by Frank Capra
Boatcourt opened the door in answer to the knock. A young uniformed deputy sheriff (the one who gave me the “okay” sign at the first hearing) stood there, hands braced on the doorjamb, braced against the pressure of the sardine-packed crowd in the hall.
“Ready for the hearing, folks,” he announced. We all rose. Boatcourt waved us back while he had a few whispered words with the deputy. I caught only a word or two from the deputy: “Nailed them myself on the trees… No, I wrote… Lefty’s in trouble…courthouse…” Boatcourt waved us to come on. My wife’s hand trembled as she took my arm. I had been on many stages, talked before many mikes, but this show before an overflow audience, on a snowy morning, in the quaint courthouse of a backwoods county—this show was for real—with no script. Queasy with stage fright, I whispered an old joke in my wife’s ear: “Honey, there’s a flock of quail with broken wings in my stomach trying to get out…”
The poor thing has been tensed up for so long my silly remark unglued her. She sputtered into repressed giggles. I shushed her. She put a handkerchief in her mouth to stop the giggles. It increased them. Boatcourt gave her a wry look, then whispered to Lefty: “You’re sure now, Lefty… Still want to take the witness chair? You’ll be under oath, and he’ll cross examine like a tiger…”
“I want to take the chair, Mister Gorski,” Lefty answered quietly.
“He’ll swear to God,” broke in Lefty’s wife with astonishing strength. “He’s got nothing to be ashamed of, Mister Gorski.”
“Fine. Good girl. All right. Here we go…”
I interrupted Boatcourt with a whispered question: “Those nailed-up notes were for Bear Bait and Dry Rot, weren’t they? Why didn’t you just subpoena them?”
“Stick to your movies, CB,” he answered. He resumed lining us up. “All right. Here we go. Hoppy and Mrs. Hopkins first. Frank,” he said in a whisper, “and no more giggles, please… Lefty…Missus Wakefield…and you children, youngest last. Let’s go.”
“Let us through, please,” pleaded the deputy, opening a thin crack in the crowd. “Coming through, thank you, thank you…”
American crowds are usually good-natured, but any crowd tends to be against the individual; instinctively the herd dislikes the maverick. The people we pushed through craned necks to peer into our faces with wide-eyed anticipation. Prizefighters we are, I thought to myself, going down the aisle to the ring; haughty toreadors parading to Carmen music; horse thieves running the gantlet to the hanging tree.
Those nearest whispered our names to those behind them. The whispers spread and simplified into loud calls. “It’s Hoppy the editor”… “There’s the movie director”… “The old guy’s Boatcourt.” A half-stoned cowpoke, wearing brown high-heeled boots with ornamental intaglio flowers, swished, waved a red neckerchief, and cried, “Yoo-hoo! Boatcourt!” A raucous woman’s voice, through megaphoned hands, yammered a Three Blind Mice parody; “Three Venal Man… See How They Run… We’ll have all the fun…” That triggered my wife into another fit of giggling—which she stifled so hard the tears came as we reached the hearing room. Another deputy at the open doorway unhooked a rope and motioned us in.
The Marine record player cut off suddenly at the “Shores of Tripoli.” Throughout the old building, even out under the canvas, the hubbub simmered down. Silence took over. The curtain was rising.
One end of the hearing room was roped for the contestants. Beyond the rope were “we, the people”—we, the eyes at the moment. Inside the rope we followed our deputy single—to our far “corner.” As Lefty’s six girls crossed the room in descending order of height, some hushed “oh’s” and “ah’s” rose from the crowd; photographers’ light bulbs flashed. My wife, in front of me, managed to walk the room without a giggle—although with her head down and a hanky to her eyes and mouth, all she needed was a black veil to look like a widow leaving the grave.
In our corner, the women and children were asked to sit on chairs backed up against the converging walls. Lefty, Hoppy, Boatcourt, and I seated ourselves around a small table facing the spectators. I waved to many of our friends—the Wrights, the Kellys, the Pattersons, the Hewitts—but Boatcourt nudged me as he waved to his left. I looked, and saw what I had missed coming in—the five supervisors I seated in a row behind their large, raised official desk, flanked by flags, and kibitzed from above by the faces of GW and LBJ. The chairman—Guy Hanford (Mr. Weathervane)—smiled, raised his clasped hands—wishing us luck. In my hurry to return the compliment I nearly dislocated a vertebra, when he suddenly turned away from us—as did the spectators—his attention focused on the doorway through which we had entered.
