Cry Wilderness

by Frank Capra

  Facing this raised desk, on the floor level, was a long crescent-shaped table, with leather chairs on its outer perimeter. Only one man occupied this long table, a large slouched man in uniform—the stout friar, Lefty Wakefield.

  On the left, between the crescent table and the raised desk, three middle-aged men sat around a smaller desk. The Civil Service Commission, I assumed. Opposite them, on the other side of the room, stood a tall handsome man in shirtsleeves. Alongside him, at a small working table, sat a beefy, bald-headed man in a braided uniform. The sheriff—a comedown from the Sheriff of Nottingham, I thought… Next to him, a bouncy, blonde secretary pulled at her short skirt. Behind the sheriff stood another young uniformed deputy.

  My escort deputy introduced me, first to the small man with large glasses at the main desk.

  “Mister Capra, this is County Supervisor Guy Hanford.”

  “Mister Capra,” welcomed the supervisor, as he rose, all smiles, and offered his hand. “Well, well…always a privilege to meet a movie celebrity,” to the whole room, “especially when he’s in my district.”

  “Well, thanks…I…” This “celebrity” stuff always leaves me with a handful of worms.

  “Now over here, Mister Capra,” said my deputy, leading me to the table with the three men, “these gentlemen are the Civil Service Commission: Boyce Dickinson, cattleman and owner of the BD Guest Ranch. You may remember him as a rodeo champion…”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, wincing at his handshake, “I think I saw you at a rodeo at the Pan Pacific in LA.”

  “That was my brother,” he answered flatly as he crossed a long blue-denimed leg. I tried to stammer out an apology but the deputy took my arm.

  “And this is Nino Jacobetti, owns Italian restaurants in Mono County.”

  A round, pink-cheeked extrovert waved and greeted me in Neapolitan.

  “Goompa…chi si deech?”

  “Tutto bene, grazie,” I waved back. Whereupon he slapped the rodeo rider on the back and gloated: “Boyce, didn’t I tell ya he could make with the Italiano, huh?”

  “Big deal,” shrugged tight-lipped Boyce, his thumbs in his Levi pockets.

  “…And this third commissioner was born in Bridgeport…Kyle Sommes.”

  “Better known around here as Mister Real Estate, Frank,” interrupted the extrovert Nino, “owns half the county and is trying to steal the other half. Right, everybody?”

  The small titter was drowned out by Nino’s own hearty laugh.

  “Nice to know you, Mr. Sommes,” I said as I extended my hand.

  In it he dropped a languid, cold fish, then withdrew it quickly, before it could warm up.

  “Howdy,” he wheezed nasally through his hawk-like nose.

  As a “celebrity,” I was a bust and knew it. I looked for a chair.

  “Where do I sit?” I asked my guide.

  “Just a moment, sir,” he said, and he led me clear across the room to the bald, potty sheriff. I couldn’t help noticing his wild, twitching bushy eyebrows that curled upward at the ends.

  “Mister Capra, this is County Sheriff Tom McMahon…”

  “Yes, yes…hello, hello!” the sheriff rasped out irritably. “What is this, a social tea? Can’t we get the hell on with this crummy hearing? Guy!… Come on… I gotta county to police…”

  I could have kissed his bald head.

  Supervisor Guy Hanford coughed, nodded, and rapped his knuckles on the table. But the tall man in shirtsleeves was not to be left out. He introduced himself.

  “Frank Capra, I’m Tony Caldwell, District Attorney…” We shook hands. “My wife wouldn’t let me in the house if I didn’t tell you how much she loves your movies.”

  “Oh, thanks, Mister Caldwell, and thank Missus Caldwell for me.”

  “I will, but don’t include me in your thanks. I never go to movies.” A statement that never failed to rile me.

  In the theatrical world you learn quickly to recognize the old zingaroo. He certainly was handsome, this bushy-haired performer with his flashing cuff links and polka-dot bow tie. And he knew the actor’s attention-getting trick of being the only coatless man in the room. I quickly put him on the list as a TMLO: troublemaker look out. Complex characters they are, these good lookers who resent show people yet ape them. Complex and dangerous, their hostility bordering on the psychotic. They are the ones who buy drinks for stars in public then pick fights with them.

