“It was nice of you to come and visit me, Mrs. Mathews . . .” I said haltingly. She didn’t reply to my opening remark and I didn’t know what else to say. But I tried.
“I’m sorry things turned out the way they did,” I said humbly, “but I want you to know that Helen was in full accord with what I did. It was the way Helen wanted it . . .” throat was tight, like somebody was holding my windpipe, and I had to force the words out of my mouth. “If we had it all to do over again, maybe things would have worked out differently . . .”
Mrs. Mathews her mouth in and out, pursed her worked lips.
“I’ve pleaded guilty, and—” I didn’t get to finish my sentence.
Without warning, Mrs. Mathews spat into my face. Involuntarily, I jerked back from the bars. Ordinarily, a woman is quite awkward when she tries to spit. Mrs. Mathews was not. The wet, disgusting spittle struck my forehead, right above my eyebrows. I made no attempt to wipe it off, but came forward again, and tightly gripped the bars. I waited patiently for a stream of invective to follow, but it didn’t come. Mrs. Mathews glared at me for another long moment, sniffed, jerked her head to the right, turned and lumbered away.
I sat down on my bunk, wiped off my face with the back of my hand. My legs and hands were trembling and I was as weak as if I had climbed out of a hot Turkish bath.
My mind didn’t function very well. Maybe I had it coming to me. At least in her eyes, I did. I didn’t know what to think. The viciousness and sudden fury of her pointless action had taken me completely by surprise. But how many times must I be punished before I was put to death? I don’t believe I was angry, not even bitter. There was a certain turmoil inside my chest, but it was caused mostly by my reaction to her intense hatred of me. In addition to my disgust and loathing for the woman I also managed to feel sorry for her and I suspected she would suffer later for her impulsive action. After she reflected, perhaps shame would come and she would regret her impulsiveness. It was like kicking an unconscious man in the face. But on the other hand, she had probably planned what she would do for several days. I didn’t want to think about it. Mr. Paige was outside the door and there was a contrite expression on his face.
“She didn’t stay long,” he said.
“No. She didn’t.”
“I saw what she did,” Mr. Paige said indignantly. “If I’d have known what she was up to I wouldn’t have let her in, even if she did have a pass from the D.A.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Paige. I don’t blame you; I don’t blame anybody. But if she comes back, don’t let her in again. I don’t want to see her any more. My life is too short.”
“Don’t worry, Jordan. She won’t get in again!” He said this positively. He walked away and I was alone. I washed my face with the brown soap and cold water in my wash basin a dozen times, but my face still felt dirty.
The next day my appetite was off. I tried to draw something, anything, to pass the time away, but I couldn’t keep my mind on it. Mr. Paige had told Mr. Benson what had happened and he had tried to talk to me about it, and I cut him off quickly. I didn’t feel like talking. I lay on my back all day long, smoking cigarettes, one after another, and looking at the ceiling.
On Tuesday, I had another visitor. Mr. Benson appeared outside my cell with a well-fed man wearing a brown gabardine Brooks Brothers suit and a blue satin vest. His face was lobster red and his larynx gave him trouble when he talked. Mr. Benson opened the door and let the man into my cell.
“This is Mr. Dorrell, Jordan,” the old jailer said. “He’s an editor from He-Men Magazine and he’s got an okay from the D.A.’s office so I gotta let him in for ten minutes.”
“All right,” I said, and I didn’t move from my reclining position. There were no stools or chairs and Mr. Dorrell had to stand. “What can I do for you, Mr. Dorrell?” I asked.
“I’m from He-Men, Mr. Jordan,” he began in his throaty voice. “And our entire editorial staff is interested in your case. To get directly to the point—we want an ‘as-told-to’ story from you, starting right at the beginning of your, ah, relationship with Mrs. Meredith.”
“No. That’s impossible.”
“No,” he smiled, “it isn’t impossible. There is a lot of interest for people when a woman as prominent in society as Mrs. Meredith gets, shall we say, involved?”
“Helen wasn’t prominent in society.”
