The Evangeline

by D. W. Buffa

  ‘Yes, exactly.’

  ‘No further questions, your Honour.’

  Maitland glanced at the clock, and then at Darnell.‘You have another witness, if I’m not mistaken.’ He turned to the jury.‘We’ll take our noon recess a little early. Instead of starting again at two o’clock, we’ll start at one-thirty.’

  There was too much to do to bother with lunch. Darnell shut himself inside a small windowless room where lawyers could confer privately with their clients. For the next hour and a half he pored over the transcript of Benjamin Whitfield’s prior testimony and the copious and meticulous notes he had taken of the testimony of certain other witnesses as well. He did not need to read more than the first few words of a paragraph, or sometimes of a whole page, to refresh his memory of what had been said. The pages turned one after the other under an intense concentration whose only physical manifestation was an almost catatonic stare. Someone could have fired a gun just outside the door and he would not have heard it. The clock inside his head, the clock that never worked when he had to be anywhere but court, told him when it was time to stop. At twenty-five minutes after the hour, Darnell shut his briefcase and headed back down the hall. The pills that Summer Blaine had given him that morning, the pills that he had promised to take at lunch, lay forgotten in his pocket.

  It did not matter; he had not felt this well in ages. There was a bounce to his step when he entered the courtroom, the place he always felt at home. He sat down next to Marlowe, but did not speak to him. He smiled to himself with anticipation.With one final witness, he would bring the trial full circle and show that the only crimes that counted had been committed not on the high seas, after the Evangeline had sunk, but before the Evangeline had ever left port.

  Homer Maitland burst through the door at the side. The courtroom crowd rose as one. Maitland nodded to the jury and, with a motion of his hand, told the crowd to sit. ‘Mr Darnell,’ he said in a firm, rough-edged voice, ‘are you ready with your next witness?’

  Darnell was on his feet. ‘Your Honour, the defence calls Benjamin Whitfield.’

  Maitland reminded Whitfield that because he had not been formally excused, he was still under oath.‘Even though, this time, you’re here as a witness not for the prosecution, but for the defence.’

  Benjamin Whitfield looked more worried, and more cautious, than he had before. He had read the newspaper accounts of what other witnesses had said at the trial. He had been besieged with requests for interviews after what Marlowe had said. He had read about what the naval architect had said about the hull. Someone had no doubt told him what Cynthia Grimes had said that morning. He knew that, whatever other reason Darnell might have had to put him under subpoena, he was going to be asked to explain why, as a witness for the prosecution, he had lied.

  Darnell was surprisingly pleasant. ‘It’s good to see you again, Mr Whitfield,’ he said as he moved across the front of the courtroom to the table where the clerk kept the various exhibits that had been marked and introduced into evidence.‘May I have the photographs, please, the ones introduced by the prosecution when Mr Whitfield testified before?’

  Darnell handed Whitfield the pictures that he had earlier identified as being of the Evangeline before she started her last, ill-fated voyage. ‘You remember these photographs, don’t you? Two taken when she was christened, three of them while she was on her sea trials, and the last—that one,’ he said, pointing to the one Whitfield had just turned over, ‘—taken the day she left, the day she sailed out of Nice for that trip around Africa she never completed.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Whitfield warily, holding the photographs in his hand.

  ‘I was struck at the time—and I’m sure the jury was struck as well—by how beautiful she was.’

  Whitfield nodded, and waited.

  ‘But despite that old saying about a picture being worth a thousand words, in this case the pictures perhaps hid more than they told—wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘I don’t think I quite understand what you mean.’

  ‘Oh, I think you do, Mr Whitfield,’ replied Darnell with a sidelong glance at the jurors.

  They were watching the witness with new eyes, seeing him now through the lens of what they had been told since his first appearance, no longer willing to accept what he said at face value. He was aware of their suspicion, bothered by it to the point that he would not look back at them.