The “other side” was coming in! Leading the contingent was Sheriff McMahon, resplendent, sad-jowled as ever, eyes darting this way and that—the underarm rings just beginning to show. Behind him came two deputies (aides), and a court stenographer (faceless as a Scotland Yard man), and with the magic of the faceless, sat at his stenograph—and vanished. Then three familiar faces (the civil service commission of the former hearing) walked in, smiling and trading “killing” cracks with friends that triggered overkilling roars, before taking their seats against the rear wall. Then in walked three more men (one a forest ranger), and three women.
“Witnesses they subpoenaed,” whispered Boatcourt in my ear. “Know any of them?”
“Not a one,” I whispered back. “Did you subpoena any witnesses?”
“None,” said Boatcourt. “But if Lady Luck smiles on us…”
“You mean Bear—”
“Quiet! And get ready for Hail to the Chief,” he said, turning toward the entrance door.
So far, with the possible exception of the three commissioners, the entrances of the “other side”—including the bouncy blonde secretary (Tony’s) who had come in alone with papers and briefcase, sporting a yellow chrysanthemum and, as usual, tugging her short skirt after sitting—had been ritualistic and silent: an overture in pantomime. But now a hubbub began swelling offstage—presaging the entrance of the star. Suddenly the offstage crowd burst into loud applause and prolonged cheering.
“That’s the planted claque of county employees whooping it up,” whispered Boatcourt to Hoppy and me. “I got tipped off. That’s why I made Lefty bring his six girls. The claque was supposed to boo us—but the little gals stopped ’em cold,” said Steve with a sly wink. I was learning things—including how to make an entrance.
The prolonged cheering offstage reached its climax—and out of the climax, Tony and his stunning wife stepped into the room. Like a brushfire in a wind, the cheers leaped over them to start a spontaneous combustion in the hearing room itself. The applause was deafening. Those seated stood up—the women in a dither of adoration.
And no wonder. This had to be one of the handsomest couples I ever laid eyes on. She wore a lavenderish wool suit that I can’t describe—except that on her it was a knockout. A simple string of jade-green crystals encircled her long swanlike neck. Small, pendulant jade earrings framed the Grecian perfection of her face and reflected the sparkle of her green eyes. Her platinum hair was slicked back and caught up in a perfect coil on the nape of her neck: a chignon, I think it’s called in French. A small green handbag, through which flowed an autumn-hued scarf, gave her that final touch of beauty and charm so typified by Jacqueline Kennedy.
But the shocking surprise (to us) was Tony; Tony the Magnificent had come in as Tony the All-American Boy; in a plain gray jacket and slacks, white shirt, thin black tie, hair slightly ruffled and uncombed. Gone was the cold elegant arrogance of the prosecutor. In its place was the shy smile, the friendly eyes, the appealing embarrassment of the humble—a young, handsome man any mother could love.
“Does that remind you fellas of the White House?” whispered Hoppy.
“Good heavens, yes! Jack and Jackie,” muttered Boatcourt in admiration. “If you’re reaching—reach for the stars.”
The p
hotographers had wormed their way through the crowd to get close-ups. While they were focusing, Tony graciously turned his back to the cameras (and to the spectators) and clapped his hands in applause—for his wife. That wowed the people all over again. Blushing (which the audience ate up), Tony’s wife took one of his applauding hands and, in a ladylike move to avoid the limelight, she pulled him to the back row of chairs—where he seated her prettily. Still holding her hand, he made a courtly bow and raised her hand to his lips. Well, this bit of old-world romantic gallantry shook up the natives. The women screamed their pleasure—especially when he walked up to his table wearing a sheepish, boyish grin that said ever so plainly: “Forgive me. I’m in love.”
Boatcourt jumped to his feet, applauding madly, hinting to us to join him. Hoppy and I jumped up, clapping our hands into blisters. So loud was the noise from our “corner,” the spectators stopped their applauding to look at us. Wondering whether we were trying to be rude or polite, they began sitting down, still looking at us. We redoubled our hand-clapping. Momentarily, at least, we had stolen the show. Tony had the ball. Would he fumble it or throw it back? He threw it back. Walking halfway toward us, he stopped, smiled, made a little bow, and said humorously, “My wife thanks you, gentlemen.”
