by Allen Drury
“Where—?”
“To the right,” she said, standing aside. “In the library.”
“Hello?” he said. “Hello?”
“Come back,” she cried in a voice of terror and anguish he knew was genuine. “Oh, come back!”
“Yes,” he said, beginning to shake all over. “Right away.”
“I’ll get the car,” Moss said behind him, and raced out to the garage and did so, not even stopping to change from sandals to shoes.
“Good luck,” Sue-Ann said, giving him a desperate kiss. He returned it, nodded, jumped in, slammed the door. They were off like Regard, he thought crazily as Moss trod on the gas. Off like Regard, off like Regard, off like Regard. They said nothing on the drive though it seemed to take forever to reach the hospital.
Mary looked at them with haggard, almost unseeing eyes.
Doctors and nurses stood about.
His daughter lay still and white.
Even whiter than he was.
“Oh, my God!” he said, as he felt Moss’ hand steadying his arm. “Is she—is she—”
“She is alive,” the older doctor said, taking him gently by the other arm and walking the two of them out into the corridor. “All her vital signs are good. However—”
“However what?” he demanded, feeling as though he were far down in a deep well somewhere, looking up and shouting to a tiny little figure above, though the doctor was at his side, his hand still gentling his arm.
“However, she has had a seizure—a grand mal, or epileptic, seizure—and I am afraid the encephalogram indicates—” his steady voice faltered for just a second, then resumed its level pace, “that brain function has been almost entirely lost.” He tightened his grip and so did Moss as Tay swayed a little, then steadied.
“And it will not—” he said, trying to articulate and managing just barely to be understood. “It will not—”
“We think in all probability it will not come back,” the doctor confirmed gravely. “These things happen, we do not know why. It happened. Everything possible was done. Your wife screamed immediately, med-alert was sounded, everybody came—and we were helpless. Everything possible was done, and we were helpless.” For just a moment he lost his professional calm and looked like what he was, a man who knew, in the fashion of doctors, a little more about his fellow beings than his fellow beings knew, but still did not know the answer to the ultimate question he now asked aloud.
“Why does God do these things?” he demanded of the impervious universe with a sudden savage vehemence. “Why, why, why?”
“I know why,” Tay said in a ghastly voice. “To humble me.”
“Oh, buddy,” Moss said. “Oh, buddy, don’t. Ah, don’t.”
“I’ve got to go back in there,” he said, suddenly wheeling about, shaking them off, almost running toward the room that held his daughter and wife, both now gone from him, in all probability, forever. “I’ve got to go back in there!”
“Mr. Justice,” the doctor said as they watched him go. “I think you had better stay with them for a while. If you can bear it.”
“Yes,” Moss agreed, white and shaken but mustering from somewhere the strength he had to have. “Yes. I can bear it.”
And for two or three hours, until Tay asked him to take him and Mary back, exhausted, to the hotel, he did; and never by slightest word or look suggested reproach or drew comparisons of any kind, but was steady, supportive, loving, patient and kind, even when Mary retired into some private world of her own. It was not until he got home that he and Sue-Ann wept again; and when, around 9 p.m., he called the Chief to tell him the news and report that he would be back in time for the session tomorrow, he too could barely articulate. Across Washington in six more homes when the Chief telephoned to pass on the news, renewed sadness fell. It was a somber Court indeed that reconvened next day at 10 a.m.
***
Chapter 3
Only the bomber of Pomeroy Station, in fact, enjoyed himself during the week his trial was in recess, and that was because, being, as he had known from an early age, a superior individual, he seemed to possess a resilience not granted ordinary men.
He was fortified in this by the fact that in some segments of the media he was not doing so badly. Many editorials, news analyses and commentaries in smaller journals and local stations continued to praise Regard for his courage, Perlie Williams for his evenhandedness and Justice NOW! for its astonishing vigor and continued phenomenal growth. But considerable praise was accorded by the major media to Debbie for her stout defense of her client and for her insistence that he be given psychiatric tests to determine his fitness to stand trial. There seemed to be a substantial feeling in some major news outlets that somehow he was gaining ground and might, after all, turn out to be innocent of the charges lodged against him.
