The Jack Finney Reader

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The Jack Finney Reader Page 98

by Jack Finney


  She saw a single empty seat halfway forward, walked toward it, and began edging into the row past spectators' knees. Then, in the chair beside Max, at his left, she saw the back of Al's gray suit, and remembered the day she'd helped him pick it out. The dark head just above the gray suit collar was bent over an opened Manila folder on the table before him, and Cora stared at the back of his head, trying to make him turn and see her. But his head remained bowed over his papers, and now Cora glanced at the man on Max's right.

  He sat in shirt sleeves, elbows on the table, his face buried in his hands in an attitude of dejection. Cora felt a sudden stab of pity and guilt. For the first time he seemed real to her, a living man in terrible trouble, and not just a name in one of Al's cases. His shirt was soiled and wrinkled, as were his tan wash pants, and the line of his jaw, just past the hands over his face, was stubbled with black whiskers; he looked defeated already, she thought.

  The court clerk came in through a doorway at the front of the room, nodding at the bailiff who sat on the edge of the prosecutor's table: the clerk sat down at his desk just under the high judge's bench. Presently the stenographer — a lean, cadaverous man — entered and walked to his desk beside the empty jury box. A moment later a tall, blond man, large and athletic-looking and wearing a dark-blue suit, walked in rapidly from a side door, carrying a brief case under his arm. He nodded at defense counsel's table, and Max responded with a smile and a flick of his hand; neither of the other two men looked up. The man in the blue suit sat down at the other long table. opening his brief case, and Cora understood that this was the prosecutor, Al's opponent, and she frowned.

  Several minutes passed — it was two past ten; then the room came to life. His honor, Judge Wallace Hackster, the bailiff called loudly. Rise, please. Getting to her feet with the others, Cora saw the judge climbing the short stairs which led to his bench. He was bald and heavy-faced, and now he looked pleasantly out at the room, and sat down. Sit down, please. the bailiff called. This Court is in session.

  The court clerk handed up a file to the judge, who opened it, glanced at it, then laid it down. The People of the State of California versus Carl Balderson, he said quietly.

  Ready for the People, the prosecutor said from his table.

  Ready for the defendant, said Max.

  A plea of not guilty was entered in this case upon arraignment. said the judge. and jury trial waived by the defendant and the people. Is that your understanding, Mr. Wollheim?

  Yes. May I approach the bench, Your Honor? The judge nodded, and Max and the prosecutor stood and walked up to the high bench. Lowering his voice, Max said. How's your asthma, Judge?

  Good, good! The judge leaned toward him, smiling. And yours?

  Fine. The reason I asked, is that I've been trying something new; works pretty good. I'll send you a bottle.

  Good. The judge nodded his thanks, and the two men turned, walking back to their respective tables.

  As they walked, Levin leaned toward Max to murmur, Tell me one thing, Max; have you really got asthma?

  Oh, Max said softly, it comes and goes. It comes when I walk into Hackster's court, and goes when I leave.

  That's what I thought, said Levin.

  The two men sat down, and the judge said, All right, Mr. Levin, you can begin.

  At his table, Levin scribbled a note, then stood up. Well, Your honor, he said, this is a simple case. The defendant, Carl Balderson — he nodded at the shirt-sleeved man beside Max — is charged with armed robbery, violation of section two-eleven of the penal code, on seven occasions, as specified in the Information. We will prove this by calling as witnesses the men who were robbed. Each is the owner, in San Francisco, of a small store of one kind or another. They don't know each other, and each will testify that he was robbed, in his store, at gunpoint, and will identify the defendant as the robber. That's our case, to be proved by witnesses; they are all present outside in the corridor. Levin sat down.

  Mr. Wollheim? said the judge.

  The defense waives its opening, Your Honor. I ask only one thing. Since this case hinges, as the prosecutor has said, upon identification of the defendant by more than one witness. I ask the court to issue a reminder to the bailiff. Turning toward the bailiff, Max did it himself. Once a witness has testified, please find him a seat in the courtroom. For obvious reasons, of course, he should not be allowed to rejoin the witnesses who have not yet been heard.

