by Isaac Asimov
The judge clutched his gavel with one hand, forehead with the other. He banged on the desk to quiet the courtroom.
Turnbull stood there, smiling. “Naturally,” he said, “you’ll have proof of that statement.”
Wilson snarled. “Certainly.” He referred to his brief. “The so-called Henry Jenkins is the ghost, spirit or specter of one Hank Jenkins, who prospected for gold in this territory a century ago. He was killed by a bullet through the throat from the gun of one Long Tom Cooper, and was declared legally dead on September 14, 1850. Cooper was hanged for his murder. No matter what hocus-pocus you produce for evidence to the contrary now, that status of legal death remains completely valid.”
“What evidence have you of the identity of my client with this Hank Jenkins?” Turnbull asked grimly.
“Do you deny it?”
Turnbull shrugged. “I deny nothing. I’m not being cross-examined. Furthermore, the sole prerequisite of a witness is that he understand the value of an oath. Henry Jenkins was tested by John Quincy Fitzjames, professor of psychology at the University of Southern California. The results-I have Dr. Fitzjames’ sworn statement of them here, which I will introduce as an exhibit-show clearly that my client’s intelligence quotient is well above normal, and that a psychiatric examination discloses no important aberrations which would injure his validity as a witness. I insist that my client be allowed to testify on his own behalf.”
“But he’s dead!” squawked Wilson. “He’s invisible right now!”
“My client.” said Turnbull stiffly, “is not present just now. Undoubtedly that accounts for what you term his invisibility.” He paused for the appreciative murmur that swept through the court. Things were breaking perfectly, he thought, smiling. “I have here another affidavit,” he said. “It is signed by Elihu James and Terence MacRae, who respectively head the departments of physics and biology at the same university. It states that my client exhibits all the vital phenomena of life. I am prepared to call all three of my expert witnesses to the stand, if necessary.”
Wilson scowled but said nothing. Judge Gimbel leaned forward. “I don’t see how it is possible for me to refuse the plaintiff the right to testify,” he said. “If the three experts who prepared these reports will testify on the stand to the facts contained in them, Henry Jenkins may then take the stand.”
Wilson sat down heavily. The three experts spoke briefly-and dryly. Wilson put them through only the most formal of cross-examinations.
The judge declared a brief recess. In the corridor outside, Wilson and his client lit cigarettes and looked unsympathetically at each other.
“I feel like a fool,” said Russell Harley. “Bringing suit against a ghost.”
“The ghost brought the suit,” Wilson reminded him. “If only we’d been able to hold fire for a couple more weeks, till another judge came on the bench, I could’ve got this thing thrown right out of court.”
“Well, why couldn’t we wait?”
“Because you were in such a damn hurry!” Wilson said. “you and that idiot Nicholls-so confident that it would never come to trial.”
Harley shrugged, and thought unhappily of their failure in completely exorcising the ghost of Hank Jenkins. That had been a mess. Jenkins had somehow escaped from the charmed circle they’d drawn around him, in which they’d hoped to keep him till the trial was forfeited by non-appearance.
“That’s another thing,” said Wilson. “Where is Nicholls?”
Harley shrugged again. “I dunno. The last I saw of him was in your office. He came around to see me right after the deputy slapped the show-cause order on me at the house. He brought me down to you-said you’d been recommended to him. Then you and him and I talked about the case for a while. He went out, after he lent me a little money to help meet your retainer. Haven’t seen him since.”
“I’d like to know who recommended me to him,” Wilson said grimly. “I don’t think he’d ever recommend anybody else. I don’t like this case-and I don’t much like you.”
Harley growled but said nothing. He flung his cigarette away. It tasted of the garbage that hung around his neck-everything did. Nicholls had told no lies when he said Harley wouldn’t much like the bundle of herbs that would ward off the ghost of old Jenkins. They smelled.
The court clerk was in the corridor, bawling something, and people were beginning to trickle back in. Harley and his attorney went with them.
When the trial had been resumed, the clerk said, “Henry Jenkins!”