There was no such divergence of opinion among the general public, or at least among that still rapidly growing sector of it represented by Justice NOW!
The organization was up to almost five million members and still the letters, telegrams, pledges of support and monetary contributions continued to flow into national headquarters in Columbia. Forty-one additional attorneys general had formally endorsed the organization and the few who still remained aloof were under heavy pressure to conform. Many members of Congress had also signified their approval, some by actually joining, others by statements indicating support and encouragement. Of the nation’s fifty governors, thirty-eight had already issued endorsements. Most of the other twelve were expected to follow very shortly.
Surveying his explosively expanding political domain, Regard was well content. And although the jury had been directed, upon their release to go home, not to read or view anything during the week that might prejudice their opinions, he knew he could count on human nature to take care of that. He felt his case was in good shape.
For her part, Debbie spent the week carefully drawing the picture of herself and her client as two small, almost helpless figures overwhelmed by an unprincipled juggernaut. She and Regard were invited to appear together on Today, Tonight, A.M. America, 60 Minutes, Meet the Press and Face the Nation, and on each she showed herself adept at both irritating her opponent and gathering some sympathy for herself—at least from their questioners, who by and large were friendly toward her, critical toward Regard, and alarmed by the continuing rapid surge of Justice NOW! By week’s end she had received and put into an Earle Holgren Defense Fund the sum of almost $200,000 from around the country, much of it from Hollywood, anti-nuclear groups and a few anonymous but heavy contributions from such overseas sources as Libya, South Yemen, Angola and smaller conduits whose interest had nothing to do with the personalities and issues involved but was simply to stir up trouble in America. The American Civil Liberties Union, as she had expected, offered assistance, and from Harrison Aboud in New York she received two telephone calls, both monitored by Regard’s people, offering advice and instruction. Aware that her phone was probably bugged, she was circumspect, polite and noncommittal during the course of these, and at the end of the second asked Harry to stop calling.
“I understand,” he said in the expansive jovial way that had helped earn him such a good press over the years. “I certainly understand!”
“I certainly hope so,” she had replied tartly and rung off; but it was good to know, she told herself, that support was gathering for her client. She was confident there would be more as the contrast between his lone figure and the onrolling behemoth of Justice NOW! became more obvious.
She only saw him once during the week, and that was Friday afternoon when the psychiatrists canceled their final interview. She had chosen a famous and very fashionable young doctor from New York; Regard the older, equally famous head of psychiatric studies at Emory University in Atlanta; and Judge Williams a similarly well-known teacher at the University of Chicago. The media referred to them as “a blue-ribbon panel,” and they were, but Earle Holgren was a match for them—so much so that even the youn
g New Yorker, disposed to be friendly, concluded the week as frustrated and annoyed as his colleagues.
There was no doubt in their minds that he was sane, highly intelligent, completely competent to stand trial, and an infuriatingly arrogant and egotistical being.
“I don’t see what the bastard needs a lawyer for,” the young New Yorker said. “He could handle it himself with both hands tied behind him.”
“He does have an interesting mind,” the doctor from Atlanta agreed.
“Which is going to trip him up in due course,” the doctor from Chicago predicted.
“Which is not our problem,” the New Yorker noted. “It’s Miss Debbie’s, and I wish her joy of it.”
They decided to cancel the final interview, retire to the Carolina Inn and begin drafting their unanimous report to the court. Earle Holgren, being left with nothing much to occupy the afternoon, sent for his lawyer, whom he had carefully kept at arm’s length for the entire period of interrogation.