  Of course, said the judge, and glanced at the bailiff, who nodded.

  Call my first witness, said the prosecutor. Walter Muller.

  The bailiff walked to the side door, pushed it open, and called, Walter Muller! A moment later a short, plump man of sixty dressed in a dark suit walked in. At the witness chair the clerk swore him in, speaking the words of the familiar formula. As the witness listened, Max leaned to his left to tap the gray-coated shoulder beside him, and the two men, heads bent over the table, conferred for a moment in whispers. Max nodded then, and the witness sat down.

  Without rising, Levin said — glancing at a paper as he spoke — You are Walter Muller of 9840 Geary Street?

  I am. The witness sat watching Levin.

  You own a store at that address?

  I do.

  I call your attention — again the prosecutor glanced at a paper before him — to March thirtieth of this year; the late evening of that date. Did anything of an unusual nature occur then?

  Yes, sir.

  Please tell us what it was.

  Well, I was closing my store about nine-thirty, when the door opened, and a man walked in. Careful, like most witnesses, never to glance toward the defendant until time to identify him, the witness told his story, a simple account of robbery at the point of a gun. Beside Max, the white-shirted figure sat unmoving, bowed and dejected, his face in his hands. Did the witness, Levin asked then, get a good look at the robber? The man on the stand answered yes. Could he describe him? Yes, the witness replied; he was tall, dark-haired, well-built, and young, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. He wore a dark leather jacket, gray felt hat, white shirt, wash pants. and was unshaven. Would the witness know him if he saw him again? Yes, he would, the witness said.

  All right. Levin's voice was perfunctory as put up the standard question in standard form. I ask you now whether you see in this courtroom the man who robbed you? As he spoke, Max Wollheim was rising to his feet, and now he walked toward the prosecutor, casually lifting a forefinger to ask for his attention. Behind him, at the table he had just left, the bowed, white-shirted shoulders finally moved, as the man brought his hands down from his face; he hooked his thumbs defiantly into the belt of his soiled tan trousers, and lifted his chin to stare at the witness.

  Leaning over Levin to whisper into his ear, Max said, Will you take a change of plea to a reduced charge? The man on the stand was gazing out over the courtroom as though the man he was looking for might conceivably be sitting comfortably among the spectators.

  You think I'm crazy, Max? Levin murmured. We've got your client cold.

  Up on the stand, the witness said firmly. Yes, I see him, and Levin leaned to one side to peer up at him around Max.

  All right, Levin said to the witness. step down, and put your hand on his shoulder. This was done for the trial-record so that no possible question could be raised on appeal about whom the witness had identified. No. Max, Levin said then, lowering his voice, and shaking his head as he looked up at Max's worried face. Why should we take a lesser plea? You've got nothing to offer. Again he leaned to one side to peer around Max; the witness was walking around the far end of defense counsel's table, and now he stopped beside the waiting man who sat staring defiantly up at him. Solemnly and self-consciously, the witness reached out to drop his hand on the shoulder of the waiting man's soiled white shirt. You see, Max? Levin shrugged. There you are. And Max nodded, and turned toward the judge.

  His voice was casual, almost perfunctory, and he nodded toward the court stenographer whose fingers were f
lashing over the keyboard of his tiny stenographic machine. Let the record show, Max began quietly, that the witness — and now his voice rose suddenly to ring through the crowded courtroom — has identified the extremely able counsel for the defense, my partner, Al Michaels!

  In the moment of stunned silence that followed, Al Michaels — unshaven, his eyes bloodshot from a long night of work, and still wearing the shirt he had worn for twenty-four hours — turned his face toward the judge and prosecutor. Then so did Balderson, neatly shaven, his dark hair freshly trimmed, and wearing Al's suit, his tie, shirt, and shoes. And the prosecutor began to shout. Your Honor, I object, I absolutely and categorically object! Levin's face was red and furious. This is unheard of, and completely inadmissable! In all my practice, I have never before seen a more shabby, contemptible trick, and I obj—

