He became enraged and anger gave him strength. He shouted at the crowds, cursed their indifference. But at last his steps became slower, his elegantly cut trousers were sodden and heavy with blood. Each dragging footstep told him that.
Correll possessed a respectable flair for irony, although he had never appreciated that mordant cast of mind in others; it had seemed to him a wearisome effect, the epitaph of energy. But he couldn’t escape the irony of this predicament.
He sat heavily on a bench, his back against a window display of scuba gear and fishing tackle. Music was playing, an up-tempoed waltz, and he thought of rain and snow and Jennifer dancing with distant, pink-lipped smiles.
It was coming at last, he realized, not in darkness but in deceptively pleasant shades of gray, opalescent lights which seemed to be trying to filter craftily through his conscious thoughts.
As long as he continued to think and plan, the darkness stayed in the distance like a gathering gray mist... so he concentrated on Mount Olivet and someone he loved dancing, but when he stopped thinking for even an instant of Selby and Thomson and the telephones, the darkness formed swiftly, and he realized then that the painless oblivion he had offered the world was not a condition he would choose for himself, thank you.
No thank you...
A child stopped near him. A girl. Correll felt her presence. Overhead a helicopter circled them, its rotors throbbing noisily.
“Are you all right?” the child asked.
Correll fought the darkness and his thoughts leaped with hope. “Oh, no, no...”
“Then you’re all wrong, aren’t you?” It was her little joke and she laughed with pleasure and ran off.
“Not altogether, I hope,” Simon Correll said, speaking clearly and firmly for the last time in his life.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Mrs. Adele Thomson insisted on attending the last day of her son’s trial. Her husband’s attempts to dissuade her were futile. “You’ll tire yourself out, for no reason,” he’d said. “It’s only a formality. Earl will be home by noon at the latest, the whole business will be over. Wait here.”
But Adele was inflexible, she demanded to be taken to court. It would justify her own suffering and helplessness to witness Earl’s triumph and vindication. His freedom was the only compensation she could imagine that would redeem, or make some sense of, her own bondage.
Their chauffeur, Richard, drove the family to East Chester well before Judge Flood’s courtroom was open to the public. A space behind the defense table, between George Thomson and Dom Lorso, had been cleared for Adele’s wheelchair. Her maid arranged Mrs. Thomson’s silver-blond curls in a corona about her bony forehead and dressed her in a lavender suit with caped shoulders and amply cut sleeves, which puffed out to camouflage her slack arms. Even Adele’s one useful hand was concealed under the plaid, fleece-lined robe pulled over her lap and knees.
By the time the marshals opened the doors, the press section was filled and Captain Slocum had taken a seat beside the bailiff’s desk. Spectators rapidly crowded the gallery.
The principals were seated at their tables — Earl Thomson and Davic, the People’s counsel and Shana — when Judge Flood appeared and the uniformed bailiff commanded the lawfully assembled company to rise and announced that Superior Court Nine was in session, the Honorable Desmond Flood presiding.
His Honor asked the opposing counsels to approach the bench.
“What’s that for?” Adele Thomson whispered to her husband. “Are they talking about Earl?”
“It’s a technicality,” he said.
“I thought this was a public trial. Don’t I have a right to know what they’re saying about my son?”
“There’s no problem. The prosecution is re-calling Earl.
We know about it.”
“I don’t like her talking to the judge in private, like she’s privileged.”
“Dammit, I told you to stay home.”
Her head turned angrily to Dom Lorso. “Fix my robe, can’t you even help me?”
“Sure, sure, Adele.” Lorso’s voice was a soothing murmur. Adjusting the robe around her hips, he pulled it up under her flaccid arms. “Don’t worry, everything’s fixed, it’s all set.”
But the Sicilian, whose instincts were still influenced to a certain extent by the smell of garlic in suspicious places, and by the look of roses on funeral altars and the clink of the priest s censer from which poured coils of incense, knew that only fools and children believed things would turn out the way they hoped and wanted, because it wasn’t always human hands tipping the scales. But as far as Lorso could see with his worldly cunning, the outcome of this trial was as fixed in their favor as anything in life could possibly be.
At the Park Towers last night he’d talked to Judge Flood in the apartment his honor shared with Millie Haynes, whose days as a drum majorette and tumbler were recorded in photographs on Flood’s desk and wall. Millie in short, white boots and silver skirts, her head thrown back. Millie swinging high on bars and trapezes.
To clarify and emphasize their understanding, Lorso talked of the judge’s condo in San Diego, and his boat in the marina, both unpaid for and piling up interest every day. He listed the amounts of Flood’s unsecured notes to the Camden Finance Company. It was a reminder, like the flick of a whip. Maybe not necessary. Flood intended to rule in favor of Davic’s motion to dismiss as soon as the Commonwealth finished questioning Earl.
They knew what was in the envelope of the defense table, the swastika. They’d got everything from Eberle’s tap. They were ready, Davic and Earl both. And Harry Selby was down in Summitt City on a wild goose chase. The trial would be over when, and if, he got back.
But there were always things you couldn’t see or hear or even understand, and they might hurt you for reasons of their own. His grandmother told Lorso that. The old lady thought airplanes were pictures flashed on the sky by jokers, but Lorso believed her about how life was.
They’d done all they could. It better be enough, he thought. Giorgio had nothing left to fight with. Lorso tried to reassure Adele by patting her cold hand, but she flinched away from him. Screw her, he thought. And wished desperately for a cigarette.
Judge Flood had excused the attorneys by then and turned to address the jury. “As you know, the defense and the People rested their cases yesterday. The court was prepared to hear closing statements this morning. But the People have asked to recall the defendant. Certain substantive information — I can’t call it evidence at this time — has come into their hands. The defense has the right to cross-examine, or to call other witnesses. I won’t hold a stopwatch on either the People or the defense. It is the purpose of any trial to give both sides reasonable flexibility. A judicial hearing is not a contest that ends after nine innings or four quarters. We will go on as long as the court is satisfied that new and significant and relevant testimony is being developed and elicited. But I will not tolerate unnecessary or frivolous interrogation, or delaying tactics. I will also rigorously exclude subject matter which should properly be included in counsels’ closing statement. Is that clear?”
“Your Honor,” Davic said rising, “the defense has no further witnesses to call. But we are naturally curious to know why Counselor Brett has so belatedly decided to reopen her own case.”
Judge Flood nodded and filled his glass of water. Glancing at the Commonwealth table, he studied Shana and Dorcas Brett, then said, “We will sit as long as necessary in the interests of justice, Miss Brett. But not one minute for any other reason. That wouldn’t be fair to the defendant or the plaintiff. I want you to present those inconsistencies you say you have discovered, with due promptness. In short, I want you to conclude this business as quickly as possible and get on to your closing statement. The court will direct its close scrutiny to the area of relevance. Clear, Miss Brett?”