The Edgar Pangborn Megapack

by Edgar Pangborn

  Mann remembered how in the war years most people, having gagged a bit at the gnat of that word expendable, had then swallowed the camel of the fact with no great strain. How does it happen that a man who transferred to the Medics mostly out of distaste for carrying a rifle is now a judge of General Sessions, in a state that keeps the death penalty on the books?

  “Have you met Miss Blake often since she moved to Winchester?”

  “No, sir, hardly at all. We—hadn’t much in common.”

  “I see. No ill feeling between you, was there?”

  “No, sir, not that. I get along with people—try to.” Judd looked more unhappy; perhaps he felt the prosecutor’s silence pushing him. “Well—when I thought about it at all—guess I supposed she’d outgrow that cynical attitude, atheism, all that stuff.”

  “I object!” Warner spoke quietly and, for once, coldly. “Again the prosecution allows a witness to express loose, incompetent opinions.”

  “Objection sustained.”

  Hunter elaborated a patient smile. Judd looked bewildered and dismayed: what had he done? Warner said: “My thanks to the Court. I will express the hope that religious bias will not again be injected.”

  Hunter’s face flamed. “There’s no religious issue injected!”

  “The witness has chosen to call my client an atheist. The statement is incompetent: Mr. Judd has never actually learned Miss Blake’s opinions on religious matters. Why should he? And since the question of religion is totally irrelevant here, what was the purpose of that remark if not to inflame prejudice? What was the purpose?”

  Callista Blake—white, cool, unreasonably peaceful—did not look up, remaining in the country of her own thoughts.

  Mann said: “Mr. Warner’s objection has been sustained, because the Court agrees that the witness’s remark was out of order. But Mr. Warner, you are out of line too in suggesting an intent to prejudice the jury. The witness spoke carelessly, as he should have been instructed not to do. It must not be supposed that he did so with malice. If it should later appear that a religious issue is relevant, then let discussion of it be carried out in the closing arguments of prosecution and defense, not in the course of testimony, which must deal with facts. Counsel to the bench a moment, please.”

  Callista Blake did look up then, as Warner left her side. Mann felt the puzzled study of her eyes as the lawyers leaned to him, T. J. Hunter starting to whisper some comment on the clash, which Mann shut off with a wave of his hand. “Not that. T.J., your witness isn’t looking good. Has he ever had a coronary, do you know?”

  Hunter was startled. “Don’t think so. Never said so.”

  “Was he that short of breath the last time you talked with him?”

  “Sure. Just out of condition, I think, Judge.”

  Warner unobtrusively appraised Judd, and said nothing.

  “All right. Watch it, both of you. Can’t have him conking out.”

  “Mr. Judd, as a friend and business partner of James Doherty, have you often visited at his house in Shanesville?”

  “Oh yes. Real often. Pretty near every month.”

  “Did Miss Blake ever call there when you were present?”

  “No. Wait—I do remember one time. Before she moved to Winchester. Not a call exactly. Mrs. Judd and I had stayed with the Dohertys overnight, the weekend. Remember now, the girl came over Sunday morning when the four of us were getting into Jim’s car to go to Mass. The Chalmerses wanted to give Jim and Ann some maple syrup they’d made on the place, and it was Miss Blake who brought it over. Spring of last year. Come to think, that was the last time I saw Miss Blake before she moved to Winchester.”

  “And after that, you say, you saw her hardly at all?”

  Judd flushed and paled. “To be exact, sir, just once.”

  “Can you give us the exact date?”

  “Friday, June 19th.”

  “And the place, and the time of day?”

  “My office in Winchester. About ten in the evening.”

  “Please describe this occasion in your own way.”

  “Well, my secretary Miss Anderson had been out sick several days, so Jim and I were swamped with work. I left the office my usual time, took home some stuff. Jim said he’d stay and work late. Evening, found I’d forgotten something, drove back for it, near ten o’clock. Light on in Jim’s office, door of the outer office braced open way I’d left it, for fresh air—guess that’s how I came to go in so quiet, wasn’t trying to, certainly. Passed doorway of Jim’s office, saw Miss Blake was—in there.” Judd swallowed and coughed. “Compromising situation.”

