by John Rechy
There is no one here who would be another “witness,” Jim was quick to notice; he can identify the roles everyone will be playing.
“The record will show that the court has read and considered the transcript,” Cory is saying. No hint of— . . . What? Of anything. The voice of an oldman—that’s all. He’s explaining that Daniels’ testimony at the preliminary hearing will become a part of these proceedings exactly as if he had testified in this courtroom. He turns to the district attorney: “Mr. Hall?”
Hall: “We will offer the people’s exhibits—if any—in evidence.”
Cory: “There’s a defense exhibit—a drawing by the officer who testified. . . . Do people rest?”
Hall: “People rest.”
The recorder’s fingers float like spiders over the stenographic machine.
And so it had really begun—so routinely. Not as if real lives were involved.
Now Alan rose. “I’ll call defendant Girard,” he said.
Sworn, name stated, Jim sits in the witness chair.
Then: This demanded to be the time to say, merely to say: The charges are false, the cop is a liar—and thereby logically to end it all. But the law strangled logic on a string of cabalistic laws.
Alan begins: “Mr. Girard, what is your profession?”
“I work for an attorney in El Paso—as an accident investigator.” There was no trace of nervousness in Jim’s voice.
“And next June what will you be doing?”
“I’ll be going to lawschool at the University of Texas at Austin.”
Cory leans back heavily into his chair.
Hall looks up quickly from the transcript he’s been reading and at Jim.
Alan continues: “Mr. Girard, will you please reflect back to the date of— . . .”
Summer. An afternoon. Green.
“Do you recall that day?”
“Yes, sir,” Jim answers. (That summer day. The beach. Eyes. Then Hollywood Boulevard. Eyes. Stares I had never before acknowledged, always averted. Then Sunset Boulevard, the Strip. And the wild, lovely, lost, stoned, scared girl—we picked each other up. Needfully. Myself to shut those remembered staring eyes, and she perhaps to stifle with recurrent sex whatever demons fought her.)
Alan: “On or about 5:00 in the afternoon of that day, where were you?”
“In Griffith Park.” (But first: From the Strip we went to her pad. Empty cans, bottles, no bed, a blanket on the floor, one window, no shade, the clinging odor of pot. Both naked. My knees spread her legs, my mouth explored hers. Her hair thrashed crazily from side to side, a long strand of it trapped in her mouth. I felt, instantly, the familiar rage of other sexual encounters.)
“Did you have reason for being there?”
“Yes.” (To penetrate a further depth, the deepest part of her, like with the others. To slaughter— . . . But I couldn’t get hard. Anger and desire had finally separated. Now there was only anger in the moments of urgent crushing with that lost girl. Then quickly anger and fear. Then only fear. . . . Hungry, determined to arouse, she wrenched from under me. Painted ice-white, her mouth opened, red tongue stark. I leaned back on the floor. Her tongue drew a swirling pattern of curves on my body—from my mouth to my neck, to my shoulders, to my chest, torso, navel, hips: looping about my thighs, winding in a circle which narrowed each time as if outlining a target—and her long hair brushed my body—until her mouth nestled between my legs and her wax lips enclosed my cock, which slid into her moist throat—still soft—still refusing to harden. I sat up quickly, dressed, left. Her head continued to thrash, her hair flailing on the floor. Minutes later: that giant park.)
“What was your reason for being in Griffith Park, Mr. Girard?”
(To still—to try to still—the fear.) “I was on vacation, I had been to the Observatory in the park, now I was just driving around.” (Years ago, driving along the maze of its roads, I realized I had entered a section of the park where for miles there were only men—as if by silent understanding. That later summer afternoon I went back deliberately to search that area at last.)
“How did you get to Griffith Park?”
“I drove.” (In a trance, as if all my life I had pulled away from what, growing stronger, had been pulling too.)
“Alone or with someone else?”
“Alone.” (As if it wasn’t me—someone else taking over, coming out.)
“And what section of the park did you drive to?”
