“Believe me,” he continued with sudden earnestness, “I don’t want to have to ask you to divert time from your work. It looks, though, as though it may be necessary. You heard — of course you did, from Caldwell — that Sigueiras has filed for an injunction to prevent us dispossessing him from his slum. Well, as usual when it’s a case of foreign-born versus native-born citizen, our secretary of justice, Gonzales, has insisted on an immediate preliminary hearing, and in fact the case is down on the calendar for today.
“We’ve got wind of the fact that Brown, who’s Sigueiras’s lawyer, intends to subpoena you as a witness.”
“Does he now?” I said neutrally.
“So we’re told. We thought we might take the wind out of his sails by asking you to appear as an expert witness on behalf of the city council. It would create an awfully bad impression if you were to appear for Sigueiras; people would jump to the conclusion you were on his side, no matter whether what you said was favorable to his case or not.”
I frowned. “I’m not sure that I fancy appearing for either side, to be honest,” I began.
Angers shrugged. “Oh, I shouldn’t worry unduly. We believe Brown is only trying to pull a stunt; if we call you as well, he’ll probably give up the idea and then there’ll be no need for you to appear at all. Brown’s an ingenious devil.”
“I’ve met him,” I said. “That’s the way he struck me.”
“Oh, yes. He’s handled a previous case for Sigueiras. And being a New Yorker, he has a great advantage — he conducts his examinations in English himself when the need arises, as well as in Spanish. Working through an interpreter has drawbacks, naturally. One has to admit he’s a most subtle lawyer, too. But Andres Lucas is leading for the city, so I don’t doubt which way the case will go. Lucas is far and away the best lawyer in Aguazul.”
“That’s the Lucas who’s secretary of Guerrero’s party?”
“That’s the man. He was largely responsible for drafting the charter of incorporation for the city, so when Brown comes up against him on a question of citizens’ rights, he’ll find he’s met a Tartar.”
“Speaking of Lucas, wasn’t he also involved in this case of dangerous driving someone brought against Guerrero?” I suggested. “I meant to find out what happened.”
Angers scowled. “Dangerous driving be damned. It’s just another move in the National Party’s smear campaign against Guerrero. They can’t bring him down by fair means, so they resort to foul ones. The man who brought the charge — this fellow Dominguez — is another lawyer, as a matter of fact. Legal adviser of the National Party. He’s forever going after either Lucas or Guerrero, and people say he really wants Lucas’s prestige as leading lawyer in the country. I don’t like him at all. Too smooth.”
“What’s likely to happen?”
“I don’t know about the chauffeur, but Guerrero will get off, of course. The Nationals have two or three witnesses, but they’re all well-known party members, and Lucas will make hay out of them.”
He reached into a drawer of his desk and took out a thick document tied with gold thread… “This is the subpoena to appear as an expert witness for the city council in the Sigueiras case. As I say, I doubt if you’ll actually be called; if you are, we’ll warn you in advance. Oh, and that reminds me: unless you’re absolutely tied up tomorrow afternoon, Vados has said he wants to meet you. There’s a garden party at Presidential House at threep.m. in honor of our local chess champion, who came out on top in the Caribbean tournament the other day. If you can make it, I’ll have an invitation sent down to you at your hotel.”
“I look forward with great pleasure to meeting this president of yours,” I said with emphasis.
Angers smiled. “I don’t mind betting he will impress you tremendously. He really is a remarkable man.”
I was in a more confused state than ever when I left Angers’ office. What he had told me about Señora Posador being the widow of the candidate Vados had defeated for the presidency cast a dash of cold water on my earlier reaction. But then, of course, “going to any lengths to discredit Vados” could hardly imply laying on a superbly elaborate hoax for my exclusive benefit this morning.
I was walking past the Courts of Justice toward the park where I had last left the car provided for me by the city council, deep in cogitation, when a familiar figure caught my eye on the steep, curved steps leading up to the entrance: fat, sweating in his white suit, sucking alternately at a ropy cigar and the straw stuck in a soft drink bottle. He yelled at me as I went by.
“Hey, Hakluyt! C’mere!”
I turned aside and went up the steps, starting to smile — I couldn’t help it. Brown looked a caricature of misery. I said, “Can I buy you that drink now?”
He scrambled to his feet and dusted off his broad behind. “Pal, I feel I could do with something stronger than that — horse urine. You want to know what kind of a country you’re in? Want to know what passes for law an’ order in Vados? Want to see murder?”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“In there” — he jerked a pudgy thumb over his shoulder and sprayed cigar ash down his jacket — “there’s one of the damn finest lawyers in Vados bein’ ripped to shreds by a judge who don’t give a ounce of horse manure for legality, justice, or the rules of evidence. Miguel Dominguez — heard of him?”
“Is that the dangerous driving case — Guerrero’s? I shouldn’t have thought it was important enough to be tried here.”
Brown spat. “Nothin* but the best for Mr. Guerrero, no, sir! If they’d tried to put him on in a ordinary local justiciaria where it belongs, he’d have raised hell from here to Mexico City. It’d do you a heap of good to go inside an’ see what really goes on. C’mon!”
He took my arm and nearly dragged me into the building. As he went, he kept up a running fire of explanations. “This concerns you, y’know, Hakluyt. You been mentioned about six times so far that I heard. I just got so sick I had to go find some fresh air. I was hangin’ around waitin’ for the Sigueiras case to be called over the other side, in the civil court, but there’s a long one ahead of us an’ it looks like we won’t get heard till tomorrow or next day. So I thought I’d see how Mig was gettin’ on, and oh, Christ, it’s murder.”
“Where in hell do I get into the act?” I demanded.
“Old Romero — that’s the judge — he’s about a hundred, an’ he’s forgotten anything they ever managed to hammer into his thick skull about admissible evidence — he started by makin’ it quite plain he thought the case against Guerrero was nothin’ but an attempt to smear him. He gave a fifteen-minute political lecture on the iniquities of the National Party, accused Mig of being a paid perjurer, said it was a damn good thing someone was goin’ to clear out the bunch of peasants the National Party sponged on — that’s you, natch — ach, I’m too goddam’ revolted to repeat it!”
We came to the courtroom door; an usher rolled back a sliding panel for us, and we slipped into seats in the public block. There was a fair audience. In the front row sat Sam Francis, scowling like a fiend, and with him there were two or three other people whom I recalled seeing at meetings in the Plaza del Sur.
In the dock, in a comfortable armchair, sat Guerrero, a smug grin on his handsome face; below him in the lawyer’s seat was Andres Lucas, also smiling. On the other side of Lucas’s table was a man with a very white face, whose jaw was trembling visibly.