“Listen,” he said, “don’t you s’pose you could cop a plea?” Ken Corning shook his head.
“I sounded out the deputy D. A. They want first degree or nothing and they won’t make any promises about the death penalty. That’s up to the judge.”
“Jeeze,” said Driver, “that’s no break at all.”
“You will have to give me the true facts if we’re going to get anywhere,” Corning told him.
Driver looked furtively around and then leaned forward and spoke rapidly, the words coming from the side of his lips.
“I wouldn’t have killed Harry Green for a million dollars,” he said. “We was buddies. We’d batted around together a lot. He’d give me the shirt off his back, and I’d give him my last dollar.
“We’d had a little run of luck. The cards had been breaking better for us, and we had this old flivver. We stayed at the auto camp and used the car together. I don’t know where Harry went that night. He was out on a game somewhere, but he didn’t have the car. I had the car. I drove it up to visit some relatives of mine on Hampshire Street.
“It was dark when I got there, and I stuck around and had a few drinks. Then I came out and got in the car and started out towards the automobile camp. I guess I was a little bit crocked. Anyway, a car drove up alongside, and a couple of dicks started to shake me down. They said my headlights was glaring, and I was driving funny. They looked the car over for booze, and found Harry Green’s body in the back.”
“How did it get there?” asked Corning.
“I wish I knew, boss, honest to gawd I do! It wasn’t in there when I started out with the car, I know that.”
“All right,” said Corning, wearily, “what about the money?”
“That’s another funny thing,” said Driver, lowering his eyes and shifting about in his chair nervously. “I had about five thousand bucks on me. It was in crisp new bills. The bulls claim that I got that from Harry Green; that that’s why I croaked him. Why, listen, I wouldn’t take any money from Harry...”
“I’ve heard all that before,” Corning said. “How did you get the money?”
“I won it fair and square, in a poker game.”
“All right, you’ve got to produce the people who sat in that poker game.”
Driver placed his hand to his face, started tugging nervously at his mouth with the tips of his fingers.
“I can’t do that,” he said. “They were friends of Harry’s, but strangers to me. Harry introduced me to the club and I got in the game. They wouldn’t admit sitting in a poker game; not with a murder rap.”
Ken Corning drummed silently on the table, with the tips of his fingers. His steady eyes bored into the cowering optics of the man on the other side of the screen.
“Get this, Driver,” he said slowly, “and get it straight. Unless you can give me the truth on that case, and I can make something out of it, you’re going to get the death penalty.”
Driver’s lips quivered. He held them with his fingers for a moment. His eyes were shifty with panic.
“All right,” he said, “give me a chance to think things over a bit. Maybe I can work out something.”
“You’ve got to have something that you can tell a jury,” said Ken Corning slowly. “Something that the jury will believe; something that is going to sound logical, in spite of all the cross-examination a District Attorney gives you. In short, Driver, the only thing that will work is the truth.”
“But I told you the truth.”
“It doesn’t sound like it,” said Ken Corning grimly.
“To you, or to a jury?” asked Driver.
“Neither to me nor a jury,” Ken Corning said slowly.
Driver wet his lips nervously with the tip of his tongue, said nothing.
“Do you,” asked Ken Corning, taking a notebook from his pocket, “know a woman by the name of Ella Ambrose?”
Sam Driver nodded his head slowly.
“Yes,” he said, “she lives out there near where the folks are, on Hampshire Street.”
“What does she know about the case?” asked Corning.
The eyes of the prisoner sought his face, and, for the first time during the interview, became steady.
“Search me,” he said. “She can’t know anything about it.”
Corning nodded.
“Yes, she knows something about it. I can’t figure just what it is, but it’s something that she thinks is important. She wants me to come down to the house, after dark tonight, and not to let anyone know I’m coming. She sent me a message.”
Driver shook his head and made a simultaneous gesture with his shoulders and the palms of his hands.
“You better go see her,” he said. “Maybe she knows something, but be sure it’s something that’s going to help me. If it ain’t, get her out of the country.”
Corning suddenly snapped a swift question at the prisoner.
“Driver,” he said, “what did you do with the gun that killed Harry Green?”
For what seemed like three long seconds, Sam Driver sat with sagging jaw, and looked as though someone had slapped him in the face with a wet towel. His eyes bulged, and the muscles of his throat worked convulsively. Suddenly he said all in one breath: “Jeeze, boss, I never saw any gun. For gawd’s sake, don’t you go getting an idea like that through your head. How would I know what happened to the gun?”
Ken Corning got to his feet.
“That,” he said, “is just a mild sample of what the District Attorney is going to do to you on cross-examination. You’ve got to answer the questions better than that, or you’ll get murder in the first.”
Wind tugged at the skirts of Ken Corning’s overcoat as he stood on the dark street corner and strained his eyes at the shadowy houses, trying to see the numbers above the doors.
He moved forward, out of the circle of illumination cast by the street lamp, and became conscious of motion in the darkness.
He whirled and stood tense.
A lad of about twelve years of age came out from behind a board fence. He was leaning against the wind, and his cap was pulled down low against the tug of the gale. The light from the corner showed a young-old face, with shrewd, peering eyes, and a much frayed coat that was originally several sizes too large.
“You’re Ken Corning, the big lawyer?” the boy asked.
“Yes, I’m Corning.”
“My mom, she was afraid you couldn’t find the place, so she sent me to wait around,” said the boy.
“Who is your mother, lad?”
“Mrs. Ambrose. She’s the one you’re goin’ to see.”
Ken Corning nodded his head. “All right, son,” he said, “let’s go.”
The boy remarked in a swiftly nervous monotone, “We’d better cut through the alley. Mom’s afraid somebody may be watching the place.”
“Why should they watch the place?”
“I don’t know Mom told me not to talk nothing over with you, just to bring you to the house.”
The boy slipped through the gate in the fence. “Watch your step when you get around here,” he warned. “There’s a bunch of tin cans over there on the side.”
He moved unerringly, following some path which was invisible to the lawyer’s eyes. All above was smelly darkness. Houses fronted on the narrow street; houses that were cheap and unpretentious, yet were palaces beside the hovels which were scattered around the backs of the lots. All about were the sounds of human occupancy; low voices which carried through the flimsy walls of mean structures, the raucous blasts of a cheap radio which sounded from a living-room where comparative affluence announced its presence in strident tones.
The shadow grew deeper and Corning’s guide was but a blotch of black moving against a dark background. Abruptly he paused.