Cyrus March talked straight to the listening jury. “I believe that Arthea Simpson fell into this group. She had great material wealth and was generous with it. She was extremely talented in the field of sports, and was an extraordinarily gifted conversationalist—as evidenced by her many acquaintances and wide circle of friends. Is it so odd, then, that Ivy Lorents… a stranger and alone… should value Arthea Simpson’s friendship to meet people and make friends, too? However, it is at this point, that Mr. Willard points his finger and shouts accusingly, ‘guilt by association!’”
Carefully, March continued the theme of his argument. He brought out the anonymous phone calls threatening Ivy’s life… describing her fears and her frame of mind. Skillfully, he used Vail’s own testimony to prove Ivy’s inability to identify Arthea Simpson from across the room, and then hammered to the jury Wild Bill Arthur’s testimony regarding the occurrence of unusual and improbable shots. He pointed out the discrepancy of testimony between Norma Ulrich, who had heard three shots in rapid succession, and Pauline Morrisey who had testified to the long pause between them.
March carefully weighed the lack of motive as presented by Willard, and again harked to Ivy’s logical explanation regarding the loan of $2,675.00, made to her by Arthea Simpson. “You must remember,” March cautioned the jury, “that neither Arthea Simpson, nor Ivy Lorents was a business woman. They kept no records, and conducted the transaction in a manner reflecting their lack of experience. Mr. Willard asks, ‘Where are the receipts?’ I respectfully point out—receipts were not expected between the two women, and if they had existed… the receipts would have been unusual in themselves.”
As March continued his summary, referring again and again to the point that one fact only can be drawn from circumstantial evidence, and this fact cannot be used to build an additional fact, he sensed that he was losing the full attention of the jury. Why, he could not determine. It was almost as if it were anxious to escape further facts and further arguments. March knew that a bored and restless jury was also a dangerous jury, and he decided to cut short the rest of his summation. He realized he could not convince the jury if it was unwilling to listen longer. Desperately, he wished he could find the reason for its restlessness, but no evidence of his desperation was apparent in his voice and manner, when he said, in conclusion, “There cannot be proof beyond any reasonable doubt in any of the accusations made by the state. No substantial proof of… any kind… has been offered by the prosecution. Please examine the proof carefully, and determine for yourself its nebulous, unsubstantial character. After that, you can only find that Ivy Lorents is innocent.” He bowed slightly, almost in a salute to the jury. “The defense rests,” he said.
After a brief recess, Judge Raleigh began his instructions to the jury. “You can,” the judge told the jury, “find one of three verdicts. Number one… murder in the first degree. If this be your finding, it must be reached by the consideration of premeditation. The defendant, beyond any reasonable doubt, must have thought about the murder, considered it, and planned it—even if the length of such time involved in the planning was a matter of a very short duration. If the verdict is murder in the first degree, after announcing to me your verdict, the jury must again retire and deliberate the sentence to be imposed.”
The jury listened impassively to the judge, the eyes of the members deliberately avoiding Ivy who was seated tensely at the defense table. “After due consideration of the facts,” Raleigh continued quietly, “the jury may find murder in the second degree. If this be your finding, it must be based on an absence of premeditation. The crime, with which the defendant is charged, must have occurred spontaneously—without thought or consideration—as when in the sudden grip of an overpowering emotion.”
The judge’s voice carried on. “And finally, the jury may find the defendant not guilty for reason of crime prevention. If the jury decides that the defendant shot and killed the deceased under the belief that she was protecting her life and, or, property—then she is not guilty of murder, and you will return such a verdict accordingly.” The judge continued his instructions, reading steadily for nearly three hours.
He concluded with the final words, “The jury from this time on, until it reaches a verdict, or fails to reach one, will talk to no one, discuss the case with no one, nor read, nor listen to anyone concerning this case, other than among yourselves. You will no longer return to your homes, but will lodge in rooms arranged by this court. You may eat your meals in public in the company of the court’s bailiffs, or if you desire, your meals may be ordered and sent to you. You will meet together in privacy to discuss and reach your verdict.”