Wilson was on his feet at once. He opened the door of the judge’s chamber, said something in a low tone. Then he stepped back, as if to let someone through.
Pat. HISS. Pat. HISS-
There was a concerted gasp from the spectators as the weirdly appearing trickle of blood moved slowly across the open space to the witness chair. This was the ghost-the plaintiff in the most eminently absurd case in the history of jurisprudence.
“All right, Hank,” Turnbull whispered. “You’ll have to materialize long enough to let the clerk swear you in.”
The clerk drew back nervously at the pillar of milky fog that appeared before him, vaguely humanoid in shape. A phantom hand, half transparent, reached out to touch the Bible. The clerk’s voice shook as he administered the oath, and heard the response come from the heart of the cloudpillar.
The haze drifted into the witness chair, bent curiously at about hip-height, and popped into nothingness.
The judge banged his gavel wildly. The buzz of alarm that had arisen from the spectators died out.
“I’ll warn you again,” he declared, “that unruliness will not be tolerated. The counsel for the plaintiff may proceed.”
Turnbull walked to the witness chair and addressed its emptiness. “
“Your name?”
“My name is Henry Jenkins.”
“Your occupation?”
There was a slight pause. “I have none. I guess you’d say I’m retired.”
“Mr. Jenkins, just what connection have you with the building referred to as Harley Hall?”
“I have occupied it for ninety years.”
“During this time, did you come to know the late Zebulon Harley, owner of the Hall?”
“I knew Zeb quite well.”
Turnbull nodded. “When did you make his acquaintance?” he asked.
“In the spring of 1907. Zeb had just lost his wife. After that, you see, he made Harley Hall his year-round home. He became-well, more or less of a hermit. Before that we had never met, since he was only seldom at the Hall. But we became friendly then.”
“How long did this friendship last?”
“Until he died last fall. I was with him when he died. I still have a few keepsakes he left me then.” There was a distinct nostalgic sigh from the witness chair, which by now was liberally spattered with muddy red liquid. The falling drops seemed to hesitate for a second, and their sizzling noise was muted as with a strong emotion.
Turnbull went on, “Your relations with him were good, then?”
“I’d call them excellent,” the emptiness replied firmly. “Every night we sat up together. When we didn’t play pinochle or chess or cribbage, we just sat and talked over the news of the day. I still have the book we used to keep records of the chess and pinochle games. Zeb made the entries himself, in his own handwriting.”
Turnbull abandoned the witness for a moment. He faced the judge with a smile. “I offer in evidence,” he said, “the book mentioned. Also a ring given to the plaintiff by the late Mr. Harley, and a copy of the plays of Gilbert and Sullivan. On the flyleaf of this book is inscribed, ‘To Old Hank’, in Harley’s own hand.”
He turned again to the empty, blood-leaking witness chair.
He said, “In all your years of association, did Zebulon Harley ever ask you to leave, or to pay rent?”
“Of course not. Not Zeb!”
Turnbull nodded. “Very good,” he said. “Now, just one or two more questions. Will you tell in your own wor
ds what occurred, after the death of Zebulon Harley, that caused you to bring this suit?”
“Well, in January young Harley-”
“You mean Russell Joseph Harley, the defendant?”
“Yes. He arrived at Harley Hall on January fifth. I asked him to leave, which he did. On the next day he returned with another man. They placed a talisman upon the threshold of the main entrance, and soon after sealed every threshold and windowsill in the Hall with a substance which is noxious to me. These activities were accompanied by several of the most deadly spells in the Ars Magicorum. He further added an Exclusion Circle with a radius of a little over a mile, entirely surrounding the Hall.”
“I see,” the lawyer said. “Will you explain to the court the effects of these activities?”
“Well,” the voice said thoughtfully, “it’s a little hard to put in words. I can’t pass the Circle without a great expenditure of energy. Even if I did I couldn’t enter the building because of the talisman and the seals.”
“Could you enter by air? Through a chimney, perhaps?”
“No. The Exclusion Circle is really a sphere. I’m pretty sure the effort would destroy me.”