  “Do you mean they were embracing, something like that?”

  “Call it that. Divan. Jim’s office. Wouldn’t’ve believed it.”

  “Was an innocent interpretation possible? She’d felt faint, or—”

  “Nothing like that, sir. Slacks, underthings, arm of divan.”

  “Are you saying Miss Blake was nude?”

  “Wearing a—a blouse.”

  The listeners were too intent to snigger.

  “Was Doherty also undressed?”

  “Part—partly.”

  “Were they, to your knowledge, engaged in sexual intercourse?”

  “They—yes, they were.”

  Short of breath, the courtroom sighed.

  “What did you do, Mr. Judd?”

  “Stepped back—got papers I wanted—left.”

  “They didn’t learn of your presence, so far as you know?”

  “No,” he said, his breath still a burden to him. “No.”

  “You can be certain they didn’t see you in the doorway—how?”

  “Their eyes were closed.”

  “Your witness, Mr. Warner.”

  Warner remained by the defense table, standing, his hands pressing heavily on the back of his chair. Callista looked as though she had heard some dull distasteful gossip about a neighbor. “Mr. Judd, did you speak of this episode later to James Doherty—or to anyone?”

  “To Jim, yes.” Judd’s face showed unhealthy mottling. “Following Monday. Only right, I thought—had to have it out.”

  “You told him what you had inadvertently seen?”

  “Yes. Felt I owed him that. Said—you want what I said?”

  “I think you might give the substance of the conversation.”

  “Well, I—said it wouldn’t do. Said, what about Ann? Jim was perfectly frank, honest. Told me he realized—whole affair—terrible mistake, shouldn’t’ve started. Said he was breaking it off. Of course I—only too glad to leave it at that, trust Jim’s conscience, religious upbringing and so on. Least said, soonest—and so on.”

  “There was no question of dissolving your partnership with him?”

  “Dissolving—heavens no! Never entered my head.”

  “You could find it in your heart to forgive him?”

  “Not the way I’d put it, sir. You just can’t condemn a man for—for one moral lapse. Could happen to any hotblooded young man.”

  “You are describing James Doherty as hotblooded?”

  Callista Blake lowered her face in her hands. She was not weeping; her breathing was slow and regular. Perhaps, Judge Mann thought, she needed to shut away the voices, the faces, the nearness of her accusers. He noticed the newsmen scribbling busily a moment, and heard among the spectators a rustling, shifting, sighing, as if they were in some manner bound to her and could not move till her motion released them.

  “I don’t know. Jim’s a good boy. Just sort of slipped.”

  “The woman tempted him?”

  Hunter protested: “Counsel has strayed far from the matter of direct examination, and is trying to put words in the witness’s mouth.”

  “Rephrase your question, Mr. War
ner.”

  “I’ll withdraw it.” Warner was speaking gently, absently. “Mr. Judd, you were deeply concerned for James Doherty?”

  “Of course. Terrible thing, specially if Ann—”

  “Yes, you were concerned for Mrs. Doherty too, weren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “For anyone else?”

  “What? Why, if you mean myself, I suppose—oh, I don’t know.”

  “You weren’t concerned for anyone else?”

  “I don’t get your drift.”

  “If you don’t understand that question, I have no others.”

  “I—I—”

  “I have no other questions, Mr. Judd.”

  Disturbed, not immediately certain of the cause, Judge Mann asked: “Do you wish to make a redirect examination, Mr. Hunter?”

  “No, your Honor, not necessary. I—”

  Judd’s right hand groped toward his left arm and sagged away. He looked not exactly frightened, more as though shocked by some astonishing news. He said: “I wish I—” As if meekly, apologetically, he tumbled out of the witness chair in a slow sprawl.

