by Ed McBain
“Yes. How old are your parents?”
“Too old,” the boy said, and he laughed.
“Mine aren’t so old.” The girl paused. “But it’s awfully hard to talk to them, isn’t it?”
“Boy, I’ll say.”
“Do you tell them things?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I remember once I was telling my father about how I was involved in this three-way deal where we were saving up to buy a car when we were old enough, you know? I mean, it was a very complicated thing because we were going to clean cellars on weekends and sell the junk and like that, you know? So I spent about a half hour explaining it to him, and then he looks up and says, ‘That’s a good boy, Lonnie.’ How do you like that? I knock myself out for a half hour, all excited about the big business deal we worked out, and he tells me I’m a good boy. I don’t even think he was listening to me, you know that? So after that, I figured the hell with this noise, and that was it. Lonnie the Clam, they call me.”
“My mother thinks I tell her things,” the girl said, “but I don’t really.”
“Well, there’s really no percentage in telling parents anything,” the boy said, “because if they understand it they usually raise hell about it; and if they don’t understand it, you might as well have saved your breath to begin with. That’s the way I look at it.”
“I used to talk to my father a lot,” the girl said. “When I was small. We used to have nice talks.”
“Yeah? What about?”
“Oh, everything. We just talked. I remember I was very proud of myself because I could have grown-up conversations with my father.”
“But you don’t talk to him now?”
“Not very much. He’s busy.”
“Oh, boy, are they busy!” the boy said. “Always running someplace.”
“Besides, I—I don’t have anything to say to him,” the girl said.
“Yeah,” the boy agreed. There was a wistful note in his voice.
“I wish I had something to say to him,” the girl said. “But I don’t. I just don’t.”
“Yeah.” The boy paused. “Well, they’re busy. You know.”
“Yes. Yes, I know.”
“I mean, what the hell, they brought us this far. Fed us and clothed us. We’ve got to give them a rest sometime, don’t we?”
“I guess so.”
“It isn’t as if they owed us anything, really. I mean, I don’t go for these guys who are always saying, ‘I didn’t ask to be born.’ All right, who did ask to be born? Does anybody have a choice? I didn’t ask to be born, either. But I’m sure glad I’m here.”
“That’s a very nice thing to say, Lonnie.”
“There’s nothing that beats being alive,” the boy said. “Aren’t you glad you’re alive?”
“Oh, yes, yes.”
“Sure. So they don’t really owe us anything, you see. They brought us into the world. They gave us life. That’s enough for me.”
“Lonnie?”
“Yes?”
“Do … do you love anyone?”
“How do you mean?”
“You know.”
“Like my mother? Or my father?”
“Well …”
“But that isn’t like real love, is it? That’s more like a habit.”
“Yes.”
They were silent for several moments.
Then the boy said, “Jennie?”
“Yes?”
“Jennie, could I kiss you?”
The girl did not answer.
“Jennie?”
She still gave no answer.
“Well, okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. I mean, I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind if I …”
“I wouldn’t mind, Lonnie,” she answered, and there was such a tender innocence in her voice that Hank, lying on the rock, felt like weeping. “But …”
“What, Jennie?”
“Could you … could you …”
“What, Jennie? What?”
“Could you please tell me you love me first?” she said.
Hank’s eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. He lay on the rock in the darkness while his daughter was being kissed, his hand over his face to muffle his sobs. He kept shaking his head over and over again, biting his lip, overwhelmed with his sudden knowledge, feeling small and insignificant and yet strangely powerful with knowledge that raced through his mind.
“I love you, Jennie,” the boy said.
“I love you, Lonnie.”
He listened to the words and suddenly he wanted it to be Monday, suddenly he wanted the trial to begin.
“What time is it, Lonnie?”
“It’s almost twelve.”
“Would you take me home, please? I don’t want them to worry.”
“Could I kiss you once more?”
“Please.”
They were silent, and then Hank heard them getting to their feet, heard them thrashing awkwardly through the bushes and onto the path. In a little while, their footsteps died out.
I don’t owe them anything, he thought.
I don’t owe them anything but the future.
TWELVE
It was common knowledge among New York City’s lawyers that Judge Abraham Samalson permitted no nonsense in his courtroom. In General Sessions, Part III, on the Monday that marked the beginning of the Morrez trial, an air of solemnity pervaded the sunswept, wood-paneled room despite the throngs of prospective jurors, spectators, and reporters who packed the court. Seated at the rear of the room, Karin and Jennifer Bell listened to the Honorable Abraham Samalson, impressive in his robes of justice, as he reminded the spectators that this court was concerned with serious business and that any attempts to turn it into a circus would result in his barring all spectators from the trial. With the patience of a kindergarten instructor he explained what his function as a judge would be, and then he asked that the first of the prospective jurors be called.