“An area with several trails, paths. I parked to the side of the main road, I got off.” (Following a secret rehearsal.)
“Were other cars parked there which perhaps led you to believe this was a good scenic spot?” Alan asks, clearly to motivate his having been in that particular area.
“Yes—several.” (Many. Parked all along the road.) “And there’s a view of the city from there.” (As I drove up, I saw men walk from their cars and disappear into a forest of trees to the side of the road—I had encountered many other such areas in this section of the park. I parked, waited. Then I got out. I entered the green forest. Eyes. Shadows. Sexhunters everywhere. I told myself: This isn’t my world. I got into my car again—drove up the road several miles. Fleeing. More parked cars, men waiting; others vanishing along other trails or merely standing by the road. This time I didn’t avoid the stares. I parked my car on an indentation of grainy dirt off the main road. I got out. It was a warm afternoon, I took my shirt off. In quick succession several men drove in, spoke to me. At the same time that I felt an increasing excitement penetrating the trance, I kept telling myself, This isn’t it. Each time, I would get into my car, drive away suddenly—but always within the miles-long area of the male sexhunt. Then an old car drove in behind mine. I barely glanced at the man, who was young, wearing sunglasses—and I felt an instant dislike like a silent alert. Leaning out at the window, he told me he’d seen me earlier—“but everyone else was after you and I was with my buddy,” he said. Still not looking at him, I played it dumb, thinking, This isn’t it. Then he said hurriedly, “I know a place up the road where there’s more privacy.” I mumbled an excuse to leave and began to get into my car. “What are you looking for?” he asked insistently. “Just driving,” I said, staying cool. “With everyone after you?” he persisted. I got into my car. “You want money?” he asked me. I started the motor. “You’re playing a dangerous game . . . buddy!” he said angrily. I drove away. Daniels? There were so many others who stopped, before and after him. Was it Daniels? Yes. No. Yes.)
Alan: “And what kind of area did you enter?”
“A heavily treed area.” (Another world. . . . I drove to other places along the road—then back to the area I had previously entered, where the shadows searched in the frozen green. But the current of hunters had shifted to one of the many other arenas. For moments I was there alone. In another world.) “Like a forest. Trees rise up to fifty feet, brush and plants are all around, from ankle height to waist height, and, farther on, from a few inches to taller than a man. The area is surrounded by green.”
“Do you have a map that would give us a clearer picture of this area?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will you come forward and put it on this bulletin board and explain the colored lines and arrows?”
Off the stand, Jim attaches the map he drew to a board—explaining it. Blue, orange, purple, red, green, brown—his path, Steve’s, where Daniels stood, Jones, the trees, the main path. Black: an X in a circle duplicating the one Daniels drew.
The district attorney is smiling—not hostilely, Jim realizes with surprise; almost—is it possible?—in admiration of the ease with which their testimony is proceeding.
Cory shifts his weight to face the board. Hostile, friendly, skeptical, believing.
Alan: “Mr. Girard, pointing to the map, please show and tell us where you went after you parked on the main road.”
“I took this level path in a southerly direction—from an opening in the trees to a fork. At the fork, the main path branc
hes off into several, and the area becomes a forest. I took a slightly elevated path, still in a southerly direction. To the right the terrain plunges downward, to the left it’s heavily treed; once on it, you have to follow the narrow path, which cuts through the brush and almost disappears.” (Not even a path, it’s the imprint of thousands of feet—made by the “unknown persons"—sexhunters—Daniels referred to.)
“Did you see any other persons as you walked along?”
“Yes—several.” (A signal, my car had attracted others. Soon there were many. All men. Many more than the four Daniels claims. The area is large, paths branch into others, then others, there are secluded places everywhere. Silently, shadows emerged, as if we were sharing a soundless dream. I was being pursued—willingly. “This isn’t it” had become: “Not him.”)
“Please tell us where you went then, Mr. Girard, in that area the several parked cars led you to believe was a good scenic spot.”