Despite her valiant attempts she could not escape an insidious and unsettling excitement. She was disgusted with herself to realize that her breath was coming faster, her heart pounding more rapidly, as they brought him into the room where she was waiting and then withdrew and shut the door. A guard still watched every couple of minutes through a peephole, however, and she wondered if he could sense her hateful agitation. Her client could. The moment he saw her he gave his most cheerful Santa Claus smile and said loudly, “There’s my superstar sweetie! How are you, Superstar?”
“Be quiet!” she said, blushed furiously and hated herself the more.
“Why?” he demanded, and looked over his shoulder. “Because of him? They can’t understand English down here. Don’t worry.”
The guard said, “Son of a bitch,” clearly, and Earle gave him his favorite gesture. The guard hit the door hard with the flat of his hand and Earle, grinning, turned away and dropped his voice to a whisper as he sat down at the table opposite her.
“You’ve been damned good this week,” he said with a genuine admiration that made her blush again, this time with a pleasure she found as degrading as the excitement. “I like the way you’ve kept that red-necked yahoo on the defensive on all those programs. You must be building up quite a head of steam for us.”
“Not anywhere near the head of steam he’s building up with Justice NOW!” she said. “If you’ve seen the programs you must have seen the news about that, too.”
“Oh, yes. Old Yahoo is being pretty good to me, for some reason or reasons unknown. I’m getting TV, newspapers, the works. I think maybe that is the reason—he wants to scare me with his crummy outfit. And,” he added as she made a gesture of protest, “don’t tell me that it isn’t crummy just because it has a hell of a lot of people in it. There are a hell of a lot of fools in this world who will join anything, particularly if they think they’re going to wind up getting somebody’s blood with it.”
“What makes you think they aren’t? Do you know something I don’t know?”
“You’re going to save me, sweetheart,” he said, grinning expansively and cupping her hands in his. “You’re just plumb going to work a miracle and pluck this poor innocent child right out of the jaws of death, that’s why.”
“Stop that,” she said sharply, yanking her hands away. “You act like a fool yourself, sometimes. What’s the matter with you, anyway? You’ll be lucky to get off with life, the way the country’s feeling right now.”
“Hell!” he said, and suddenly he wasn’t grinning anymore. “They’re not going to prove anything! There’s nothing they can prove! And supposing they do convict me, we’ll appeal it, won’t we? We can keep this thing going for years before they even come close to getting me. Which they can’t do,” he repeated, “because they haven’t got the proof.”
“I think you really are crazy,” she said. “I think you really think you can bluff your way through this thing. You say you’ve seen the news but you certainly haven’t absorbed it. I wonder what the psychiatrists think of you. They must have had a field day.”
“I had the field day,” he said, relaxing into a triumphant chuckle. “They never laid a finger on me.”
“What do you mean, ‘never laid a finger on you’? They were supposed to lay a finger on you! They were supposed to be convinced that you have psychiatric problems and can’t stand trial. Do you mean to tell me—”
“Listen!” he said, clamping his hand on her wrist as he had once before, so tightly that she almost cried out in pain. “I’m not going to act like an idiot for anybody, anytime! I’m not an idiot and I’m not going to pretend to be. Maybe you don’t respect my mind, but I do! I gave those bastards such a rough time it made their heads spin. They’ll certify me sane, all right. I’m saner than they are.”
“Well,” she said with a bleak humor, “that shoots that. And now,” she added in a level voice, “take your hand off my wrist and don’t you ever touch me again unless I say you can. I mean it. Now!”
For a second he looked startled. Then he burst out laughing and released her wrist.
“Oh, boy,” he said. “Oh, boy. You really do have spirit, don’t you? ‘Don’t ever touch me again unless I say you can’! Well, you will, sweetheart, you will. Too bad the Jukes and the Kallikaks are peeking in the door or I’d take my clothes off right now and we’d find out about it right this minute. Oh yes,” he said, and his tone was completely confident, “you’ll say I can one of these days, Superstar. The old bod is about ready to burst. I want a little help. You wouldn’t say no to your favorite client, would you?”