  “I don’t blame you for not seeing movies,” I said, letting him know I had felt the zing. “You see better performances every day in a courtroom.”

  “Tony! For God’s sake,” interrupted the sheriff with eyebrows lowered fiercely. Then raising them high, he pleaded, “How long you gonna keep me on my can here?”

  Supervisor Hanford rapped again for order. He invited me to sit down at the end of the long crescent table. As I sat I glanced over at Lefty. There he slouched, huge and lumpy, eyes fixed on a blank pad of paper, chin on a fist that distorted his massive face.

  “Hi, Lefty,” I threw at him. He didn’t look up or answer—just raised the little finger of his fist in acknowledgement.

  “Guy!” the sheriff boomed out to Supervisor Guy Hanford.

  “Okay, okay, Tom,” answered Mister Hanford as he turned to me, all milk and honey. “Mister Capra, we appreciate your coming here of your own free will to give us the benefit of…of your valuable thoughts…and we thank you. Do you know why we asked you here?”

  “No, sir, not exactly.”

  I suddenly remembered the jokes the June Lake working stiffs made up about Supervisor Hanford at their early morning breakfast hangout; that he wore a weather vane for a hat, and his theme song was “Every Little Breeze…”

  “Well, sir…I’ll be brief,” said Weather Vane. “This is a confidential hearing before the Civil Service Commission there, involving a county employee. Nobody’s under oath…no official minutes are kept…all informal. The commission can resolve these little interfamily spats, so to speak, easier and quicker if we keep the discussions within…within our four walls. Do you understand, sir?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Now…we’d like you to become a member of our family here…and join us in a gentleman’s agreement not to discuss this hearing with any…uh…outsiders…especially the press. Have we your word on that, Mister Capra?”

  “No, sir.”

  Seats squirmed and feet shuffled.

  “I’m sorry, Mister Supervisor, I can’t go along with you about the press for two reasons. First of all, I think the press should be sitting right here in this room…to act as a sort of a watchdog…make sure the hearing is kosher…”

  Nino, the Italian restaurant owner, jumped to his feet. “Just a goddam minute, Frank. Are you saying our commission here needs a watchdog?”

  “Well,” I answered, “maybe my eyesight’s getting poor, but I can’t see any halos on your heads, so I take it you’re human beings like the rest of us. And as human beings we all need watchdogs.”

  “Now, let’s keep things friendly,” cooed the supervisor. “You said you had two reasons, Mister Capra…”

  “Yes, I did…and the second one’s personal. I’m in show business. We can’t afford to deliberately mislead or offend the press. So if I’m asked, I’ve got to level with them.”

  “Tom…there you are,” snorted the DA to the sheriff, “I told you it was a mistake letting Lefty con you into calling this Hollywood character. He’s in the movies! He’ll do anything for publicity…”

  “Almost anything, Mister Caldwell,” I shot back, “especially when I walk into a meeting of public servants conniving to avoid publicity.”

  They all spoke up at once:

  “What d’ya mean, conniving?”

  “Who told you that?…”

  “I resent that remark…”

  Supervisor Hanford
rapped his knuckles red. When quiet was restored he motioned the DA, the sheriff, and three commissioners over to his desk, where they huddled in animated whispers.

  To say I wasn’t enjoying this Perry Mason stuff would be a lie. I began to wish there were some cameras around, when my eye caught Lefty. There he was, looking straight at me over the gargantuan fist still at his chin. When our eyes met he gave me the biggest, fattest wink I ever saw. I gave him back the Mack Sennett wink, in which you screw up the whole side of your face.

  I looked back at the huddle, where under the watchful eye of our first and thirty-fourth presidents, Mono County officialdom was figuring out the next play to call, after being stopped for no gain. The DA was doing the quarterbacking, while the supervisor’s weather vane swung from player to player.

  Watching from the sidelines were the young deputy and the DA’s bouncy secretary. Catching my eye, she tugged and tugged at her very short skirt, either to cover or to call attention to a pair of shapely knees. Tug as she would, the skirt ended up higher. But she threw me a quick smile, then went back to skirt-pulling. Aha! I had an ally.

