“I thought I was already something.”
“I mean, a real something something.”
“I’m afraid I’ll just have to settle for an ordinary something.”
“Are you content to let men rule the world?”
“Well, I don’t have time to do it,” Mildred said cheerfully. “Now, get off this kick and go back to your place. The judge’s door is opening.”
“The king cometh. We’ll discuss this further at lunchtime.”
The hell we will, Mildred thought, and sat poised at her machine, looking comfortable and relaxed. It took years of practice not to get jumpy, especially at the beginning of a murder trial. She had learned to prepare herself by going over in advance the names of witnesses and by familiarizing herself with medical terms likely to be used by psychiatrists and pathologists.
The court reporters always worked in pairs. For the past six years Mildred’s co-worker had been a small, silent man named Ortig.
Ortig could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty years old. He never volunteered his age or any other information about himself. Since Mildred was easily encouraged to talk, it was advantageous for her to have a partner who never asked or answered questions. She and Ortig relieved each other every ten or fifteen minutes since the job required such intense concentration and quick reflexes.
When Ortig came in to take over, he would sit at the machine next to her and with an almost imperceptible nod of his head indicate that he was ready to pick up on the next sentence. They were like a pair of circus jugglers taking over the flying pins from each other in midair.
The judge came in, flapping his worn black wings, and perched on the edge of his chair. He was angry, at himself for oversleeping, the court employees who didn’t have sense enough to wake him up, and the doctor who advised him to lie down in the first place. He didn’t need rest. He needed activity. He wanted to bounce up and down to music like the aerobic dancers he saw on TV. Juror No. 12 taught aerobic dancing, martial arts and aquadynamics, and she looked very fit. He had not, however, seen men his own age doing any of these things.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “you have heard the opening statement of counsel for the people, Mr. Owen. And it is now time for the opening statement of counsel for the defense, Mr. Donnelly. Are you ready, Mr. Donnelly?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“And why not?”
“In view of what has been said on the validity of opening statements I wish to forgo the opportunity afforded me at this time.”
“You are not going to make an opening statement?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“This is rather irregular, Mr. Donnelly. Have you discussed it with your client?”
“My client puts his faith in my ability.”
The defendant, who’d been looking as surprised as the rest of the people in the courtroom, now smiled, first at Donnelly, then at the jury, then at the judge. It was a warm, confiding smile that moved some people and irritated others.
Donnelly didn’t even notice. “My client has been sitting here forced to listen to all kinds of accusations against him, most of them spawned in the dark recesses of the district attorney’s mind. For me to stand up here and merely contradict would be futile. I will therefore wait for evidence to prove the innocence of my client, evidence provided by witnesses under oath and subject to cross-examination.”
“There is no further need for you to convince me,” the judge said. “You are privileged to forgo making an opening statement. Without further ado, we will start the testimony. Mr. Owen, do you have your first witness within call?”
“No, Your Honor. Witness was led to understand that he wouldn’t be taking the stand before this afternoon.”
“Do you have any witnesses ready at all?”
“Not here and now. The morning was to have been taken up by opening statements.” He stared coldly and reproachfully down the length of the table at Donnelly. “I was not forewarned by defense counsel of this new ploy of his.”
“So the court is at a standstill.”
“It would seem so, Your Honor.”
“Very well. We will adjourn until one-thirty this afternoon. Spectators will please keep their seats until after the jury has departed. Jurors will leave their notebooks on their respective chairs to be collected by the bailiff. They are admonished not to discuss this case with anyone else or among themselves.”
The jurors filed out in order, looking self-conscious and carefully avoiding the eyes of the spectators and of the defendant.
Donnelly had a personal file on all the jurors, compiled by his legman, Bill Gunther, and two assistants, and containing a variety of facts from a social security number to favorite food, magazines subscribed to, vehicle driven, church affiliation, if any, marital status and number of children. Did he possess a library card? A dog or cat? Perhaps none of these things would influence the outcome, but Donnelly knew as well as the judge did that one of them, seemingly unconnected and trivial, might directly affect the verdict. One vote, one solitary vote, would result in a hung jury, and that was what he was going for.
The vote that could hang the jury might be that of Miss Lisa Roy, who clerked in a women’s apparel shop and raised Burmese cats as a hobby. She might be less inclined to vote against Cully because he had taken a cat on the Bewitched’s 4,000-mile journey. Or the solitary vote might belong to Mr. Hudson, whose black brother-in-law in Chicago gave him reason to resent the district attorney’s obvious prejudice against blacks.
Though the district attorney’s case against Cully King was circumstantial, it was strong, mainly because of the absence of other suspects and other motives. The most Donnelly could hope for at this point was a hung jury.
One vote was enough, and Donnelly was going for it.
In his chambers the judge removed his robe and put on a tweed jacket. He felt suddenly exhausted as if he had in fact, not merely in fantasy, been bouncing up and down to music. His heartbeat was rapid, and when he looked in the mirror to comb his hair, he saw that his face was flushed and moist.
His normal routine when court adjourned for the morning was to get in his car and drive to a seafood café on the waterfront. Here he would relax over a bottle of Molson’s ale and a plate of ridgeback shrimp or freshly trapped lobster. But it was too early for lunch, and he knew he couldn’t relax with the sights and sounds and smells of the waterfront reminding him of the case. The Bewitched itself would be visible at the very end of the marina since it was too large to fit into the inner slips.
Instead of going out to his car, he lay down again on the brown leather couch. He knew these were bad signs — the accelerated heartbeat and flushed face, the feeling of weakness and the sweating without exertion. He was not afraid of dying, but it would be damned annoying to have to bow out of this case before it was finished.
It seemed straightforward enough: a man, a woman, lust and anger and greed. He had presided over dozens of them, knifings in sordid little bars, shots from a Saturday night special, blows from a fist, a hammer, a baseball bat. This case didn’t fit the pattern. The setting was wrong, a well-known racing yacht; the woman was wrong, married, respectable, devout. These elements could be reconciled, of course; things happened on racing yachts, and good women sometimes had bad luck. But the third element, the defendant, didn’t seem to fit in anywhere. He was an unlikely skipper of a famous yacht, a black, only thirty-six or seven years old and looking and acting younger. Perhaps at the helm of the Bewitched he was much older than his years, but here in the courtroom he was almost childlike, following the proceedings with bright-eyed interest, smiling at the slightest provocation, seemingly unaware of or at least untroubled by the situation he was in. The judge had read a newspaper article which quoted the ship’s owner, Mr. Belasco: “Cully King is the best skipper money can buy. He’s cool, confident and afraid of nothing.”