“Maybe you should blow up another plant,” she suggested. “That seems to do it.”
He gave her an angry glare.
“Nobody can prove I blew up any plant,” he said. Then he grinned. “Anyway, you’d be a lot cozier.”
“You are impossible,” she said. “Absolutely and completely impossible.”
“But you like it,” he said airily. “Oh, yes, Superstar, you like it. The bod, incidentally, is feeling a lot better now. I think I’ll stop limping when I come into court again Monday.”
“You’d better,” she said dryly. “I think you’ve made your point. Plus the fact that they took plenty of pictures of you at the time of your arrest and if Stinnet doesn’t offer them as exhibits, I will.”
“Good,” he said cheerfully. “What else are we going to do to delay things?”
“We aren’t going to do anything. You’ve seen enough of Williams, you know how he is; he isn’t going to permit any more delays. From here on in we’re driving right straight through to the end, I’m sure, just as fast as he can decently move things along. And he will be decent; he strikes me as a decent man. But he isn’t going to tolerate any monkey business, particularly with the whole country, practically, crying for your scalp.”
He gave her a sudden sharp, shrewd look.
“What’s your overall strategy? Don’t you think it’s about time we discussed it?”
“I think so,” she agreed, and in a few swift sentences sketched it for him. He smiled.
“I like that. Yes, I like that. I’d suggest a couple of other things also—”
When he had concluded, she argued with him vehemently, but when he refused to be moved, she shrugged.
“It may or may not work,” she said, “but what have we got to lose?”
“Just my life,” he said, but he didn’t sound as though he really believed it was that serious. “Just my life. A mere nothing, in the opinion of many, but important, in a minor way, to me.”
“Have a good weekend,” she said, standing up and nodding to the guard, who opened the door and started in. “Read lots of newspapers. Watch lots of TV. Get lots of rest. Monday starts the real battle.”
“I’m ready for it,” he said grimly. “God damn it!” he added fiercely to the guard. “Take your God damned hands off me! I’m coming!”
And as the guard glared at him but obeyed, he made her a mocking bow, gave her an airy wa
ve, and started off down the corridor, solid, stocky, apparently supremely confident and in control of all he surveyed.
She wondered, as she went thoughtfully out to her car, whether he really was or whether it was just a well-managed bluff. She was sure the psychiatrists would certify him sane but she wondered in what sense the word could here be applied. She suspected, herself, that he was far from the normal meaning of the word as most people used it. And once again she shivered, in spite of the sunlight, and wondered what it was that she had allowed Harry Aboud to get her into.
***
Chapter 4
The three psychiatrists submitted their unanimous report to the court on Monday. It found Earle William Holgren to be sane and, in fact, well above normal intelligence, perception and comprehension. It did not presume to judge his mental state at the time of the crimes at Pomeroy Station but it did declare him to be, in the respectful opinion of respondents, fully capable of standing trial and participating in whatever inquiries might be directed to him by counsel.
“The report will be accepted and filed,” Judge Williams said without other comment; neither counsel demurred; and the trial moved on. Under the pressures of national insistence and Justice NOW! it lasted just four days more.
Regard’s first witness, as he had earlier announced, was Deputy Sheriff William Lanahan of Pomeroy Station.
Sheriff Lanahan, a dark, intense young man of perhaps twenty-seven who obviously took himself and his duties very seriously, spoke in a backwoods drawl that at first seemed to indicate a slow and cautious mentality. It developed that, while cautious, it was not slow. His testimony was detailed, specific and damaging to the defendant—as far as it went. He was obviously too honest to push it any further.
Yes, he said in response to the attorney general’s questioning, he had returned to the plant after the explosion and begun an intensive search. Presently he had come to the cave, the tunnel, eventually to the well and so to the dead woman and child. No, he did not recognize them of his own knowledge.