness and anger poured out, as she almost snarled, “When I leave here I will never come back, not as long as I live!”
Then she launched into a trembling-voiced speech of her hope that the “trouble” she’d suffered would result in making Honolulu “a safer place for women.”
Isabel had found her way into this madness, and she grasped my arm and bubbled, “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“I can hardly keep from jumping up and down.”
She pretended to frown. “You’re a grump. I know something that will improve your attitude.”
“What’s that?”
“My friend is gone.”
“What friend?”
“You know—my friend, that friend.”
“Oh? Oh! Well. Want to go back to the hotel and, uh, go swimming or something?”
“Or something,” she said, and hugged my arm.
If she wanted to celebrate this wonderful victory, I was her guy. After all, the job was done, we weren’t sailing for a couple of days, and I didn’t even have a suntan yet.
Not that I planned to get much of a tan pursuing the “or something” Isabel had in mind.
First to leave, with the Navy’s blessing, were the sailors. Deacon Jones and Eddie Lord retained their ranks (Admiral Stirling publicly stated, “We refuse to consider legal either the trial or the conviction”) and were taken by destroyer to San Francisco for routing to the Atlantic Coast via the Panama Canal, where they were transferred to the submarine Bass.
The Navy also smuggled Thalia (and Tommie and Mrs. Fortescue and Isabel) aboard the Malolo via a minesweeper that pulled up along the cargo hold. The summons Kelley had issued for Thalia to appear as complaining witness may have been only for show, but the coppers didn’t know that, and several made a determined effort to serve her.
When Darrow, Leisure, their wives, and I arrived at the dock for a noon sailing, we were pleasantly accosted by Island girls who draped us with leis; and the Royal Hawaiian Band played its traditional “Aloha Oe” as we walked up the gangplank to head for our respective staterooms.
In the corridor, on my way to my cabin, I came upon a shouting match between a plainclothes Hawaiian copper with a round dark face and a shovel-jawed Navy captain in full uniform.
The cop was waving his summons at the captain, who blocked a stateroom door that was apparently the Massies’.
“You can’t give me orders!” the cop was saying.
“Say ‘sir’ when you speak to me,” the naval captain snapped.
The Hawaiian tried to shove the captain aside, and the captain shoved him back, saying, “Don’t lay your hands on me!”
“Don’t lay your hands on me!”
I was wondering if it was my responsibility to try to break up this childish nonsense, when a familiar voice behind me called out: “Detective Mookini! Noble effort goes past reason. Treat captain with respect!”
Then Chang Apana, Panama in hand, was at my side.
“You could always use that blacksnake,” I said, “if they won’t listen.”
Chang smiled gently. “They listen.”
Miraculously, the two men were sheepishly shaking hands, acknowledging that each was only trying to do his job.
“Mookini!” Chang called, and the round-faced cop, two heads taller than Chang, almost ran to him, stood with head bowed. “Too late to dig well when house is on fire. Go back to headquarters.”
“Yes, Detective Apana.”
And the copper and his summons went away.
The captain said, “Thank you, sir.”
Chang nodded.
The stateroom door opened and Tommie poked his head out. “Is everything all right, Captain Wortman?”
“Shipshape, Lieutenant.”
Tommie thanked him, nodded to me, and ducked back inside.
Chang walked me to my cabin.
I said, “Did you come aboard just to make sure that summons didn’t get served?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I come to say aloha to a friend.”
We shook hands, then we chatted for a while about that big family of his on Punchbowl Hill, and how he had no intention of ever retiring, and finally the “all ashore” call came and he bowed and started back down the corridor, snugging his Panama back on.
“No parting words of wisdom, Chang?”
The little man looked back at me; his eyes damn near twinkled, even the one surrounded by discolored knife-scarred tissue.
“Advice at end of case like medicine at dead man’s funeral,” he said, tipped his Panama, and was gone.
On the second night of the voyage home, leaning against the rail of the Malolo in my white dinner jacket, gazing at the silver shimmer of ocean, my arm around Isabel Bell, her blond wind-stirred hair whispering against my cheek as she snuggled to me, I tried to imagine myself back chasing pickpockets at LaSalle Street Station. I couldn’t quite picture it; but reality would catch up with me, soon enough. It always did.