“In effect, then, you are entirely barred from the house you have occupied for ninety years, due to the wilful acts of Russell Joseph Harley, the defendant, and an unnamed accomplice of his.”
“That is correct.”
Turnbull beamed. “Thank you. That’s all.”
He turned to Wilson, whose face had been a study in dourness throughout the entire examination. “Your witness,” he said.
Wilson snapped to his feet and strode to the witness chair.
He said belligerently, “You say your name is Henry Jenkins?”
“Yes.”
“That is your name now, you mean to say. What was your name before?”
“Before?” There was surprise in the voice that emanated from above the trickling blood-drops. “Before when?”
Wilson scowled. “Don’t pretend ignorance,” he said sharply. “Before you died, of course.”
“Objection!” Turnbull was on his feet, glaring at Wilson. “The counsel for the defense has no right to speak of some hypothetical death of my client!”
Gimbel raised a hand wearily and cut off the words that were forming on Wilson’s lips. “Objection sustained,” he said. “No evidence has been presented to identify the plaintiff as the prospector who was killed in 1850-or anyone else.”
Wilson’s mouth twisted into a sour grimace. He continued on a lower key.
“You say, Mr. Jenkins, that you occupied Harley Hall for ninety years.”
“Ninety-two years next month. The Hall wasn’t built-in its present form, anyhow-until 1876, but I occupied the house that stood on the site previously.”
“What did you do before then?”
“Before then?” The voice paused, then said doubtfully, “I don’t remember.”
“You’re under oath!” Wilson flared.
The voice got firmer. “Ninety years is a long time,” it said. “I don’t remember.”
“Let’s see if I can’t refresh your memory. Is it true that ninety-one years ago, in the very year in which you claim to have begun your occupancy of Harley Hall, Hank Jenkins was killed in a gun duel?”
“That may be true, if you say so. I don’t remember.”
“Do you remember that the shooting occurred not fifty feet from the present site of Harley Hall?”
“It may be.”
“Well, then,” Wilson thundered, “is it not a fact that when Hank Jenkins died by violence his ghost assumed existence? That it was then doomed to haunt the site of its slaying throughout eternity?”
The voice said evenly, “I have no knowledge of that.”
“Do you deny that it is well known throughout that section that the ghost of Hank Jenkins haunts Harley Hall?”
“Objection!” shouted Turnbull. “Popular opinion is not evidence.”
“Objection sustained. Strike the question from the record.”
Wilson, badgered, lost his control. In a dangerously uneven voice, he said, “Perjury is a criminal offense. Mr. Jenkins, do you deny that you are the ghost of Hank Jenkins?”
The tone was surprised. “Why, certainly.”
“You are a ghost, aren’t you?”
Stiffly, “I’m an entity on the astral plane.”
“That, I believe, is what is called a ghost?”
“I can’t help what it’s called. I’ve heard you called a lot of things. Is that proof?”
There was a surge of laughter from the audience. Gimbel slammed his gavel down on the bench.
“The witness,” he said, “will confine himself to answering questions.”
Wilson bellowed, “In spite of what you say, it’s true, isn’t it, that you are merely the spirit of a human being who had died through violence?”
The voice from above the blood drops retorted, “I repeat that I am an entity of the astral plane. I am not aware that I was ever a human being.”
The lawyer turned an exasperated face to the bench.
“Your honor,” he said, “I ask that you instruct the witness to cease playing verbal hide-and-seek. It is quite evident that the witness is a ghost, and that he is therefore the relict of some human being, ipso facto. Circumstantial evidence is strong that he is the ghost of the Hank Jenkins who was killed in 1850. But this is a non-essential point. What is definite is that he is the ghost of someone who is dead, and hence is unqualified to act as witness! I demand his testimony be stricken from the record!”
Turnbull spoke up at once. “Will the counsel for the defense quote his authority for branding my client a ghost-in the face of my client’s repeated declaration that he is an entity of the astral plane? What is the legal definition of a ghost?”
Judge Gimbel smiled. “Counsel for the defense will proceed with the cross-examination,” he said.