  II

  The clock said half past one. Callista watched Judge Mann hurry into the courtroom, all business, dark pucker of a frown, the black robe too priestlike. It seemed to her that all present including herself were distorted by the magnifying power of ritual. As Father Bland, in the back row beside (my late acquaintance) James Mulhouse Doherty, would appear deceptively beyond life-size if he were wearing his magic vestments and saying a Mass.

  “This Court is now in session.” Mr.-Delehanty-which-is-the-clerk.

  When did judges start wearing black robes, and why black? How long has the office of judge existed at all? How about the wig—(O the opportunity for mice!) and why did the American States do away with it?—unfair to bald American lawyers. Subject for a thesis—relation judiciary to priesthood—ecclesiastical courts—modern veneration for office of judge—has judiciary ever become really secular? In fact could it, ever? My ignorance—

  “Members of the jury,” said Judge Mann, “your attention, please. I have just been talking on the telephone with Dr. Garcia at St. Michael’s Hospital, where Mr. Judd was taken after his collapse this morning when he had finished testifying.” (Talking-to-Edith, compare ignorance to an unplowed field.) “It was a heart attack, as you probably realized, and the outlook for him may not be good. In Dr. Garcia’s opinion, Mr. Judd’s condition has probably been developing for quite a long time.” (The soil itself is ready, indifferent, to produce flowers, nice fat potatoes, or stinking weeds.) “The attack occurred, please remember, when his testimony was done. Legally the situation is this: Mr. Judd’s collapse has no bearing on the case you must deal with. He had completed what he had to say; Mr. Hunter had announced he didn’t intend to make a redirect examination. During this long noon recess I have talked with both counsel; neither side felt there would have been any occasion to recall Mr. Judd. While he testified, I think you’ll agree, Mr. Judd was in full command of his faculties, so far as anyone can tell. Give his testimony the same weight, no more and no less, that you would if his breakdown had not happened; simply try to shut it out of your minds. To my certain knowledge, neither counsel was aware of the bad state of Mr. Judd’s health. Both counsel believed him as well able to stand the emotional strain of giving testimony as any other witness. Mr. Judd undoubtedly believed this himself. Dr. Garcia tells me Mr. Judd had neglected medical attention for a long time and was unaware of his heart weakness. I charge you now, and will again: remember this thing happened outside of the trial.”

  The Judge was laboring, Callista understood, laboring too much perhaps, to defend Cecil Warner and through Warner herself, against the chill poison of unspoken words, illogical notions. If Nathaniel Judd died, no one would blame Mr. Hunter for summoning him, but many would recall Cecil Warner’s words: “If you do not understand that question, I have no others.” For certain minds it would be no strain to argue: Judd died, therefore the Blake girl is guilty.

  It could be true that Warner’s words might have helped to topple old Judd, by making Judd sense for an instant some failure of charity and of perception in himself. Ill, embarrassed, he might not have rallied self-justifications quickly enough, so Warner’s words might have caused a brief stab of conscience, enough to send him over the edge. But if he dies the chief fault is mine. I am guilty. To live is to destroy—true or false? I am small; my only real quarrel with Hunter is that if he has his way I shall never grow. How stubborn the life that can’t desire to die!

  Last August she had desired it, or thought she had, until a moment of that Saturday night, on the stairs, her mother weeping in a room left behind, her mind visited strangely by Victoria’s grandchild the Funny Thing. She had begun to desire death earlier—in July, after Jim’s letter, the only one he ever wrote. Stilted, timid; needless doubletalk; the awkwardness and misspelled words not endearing or funny but rather shocking, evidence of the blindness of her love.

  I will not say part of me died when I read that dismal thing. We die and regenerate with every breath. All that happened (I-would-say-to-Edith) was that my journey had taken me beyond the region where I met Jimmy and learned some aspects (not all) of a passion called love.