From all outward appearances, the selection of jurors proceeded in an orderly and totally unsurprising manner. Hank, for the prosecution, asked the questions he was expected to ask. The lawyers for the three defendants—there were twelve appointed by the court—similarly asked the questions expected of them. The process was long and, for the most part, unexciting. Mike Barton, listening to the proceedings with the rest of the reporters, stifled many a yawn as the jurors were either empaneled or excused.
“Mr. Nelson, if the prosecuting attorney proved to you, beyond any reasonable doubt, that these three young boys were guilty of premeditated murder, would you have any qualms about voting for a verdict of guilty?”
“Why should I have any qualms?”
“Because there is a mandatory death penalty attached to the crime of first-degree murder.”
“No, I would not have any qualms.”
“You would send them to the electric chair?”
“Yes. If they were guilty, I would.”
“If, on the other hand, the facts as presented seemed to warrant a plea for leniency, could you find it in keeping with your morals and your ethics to ask the court for leniency in sentencing these boys?”
“I could.”
“Yes, and if we can show that a lesser crime than first-degree murder was committed, would you accept the facts as shown and consider bringing in a verdict on, for example, second-degree murder or manslaughter?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“He means,” Samalson interrupted, “that whereas the district attorney will try to prove that these boys committed murder in the first degree, the facts as presented before this court may indicate that a lesser crime, such as second degree murder or manslaughter, was actually committed. In which case, would you allow the grand-jury indictment or the high office of the district attorney to prejudice you against bringing in a verdict for a lesser crime?”
“No, I would not.”
“Does that answer your question, Mr. Randolph?”
�
��It does. Thank you, Your Honor. And if it were shown before this court that these boys did not commit any crime, would you vote for an acquittal, would you set them free?”
“I would.”
“Thank you,” Randolph said. “Excuse this juror.”
“Tell me, Mrs. Riley, where do you live?”
“On a Hundred Thirty-eighth Street and Bruckner Boulevard.”
“Are there many Puerto Ricans in that neighborhood?”
“Yes, there are quite a few.”
“Do you like the neighborhood?”
“It’s all right.”
“There are things about it you don’t like?”
“Yes, there are some things.”
“Like what, for example?”
“Well, the neighborhood’s getting run down.”
“What do you mean by ‘run down’?”
“Well, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. Would you please explain it, Mrs. Riley?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Bell,” Samalson said, “but what are you getting at?”
“I don’t think I have to mince words here, Your Honor. The dead boy in this case was a Puerto Rican. I am trying to find out whether or not Mrs. Riley may feel the neighborhood is getting run down because Puerto Ricans are moving into it.”
“Then don’t mince words, and ask the question directly.”
“Is that what you feel, Mrs. Riley?”
“Well, I certainly don’t think the Puerto Ricans are helping real estate val—”
“Challenge,” Hank said.
“Would you have any objections to sitting on a jury where the case being tried is a murder case?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been on three juries in the past two years. I don’t like jury duty, and I wish they’d stop calling me.”
“If there are no objections,” Samalson said sourly, “I think we can excuse this good citizen.”
“Do you have any children, Mrs. Frankworth?”
“Yes. I have three children.”
“Boys or girls?”
“Mixed.”
“How old are they?”
“Thirteen, ten and eight.”
“Could you send three boys to the electric chair?”
“Yes, I think so. If they were guilty.”
“Do you think they are guilty?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Have you read anything about this case in the newspapers?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve formed no opinion yet as to whether the boys are guilty or innocent.”
“No. I don’t believe what I read in the newspapers.”
“Will you believe what you hear in this court?”
“Yes.”
“Will you believe everything you hear?”
“What do you mean?”
“You may hear conflicting stories from the prosecution and the defense. Your delivering a verdict assumes you must believe one or the other.”
“I’d have to hear the facts first. Then I’d decide what was right and what was wrong.”
“Is murder wrong, Mrs. Frankworth?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“Not always.”
“I don’t think it’s wrong if the murder was committed in self-defense.”
“Have you ever known any Puerto Ricans?”
“No, sir.”
“Would you mind living next door to one?”
“I’ve never lived next door to one, so I wouldn’t know. I guess if they were good neighbors, I wouldn’t mind at all.”
“Were you born in this city, Mrs. Frankworth?”
“No.”
“Where were you born?”
“In England. I came to America when I was twelve years old.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Frankworth. If the court please, I have no objection to empaneling this juror.”
“What sort of work do you do, Mr. Abbeney?”
“I own a chain of restaurants.”
“Where?”
“Here in the city.”
“Do you employ Puerto Ricans?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They’re good workers.”
“How many Puerto Ricans are in your employ?”
