Thomson was saying, “Two cadets from Rockland were with me, Richard Knarl and Willie Joe Bast, both good friends of mine. I’m sure they’ll remember what I was wearing that morning.”
Brett stood helplessly beside Shana and waited for the final blows. “And where was it you lost that swastika?” Judge Flood said.
Earl replied promptly. “At Longwood Gardens, Your Honor, on the day of that exhibition of Grand Concourse automobiles. Dick and Willie Joe and I went there together. There was an interruption when the girl’s father arrived, but we’ve been through that.” Earl smiled at Brett. “Somehow or other,” he continued, “the chain broke or was pulled loose when my motorcycle swerved into the side of the greenhouse. When the doctors were checking my eye at the hospital, I realized the chain and swastika were gone, they were on the ground somewhere back at Longwood.”
“You reported that loss?” Judge Flood asked.
“I guess I was in too much pain at the hospital to mention it to the nurses or the doctors. But I remembered it after my father drove me home. He reported it to Captain Slocum. Mr. Lorso also called Lieutenant Eberle.”
The double rear doors of the courtroom opened. The marshals turned and nodded at Sergeant Burt Wilger. Harry Selby was beside him.
“I was still angry and shaken up,” Earl Thomson added, “but I knew if we didn’t start looking for my gammadion, there was a good chance somebody could find it and walk off with it.”
Sergeant Wilger approached the bailiff’s desk and gave the officer a narrow, oblong package with a note in Selby’s handwriting taped to it. The detective ignored Slocum’s hard, inquiring glance. Meanwhile, Harry Selby took his seat behind the plaintiffs table. Brett and Shana didn’t notice; they faced the witness stand.
Earl Thomson was staring with bold challenge at Brett. “If your arithmetic is as good as mine, you’ll see that I lost that swastika at least six weeks after Miss Selby claims she got her hands on it.”
The bailiff crossed behind the press section and placed Wilger’s package and Selby’s note on the plaintiffs table.
“And,” Thomson continued, “if your geography is good, Miss Brett, you’ll realize I lost that necklace and swastika” — no one at the defense table had as yet noticed Selby — “at a time and place where the people who’ve brought charges against me could very easily have found it and, in fact, very probably did find it. Or someone could have picked it up and sent it to them to get me involved in their snake’s nest of lies—”
Flood rapped for order. “You’ve answered my questions, Mr. Thomson. I’ve granted you more flexibility than strict procedure usually permits, but I think the jury is entitled to know something of the emotional pressure you’ve been under. But you will refrain from any further elaboration.” He glanced at Brett. “Does People’s counsel have any further questions?”
Brett stood motionless, reading the note the bailiff had brought to her table. Her expression was puzzled. “May I ask the court’s indulgence, Your Honor? I need a few moments...”
“Very well.” Judge Flood looked to the defense table. “Mr. Davic?”
“If it please the court, how much longer must this young man’s ordeal be drawn out? If any one fact has been made abundantly clear in this hearing, it is that the prosecution has failed to make even a shadow of a case against Earl Thomson.”
Davic continued to speak, but the words were sounds without sense to Selby, vibrations without meaning, because his consciousness of reality was still blurred and distorted by the film he had watched in the projection room in Komoto’s pornography shop in Philadelphia.
... A black boy played and laughed with youngsters on a green lawn, diamond-bright with drops of water. A blond child in pigtails sprayed them with a hose.
The air in Komoto’s screening room was close, the glow from the screen glinted on the sweat on Wilger’s forehead.
... Sergeant Hank Ledge appeared in the foreground of the screen, striding toward the playing children. Raising the .45 caliber automatic, he fired twice, the sounds of the shattering reports disrupting the laughter of the children and the soft, hissing spray of the water. Dookey Barrow’s first screams were hoarse and astonished. The pain did not pierce instantly, although the right side of his face flamed with blood. The little girl laughed and splashed him with water. Crying, knowing like a dumb animal that he was mortally hurt, Dookey ran in circles until his stumbling feet found a graveled pedestrian walk leading into the shopping arcade...
“The presence of Earl Thomson’s fingerprints at Vinegar Hill,” Davic was saying, “were proved to have been placed there on a casual social occasion weeks before the alleged attack on the plaintiff.”
As Flood frowned, Davic added, “Your Honor, I know you instructed me not to touch on areas which I intend to include in my closing statements. But if it won’t try Your Honor’s patience, I would like to briefly mention that...”
... on the screen in Komoto’s shop, Selby recognized Spencer Barrow, the youngster who had leaped so high and exuberantly to catch a pass from him on that distant autumn afternoon. He was at first base when Sergeant Ledge appeared in the film, striding from the outfield. The black bulk of the AS was like an extension of the sergeant’s big band.
The pitcher threw a strike. The crowd cheered. At that instant, Sergeant Ledge fired a single shot, which blew away the top of Spencer Barrow’s cranial vault. The other players stared in mild bewilderment at the body sprawled on the baseline. They turned to the umpire for a decision. Spectators seemed eager to hear his ruling. They crowded around him, gesturing and talking. The umpire blew his whistle, raised his hand, shouted, “Play ball!”
A camera picked up Jarrell Selby running from the woods behind the baseball diamond. Another camera had zoomed in as young Selby lifted Dookey Barrow from a graveled walk. The images dissolved to a young girl in leotards drinking from a fountain in the mall. Music was playing, the arcade was brittle with cool sunlight, streaming with shoppers...
“The identification of Earl Thomson by Miss Selby,” Davic said, his tone theatrical, “has been discredited by the testimony of a disinterested witness.”
... Jarrell Selby and Dookey Barrow appeared in the mall. Haggard expressions, bloody clothes. Holding the dying boy in his arms, Jarrell carried him through the crowds. He shouted for help at the people around them, but it was as if a thick wall of glass stood between them. No one paid attention to him or the bleeding figure in his arms.
At the end of the arcade, Sergeant Ledge waited for them...
“This tissue of lies and innuendos,” Davic announced to the jury, “which we have exposed, were designed to avenge the plaintiff’s father, Jonas Selby, against George Thomson.”
Brett by then had read the note. She unwrapped the cassette the bailiff had delivered and turned slowly until she met Selby’s eyes.
“Your Honor,” Davic continued, “the defense moves at this time that the court direct the jury to dismiss all charges against Earl Thomson and free him unconditionally.”
“Miss Brett,” Judge Flood said, “I must ask you again, before I rule on the defense motion, do you have any further questions to ask before I discharge the witness.”
... A small breeze stirred Jarrell Selby’s brown hair. His expression was perplexed, then despairing, his burden suddenly intolerable. Holding the boy close, he lowered himself to his knees among the shoppers in Summitt City’s arcade. Sergeant Ledge raised his automatic and killed Jarrell Selby and the dying boy he was holding with two deliberately spaced shots...