  The young pokerfaced deputy was looking straight ahead with arms folded. But a hand hidden under his folded arms, opened up, made a discreet “okay” sign with its fingers, then closed again. Ha, Ha! Another ally.

  Only one more person left—the deputy at the door, my introducer. I looked at him. No soap. With some feathers on his head they could have stood him up in front of a cigar store. Not bad, though, I thought. The help was two to one for our side. Later it was to be about fifty-fifty among the hundreds that stormed the courthouse.

  The huddle was over. The DA announced the verdict.

  “Mr. Capra, your uncooperative attitude is a great disappointment to the commission. But…since your zeal for publicity overshadows your responsibility as a citizen, the chair ruled you are to be excused from this private hearing. You may leave, sir.”

  “Fine.” I nodded as I gathered my hat and stood up. “But I should warn you. There’s a time bomb planted in the hallway…a reporter. He tried to pump me when I came in…and is waiting to nail me when I come out. He already feels pushed around and suspicious. So when I tell him I was thrown out on my ear for refusing to enter into an agreement to lie to the press…well, you know reporters. It’s an article of faith with them, that where there’s secrecy, there must be chicanery. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

  I was stopped in my tracks by a loud: “Wait a minute!” One of the commissioners, Boyce Dickinson, rodeo champ and dude ranch owner, was up on his feet.

  “These remarks about Mr. Capra’s lack of cooperation are uncalled for. We asked him here and he came, didn’t he? I know what he means about the press. The year I was champ on the circuit, if I didn’t talk to reporters, they’da crucified me.

  “And another thing. Why all this crap about…sorry, Miss Laura, I mean why the locked doors? The sheriff fired Lefty Wakefield for disobedience, right? Lefty said it was unfair and appealed to this commission for a hearing, right? Now it’s up to us three here to decide if Lefty’s right or wrong, right? So why all the secrecy? I’d like to hear what Mister Capra has to say about Lefty’s firing, if that’s what he’s here for. And I don’t give a horse’s pizzazz who he talks to.”

  The supervisor felt the changing wind and called another huddle. This one was different. All the players were quarterbacking. The old sheriff particularly was all fret and sweat. It trickled down his furrowed neck. His armpits were black circles of wetness, with thin, concentric lines of white salt surrounding the edges in sweat rings, some thicker than others. I wondered: Could they be indicators of stress and strain, maybe like tree rings reveal the years and their rainfall? I thought of a comedy scene in which a wife counts her husband’s sweat rings to see if… The huddle broke up.

  “The hearing will now resume,” announced the chair. “Mister Capra, you may be seated. Tony?” he said, giving the floor to the DA.

  Handsome Tony, the DA, waited for all to be seated, then strode theatrically toward a rear corner and up to a hanging curtain, which I hadn’t noticed. Grabbing a curtain rope, he paused dramatically, riveting everyone’s attention, then jerked the curtain open and walked away.

  My eyes bugged out. Our two deer, still trussed and wrapped in cheesecloth, dangled from a bar like two corpora delicti.

  Back at his desk, the DA shuffled papers, savoring the surprise of his staging. He’d certainly bowled me over. Wha’ happened? I looked at Lefty. He was still the same amorphous lump. I wondered if he was still breathing.

  “Mr. Capra,” the DA addressed me, as he paced up and down clicking a pencil against his beautiful teeth, “have you ever seen these objects before?”

  “Yes, sir!” I smiled vaguely, “they look like the two deer Lefty and I cleaned, skinned, and delivered to Bear Bait and Dry Rot. How’d they get here?”

  “Thank you, Mister Capra,” he said, ignoring my question. “Now, sir, will you kindly go to the carcasses and read to the commission the two notes that are pinned on them?”

  “I know what the notes say. One reads: ‘To Bear Bait. A gift from Lefty,’ and the other: ‘To Dry Rot. A gift from Lefty.’”

  “In Lefty’s handwriting?”

  “I saw him write them.”

  “Any other writing on the notes?”

  “Yes. While Lefty wasn’t looking, on an impulse, I added ‘and F. C.’ to each note, after the words, ‘from Lefty.’”

  “I’m glad to see you’re meticulous about your details.”