  Darnell stood at the far end of the jury box, so that Whitfield would have to look right past them.‘I think you do, Mr Whitfield. But there is also something else about those pictures that may not be immediately apparent. It certainly was not apparent to me when I first saw them. The size, Mr Whitfield, the size. Here, look at them, each one of them. The Evangeline is all alone; there are no other boats, no other “sailing yachts” around her. It was not until Mr Mulholland, the architect you commissioned to design and build her, testified that any of us first understood how large she really was—almost two hundred feet in length! No wonder you thought she could go anywhere in the world; no wonder you told him, the man who designed and built her, that no one who sailed her would ever have to worry about safety.’

  Darnell paused, as if he wanted to make sure he had not been misunderstood. ‘That is what you told him, isn’t it? That with all the technology she had on board, safety—well, I don’t want to be imprecise. I think your exact words, at least as Mr Mulholland remembered them, were: “the last thing anyone had to worry about was safety”.’ Darnell lifted his eyebrows with an air of expectancy. ‘Isn’t that what you said?’

  ‘Perhaps I said something like that; I’m not sure.’ Whitfield bent forward, rubbing his hands together. ‘She should have been safe; she would have been safe if—’

  ‘If some of the equipment had not failed; if she had not encountered a storm of such unexpected ferocity; if a lot of different things had not happened. We have heard all about that, Mr Whitfield. But all of it, I must tell you, comes down to this: she would have been safe if you had not lied!’

  ‘I didn’t lie! Not about anything that mattered!’

  ‘Not about anything that mattered? You lied to Marlowe: you told him the Evangeline had gone through her sea trials without a problem!’

  ‘I didn’t lie to him on purpose. Don’t you understand? Everything was falling apart. Everyone wanted something; there were questions about everything.When Marlowe asked about the sea trials—I had so many things going on, I don’t even remember that he did—I must have told him whatever I thought he wanted to hear. The Evangeline had just sailed across the Atlantic. She was fine. A little crack needed fixing, that was all. She was what I said she was before, what Mulholland said as well—the finest vessel of her kind ever built!’

  Darnell threw it right back at him.‘The finest vessel of its kind in the world—and you did not want to make absolutely certain that she was safe to sail on? All you had to do was make one phone call!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All you had to do was call the shipyard where the Evangeline was built. They would have examined her for you; or you could have had it done right there in Nice. Any major shipyard would have had the right equipment. Just one phone call, Mr Whitfield. Isn’t that all you had to do?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose; but as I said, it didn’t seem that important. Mulholland said he didn’t think there was a problem. And again, there were so many other things going on that—’

  Darnell was incredulous. ‘You were too busy, you had too many problems to be able to make any clear decision—is that what you are saying?’

  ‘It did not seem that major, not with all the other things I was dealing with.’

  ‘The news that Cynthia Grimes was pregnant with your child, for example? The news that, for some reason, she thought you wanted a child and that you wanted to marry her—other things like that?’

  ‘I was not thinking that clearly. I said some things I probably should not have said.’Whitfield stared down between his hands to
the floor below.

  ‘You did not go back to the United States because your father was dying, did you? You went back because of her, because of Cynthia Grimes, because of what she had told you. Isn’t that true, Mr Whitfield?’

  Whitfield raised his eyes, a look of desolation on his face. ‘There were a lot of things going on, none of them good. But, I swear to you, I would not have let the Evangeline sail if I had thought for one moment that there was any chance that—’

  ‘If you had thought for one moment! But you weren’t thinking,were you? Isn’t that what you just said—that there were too many things going on, too many questions, too many people wanting too many things? You did not have time to think about the Evangeline and what might happen to the people aboard her! You did not have time to think about the woman who was pregnant with your child! The only thought you had, Mr Whitfield, was about yourself! You did not…’