“I walked into an enclosure which is like— . . . a grotto.” (Into the black X Daniels would draw, to mark on his own map—within the spidery tangle indicating paths and trails—where he claims the “crime” occurred.) “From there you can view the city.” (Far. It seemed so far away now.)
“Now up to this point had you seen either of the officers involved in this case?”
By his empty long silence, Jim demands that Daniels tell him now with a look that it was or wasn’t him earlier that afternoon. He stares at the cop. The silence stretches.
But the cop’s eyes will not look up.
Finally to force the discovery, Jim answers: “Not then. But before that, Daniels— . . .”
Suddenly the cop looks at him for the first time today. He opens his mouth as if to protest—and looks down again, silent.
Alan had quickly interrupted Jim; he had insisted that he not mention the possible earlier encounter with the cop because it was difficult to prove, its meaning ambiguous. “In that immediate area,” Alan emphasizes, “did you see either of the two officers before the arrest?”
“Not in the immediate area.”
“Did you see the codefendant, Mr. Travis?” Alan goes on quickly.
“Not as I went in.”
“Will you please bring us up on your movements?”
“I walked into the grotto, then up a slope beyond it—but then I retraced my steps, back to the grotto—to the view of the city.” (I didn’t continue up the slope because I saw a man waiting there. Not him. Another. Not him. I returned to the grotto, I stood there. The secret rehearsal had prepared me. I waited. I felt a trace of peace.)
Now Cory interrupts: “Let me be sure—is the name ‘grotto’ what you call this area or is it its known name?” Still no clue in those words, that tone.
Jim: “What I call it.” (Like a religious grotto; a confessional booth— . . .)
Alan: “Please describe the grotto.”
(An enclosure waiting to embrace, to close.) “You come on it unexpectedly, you can’t see it from the path. It’s a circular hollow—about six feet in diameter—created by overhanging branches, overlaid heavily with tightly wound vines, arched trees and shrubs, its underside is dry from lack of exposure to the sun. It’s like a very large nest on its side—about eight feet high. To its front there’s a sharp decline, covered with brush; ahead, there’s a view of the city.” (Suddenly like a separated world.)
“When, if ever, did you encounter Mr. Travis in the area?”
“After returning to the grotto. He entered from the northern side. Because of the narrow path before the grotto and the decline on the westerly side, I moved all the way back in—to the eastern end—to let him pass.” (He had followed me. He stood before me.)
“And when you stepped into the grotto—which you have described as being six feet in diameter and enclosed by brush and trees—what did Mr. Travis do?”
“He proceeded along on his own hiking, past me and the grotto.” (No. This is what happened: I stood all the way back. Steve advanced, then stopped a few feet away as if not sure of me. After moments he slid on his knees. His mouth opened, and his tongue brushed his lips to indicate what he wanted to do. In answer, I unbuttoned only the top of my pants. Just that. His hand inched toward my thighs. His hand— . . . I “saw” Emory’s hand. The green world crashed on me then, shattering the trance. Before Steve could touch me, I jerked away quickly to one side.)
“That was your only encounter—at the place you’ve marked X—as Mr. Travis passed you?”
“Yes.” (It would have happened. But it didn’t: Rejected, Steve stood. Then we heard footsteps running. A man rushed past the grotto and up the slope beyond it—as if he had recognized someone hostile on the path.)
“Did you come out of the grotto at that time?”
“Yes. I started back the way I had entered, now moving northerly.” (Steve moved out in the opposite direction, then quickly returned to the grotto. Did he think I’d come back? Would I have?)
“Mr. Girard, when did you see either of the officers involved in this matter? In the immediate area,” Alan underscores.
“As I walked away along the path, I saw another man— . . .” (Another hunter, I thought.) “. . . —standing about twenty feet away from the grotto; I passed him. That was Jones.”
“And would that be the officer who is not present here today?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You passed Officer Jones? He didn’t arrest you then—just let you walk on, did he?”
“That’s right.”
“And where did you see the other officer?”