  Max was waiting for the word, and pounced on it. Trick? His voice was an indignant roar. This is no trick; this is a demonstration of something of fundamental and terrible importance! He thrust an arm out at full length, pointing at Balderson. The only reason this man is on trial at all is that the prosecution's witnesses said that he robbed them. That they knew it, that they were sure of it! Well, all right! He turned to glare at the furious prosecutor. If they're sure, and they'd better be sure to send a man to prison for years, then they've got to be able to identify him shaven or unshaven, and wearing a suit, a dirty shirt, or an admiral's full-dress uniform! Max paused, and glanced around the entire courtroom, his great brown eyes alive and glittering. But the witness was not sure; and that's what we demonstrated. All he identified at the police lineup was a dirty shirt and an unshaven face, not the man at all. And you don't send a man to prison because he didn't shave one Sunday morning! Max sat down. Let the prosecution show us, he said disdainfully, where defense counsel's dress is specified in law. Or I ask that his objection be overruled.

  If Mr. Wollheim has finished his oration, the judge said, I will give my ruling. Turning to Levin, he said, Mr. Wollheim and Mr. Michaels came to my chambers this morning, Mr. Levin, where they described how they planned that Mr. Michaels and the defendant should be dressed. As reasons for this, they advanced very much what Mr. Wollheim has just said. Of course, I agreed; there is nothing in law against it, and there is a great deal for it. Our witnesses must be able to identify the man, not his clothes. Objection overruled, he concluded, and the trial was over.

  There was an hour of it left, during which six more witnesses — Max's alert eyes on the prosecutor making certain he did not deviate by word or gesture from proper procedure — all testified as the first one had. But the trial had ended in the moment the first witness touched Al Michael's shoulder, and now Al was looking out over the excited spectators, searching for Cora; and when he saw her, he grinned triumphantly.

  The finding of “not guilty” was automatic, Balderson was free, and as the judge left his bench, Cora made her way up to defense counsel's table. The three men were standing, Balderson shaking hands with AI; Cora heard him promise to return Al's clothes. Then Max saw her, and spoke. Well, your boy won the case! he said, his eyes flashing. He figured the defense, and it worked!

  Did I? Al said, and he smiled tiredly at Cora. Did I figure it out, Max, or was it really you? As usual.

  Oh — Max grinned — maybe I prompted you a little, led you up to it. But he thought of it independently, he said to Cora. And you ought to be proud.

  Balderson spoke before Cora could reply. Mr. Wollheim, he said, I have to leave now. My wife couldn't stand being here, and I want to phone her. He put his hand out — I just can't thank you enough.

  The fee will do that, Max said, shaking hands. Then Balderson glanced over his shoulder, and leaned forward, lowering his voice.

  Believe me, Mr. Wollheim, he said fervently, I was scared. And I've sure learned my lesson. I'll never rob another store again. Then, smiling at Cora, nodding his goodbye to the others, Balderson turned to walk out of the courtroom.

  There was a moment of silence. Then Cora said, Proud? She glanced from Max to Al, and her voice was furious. Is that what you're so proud of! Is that what I gave up my wedding for, to free a guilty man! She burst into tears.

  Honey, listen — Al reached for her, but she stepped back. We're not judges! We've got to assume innocence; and God help us all, if we ever stop! Our job is to defend, not judg— But Cora was tugging at her finger; then her hand came free, and she slapped her engagement ring down on the table, turned, and walked swiftly toward the exit. Cora! Al called, and took a half step after her; then stopped.

  After a moment, his voice very gentle, Max said, You're not going after her?

  No. Al shook his head, his lips compressing.

  Well — she'll think about it. And maybe she'll understand.

  Maybe. Al nodded, staring down at the ring. I hope so.

  But if she doesn't?

  If she doesn't — then she's not a lawyer's wife. Al scooped up the ring from the table, turned, and walked over to one of the tall windows overlooking Kearny Street, and after a moment, gathering their papers up from the table, Max followed. Al was leaning forward, staring down at the street. There she goes, he murmured, nodding at Cora's figure hurrying along the sidewalk down which he and Max had walked only the afternoon before. I hope she comes back. He shook his head ruefully. Wonder what she'd have said if she'd known that tank was a fake.

  Max asked, What tank?