  “I’m a film director, Mister Caldwell. Careful about details—but never meticulous.” The quick look he threw was translatable—he would have to up me in class as an opponent.

  “You say you added ‘and F. C.’ to each note on an impulse,” he said, now choosing his words. “Could you clarify the impulse for us?”

  “Well, I don’t know…an impulse…probably the same impulse,” I said jokingly, “that prompted you to pause dramatically before you pulled the curtain on the deer. Show business, I guess.”

  “I see…show business. Can you forget make-believe for a moment and more correctly describe the impulse that impelled you to help Lefty dress and deliver the deer to those two gentlemen with such appetizing names?”

  “I can describe that exactly…a charitable impulse.”

  “You knew those deer were hit by cars?”

  “Yes, Lefty told me.” I was determined to admit everything, then rely on the charity pitch.

  “Did you know that deputies are under official orders to deliver highway deer to the county prisoners?”

  “Yes, Lefty told me that, too.”

  “Then, sir…” he said, leaning forward to emphasize his point, “would it not be fair to say…that you knowingly and willingly…aided and abetted a peace officer in the dereliction of his sworn duty?”

  The audacity of the question took the wind out of my sails. So this was the play the DA called in the huddle: incriminate him and he won’t be so anxious to talk to reporters. Smart play. I better go into a huddle with myself.

  “Oh, beautiful, beautiful,” I mocked, while stalling for time, “worthy of a Darrow…innocent little legal words strung out into barbed wire… Oh, yes…I like that statement…”

  “It happens to be a question. Did you understand it?”

  “Does a nail understand the hammer? Did Caesar understand the dagger?”

  “But does Frank Capra understand my question?”

  “Understand it? I can repeat it word for word: ‘Then, sir…would it not be fair to say…that you knowingly and willfully…aided and abetted a peace officer in the dereliction of his sworn duty?’”

  “Mister Capra,” interrupted Weather Vane, “if you don’t think the question is fair, you don’t…”

  “Oh, it’s fair, Mister Supervisor…loaded dice couldn’t be fairer…or a covere
d bear trap…”

  “Well, IS HE GONNA ANSWER IT OR NOT?” shouted the impatient sheriff, building up another sweat ring.

  “Yes, sir, Mister Sheriff…I’ll give you an answer…with honest dice. Yes, it’s fair to say that Lefty there has a heart as big as his body. It’s fair to say that while the ‘Vacation Dollar’ people were trying to evict the peaceful hermits who had lived in these mountains for nearly a quarter of a century, Lefty was seeing to it they didn’t starve this winter. And it’s more than fair to say that I helped Lefty…helped him in the same spirit Robin Hood aided and abetted Friar Tuck…in diverting a deer or two from the Sheriff of Nottingham’s well-fed minions, to feed the hungry poor…”

  “WAIT A MINUTE!” shouted the DA, taking the floor from me. “You can’t escape legal responsibilities with romantics. Do you realize what would have happened, even to your Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, if the sheriff had caught them red-handed?”

  Neophyte that I was in this legal stuff, his outburst led me to think I had hit pay dirt. So I followed the same vein.

  “Oh, sure…anybody knows that. With the help of Robin’s merry outlaws, they’d managed to escape.”

  The sheriff blew a fuse…and another quart of sweat. “Tony…for Chrissakes! Do I have to listen to these crummy fairy tales? I’m the sheriff of Mono County…elected by the people. I fired a deputy for disobedience. Now it’s him or me. Get the hell to it!”

  “Tom! Keep your shirt on!” the DA angrily fired back at the sheriff. “Lefty’s basing his whole appeal on what Hollywood, here, has to say about his dismissal. So let me nail him as a publicity-seeking accessory, or that movie guy can—”

  A quiet settled over the whole room after the surprisingly angry exchange between the DA and the sweaty sheriff. Everyone shuffled around collecting their thoughts for the next move. I was enjoying myself immensely, of course. I began to imagine plots, chicanery, graft; and that these big boys had to knock me off to save faces—or was it necks? Was there more to this hearing than just firing Lefty? I mean—were there some bodies around? Wouldn’t that be a doozy of a plot twist…