  The words died in midair as he felt the pain. It hit him like an electric shock, starting deep inside his chest, then shooting quick and lethal down his left arm. He staggered, stumbled forward, wondering how he could have been so stupid as to think that it could never happen to him, that he could never die of a heart attack while he was still in the middle of a trial. He fell to the floor and lay there helpless, staring up at the crowd of people gathering around him. For an instant, he saw, or thought he saw, Summer Blaine. He thought it odd that it might mean either that he was still alive or that there was something after death. Then everything turned black and he could not see or feel anything at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  HE WAS DEAD, YET HER FACE, THE FACE OF Summer Blaine, hovered in front of him, floating disembodied in the air. He wanted to say something, to let her know that he could see her, but he had forgotten how to speak. He wanted to lift his hand, make some gesture to let her know what he had forgotten how to say, but he could not remember how to move. Was this what it meant to leave the light for eternal darkness: that you would always be aware, if dimly, of what you had left behind?

  ‘Clear the courtroom!’ ordered Homer Maitland, waving frantically to the bailiff. ‘Is there a doctor anywhere?’

  Kneeling next to Darnell, Summer Blaine looked up. ‘Would someone please call an ambulance?’ she said in a voice that sounded much calmer than she felt. Darnell was in serious trouble, but she refused to let it show; there was too much she had to do.

  With the siren wailing, the ambulance raced through the city streets. Darnell’s vital signs were weak and getting worse.

  ‘You promised me you wouldn’t die,’ whispered Summer.‘You gave me your word.’ An oxygen mask was fastened over his mouth; his breathing was shallow, laboured and faint. She held his hand between her own, offering words of love and encouragement as the ambulance sped on its way.

  While Summer Blaine waited helpless and impatient, a team of cardiologists went to work. Three hours later she was told that the surgery had been successful and that William Darnell would live.

  ‘It was a very close call,’ said the surgeon with a weary smile. ‘If you had not been a physician and known what to do, he would have died before the ambulance ever got here. It’s still something of a miracle that he pulled through.’

  Summer stayed at the hospital as long as they would let her and was back again in the morning. She sat next to him on the bed, where he lay unconscious with tubes running everywhere, telling him he was going to be all right. After a while, tense and exhausted, she went outside and, where no one could see her, lit a cigarette. She held it between two trembling fingers, took one drag, then another—then, shaking her head at how weak she could become, she stamped the cigarette out.

  That night she went to bed early and slept straight through. Darnell would be awake in the morning and perhaps even able to sit up a little. She put on a cheerful blue dress, one she knew he liked, and tried to think about the best way to tell him that someone else would have to worry about Marlowe and the trial. He could never go back to court again.

  He was not going to have to live his life as an invalid. It was important that she tell him that right at the beginning. He was not to think that his life was over. He could still do pretty much anything he wanted. But trial work was too demanding; there was too much stress. He could lead a normal life, as long as he paid strict attention to the need for rest and a decent diet. He could even practise law. There was no reason he could not continue with the firm, advising clients and giving direction to the other, younger lawyers who could learn so much from him.

  It was all so reasonable and intelligent, any sensible person would find it completely logical and persuasive. It would, of course, have no effect on him. Darnell did not care what was good for other people; he did not care what anyone else would do. As far as he was concerned, the best argument for not doing something was that other people did. But it was different this time. She had to make him understand that. He should have been dead already, and now he was out of chances.

  ‘Have you seen this?’ he demanded when she opened the door to his hospital room. He was sitting up, two days’ worth of newspapers scattered over the bed.‘These idiots are saying that the trial will have to start all over; that “the famous defence lawyer, William Darnell, is in the hospital and no one knows how long he’ll be there or even whether he’ll recover”! I have to put a stop to this! I’ve already called Homer Maitland and told him I’m perfectly fine, that I’ll be back in court on Monday. I told him he could check with my personal physician if he needed confirmation.’