A titter ran through the room. That was a horse on us.
“Oh, we weren’t paying tribute to her great beauty,” spoke up Boatcourt with real old-world gallantry. “We were applauding the next First Lady of the Governor’s Mansion.”
That got the biggest applause of the day. It was a horse apiece now. Tony’s lips still smiled, but not his eyes. He turned to the audience, shrugged, then strode back to his table. He put up his hands for quiet, got it, then courteously announced to the chair, “The people of the County of Mono are ready, Mister Chairman.”
Chapter Nine
Old “Weather Vane,” Supervisor Guy Hanford, banged his gavel. As the cacophony of an orchestra tuning up hushed to the tap of the conductor’s baton, so did our Mono crowd mute its decibels. But not all the way. Suppressed murmurs of expectation rippled through the steamy hearing room, the halls and stairways, and the huddled foot-stompers in the Marine tents. Feet and torsos shifted and twisted into new positions.
At Lefty’s table, Public Defender Steve Gorski’s pallor was two sheets whiter, his mood three shades darker. He inhaled draughts of air and exhaled them through ballooned cheeks. Lu pinched her nose between thumb and forefinger to stifle her giggle spasms.
“Biggest crowd I’ve ever seen in Mono County,” volunteered Hoppy.
“Hoppy,” I whispered, “I’ve got that funny feeling in the old pizzazz. Like this crowd could be as wild and unpredictable as a film preview audience.”
Through the tall open windows they saw the silent snowflakes fall. Focus on them long enough and they seemed to halt their fall to the ground so the room could rise to the sky…
Big Lefty sat as silent, arid, lumpy as ever, while his strong-willed tiny wife tolled her beads in sync with her silent lip movements. Behind them, their six ponytailed, black-stockinged daughters sat pretty all in a row, adding a bizarre bit of feminine charm to the proceedings. So theatric did they look that I half expected them to bounce up and do a saucy song and dance to the lyrics of “When we get our women’s rights, all you men go fly your kites.”
“Quiet! Quiet, please!” honey-dripped Chairman “Weather Vane,” tapping his gavel and beaming like a lit-up Christmas tree. O happy politician! Heaven is a microphone and an audience. “Here we are, my dear friends,” he purred. “All of us gathered together, voters and officials alike—as just…plain…people. Isn’t it wonderful?”
He waited for the applause. None came. He pulled the mike closer. “Can all you good folks in the hallways hear me?” he asked.
“YES!” the hall crowd roared—squawking loudspeakers and rattling windows. Before the roar died, a raucous voice boomed out of the speakers, “We got a good-and-bad situation here in the halls, Guy. Good because we can’t see you, and bad because we can hear you.”
The crowd’s exploding laugh was overkill.
Hoppy and Boatcourt exchanged uneasy looks. “The natives are restless, Boatcourt.”
(Contents from Capra’s original files are missing here.)
The chairman’s weather vane spun and pointed at the district attorney. Tony Caldwell nodded “yes.” The relieved supervisor banged his gavel and addressed the woman: “Madam, state your name, business, and whether your statement is germane to this hearing. Quiet, everybody!”
“Mister,” answered the charged-up woman, “if germane means something I gotta get off my chest, then YES. I gotta helluva big germane. My name’s Nancy Sparks, and me and my banged-up husband, we run a small café in Walker. And if we stay open day and night, we just break even. Especially since you big wheels just raised our taxes from two hundred fifteen dollars to four hundred fifteen dollars.” Cheers and applause for Nancy.
“Now what I want to know is,” shrieked Nancy, shushing the crowd. “What I wanna know is this: Did you raise our county taxes one hundred percent in one year so you could hold circuses like this?” She had to almost scream over the crowd noise. “I mean, these cameras, and microphones, and tents, and food, and extra cops, and petitions, and overtime for everybody’s gotta cost thousands of dollars. And why? To listen to the bellyaching of a discharged employee? Or the gripes of dirty old beggars?” The unpredictable crowd was listening again.