As the jury retired to begin its deliberations, the members again avoided looking at Ivy, and the apparent coolness of the jurors added to the rising fear in March’s heart. Only Piersall glanced casually at Ivy. From her, his eyes traveled momentarily to March; the man’s face was impassive, although his head seemed to duck in a nearly imperceptible nod.
“How long do you think they’ll be out?” Ivy asked, placing her hand on March’s arm.
March could feel her icy touch. Shaking his head, he replied, “I don’t know. But I think you should go to the hotel with Lydia and wait. You’d better plan to stay there until the jury returns.” He added, in explanation, “The jury may reach a decision at any time of the day or night, and then we’ll have to be present.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The office was deserted except for me. Bert Taylor and Lydia Gorham were at the hotel with Ivy, keeping her company. The time of waiting for a verdict is a long time—regardless of its length. I knew that I would be unable to stand the strain and fear on Ivy’s face; polite conversation, or conversation of any kind would have been impossible. As my own nerves had begun to tighten, I had made an excuse not to return to Ivy’s hotel, but to come back to my office. Call it running away.
The clock on my desk showed that a little over two hours had gone by since the jury had retired. Immediately after a trial there’s a period of memory and regret. The fight is over and nothing more can be done, but all the things which might’ve been done—and weren’t—come to haunt me. This is normal in any case, but in Ivy’s, my fears and apprehension increased, and continued to increase, as I remembered each new and unexpected discrepancy in Ivy’s story during the trial. And the reactions of the jury during my summation, still alarmed me. It was as if they had already made up their minds about Ivy’s guilt. I’d seen this reaction too many times, to other attorneys, when they had lost their cases. Now it was happening to me.
I was in despair. I expected a verdict of guilty in the second degree!
The devil at the drums began to hammer in the back of my mind. I tried to push him away, and told myself that I was too emotionally involved in the case to be able to weigh it impartially. I knew my love for Ivy made me vulnerable. It invalidated my experience, and voided my judgment. Blinding myself to reality, I had accepted a lack of cooperation from her… which I would not have tolerated from anyone else. My refusal now resulted in a responsibility which I had to accept alone, because, through my failure to leave the case and find other counsel for her, Ivy must pay the penalty of my blindness!
The accusation of my conscience beat so loudly, that at first I didn’t hear the telephone ringing on my desk. I glanced at my clock again with sudden anxiety, and saw to my surprise that it had been five hours since the jury had gone into deliberation! I feared a quick verdict—it would almost certainly be one of ‘guilty.’ I picked up the receiver with ill-boding. “March,” I said.
“Mr. Cyrus March?” a man’s voice asked. “Are you able to speak freely?”
“Yes. I’m here alone. Who is this?”
Over the line, the strange voice replied, “You don’t know me. We’ve never met. But it’s important I see you tonight.”
“It’ll have to wait. I’m too busy now.”
“I know,” agreed the voice. “That’s what I want to see you about.”
“That’s right. It’s important to you.” The voice paused and then added, “It’s important to me, too.”
“How important?” I asked, growing impatient.
“I’m not saying over the phone. I want to see you in person.” The strange voice stopped, the silence suspended like a weapon. Finally, it was broken, “But I can tell you… both you and Ivy Lorents will be sorry if you don’t see me.”
“Are you making threats?”
“No threats…” the voice replied smoothly.
I felt again a rising apprehension. “All right,” I said, “come over to my office.”
“No, Mr. March… not to your office or your home. No place where we could be disturbed. You’ve got to understand what I’ve decided to tell you is… real private.”
“Suppose you suggest a place, then.”
“It’s not up to me. I just want to meet you… someplace where nobody’s going to be expecting it.”
