Judge Shinn convinced Hubert Hemus that the presence of the press was a necessary evil, and then he hustled Peague away from the villagers, who seemed to fascinate the Cudbury editor.
“Who’s declared war on whom, and who gets shot?” the newspaperman was saying. “What goes on here, Judge?”
“All in good time, Usher,” said the Judge soothingly. “How’s Remember?”
“She blooms. Listen, don’t con me! There’s something rotten in Shinn Corners, and I’m not leaving till I find out what.”
When Peague saw old Andy Webster in the Shinn house, his reddish eyes widened. “They got you away from your ’mums! This must be big. Come on, men. What’s the story?”
“Tell him, Johnny,” said Judge Shinn.
Johnny told him. Peague listened in suspicious silence. He was a former big-city newspaperman who had settled in Cudbury, married Remember Bagley, publisher of the Cudbury weekly, and taken over the editorship. During Johnny’s recital Peague glanced at the two old men as if he suspected a practical joke; but at the end his eyes were glistening.
“Peague the Lucky,” he said softly. “What a story! You mean if I tried to leave Shinn Corners now Remember’d maybe be picking buckshot out of my rear? They’re not kidding? Man, oh, man. I’m going to try it.”
Johnny grabbed him. “What would you do with the story now, anyway? Donate it to the Associated Press?” They closed in on him. “Look, Peague. We’re at your mercy. You can’t use the story till Thursday. Why not stick it out with us here? Report the trial!”
“They’ll let you sit in as a spectator, Ush,” said Judge Shinn. “I’ve got the First Selectman’s promise. I’ll go further. If you’re worried about other reporters, I give you my word that if any other newspaperman shows up he’ll have to stay out of town to wait for your story. You can be our sole representative of the press. Does anyone else on your paper suspect anything?”
“No.”
“What about Remember?” demanded Judge Webster. “That wife of yours has the pickup of a vacuum cleaner.”
“I’ll handle Remember,” said Peague absently. “Okay, it’s a deal. If I can also interview this Whatsisname, that is. By the way, is he guilty?”
Fanny Adams’s living room looked distorted, too. Most of the furniture had been hauled into other rooms. Midway between the front windows an old chestnut dropleaf table had been set up for Judge Shinn, before a tall wing chair. A hickory Windsor stood beside the table as the witness chair. Elizabeth Sheare had been installed at a small kneehole desk before the corner cupboard containing Aunt Fanny’s collection of Sheffield.
Two rows of six campchairs each, from the Town Hall, were arranged along the fireplace side of the room at right angles to the “bench,” as the jury “box.” A long pine trestle table from Aunt Fanny’s dining room, blackened and rubbed by time, faced the Judge; this was for defendant and opposing counsel. Other camp-chairs and chairs from the house stood in rows behind the counsel table for the panel; in a front seat sat Usher Peague, an endtable before him to write on. (Coroner Barnwell had been ordered back to Cudbury. He went in Peague’s car, his chin over his shoulder longingly.)
At ten minutes of ten everyone was there.
Josef Kowalczyk was brought in by the Hemus twins. His arrival precipitated an argument. Constable-Bailiff Hackett remarked in tones of nasal displeasure that the conveyance of the prisoner to and from the coalbin cell was part of his, Hackett’s, official duties; the twins might go along as extra guards, but the defendant was to be in his personal charge and might not be moved or removed except under his direction. The twins replied in expressionless drawls that they were the bastard’s guards this morning and don’t let your tin badge go to your thick head. Judge Shinn ruled in Constable-Bailiff Hackett’s favor.
“Morever,” said the Judge, “there will be no profanity in this court. Any use of bad language, any outburst against the defendant or other interruption to the orderly conduct of these proceedings, will expose the violator to a citation for contempt of court. I will not entertain as an excuse the youth of the violator. Take off those chains!”
The twins had lashed Kowalczyk’s wrists with a length of chain, which they had then passed around his waist and secured at his back. Another length of chain was hooked to the waist chain, and the prisoner had come in on this lead like a dog on a leash, Dave Hemus gripping the end of it while Tommy Hemus prodded the chained man along with the muzzle of his gun.
Hubert Hemus said something from his seat; his sons immediately removed the chains.
“The defendant is not to be secured in this fashion again, Constable,” said the Judge sharply. “You may take proper precautions against a possible attempt at escape, of course, but this is an American court, not a Communist one.”
“Yes, your honor.” Burney Hackett glared at the Hemus boys. “Won’t happen again!”
“All persons not eligible for jury duty, or not required as witnesses or for other purposes, will leave the courtroom. There are to be no children here. Has any provision been made for the care of the youngsters?”
Hubert Hemus spoke up from his chair: “Judge, we decided that durin’ sessions of the court the young children would be kept on the school grounds in charge of Selina Hackett, seein’ that Selina can’t serve on account of bein’ so deef, with the older girls like my Abbie and Cynthy Hackett helpin’ out, and Sarah Isbel.”
“All persons addressing the court will please rise when doing so,” said Judge Shinn curtly.
Hube Hemus’s jaw dropped. “Yes, Judge,” he said. He rose uncertainly. Then he sat down again.
Someone — Johnny thought it was Prue Plummer — tittered. Hemus flushed.
Johnny wondered why the Judge had gone out of his way to humiliate the all-powerful First Selectman. It seemed an unnecessary discipline. To antagonize Hemus when the object was to conduct the proceedings so smoothly as to cover up the deliberate infractions they planned...
“Counsel, are we ready to select a jury?”
Andrew Webster and Ferriss Adams rose and said they were.
Johnny swallowed a grin. His honor was back in the groove and off to the races. Court had not been formally convened, no charge had been read into the record, no “People Against Kowalczyk”... the defendant had not even entered his plea. For all the record would show, they might have been preparing to try Andy Webster.
But then Johnny lost all appetite for humor. He saw Josef Kowalczyk’s face.
The prisoner sat by Andrew Webster’s side at the pine table with the quivering rigidity of a man who expects a bullet in the back. The two jurists had felt it wiser not to reveal their plan to Kowalczyk; clearly, he thought he was on trial for his life.
He had made an effort to present a decent appearance. His hair was carefully brushed; he had tried to scrub the coal dust from his skin; he wore a dark tie, whose sobriety suggested Pastor Sheare’s wardrobe. But his skin was even grayer and darker this morning, the timid eyes wilder and more sunken. Even the bruise on his lower lip was white. He sat gripping the edge of the table with both hands.
“The town clerk will read the selectmen’s roll of eligible jurors,” said Judge Shinn. “One at a time, please.”
Burney Hackett read from a paper in a loud voice: “Hubert Hemus!”
The First Selectman rose from his campchair and went to the witness chair.
“Mr. Adams?”
Ferriss Adams came away from the pine table.
“Your name.”
“Hubert Hemus.” Hemus was still smarting under Judge Shinn’s reprimand.
“Mr. Hemus, have you formed an opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant, Josef Kowalczyk?”
“Do I have to answer that?” He glared at the lawyer.