Wilson’s face Hushed dark purple. He mopped his brow with a large bandanna, then glared at the dropping, sizzling trickle of blood.
“Whatever you are,” he said, “answer me this question. Can you pass through a wall?”
“Why, yes. Certainly.” There was a definite note of surprise in the voice from nowhere. “But it isn’t as easy as some people think. It definitely requires a lot of effort.”
“Never mind that. You can do it?”
“Yes.”
“Could you be bound by any physical means? Would handcuffs hold you? Or ropes, chains, prison walls, a hermetically sealed steel chest?”
Jenkins had no chance to answer. Turnbull, scenting danger, cut in hastily. “I object to this line of questioning. It is entirely irrelevant. “
“On the contrary,” Wilson cried loudly, “it bears strongly on the qualifications of the so-called Henry Jenkins as a witness! I demand that he answer the question.”
Judge Gimbel said, “Objection overruled. Witness will answer the question.”
The voice from the chair said superciliously, “I don’t mind answering. Physical barriers mean nothing to me, by and large.”
The counsel for the defense drew himself up triumphantly.
“Very good,” he said with satisfaction. “Very good.” Then to the judge, the words coming sharp and fast, “I claim, your honor, that the so-called Henry Jenkins has no legal status as a witness in court. There is clearly no value in understanding the nature of an oath if a violation of the oath can bring no punishment in its wake. The statements of a man who can perjure himself freely have no worth. I demand they be stricken from the record!”
Turnbull was at the judge’s bench in two strides.
“I had anticipated that, your honor,” he said quickly. “From the very nature of the case, however, it is clear that my client can be very definitely restricted in his movements-spells, pentagrams, talismans, amulets, Exclusion Circles and what-not. I have here-which I am prepared to deliver to the bailiff of the court-a list of the various methods of confining an astr
al entity to a restricted area for periods ranging from a few moments to all eternity. Moreover, I have also signed a bond for five thousand dollars, prior to the beginning of the trial, which I stand ready to forfeit should my client be confined and make his escape, if found guilty of any misfeasance as a witness.”
Gimbel’s face, which had looked startled for a second, slowly cleared. He nodded. “The court is satisfied with the statement of the counsel for the plaintiff,” he declared. “There seems no doubt that the plaintiff can be penalized for any misstatements, and the motion of the defense is denied.”
Wilson looked choleric, but shrugged. “ All right,” he said. “That will be all:’
“You may step down, Mr. Jenkins,” Gimbel directed, and watched in fascination as the blood-dripping column rose and floated over the floor, along the corridor, out the door.
Turnbull approached the judge’s bench again. He said, “I would like to place in evidence these notes, the diary of the late Zebulon Harley. Itwas presented to my client by Harley himself last fall. I call particular attention to the entry for April sixth, nineteen seventeen, in which he mentions the entrance of the United States into the First World War, and records the results of a series of eleven pinochle games played with a personage identified as ‘Old Hank.’ With the court’s permission, I will read the entry for that day, and also various other entries for the next four years. Please note the references to someone known variously as ‘Jenkins’, ‘Hank Jenkins’ and-in one extremely significant passage-’Old Invisible: “
Wilson stewed silently during the slow reading of Harley’s diary. There was anger on his face, but he paid close attention, and when the reading was over he leaped to his feet.
“I would like to know,” he asked, “if the counsel for the plaintiff is in possession of any diaries after nineteen twenty?”
Turnbull shook his head. “Harley apparently never kept a diary, except during the four years represented in this.”
“Then I demand that the court refuse to admit this diary as evidence on two counts,” Wilson said. He raised two fingers to tick off the points. “In the first place, the evidence presented is frivolous. The few vague and unsatisfactory references to Jenkins nowhere specifically describe him as what he is-ghost, astral entity or what you will. Second, the evidence, even were the first point overlooked, concerns only the years up to nineteen twenty-one. The case concerns itself only with the supposed occupation of Harley Hall by the so-called Jenkins in the last twenty years- since ‘twenty-one. Clearly, the evidence is therefore irrelevant.”