“Maybe not, not as you and I know it, Mr. Jordan. But certain places, like Biarritz, for instance, Venice, and in California, San Sienna, are very romantic watering places. And the doings of their inhabitants interests our readers very much.”
“My answer is no.”
“We’ll pay you one thousand dollars for such an article.”
“I don’t want a thousand dollars.”
“You might need it.”
“What for?”
“Money comes in handy sometimes,” he croaked, “and the public has a right to know about your case.”
“Why do they?” I asked belligerently. “It’s nobody’s business but my own!”
“Suppose you consider the offer and let us know later?”
“No. I won’t even consider it. I don’t blame you, Mr. Dorrell. You’ve got a job to do. And I suppose your readers would get a certain amount of morbid enjoyment from my unhappy plight, and possibly, more copies of your magazine would be bought. But I can’t allow myself to sell such a story. It’s impossible.”
“Well, I won’t say anything more.” Mr. Dorrell took a card out of his wallet and handed it to me. “If you happen to change your mind, send me a wire. Send it collect, and I’ll send a feature writer to see you and he’ll bring you a check, in advance.”
At the door he called for Mr. Benson. The jailer let him out of the cell and locked the door again. The two of them chatted as they walked down the corridor and I tore the business card into several small pieces and threw them on the floor. If Mr. Dorrell had been disappointed by my refusal he certainly didn’t show it. What kind of a world did I live in, anyway? Everybody seemed to believe that money was everything, that it could buy integrity, brains, art, and now, a man’s soul. I had never had a thousand dollars at one time in my entire life. And now, when I had an opportunity to have that much money, I was in a position to turn it down. It made me feel better and I derived a certain satisfaction from the fact that I could turn it down. In my present position, I could afford to turn down ten thousand, a million . . .
I didn’t eat any supper that evening. After drinking the black coffee I tried to sleep but all night long I rolled and tossed on my narrow bunk. From time to time I dozed, but I always awakened with a start, and my heart would violently pound. There was a dream after me, a bad dream, and my sleeping mind wouldn’t accept it. I was grateful when morning came at last. I knew it was morning, because Mr. Benson brought my breakfast.
After breakfast, when I took my daily shower, I noticed the half-smile on the old jailer’s face. He gave me my razor, handing it in to me as I stood under the hot water, and not only did I get a few extra minutes in the shower, I got a better shave with the hot water. As I toweled myself I wondered what was behind the old man’s smile.
“What’s the joke, Mr. Benson?” I asked.
“I’ve got news for you, Jordan, but I don’t know whether it’s good or bad.” His smile broadened.
“What news?”
“You’re being tried today.”
“It’s good news.”
He brought me my own clothes and I put them on, tied my necktie as carefully as I could without a mirror. I had to wait in my cell for about a half-hour and then I was hand-cuffed and taken down to the receiving office and checked out. My stuff was returned and I signed the envelope to show that I had gotten it back. All of it. Button, piece of string, handkerchief, and parking stub from the Continental Garage. As the detective and I started toward the parking ramp the desk sergeant called out to the officer. We paused.
“He’s minimum security, Jeff.”
&nbs
p; Jeff removed the handcuffs and we climbed into the waiting police car for the short drive to the Court House.
TWENTY
Trial
I WAITED in a small room adjacent to the courtroom. It was sparsely furnished; just a small chipped wooden table against the wall and four metal chairs. I stood by the window, looking down three stories at the gray haze of fog that palled down over the civic center. A middle-aged uniformed policeman was stationed in the room to stand guard over me, and he leaned against the wall by the door, picking at the loose threads of the buttonholes on his shiny Navy blue serge uniform. There was nothing much to see out of the window, only the fog, the dim outlines of automobiles with their lights on, in the street below, a few walking figures, their sex indistinguishable, but I looked out because it was a window and I hadn’t been in a room with a window for a long time. One at a time I pulled at my fingers, cracking the joints. The middle finger of my left hand made the loudest crack.
“Don’t do that,” the policeman said. “I can’t stand it. And besides, cracking your knuckles makes them swell.”