My head throbbed with anger and I fought down the inclination to slam down the phone. “I don’t want to talk to you,” I said. “You sound like a crank…”
“Not a crank!” the voice interrupted sharply. “Of that I can assure you!”
“I have to be available in case the jury reaches a verdict.”
“The jury will not reach a verdict tonight,” the voice cut through my objection. Whoever he was, the man sounded terribly sure. “Maybe you’d like to see me at nine. You think about it, and be ready to have some place to meet when I call you back. You won’t have a second chance, Mr. March!”
The click of the phone sounded clearly in my ear. Slowly I hung up. I knew what the call meant. I knew what the man wanted. I tried to tell myself that I didn’t, but I did. The devil started up with his drums again, and I pushed back my desk chair and stood up. My legs were weak, shaking so badly I could hardly stand. Almost stumbling, I walked through the empty rooms to Bert Taylor’s office.
In one corner was a small liquor cabinet which Bert kept locked—for my benefit. I stood in front of it, staring for a long time. The drums beat harder—faster.
Finally, I drew back my foot and kicked in the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Hurry,” Pauline Morrisey urged as she opened the door for Barker. “He’s still upstairs…”
“Is Ivy Lorents with him?” asked the reporter.
“Nobody yet. He came in about a quarter to nine… right before I called you.”
“What’s he been doing?”
“Not much of anything. Just sort of moving around.” Pauline placed the earphone to her head and listened. “Do you think he’s going to help Ivy run away?”
“I don’t know what the hell he’s going to do,” Barker replied. He glanced at his watch. “He’s been here over half an hour, huh?” The reporter suddenly lifted his head as he heard the sound of the elevator moving past the floor. Reaching out his hand, he took the earphone from Pauline and gestured to her to turn on the recording machine. Barker stood silently listening for several minutes, then stiffened. “There’s a knock at the door,” he told Pauline, “and it sounds like March is opening it…”
Upstairs, March opened the door to a small, wiry man dressed in slacks and a well-worn sports jacket. Beneath the jacket was a loud Hawaiian shirt, open at the neck. His eyes, behind a sharp projecting nose, reminded the attorney of an aging fox.
“Yes, I’m Cyrus March,” he acknowledged. “Come in.” He led the way back to the living room and indicated a couch. “Sit down,” he told the man.
The stranger looked around suspiciously. “Not so fast,” he warned, “I want to be sure there’s nobody in here…”
March waved. “Go through the place. Take a look,” he said, thickly.
The man trotted down the hall, looking into each room, and opening the closet doors. Within a few minutes he returned to the living room, his suspicions allayed, but his caution still evident. “This is quite a layout she’s got here,” he observed. “The furniture must’ve cost some dough.”
March asked belligerently, “You’re not buying used furniture, are you?”
The visitor grinned. “No… like I said, I can help you and your client. It’d be a pity if a pretty girl like Ivy Lorents couldn’t come back to a nice place like this.”
“Get to the point.”
The stranger wouldn’t be hurried. Lighting a cigarette, he again cast an assaying glance around the room. “What’d it be worth,” he asked, “to know Ivy Lorents could get off scot-free?”
Dizziness swept over March. With an effort he smothered it. His voice was fuzzy. “No one can guarantee that.”
“I can,” the stranger told him with assurance. “Like I told you, the jury’s still out… and I can keep it out.” He puffed on his cigarette. “Or,” he added pointedly, “I can let it come back.”
March walked to the phone. “I can call the police and have you arrested,” he threatened. “I can demand a retrial.” He started to pick up the phone.
The stranger stopped him. “You can try, but you can’t prove anything,” he told March calmly. “And you can’t keep me here until the police arrive, either.” He touched his pocket with heavy meaning. “But you can believe this… the jury’ll come back and your client will be guilty.”
March replaced the phone. “Finish what you have to say,” he swallowed.
