When all evidence had been presented, Falon’s portly attorney, wiping a handkerchief over his bald head, impressed on the jury that Morgan’s prints, too, were on the revolver. He suggested that Morgan had been an accomplice, that the two had planned the robbery together, that Morgan had waited outside in his car so they could make a quick getaway.
Storm pointed out that Falon could easily have put Morgan’s prints on the gun while Morgan was drugged. And that, in the deposition from the store owner across the street from the bank, only one man had entered the car, plunging into the driver’s seat and taking off fast. The store owner had not been able to identify the man, it all happened in an instant. It was then that Storm asked the Court if he could perform a demonstration. When the judge gave permission, Storm asked Brad Falon to stand.
Moving to the evidence table, Storm opened the small shipping box, removed the navy blue stocking cap, and nodded to a deputy. When the deputy walked Falon forward to face the jury, Storm stepped up beside him.
“Would you put on the cap, Mr. Falon?”
Falon just looked at Storm. He had to be instructed three times before he sullenly pulled the cap on, adjusting it just low enough to cover his bushy hair.
“Pull it down over your face, please.”
Falon didn’t want to do that. The deputy stepped forward and adjusted the cap himself. The holes fit exactly over Falon’s close-set eyes.
“If the court please,” Storm said, “I would like Morgan Blake, who was originally convicted on this charge, to try on the cap.”
The judge nodded. His expression didn’t change but, Lee thought, was there a smile in his eyes? Storm motioned Morgan forward to face the jury and gently unwound the bandage from Morgan’s head. A large, flat rectangle of tape underneath ran from low on Morgan’s forehead up over his shaved crown. Storm reached up, Morgan being taller, and pulled the wool cap gently over Morgan’s head. Even with his head shaved, with only a flat layer of tape over his healing wound, it was a difficult fit. Storm had to twist and stretch the cap. When at last he managed to pull the mask down, a ripple of laughter swept the jury.
Morgan could peer out one eyehole, but the other eye was covered. When Storm shifted the cap, only the other eye was visible.
Falon’s attorney asked permission to approach. He tried to stretch the cap to fit Morgan; he pulled and tugged but was unable to stretch it sufficiently. Morgan could not see out both eyeholes at once, not without ripping the cap. The jurors continued to smile. When Lee glanced around at Becky, she was smiling, too. Sammie’s fist was pressed to her mouth, her eyes dancing, her other arm hugging the unseen cat in a frenzy of triumph.
Falon’s attorney, in his closing statement, tried again to implicate Morgan, but now the jury gazed through him. Lee watched with interest as the game played out.
The jury’s deliberations took less than an hour. Lee and Morgan waited under guard in a small chamber from which they were returned to the courtroom when the jurors had filed in. Becky and Sammie had gotten a drink of water and returned to their seats. Lee thought, from the way Sammie leaned close against Becky, that the ghost cat had left them. Why would Misto abandon the child at this crucial moment?
UNSEEN ON THE judge’s bench, Misto sat licking his paw. There beside Judge Crane he had a clear view of the jury, of their faces as they filed in to their seats. A clear view of Brad Falon and his attorney as they rose at the judge’s direction, Falon flanked by two deputy marshals. Misto shivered with nerves as the foreman approached the bench, as the short, round man began to read aloud from the paper on which the jury’s verdict was written:
“In the case of the People versus Bradford C. Falon, on the first count, murder in the first degree, the jury finds the defendant guilty. On the second and third counts, attempted murder, the jury finds the defendant guilty. On the fourth count, felony armed robbery, the jury finds the defendant guilty.”
In the gallery a wave of murmurs ran through the spectators; they smiled and whispered to each other. Becky hugged Sammie, crying, their arms tight around each other. At the attorney’s table, Morgan wiped away tears. The judge’s gavel pounded until he had order; silence filled the chamber. Above the judge’s bench where Misto drifted unseen, the tomcat found it hard not to yowl his pleasure in the judge’s ear.
But suddenly Falon spun around, dodging the deputies, lunging at Morgan. Morgan swung away, overturning his chair. The deputies moved fast but Lee was closer, he caught Falon around the neck, jerked him backward over the table, held him struggling as the deputies pinned him. Judge Crane had risen, tensed to move, as if the big man burned to deck Falon. Misto, drifting higher, watched the drama with pleasure. The devil had lost this one. He’d lost the court battle. He’d lost whatever use he might make of Brad Falon. Misto watched Falon marched from the courtroom, a deputy on either side gripping his shoulder and arm.
The judge waited until everyone had calmed. He thanked the jurors and dismissed them. He set the next day for sentencing and for the nonjury trial of Lee Fontana and Morgan Blake on the charges of escape. As he rose, those in the courtroom rose. The judge turned away behind the bench heading for his chambers. Only then, with his back turned, did Judge Crane let himself smile. He entered his chambers with a sense of well-being, as entertained as the small and ghostly cat was.
42
AS LEE AND Morgan entered the U.S. marshal’s limo for the drive back to Terminal Island, Becky and Sammie headed for the little motel near the prison, to the room Reginald Storm had reserved for them. Storm had loaned them a car, in a concern for them that extended far beyond that of most lawyers. He had picked them up at the airport in the little green coupe, said he’d just bought a new car and hadn’t yet sold the Chevy. His new Buick had been waiting for him, parked at the motel, and he’d handed her the keys to the Chevy. The car was comfortable and clean and was mighty welcome, to get around the streets of L.A., where she’d never been. Now it purred right along to the little restaurant beside their motel, where they’d have an early supper. Becky couldn’t stop worrying over what sentence Falon would get, and how much time Lee and Morgan would have to serve for breaking out of Atlanta. As they pushed into the steamy café, into the smell of fried meat and coffee, Sammie said, “I can’t eat, Mama. I’m not hungry.”
The restaurant was plain, the pine paneling shiny with varnish, the gray linoleum dark where traffic was heaviest. The wooden booths were nearly all empty, only a few early diners: a family with three small noisy children smearing catsup on each other, an old man in a canvas jacket with a torn sleeve, leafing through a stack of newspapers.
“Maybe some warm milk,” Becky said, sliding into a booth. Sammie sat across from her huddled into herself, pushing away the menu the thin waitress brought.
Becky looked at Sammie a long time. “Your daddy’s free. This should be a celebration.”
“But tomorrow . . .”
“They won’t get a long sentence on the escape charge.”
“But that Falon . . . Now, tonight, they’re all back in prison together. He already tried to kill Daddy, there in the courtroom. What will happen tonight?”
Becky reached to take her hand. “He’ll be in jail tonight, not in T.I. He’ll be away from Daddy and Lee. And maybe, when he’s sentenced . . . Maybe Falon will be in prison for the rest of his life,” she said hopefully. She hated that Sammie had to suffer the long day of testimony, the fear, the waiting not knowing what would happen. She started, then laughed when Misto appeared on the back of the booth behind Sammie. He was visible for only a moment, lying along the wooden backrest nuzzling Sammie’s neck. When the tomcat vanished again, Becky knew he was still there, the way Sammie was grinning, the way Misto’s unseen paw rumpled the collar of her blue dress.