  Al's mouth quirked in a little grimace. You know what tank, Max. Your oxygen tank with the little yellow label near the bottom that said Caution: Compressed Air.

  Max nodded. The nurse was a friend of mine, he said quietly. I once defended her brother. An old patient of hers has a balloon concession out at Fleishacker Zoo; blows the balloons up with compressed air. When did you notice the label, Al?

  Few minutes after we came in.

  Before Cora said you could stay?

  Yeah. Before. He shrugged at Max's unspoken question. I simply realized that it didn't matter, Max — fake heart attack or real. Because in either case, it proved the same thing.

  And what was that?

  What a criminal lawyer ought to know. What you taught me last night — that the client comes first. We don't judge; we've simply got to give him the best defense we know how. And Balderson's defense needed me. I didn't know why, but when I saw you were even willing to fake a heart attack to get me to stay, I knew I had to. What a performance! Al opened his hand to look at the ring lying in his palm. You smart bastard, he muttered; maybe you even planned this.

  Max grinned. That's hard to say. But you can't prove I did, so you must assume that I'm innocent. If you're a lawyer. And you sure as hell are. He stood staring down at the busy street and sidewalks below. Then he murmured, There they go, the human race; one out of ten heading for trouble with the law. Be seeing you! he said, then turned to grin at Al. Come on, counselor, he said. Let's go celebrate; we've got a big fee to blow.

  Cosmopolitan, July 1959, 147(1):98-107

  The Love Letter

  I've heard of secret drawers in old desks, of course; who hasn't? But the day I bought my desk I wasn't thinking of secret drawers, and I know very well I didn't have any least premonition or feel of mystery about it. I spotted it in the window of a secondhand store near my apartment, went in to look it over, and the proprietor told me where he got it. It came from one of the last of the big old mid-Victorian houses in Brooklyn; they were tearing it down over on Brock Place, a few blocks away, and he'd bought the desk along with some other furniture, dishes, glassware, light fixtures, and so on. But it didn't stir my imagination particularly; I never wondered or cared who might have used it long ago. I bought it and lugged it home because it was cheap and because it was small; a legless little wall desk that I fastened to my living-room wall with heavy screws directly into the studding.

  I'm twenty-four years old, tall and thin, and I live in Brooklyn to save money and work in Manhattan to make it. When you're twenty-four and a bachelor, you usuall
y figure you'll be married before much longer, and since they tell me that takes money, I'm reasonably ambitious and bring work home from the office every once in a while. And maybe every couple weeks or so I write a letter to my folks in Florida. So I'd been needing a desk; there's no table in my phone-booth kitchenette, and I'd been trying to work at a wobbly little end table I couldn't get my knees under.

  So I bought the desk one Saturday afternoon, and spent an hour or more fastening it to the wall. It was after six when I finished. I had a date that night, and so I had time to stand and admire it for only a minute or so. It was made of heavy wood, with a slant top like a kid's school desk, and with the same sort of space underneath to put things into. But the back of it rose a good two feet above the desk top, and was full of pigeonholes like an oldstyle roll-top desk. Underneath the pigeonholes was a row of three brass-knobbed little drawers. It was all pretty ornate; the drawer ends carved, some fancy scrollwork extending up over the back and out from the sides to help brace it against the wall. I dragged a chair up, sat down at the desk to try it for height, then got showered, shaved and dressed and went over to Manhattan to pick up my date.

  I'm trying to be honest about what happened, and I'm convinced that includes the way I felt when I got home around two or two-thirty that morning; I'm certain that what happened wouldn't have happened at all if I'd felt any other way. I'd had a good-enough time that evening; we'd gone to an early movie that wasn't too bad, then had dinner, a drink or so and some dancing afterward. And the girl, Roberta Haig, is pretty nice — bright, pleasant, good-looking. But walking home from the subway, the Brooklyn streets quiet and deserted, it occurred to me that while I'd probably see her again, I didn't really care whether I did or not. And I wondered, as I often had lately, whether there was something wrong with me; whether I'd ever meet a girl I desperately wanted to be with — the only way a man can get married, it seems to me.

 

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