  Darnell paused, put down the newspaper he had been waving, and looked at her with grateful eyes. ‘I saw your face; I thought I was dying, and I saw your face. Of all the things in the world, all the memories I have in my life, when I thought I was dying, the only thought I had was seeing you. They tell me you saved my life; that if you had not been there, had not changed your mind and decided to come to watch a little of the trial, that I would not have made it. Thank you for that—and for making sure that, just like I promised, I won’t die, I’ll finish the trial.’

  Summer started to protest, to tell him all the things she had carefully rehearsed in her mind; but she saw in his eyes that none of it would do any good. He was going to finish the trial, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. And even if she could stop him, what would be the use? So he could live out the few years he might have left, broken by the knowledge that a great career had come to such a useless close? There was all the difference in the world between living as long as possible and having a reason to live.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked as she sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hand on his.

  ‘Don’t let anyone here make any statements about what happened. Don’t let anyone say anything about a heart attack. Tell anyone who asks … No, don’t do that. I won’t have you become a liar on my account. No, we’ll let the facts speak for themselves— or, rather, we’ll let the facts tell lies on our behalf,’ he said with a shrewd glint in his eye. ‘Tell them that I’ve been sent home already; that I’ll be back in court on Monday morning, ready to call my next witness.’

  ‘Sent home? They’ll want you here at least until the middle of next week.You’ve just been through … When? When were you planning to go home? Tomorrow?’

  ‘No, not tomorrow; today. I don’t need all this,’ he said, growling at the various monitors that measured his vital functions. ‘Get me out of here; take me home.’

  She seemed to hesitate. He took her by the wrist, squeezing it to show his strength.‘If I stay here, a nurse will check on me every so often; if I’m home, you’re there all the time. Aren’t I better off with a full-time doctor than a part-time nurse?’

  The grip on Summer’s wrist grew tighter. ‘If I wasn’t meant to finish the trial, don’t you think I would have died the other day in court? I have to see it through to the end; I’m the only one who can save Marlowe. This isn’t just vanity talking. Cynthia Grimes told me something, something Marlowe told her. I ha
ve to do this, and you have to help me.’

  Darnell did not want Summer Blaine to lie, but she did it anyway.With the kind of duplicitous precision any lawyer would have envied, William Darnell’s physician issued a short statement that was in all its parts truthful, and as a whole misleading.

  ‘William Darnell was released from the hospital today after a routine medical procedure alleviated a slight arterial blockage. He is expected to make a full and complete recovery and resume his normal schedule by the beginning of the week.’

  ‘Or kill himself trying,’ she muttered under her breath after she read the brief statement to the reporters gathered outside the hospital.

  The day after Darnell returned home, Homer Maitland and Michael Roberts came to see him.

  Summer greeted them at the door. ‘He’s expecting you,’ she said with a cheerful smile. ‘He’s been looking forward to it all morning.’

  Darnell was sitting in an easy chair next to a window in the living room. With his hand on the arm, he braced himself as he got to his feet. ‘I should have warned you,’ he said to Roberts as he took his hand. ‘There is no limit to what I will do to win the sympathy of a jury.’

  The look of self-assurance, the eager gleam with which he said it, made Roberts wonder for an instant if it was not something close to the truth—not that Darnell would have collapsed on purpose, but that his first thought afterwards would be how to take advantage of it.

  ‘Then I’m afraid it was a useless gesture. If I’m any judge of juries, you have had their sympathy almost from the beginning,’ said Roberts with quiet candour.

  They sat on the blue sofa across from Darnell’s chair, in the clumsy posture of visitors who do not know how long they should stay. They made the usual polite inquiries about Darnell’s health, the normal superficial conversation that carefully avoids any suggestion that someone may have come close to death. Finally, Maitland flashed a broad, practised smile.‘I know you want to finish the trial, and of course we want that as well. I’ve talked to Michael about this already, and he agrees that we could work an abbreviated schedule, stretch it out a little so we would not have to do quite so much every day. That would be easier on us all.We’ll do whatever we can.’