“Oh, I’d say about fifty or so.”
“Ever deal with them personally?”
“Sure. I like Puerto Ricans.”
“Do you employ any Negroes?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I just never have, that’s all.”
“You don’t have any principles against hiring Negroes, do you?”
“I should say not. I’ve just never had the opportunity to employ them, that’s all.”
“Mr. Bell,” Samalson said, “as far as I know, there are no Negroes involved in this case. This may become a rather lengthy trial, and I can see no reason for prolonging it by questioning prospective jurors on matters which can have no possible bearing on the case.”
“I was simply trying to find out, Your Honor, how far Mr. Abbeney’s tolerance extended.”
“Nonetheless, his attitude toward Negroes could not have any relevant bearing on the case before this court.”
“Then I have no further questions, Your Honor. I’d like this man excused.”
It took a week for both sides to agree on the jurors they wanted. At the end of that time the attorneys made their opening statements. Hank told the jury he would prove beyond reasonable doubt that the three boys were guilty of first-degree murder. The defense attorneys, quite naturally, told the jury that they would prove the boys were innocent.
“You will hear a lot of inflammatory oratory during this trial,” one of the defense attorneys said, “a lot of impassioned speeches about racial tolerance, about physical handicaps, about this poor innocent blind boy who was allegedly ruthlessly murdered by these three youngsters. But we ask you, in the name of justice, in the name of fairness, in the name of God, to listen with your minds and not with your emotions. We will present the facts clearly and logically, and those facts, when added up unemotionally, will tell you what verdict to bring back from that solemn room where you will decide whether or not three young boys will be deprived of their lives. And that verdict will be Not Guilty.”
And then the trial began in earnest.
The witnesses were paraded: the policemen who had made the arrest, the assistant D.A. who had initially handled the call from the detective squad room, Lieutenant Gunnison, Detective Larsen—all testifying to the blood-smeared condition of the three boys on the night of July 10. On the second day of the trial, Hank called Anthony Aposto to the stand. A hush fell over the courtroom as the boy was sworn in. He wore a neat blue suit, a white shirt, a dark tie. He took the chair and Hank approached him, studied him for a moment and then said, “Would you tell the court your name, please?”
“Anthony Aposto.”
“Are you also known as Batman?”
“Yeah.”
“Where did you get that name?”
“I picked it.”
“Why?”
“Batman?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you have any idea why you picked this particular name?”
“He’s in the comics. Batman, I mean.”
“Yes, I know. Do you like reading comics?”
“I like the pictures, yeah.”
“Do you have trouble with the words?”
“A little, yeah.”
“But you like reading comics anyway, is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you like the comics about Batman?”
“He’s brave. Also, he wears a nice suit, all black. And he’s got this friend Robin that he lives with. They’re like brothers almost.”
“Do you have any brothers?”
“No.”
“Would you like to have brothers?”
“I d
on’t know. I guess it wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Would you rather be Batman or Robin?”
“Objection!”
“Mr. Randolph?”
“The boy’s reading tastes seem irrelevant to me.”
“They are a part of the boy’s character, and since we’re trying to determine whether or not this boy committed murder, the question is relevant. Objection overruled. The witness will please answer the question.”
“What was the question again?” Aposto asked.
“Read him the question, please,” Samalson said.
“‘Would you rather be Batman or Robin?’” the court stenographer said.
“I’d rather be Batman.”
“Why?” Hank asked.
“Because he’s bigger, and he’s braver. And he wears this nice black suit. To tell the truth, Robin looks a little like a girl.”
“Do you like school, Anthony?”
“No, not so much.”
“What are you studying?”
“How to be an airplane mechanic.”
“Are you doing well in school?”
“Well, not so hot.”
“Would you like to be an airplane mechanic?”
“It’s a pretty good job. It pays good.”
“Yes, but would you like it?”
“I guess so.”
“Yes or no?”
“Well … no. Not really.”
“What would you rather be?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, think about it for a moment. If you had your choice, if you could be anything in the whole wide world, what would you choose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think about it.”
“I guess I’d like to be a prize fighter.”
“Why?”
“I like to fight. I’m a pretty good fighter. Everybody knows that.”
“Would you like to fight because of the money involved?”
“No, not so much the money. I just like to fight, that’s all. I’m a good fighter. You can ask anybody.”
“If this court frees you, Anthony, what will you do with your life?”
“Objection!”
“Overruled. Proceed.”
“My life?”
“Yes.”
“Gee, I don’t know.”
“Suppose you were released this afternoon, what would you do?”
“Gee, I don’t know.”
“Would you go to a movie? Or a ball game? What would you do?”
“I guess I’d go back to the block. I guess that’s what I’d do. Yeah, I’d do that first.”