I stopped popping my fingers and put my hands in my trousers pockets. That didn’t feel right, so I put my hands in my jacket pockets. This was worse. I let my arms hang, swinging them back and forth like useless pendula. I didn’t want to smoke because my mouth and throat were too dry, but I got a light from the policeman and inhaled the smoke into my lungs, even though it tasted like scraped bone dust. Before I finished the cigarette there was a hard rapping on the door and the policeman opened it.
A round, overweight man with a shiny bald head bounced into the room. He didn’t come into the room, he “came on,” like a TV master of ceremonies. There was a hearty falseness to the broad smile on his round face and his eyes were black and glittering, almost hidden by thick, sagging folds of flesh. His white hands were short, white, and puffy, and the scattering of paprika freckles made them look unhealthily pale. I almost expected him to say, “A funny thing happened to me on the way over to the court house today,” but instead of saying anything he burst into a contagious, raucous, guffawing laugh that reverberated in the silence of the little room. It was the type of laughter that is usually infectious, but in my solemn frame of mind I didn’t feel like joining him. After a moment he stopped abruptly, wiped his dry face with a white handkerchief.
“You are Harry Jordan!” He pointed a blunt fat finger at me.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“I’m Larry Hingen-Bergen.” He unbuttoned his double-breasted tweed coat and sat down at the little table. He threw his battered briefcase on the table before him and indicated, by pointing to another chair, that he wanted me to sit down. I pulled up a chair, sat down, and faced him diagonally. “I’m your defense counsel, Jordan, appointed by the court. I suppose you wonder why I haven’t been to see you before this?” He closed his eyes, while he waited for my answer.
“No. Not particularly, Mr. Hingen-Bergen. After I told the District Attorney I was guilty, I didn’t think I’d need a defense counsel.”
His eyes snapped open, glittering. “And you don’t!” He guffawed loudly, with false heartiness. “And you don’t!” He let the laugh loose again, slapped his heavy thigh with his hand. “You!” he pointed his finger at my nose, “are a very lucky boy! In fact,” his expression sobered, “I don’t know how to tell you how lucky you are. You’re going to be a free man, Jordan.”
“What’s that?” I asked stupidly.
“Free. Here’s the story.” He related it in a sober, businesslike manner. “I was assigned to your case about two weeks ago, Jordan. Naturally, the first thing I did was have a little talk with Mr. Seely. You remember him?”
I nodded. “The Assistant D.A.”
“My visit happened to coincide with the day the medical report came in. Now get a grip on yourself, boy. Helen Meredith was not choked to death, as you claimed; she died a natural death!” He took a small notebook out of his pocket. It was a long and narrow notebook, fastened at the top, covered with green imitation snakeskin, the kind insurance salesmen give away whether you buy any insurance or not. I sat dazed, tense, leaning forward slightly while he leafed through the little book. “Here it is,” he said, smiling. “Coronary thrombosis. Know what that is?”
“It isn’t true!” I exclaimed.
He gripped my arm with his right hand, his voice softened. “I’m afraid it is true, Jordan. Of course, there were bruises on her neck and throat where your hands had been, but that’s all they were. Bruises. She actually died from a heart attack. Did she ever tell you she had a bad heart?”
I shook my head, scarcely hearing the question. “No. No, she didn’t. Her mother said something about it once, but I didn’t pay much attention at the time. And I can’t believe this, Mr. Hingen-Bergen. She was always real healthy; why she didn’t hardly get a hangover when she drank.”
“I’m not making this up, Jordan.” He tapped the notebook with the back of his fat fingers. “This was the Medical Examiner’s report. Right from the M.E.’s autopsy. There’s no case against you at all. Now, the reason the D.A. didn’t tell you about this was because he wanted to get a full psychiatrist’s report first.” Mr. Hingen-Bergen laughed, but it was a softer laugh, kind. “You might have been insane, you know. He had to find out before he could release you.”
My mind still wouldn’t accept the situation. “But if I didn’t actually kill her, Mr. Hingen-Bergen, I must have at least hastened her death! And if so, that makes me guilty, doesn’t it?”