  Notice also (am-I-still-talking-to-Edith?) how the laughing-crying devil-angel that Jimmy woke up in me has not died, but rouses me even in the prison night, stinking bare-light-bulb night, starved for the pressure, the almost-anger, furious crescendo, meteoric release. Oh, in an enlightened society I could have been a splendid high-class whore!

  “You may call your next witness, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Sergeant Lloyd Rankin!”

  Callista heard Cecil Warner’s short involuntary sigh, felt his hostile stiffening and alertness. Detective Sergeant Lloyd Rankin of the Winchester Police came down the aisle and held up a flat hand for the oath, the slab-faced sober man. His gray hair under the cold light glinted like dull steel, his eyes a lighter gray but opaque, oyster gray. Draw him as a bulldozer—Cecil might like it. She ran her fingers softly over the wrinkled hand, lifted away the idle pencil and drew his scratch pad toward her.

  A bulldozer has its own squat dignity. If it’s directed to knock over some little house loved by generations, that’s no fault of the dozer. The blade advances, the Diesel bellow swells to the roar of a caged hurricane. Old timbers—nobody wants them—crumble like dry cheese. And look!—the picture grew in swift lines and leaping shadows—look, a doll! Left behind maybe under the eaves years ago. It had tumbled into brief light in front of the caterpillar treads, which would of course move on. Too bad, but no time to stop.

  She knew idly that the small brilliant drawing was good. Light lived in that doll, the rest a melancholy gray, a darkness. And turning the sketch face down, she wondered if she had done right in telling Cecil Warner of Sergeant Rankin’s curious lapse on that afternoon last August when the world fell apart. In the Old Man’s steady glare at Rankin—maybe he hadn’t even felt her take the pencil—she glimpsed a blaze that would have suited the eyes of a male tiger about to drive another way from his mate and if possible gut him to ribbons. Her own half-welcomed excitement, private elemental anguish akin to the neural riot of approaching orgasm, was just as irrelevant, just as far from any notion of discovering truth—in a courtroom, of all places! For what after all did Rankin’s moment of rutty brutality have to do with the truth or falsehood of her story? Accused of it—(he will be!)—Rankin would flatly deny it, the word of a respectable policeman against that of the Monkshood Girl.

  Gravely, to the prosecutor, he was admitting twenty-two years of service with the Winchester Police, twelve of them with the Detective Division. An honest policeman, Rankin, an up-to-standard product of what must be a tight, hard school; a product chipped at the surfaces but wearing well. And what is honesty?
/>   She supposed that for Lloyd Rankin it would mean being no more dishonest than a majority of his peers. It would mean: don’t take big bribes, and don’t be an unpopular holy joe about the percentages from bookies and pimps and what-not: that’s sort of like a tax, see? No compromise with major crime, but don’t stick your neck too far out except in the obvious line of duty. There, in that clear line of duty, be ready to risk your life all the way and maybe lose it. Certainly give him that, she thought. He had all the earmarks of what is called a brave man, who could probably say with a bullet lodged in the bone: “It’s the job.” To Sergeant Rankin honesty would mean that obeying orders comes first; the top brass is paid to think, so when in doubt follow the rules. And Sergeant Rankin would believe (this she knew) that all criminals once caught are somewhat outside the human race, no longer protected by the common laws of charity and fair play. The professionals among them are The Enemy; the nonprofessionals, the one-shot wife-stabbers and other grown-up first offenders—his mind would balk at those, fretful and baffled: why couldn’t they act like other people? Or perhaps he would be wedded to some one of the superficial formulas, substitutes for thought, derived from religion or popular psychology. Sensing no contradiction, Rankin would also believe in his heart that the world is more or less a God-damn jungle where every man (including this man Rankin) has his price.

  “What is your present assignment, Sergeant?”

  “Attached to Homicide Bureau, sir, the last four years.”

  “I ask you to recall the events of Monday, the 17th of last August. Did anything happen that day in the line of duty that had to do with the defendant Callista Blake?”