“There were Taggarts,” Brett said, after a pause, “who fought and died in those battles against General Cornwallis in South Carolina and Virginia and Yorktown.”
Again Flood tapped his gavel. “Your point, Miss Brett. I insist you get to it.”
“Your Honor, the bloodied ground where the British overwhelmed and destroyed the Irish pikeman of Wexford” — Brett paused again — “that patch of high ground, Your Honor, was known as Vinegar Hill. General Adam Taggart named his estate on the Brandywine after that historic engagement, where Taggart blood was spilled, as it was at Yorktown and Normandy. I find it curious” — she stared skeptically at Earl Thomson — “that the witness never heard of Vinegar Hill, either from those senior officers and military scholars at Rockland or from his close friend, who flew all the way from Germany to testify for him here, Captain Derek ‘Ace’ Taggart.”
Davic stood to object, but Earl said casually, “I believe it’s a question of context, Miss Brett. I’ve probably heard of a dozen battles between the British and the Irish, but I didn’t connect any of them to the Taggart Place. Derek never mentioned it, by the way. But my interest at Rockland was modern military history, tanks and aerial warfare. Pikemen weren’t my speciality, I’ll admit.”
Davic was still standing, but relaxed again, gratified by Thomson’s frank and reasonable responses. His attitude suddenly gave Brett a clear insight into their weaknesses — the very superiority of Davic’s position was one minus factor, an inevitable overconfidence, and the other was the potentially destructive character of Earl Thomson himself.
“Your Honor,” Davic was saying now, but with a good-humored inflection, “I believe I should object to this digression by People’s counsel. If she is demonstrating she’s done her homework, earned her keep, if you will, fine. But I think we’ve indulged her sufficiently. These military trivia have nothing to do with the issues at trial—”
“Sustained,” Flood said. “Miss Brett, let us consider the history lesson over and done with.”
“Exception, Your Honor.”
“That’s noted.” A line of exasperation appeared around the judge’s mouth. “Get on with your examination.”
“Mr. Thomson” — Brett walked past the witness stand and turned to face both Thomson and the jurors — “you heard the Reverend Oliver Jessup, who is also known as Goldie Boy, describe the man who’d stolen your Porsche, did you not?”
“Yes, ma’am. I did. I also heard Oliver Jessup describe how he blew a kiss at the little girl who—”
Judge Flood sounded the gavel. “The witness will limit his answers to the questions.”
“Sorry, sir,” Thomson’s eyes glinted with confident amusement.
“The thief,” Brett continued evenly, “was described as a middle-aged man with gray hair, a red face and thick glasses. Mr. Thomson, do you have a friend or acquaintance who answers to such a description?”
“I don’t think so, ma’am. To the best of my knowledge, I don’t.”
“Have you noticed anyone of that description following you about lately?”
“Can’t say that I have, ma’am.”
“Would you like to think about that answer a moment? That gray-haired, red-faced man with thick glasses obviously knew a good deal about your comings and goings. He also knew how to operate your sophisticated automobile. Do any of the mechanics who service your car fit the description Oliver Jessup gave the court?”
“No... the Porsche is checked regularly in Jenkintown. The mechanic’s from Stuttgart, his name is Gunther, he’s about twenty-five and he had blond hair and blue eyes—”
“But this gray-haired automobile thief,” Brett persisted, “must have known you were going to be at The Green Lantern that Friday afternoon. And he also must have felt pretty sure he wouldn’t be interrupted in the act of stealing your car. Aren’t those logical assumptions, Mr. Thomson?”
“Objection, Your Honor. People’s counsel knows her questions are improper. She has no right to ask the witness to make assumptions about anything at all.”
“Sustained. Miss Brett, you assured me that you had relevant and substantial information to introduce. So far you haven’t demonstrated anything of the sort.”
“I can only ask the court’s indulgence,” Brett said. “The man described by Oliver Jessup is guilty at least of grand theft auto. He may also be a kidnapper and rapist. I believe it’s reasonable and substantial to inquire into the accused’s knowledge of that phantom thief and pervert, that sodomist and rapist who is apparently invisible to everyone but the God-fearing eyes of Goldie Boy Jessup—”
Davic was on his feet shouting before Brett finished. “Your Honor, she cannot be allowed to impugn the sworn testimony of the Reverend Jessup. Her sarcasm is improper. Her use of the word ‘phantom’ is derisive and insulting.”
“Sustained. The stenographer will strike the references to a phantom thief.”
“Your Honor,” Brett said. “I apologize for that intemperate remark. But Mr. Davic has repeatedly insisted that Shana Selby mistakenly identified Earl Thomson. If Shana’s attacker was, in fact, this gray-haired, red-faced man we’ve been told about, I’d think Mr. Davic would be very grateful for that information.”
Judge Flood said, “I’ll ignore your sarcasm, Miss Brett. But I am becoming impatient. I don’t need to remind you that the defense is under no burden to prove anything. The true perpetrator is properly of no consequence or relevance to them. For the last time, Miss Brett. If you have meaningful points to make, you must do so without any further delay.”
Assuming a mildly chastened manner, Brett returned to her table. But no dissembling was necessary when she noticed Shana’s white face and the message the bailiff had placed on Brett’s casebook. The note had Wilger’s initials on it. Her spirits sank to ground zero at the one-word message: “Nothing.”
Brett knew she had stalled as long as it was safe and prudent to. The information about the Thomson’s chauffeur, the background from the Britannica on Vinegar Hill, even her inquiry about the phantom thief, had been smokescreens to buy time and delay her main thrust at Thomson.
But she wasn’t done yet; so long as she was the lightning rod for the emotional atmosphere in these proceedings, she felt sure Davic would give her all the rope she needed, enough to hang her, in fact. His confidence was based on the information they’d got from Eberle’s wiretap. They knew exactly what was in the white envelope on her table, and Earl Thomson was prepared for it; his responses would have been carefully designed and rehearsed to explain just how Shana Selby had come into possession of that blood-streaked swastika.
Davic would allow her to inquire in “safe” and “unemotional” areas, where there was no chance of a spark to set Thomson off. He seemed composed and at ease now, but beneath his unruffled manner, Brett could sense a dangerously strained anger and hostility.
If, she thought, she could casually lead Earl into areas he was confidently prepared for, into those safe and predictable havens where even Davic might not perceive the dangers, then — she decided grimly — she might use the only weapon available to her, a weapon not in her hands but in Earl Thomson’s own violent compulsions.
Gently, she thought, as she faced the witness. Let him run smooth and easy until he has the bit in his teeth, until the spurs of fear struck him...
“Mr. Thomson,” she said, “the afternoon you were in The Green Lantern, you wore a distinctive ornament about your neck, did you not?”