“At the fork—about forty feet away from the grotto and about twenty feet behind Jones—stood another man. That was Daniels.” (I thought: I’ve seen him. But now the sunglasses were gone; to unmask himself, had he removed them? I walked along the path—there was no other way to pass him. I had the same feeling of intense dislike for him. We faced each other. Suddenly—for a moment—he actually seemed . . . afraid. He stared at my body, and it was then that I realized the top button of my pants was still open. As I buttoned it, he made the beginning of a move toward me.)
“Did Officer Daniels arrest you then?”
“No. As I passed him too, I saw him make a motion with his hand—as if signaling Jones. That’s all.” (Then Jones ran after me as Daniels rushed toward the grotto—as if a slow-motion film had become speeded up. “You’re under arrest!” Jones said.)
“You passed Officer Daniels, too—and he didn’t arrest you either?”
“That’s correct.”
“Mr. Girard, do you mean the officers let you walk at least forty feet away—and past each of them—forty feet away from the alleged scene of . . . the crime—before either arrested you?”
“There was no crime,” Jim said.
“Of course not, I refer to the alleged . . . crime.”
“I passed both of them.”
“By the way—the officers; they were of course wearing their uniforms?”
“No. They were in plain clothes.”
“And who actually arrested you?”
“Jones. He ran after me after I had passed them both.”
“Officer Jones—whom you encountered first on the path and therefore closer to the grotto than Daniels—Daniels being the officer who has testified he saw the alleged . . . crime—Officer Jones let you pass him and then followed you at least twenty feet to place you under arrest—finally—and only after you saw Officer Daniels make what appeared to you to be a signal with his hand? Is that correct, Mr. Girard?”
“Yes, sir.” Jim glances at Hall. Still that smile. Alan’s questions might have been objected to as leading, but Hall has made no objection. Occasionally Cory turns to him as if expecting one. But so far, nothing.
“And did Officer Jones then tell you why he was arresting you?” Alan asks.
“No, he didn’t. I asked him, he didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to know.”
“Then were you taken to the officers’ car?”
(An o
ld car, it was an old car too.) “Not right away.”
“What occurred immediately after your arrest?”
“I heard a voice I would come to recognize as Steve’s—Mr. Travis’—shouting, ‘I didn’t do anything!’ and a voice I would come to recognize as Daniels’ shouting back, ‘You son of a bitch, I’m going to bust everyone of your goddamn ribs!’ ” (I tried to break away from Jones, but the handcuffs, and his pulled gun, stopped me, and I yelled in Steve’s direction, “Cool it, man, cool it!”) “I heard sounds of beating, and then I saw Steve—Mr. Travis—being dragged out, Daniels was wrenching his arms back although Steve—Mr. Travis—was already handcuffed. Mr. Travis’ mouth was bleeding.” (And even in the disorientation of the following moments as impression jumped on impression—handcuffs, green trees, Jones getting my shirt from my car and draping it over me but I couldn’t bring myself to say thanks, the freeway, cops, the station, cops, Steve’s blood—even then and throughout I kept remembering: Two other youngmen, an alley, my fist. Eyes terrified. Sobs. Would I have— . . . ? What!)
“Your honor,” Alan is saying, “now we would like to show a him of the area. And may the him, subject to its being removed from the projector after showing, be marked as ‘Defendants’ B’ for identification?”
Cory: “So ordered.” He steps down cumbersomely in his long robe.
The patriarch, he sits at the head of the table.
THE FILM: THE GREEN WORLD.
Alan: “Mr. Girard, in this first sequence—where is the camera located?”
Jim: “Forty feet away from the grotto, pointed directly at it.” (Emphasize forty feet, over and over and over, drill it into the judge’s mind—forty feet, Alan had told him.)
“Forty feet?”
“Yes, sir, forty.”
“And why forty feet?”
“Because I was bust— . . . arrested at least forty feet away from the grotto, where Mr. Travis was arrested. We were at least forty feet apart.”
“I can’t see anything like what you’ve described as the grotto, Mr. Girard—is the camera pointed at it?”