Mason turned and walked back to his seat. Sampson, his face livid, struggling hard to control his voice, leaped up. “Just one word in rebuttal, ladies and gentlemen. Let me challenge Counsel to carry his own argument to its logical conclusion... Who was that person who was such an expert revolver shot? Who was that person, who, by his own evidence had access to the revolver with which he now claims Austin Cullens was murdered — could it have been Virginia Trent, the niece of the woman who is on trial! It must have been! I challenge him to deny it!”
Mason, on his feet, drawled, “Your Honor, I dislike to interrupt the deputy district attorney, but do I now understand the deputy district attorney is contending that Virginia Trent murdered Austin Cullens?”
“According to your own reasoning, it’s as plain as the nose on your face,” Sampson roared.
“Well,” Mason asked, “can you find any flaw in that reasoning? If so, please point it out to the jury.” The color drained out of Sampson’s face. His jaw sagged open in surprise. Mason turned to Judge Barnes. “I was going to suggest, Your Honor, that if it is the contention of the Prosecution that the evidence now shows Virginia Trent murdered Austin Cullens, that this jury must be advised to acquit the defendant in this case. But if the deputy district attorney really wants to know who killed Austin Cullens, I suggest he talk with Paul Drake...”
“That will do, Mr. Mason,” Judge Barnes said. “That statement is improper. You will be seated. The Court will not entertain any motion for a directed verdict, but will let the jury speak for itself — that is, unless it is now the contention of the Prosecution that Virginia Trent committed the crime.”
Sampson hesitated, gulped, then said abruptly, “No, I was only showing how absurd Mason’s argument was.”
One of the jurors fixed Sampson with a suspicious eye. “What’s absurd about it?” he asked.
“It’s just a smoke-screen,” Sampson asserted, “behind which he’s trying to hide his client.”
“But what’s wrong with that theory?” the juror insisted.
Sampson said, “Everything. However, I–I have completed my argument. You have evidence that — that Cullens was killed with the gun found in Mrs. Breel’s handbag. Other evidence introduced merely confuses the issues. I trust you ladies and gentlemen won’t be misled. I thank you.” He walked back to his seat at the counsel table.
Mrs. Breel tried anxiously to catch Mason’s eyes, but the lawyer kept his own gaze averted. Judge Barnes instructed the jurors as to the law, swore the bailiff to conduct them to a safe place for their deliberations. And then, as the jurors left the Court, announced that Court would take a recess pending a receipt of the verdict.
Sarah Breel beckoned Perry Mason over to her. “You should never have done that,” she said.
“What?” Mason asked.
“Dragged Virginia into it.”
Mason grinned and said, “On the contrary, I dragged her out of it. You heard Sampson say it was absurd to think she could have murdered Cullens.”
“Where is she? I want to see her.”
Mason said, “My secretary took her for a ride in the country. I thought some fresh air would do her some good. I persuaded her that it would be to her advantage not to be present at the conclusion of the case.”
Sarah Breel sighed. “Well, while we’re waiting for the jury to bring in its verdict, since you’ve admitted that was my bag, suppose you see if I can have the knitting out of it. I might just as well keep working on that sweater for Ginny while I’m waiting to see what the jury does.”
Mason patted her hand. “I think you’d better try crossword puzzles. It might be safer.”
“Will we have long to wait?” she asked.
“My guess,” Mason said, “is ten minutes.”
Events proved that Mason missed his guess by exactly twenty minutes. It took the jury half an hour to come filing into court with its verdict. Judge Barnes said, “Have you agreed upon a verdict, ladies and gentlemen?”
“We have,” one of the men answered.
The clerk took the folded document and handed it to Judge Barnes, who scrutinized it for a moment, then passed it back. “Read your verdict,” he said.
The foreman read the verdict. “We, the jury, impaneled to try the above entitled case, find Sarah Breel not guilty of the crime charged in the indictment. The jury suggests to the district attorney’s office that it forthwith arrest Virginia Trent and try to prosecute her more intelligently than it has the defendant in this case.”
The corners of Mason’s mouth were twitching. “I take it it may be stipulated that in entering the verdict, only the portion which finds the defendant not guilty is to be entered in the records.”
“So stipulated,” Sampson said sullenly.
Judge Barnes waited until the verdict had been entered, and then regarded the jury thoughtfully. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “in discharging you, the Court wishes to compliment you upon the manner in which you have performed your duty. This has been one of the most astounding cases this Court has ever witnessed. Right at present, the Court is frank to state that it doesn’t know whether the evidence points, as the jury apparently believes, to the fact that Virginia Trent fired the shot which killed Austin Cullens, or whether this Court has witnessed one of the most astounding pieces of legal legerdemain which has ever been perpetrated in a courtroom. Subsequent events will doubtless prove which is correct. The defendant is discharged from custody and court is adjourned.”
Chapter 19
Mason drove his car through the arched gateway which bore the sign: THE GABLES HOTEL. The rural hotel loomed as a huge dark pile against the sky, with, here and there, the lighted oblong of a window marking human tenancy. Mason parked his car, gave his bag and suitcase to a sleepy-eyed bellboy who emerged from the lighted interior of the lobby, crossed to the desk and said to the clerk, “My name’s Mason. I believe you have a room reserved for me, Mr. P. Mason?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Mason. Your room’s all ready. Do you wish to go up now?”
“Yes.”
Mason followed the bellboy up a wide flight of stairs, down a long corridor, and into a typical country hotel bedroom. He tipped the bellboy, removed his coat and vest, washed his hands and face, locked the corridor door, put on his coat and vest again, and, entering the bathroom, stood with his ear against the door which led to the connecting room. He could hear the sound of low, steady sobbing. Mason tapped on the door. After a moment, Della Street’s voice said, “Who is it?”
“Mason,” he told her. She opened the door.
Virginia Trent, her eyes red and swollen from crying, her hair looking like unbraided rope, looked up at him from the bed then grabbed at a kimono, which partially covered her. “Where did you come from?” she asked.
Mason crossed the room to sit down on the edge of the bed. “I came from court,” he said, “just as soon as I could get away.”
Virginia Trent pushed the damp, stringy hair back from her forehead, sat up on the bed, wadded a tear-soaked pillow into a ball and pushed it behind her. “I’m going back,” she said. Mason shook his head. “Yes, I am. I’m going back and face it. I tried to all day, and Della Street wouldn’t let me. Is that why you had her take me out here?” Mason nodded. “Well, I’m going back. I’m going to tell them...”
“Tell them what?” Mason asked.
“Tell them everything.”
Mason said, “Tell me first, Virgie.”
She said, “Aunt Sarah is covering up for me. She hasn’t lost her memory any more than I have. I don’t care what you say, Mr. Mason, I don’t care what she says. I know that Aunt Sarah is in danger. There’s a good chance the jury will convict her. The newspapers seem to think the case against her is dead open and shut, and...”