“No,” he replied flatly. “She’d have died anyway. I read the full M.E. report. She was in pretty bad shape. Malnutrition, I don’t remember what all. You didn’t have anything to do with her death.”
The middle-aged policeman had been attentively following the conversation. “By God,” he remarked, “this is an interesting case, Mr. Hingen-Bergen!”
“Isn’t it?” The fat lawyer smiled at him. He turned to me again. “Now, Jordan, we’re going into the court room and Mr. Seely will present the facts to the judge. He’ll move for a dismissal of the charges and you’ll be free to go.”
“Go where?” My mind was in a turmoil.
“Why, anywhere you want to go, naturally. You’ll be a free man! Why, this is the easiest case I’ve ever had. Usually my clients go to jail!” He laughed boisterously and the policeman joined him. “You just sit tight, Jordan, and the bailiff’ll call you in a few minutes.” He picked his briefcase up from the table and left the room.
I remained in my chair, my mind numb. If this was true, and evidently it was—the lawyer wouldn’t lie to me right before the trial—I hadn’t done anything! Not only had I fumbled my own suicide, I’d fumbled Helen’s death too. I could remember the scene so vividly. I could remember the feel of her throat beneath my thumbs, and the anguish I had under gone . . . and all of it for nothing. Nothing. I covered my face with my hands. I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the policeman’s hand and he tried to cheer me up.
“Why, hell, boy,” he said friendly, “don’t take it so hard. You’re lucky as hell. Here . . .” I dropped my hands to my lap. The policeman held out a package of cigarettes. “Take one.” I took one and he lighted it for me. “You don’t want to let this prey on your mind. You’ve got a chance to start your life all over again. Take it. Be grateful for it.”
“It was quite a shock. I wasn’t ready for it.”
“So what? You’re out of it, forget it. Better pull yourself together. You’ll be seeing the judge pretty soon.”
The bailiff and Mr. Hingen-Bergen came for me and took me into the court room. I’d never seen a regular trial before. All I knew about court room procedure was what I had seen in movies; and movie trials are highly dramatic, loud voices, screaming accusations, bawling witnesses, things like that. This was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. Mr. Hingen-Bergen and I joined the group at the long table. The judge sat at the end wearing his dark robes. And he was a young man, not too many years past thirty; he didn�
��t look as old as Mr. Seely. Mr. Seely sat next to the judge, his face incompliant behind his glasses. It was a large room, not a regular courtroom, and there were no spectators. A male stenographer, in his early twenties, made a fifth at the table. The bailiff leaned against the door, smoking a pipe.
Mr. Seely and the judge carried on what seemed to be a friendly conversation. I didn’t pay any attention to what they were saying; I was waiting for the trial to get started.
“The Medical Examiner couldn’t make it, your honor,” Mr. Seely said quietly to the judge, “but here’s his report, if that’s satisfactory.”
There was a long period of silence while the judge studied the typewritten sheets. The judge slid the report across the desk to Mr. Seely, and the Assistant District Attorney put it back inside his new cowhide briefcase. The judge pursed his lips and looked at me for a moment, nodding his head up and down soberly.
“I believe you’re right, Mr. Seely,” he said softly. “There’s really no point in holding the defendant any longer. The case is dismissed.” He got to his feet, rested his knuckles on the desk and stared at me. I thought he was going to say something to me, but he didn’t. He gathered his robes about him, lifting the hems clear of the floor, and Mr. Hingen-Bergen and I stood up. He left the courtroom by a side door. Mr. Seely walked around the table and shook hands with me.
“I’ve got some advice for you, Jordan,” Mr. Seely said brusquely. “Keep away from liquor, and see if you can find another city to live in.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“That’s good advice,” Mr. Hingen-Bergen added.
“Of course,” Mr. Seely amended gravely, “you don’t have to leave San Francisco. Larry can tell you that.” He looked sideways at my fat defense counsel. “You’re free to live any place you want to, but I believe my advice is sound.”
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