“I tell you, Mr. Supervisor, that when news of this meeting gets out, every thief, beggar, and moocher that’s run out of this county will want a public hearing, and every employee you fire will demand that half of Mono County be made to come to this courthouse and listen to his sob story. Oh, it’s okay with me. Hold your stupid hearings. But I’m putting you all on notice. You’re not going to do it with my money. Not with my money. Not one cent will I pay—”
The rest of her speech got lost in the bedlam. The old courthouse rocked with cheering, whistling, and applauding. And who do you think was up on his feet clapping the loudest? Paunchy Tom McMahon, the diaphoretic sheriff of Mono County. Yes, sir. Vox Populi made itself heard in Bridgeport that snowy November day. Made itself heard, and lost its head. Vox Populi became Vox Prison Break.
The five ashen faces of the supervisors huddled round their anxious whispers. What to do? What to do?
“Boatcourt, it’s a mob now. They’ll tear the joint down,” said Hoppy.
“Only one man can stop them,” said Boatcourt. “And he’s getting up now.”
Sure enough, Tony Caldwell was up on his feet adjusting the mike to his height. A Marine with a walkie-talkie on his back handed Tony a walkie-talkie phone. He talked into it, then handed it back and motioned the orderly to give the phone to his wife, Grace, who was sitting almost out of sight against the rear wall.
“Hoppy, Frank. Keep your eye on their act. I’ve seen them use it before,” whispered Boatcourt.
Grace took the walkie-talkie phone, motioned the orderly to shield her from prying eyes, said a few words into the phone, then nodded to her husband. Tony nodded back, turned to the mike and spoke with the voice of authority: “Okay. Okay. It’s my turn now.”
That was the cue. Grace spoke one word into the walkie-talkie phone. And lo! It was the magic word. The shouting subsided immediately. As if Vox Populi had heard the voice of authority, and obeyed it as one—like a well-trained chorus.
“I’ve got it!” I whispered to Hoppy and Boatcourt. “When she gave the signal, the Marine in the control tent turned down all the mikes but Tony’s.”
“You’re catching on,” said Boatcourt. “And when their noise went silent, the crowd cowed themselves into silence. Like catching yourself talking too loud in church.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Hoppy, in sheer admiration.
“He’s one of a kind,” added Boatcourt. “Watch. The best part of
the act is coming up.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Tony’s words came over the quiet loudspeakers in a soft, humorous tone—“this is Tony Caldwell, your district attorney speaking—”
His wife gave the cue into the walkie-talkie. A slight hum came out of the loudspeakers. The people’s mikes were turned on again before anyone knew they’d been turned off. “And from all the cheering,” continued Tony, smiling broadly, “I thought for a moment you had elected me by acclamation.”
A burst of applause and laughter greeted him. Not cynical now, but pleasant, and as obedient as Toscanini’s orchestra. One lift of Tony’s hand hushed the hubbub. With polished sincerity, and in complete command, he went on, “I, too, applaud you, Nancy Sparks, for so vividly expressing your concern for skyrocketing taxes. It’s the frightful penalty we pay for progress, and I sometimes wonder if it’s worth it. But let me disabuse your mind, Nancy, about that big germane you got off your lovely chest. Not one single penny of your tax money, or anyone else’s tax money, has been, or will be, spent on this hearing.
“All the microphones, speakers, heaters, tents, comfort stations were furnished, and gladly, by the Marine Corps as one of their numerous training exercises.
“The ad in the Minden paper was paid for personally by me, the sheriff, and our presiding chairman. And all the printing and secretarial overtime for counting the petition, which was plenty, was paid for by the foreman of our Grand Jury there, Mr. Kyle Sommes.
“And saving the best for the last, all the food—coffee, drinks—soft and hard—hot dogs, pies, doughnuts—was donated by the man who expects to beat me at the polls next Tuesday, Mr. Steve Gorski. Take a bow, Steve.”
As he knew it would, the crowd good-humoredly booed and applauded.
“Now,” he said, (a cue for his wife to decrease crowd noise). “Let’s get serious. What we are about to discuss here today demands your most sincere, thoughtful attention. And it is not just a local problem, not one that just concerns neighbors you know well. It is a problem that is vexing the highest courts and chanceries in Washington, London, Paris, Moscow, Tokyo, Peking. And what is the problem? Well, at its very core there lies a question. And that question, simply stated, is this: ‘Where does individual freedom end and social responsibility begin?’