The man sprawled out on the couch, spilling ashes on the carpet. “It’s like this,” he explained. “It’s my word against yours… and I’ve got an alibi already fixed up… with a friend of mine. A respectable person who’ll swear I’ve been in Long Beach all night. So don’t try to finger me.”
“What’s… your proposition?”
“It’s a straight business deal. You received a bundle for defending the dame, and for a few extra bucks you can spring her. It’s that simple.”
“But I don’t think you can swing it.” March focused his eyes on the man.
The stranger laughed. “Sure I can. There’s somebody on the jury who’s all set to hold out for not guilty. At the very worst that means… a hung jury… no verdict. You can get a new trial.” The man shrugged indifferently, and looked around. “I could use a drink,” he said.
“There’s nothing here,” March told him coldly.
The stranger laughed loudly. “You sure sound like you’ve had yours. Okay, skip it. Now it’s like this. This person I mentioned needs dough pretty bad. We happen to know each other… just a little bit… not enough you could ever trace back. This somebody said, ‘If I get on the jury, I’ll hold out for not guilty… that is, if I feel it’s worth my time. And if I don’t feel it’s worth my time, I can hold out the other way just as well.’ You get the idea?”
“I get the idea.”
“So we arranged a real simple signal,” the man continued blandly, “like… for instance… I raise the window shade in a certain hotel room where this party can see it. Then the party knows the fix is in. And that’s that.”
“And if you get the money, you split it?”
“Sure. I get paid for my trouble, too.”
March stared at the stranger, hope, rage and frustration surging over him in waves. “You know what I’d like to do to you!”
“I can guess,” replied the fixer, unruffled. “The important thing now is… do I get the dough?”
“How much?”
“Three thousand dollars.”
In the Morrisey apartment, Barker motioned urgently to Pauline. “Get that goddamned camera with some infrared bulbs,” he shouted, and returned his ear to the conversation to hear March’s reply to the stranger. “I’ll think about it. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“You’ve got until noon,” the man replied. “Put three grand in your billfold, and accidently drop it right in front of me… and keep walking. Just like you lost it. When I pick it up, you don’t notice it. Understand?”
“Yes,” Barker heard March’
s voice reply.
“Noon, no later. On the corner of Broadway by the Carleton Hotel.”
Barker felt Pauline shaking his shoulder; grabbing the camera, he ran for the door. “Keep that recording machine going until I get back,” he ordered. The reporter rushed out of the apartment, and down the stairs.
Outdoors, on the sidewalk in front of the Silver Sands, Barker looked around hurriedly, then concealed himself in the shadows. Crouching behind high bushes, he waited near the front of the building. Within a few minutes, a man—dressed in slacks and sports jacket—left the entrance of the apartment and sauntered down the street, stopping occasionally to glance behind him. Barker, using the protection of a line of parked automobiles, followed him for nearly a block. The stranger finally stopped by the side of a five-year-old car and began to unlock the door. Creeping up as close as possible, Barker raised his camera and shot a photo of the man entering the car, the infrared bulb giving no warning flash, and at the same time caught the California license plate on the vehicle.
Before the car could drive away, a taxi pulled up and stopped, momentarily blocking the street, to unload a passenger. Utilizing the opportunity, the reporter took another picture of the taxi stopped by the stranger’s car, together with the cab’s license. Barker, knowing that the taxi driver kept a record of dates, times, and distances, felt that he had established, beyond argument, the time and place of his picture of the fixer.
Filled with achievement, the reporter returned to Pauline Morrisey’s apartment. “Tomorrow,” Barker told her, “I’m going to catch March right in the middle of a fast one… and have the biggest story in town!”
“Yes, lover,” Pauline agreed.
“I’ll wait until I get a shot of him passing the bribe,” Barker calculated. “In the meantime, I can trace the license plate on that car and find out who the contact is…”
“But suppose March reports him to the police?” Pauline was cautious.
Not I, Said the Vixen Page 20