by Mary Miley
So I smiled sweetly as he asked, ‘There were seven men killed that night in Arizona, is that correct, Miss Beckett?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And three wounded?’
Don’t get trapped into speculating about anything. If you don’t know an answer, say so. ‘I can’t speak to that, sir. I didn’t know of any men wounded.’
‘Excuse me, I mis-stated the number. There was only one man wounded, isn’t that so?’
I saw right away that he was trying to get me to make one false claim so he could challenge everything else that came out of my mouth. I straightened my shoulders and repeated, ‘I can’t say. It’s possible, but I wasn’t aware of any men wounded.’
‘You claimed earlier that these men were killed in self-defense, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were afraid for your life because several men had already been killed, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did you learn that the cook and the stationmaster were dead?’
Don’t rush. Consider the question carefully before replying. ‘Shortly after the sheriff arrived.’
‘So you didn’t know about their deaths while the gun fighting was going on?’
‘I did not.’
‘So you didn’t actually see them killed, did you?’
‘No.’
‘So you couldn’t have really thought your life was in danger, could you?’
‘Yes, sir, I did. I had a gun pointed at me for several hours and saw three of the seven men killed.’
‘Who killed those three?’
‘The boss gangster shot one of his own men in cold blood on the platform when they argued. We four in the dining car overcame the two who were holding us at gunpoint.’
‘You didn’t see the other two gangsters killed?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It was dark and they were shooting from behind rocks.’
‘So it’s possible that those men were captured alive and then murdered before the sheriff arrived?’
Don’t be trapped into speculation. He’ll use it against you.
‘I couldn’t speak to that. I only know what I saw.’
He posed other questions that seemed designed to poke holes in my contention that the deaths had been self-defense. If that were his tactic, he would find that Eleanor Vandergrift sang the same song. So would Sheriff Barnes, but less effectively because he hadn’t been there during the gun battle, only after it was over.
It seemed like I testified for hours. Later I learned it was thirty-two minutes. I ventured a last look at David as I stepped down from the witness chair. Anyone who was watching him might have seen one eye twitch, but I knew it was a wink for me. He was pleased with my performance.
I passed Eleanor Vandergrift coming into the courtroom as I exited, her head high, her rigid posture defined by her old-fashioned corset. That woman was made of iron. She wasn’t going to help the government’s case against David one bit.
The bailiff said I could leave. ‘The trial will go on for hours, miss, you can go home now.’
Nothing doing, I thought, resuming my seat on the hall bench. After Eleanor Vandergrift emerged, she sat with me for a while, urging me to get something to eat or drink. When I refused to budge, she left and came back with some coffee and an apple. ‘Drink up. I promised to return the cup and saucer or forfeit my first-born child.’ I tried to smile but couldn’t. Nor could I eat. The thought of food turned my stomach. I did drink the coffee. ‘Put this in your purse for later, then,’ she urged.
Eleanor stayed with me for as long as she could, until she had to leave to catch her train home to Arizona. I started to thank her but choked on the words. She squeezed my hand and promised me it would turn out all right. As she made her way down the corridor and vanished through the double doors, I felt very much alone.
Then it was over. At six thirty, the doors of the courtroom burst open and people – newspapermen in the lead – streamed out, their animated voices filling the hall. There was no reading the verdict on their faces. I tried to push my way inside, but it was slow going with the flood against me, like a fish swimming upstream. Finally, I burst through and saw David standing with Allenby and a deputy. In handcuffs.
With an incoherent cry, I threw myself at David, who just in time lifted his cuffed wrists over my head so I was inside the circle of his arms. Allenby pulled out his wallet and handed the deputy a bill. The deputy nodded and backed off.
‘You did great, kid,’ he said.
‘No, no! You’re not guilty!’ If I held on tight enough, no one could take him away.
‘You got me off the murder charge. The rest is penny-ante stuff. I won’t be gone long. Mike’ll fill you in on the details. Just calm down. I got an appointment with this gentleman here,’ he said, nodding toward the deputy waiting to escort him back to jail.
‘No!’ I held on tighter.
‘Go on home. I’ll see you soon. Mike, can you … uh, please …’
Allenby pried my arms from around David’s waist and pulled me away. The deputy led David out a side door. He didn’t say anything else or even look back at me. The door closed behind them with a dull thud that I felt inside my heart.
Still focused on the door, I said, ‘Tell me, quick.’
‘They got him on the tax and insurance charges. The judge gave him three and a half years—’
‘What?’
The room went dark. The floor came up to meet me.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a bench in the courtroom with Mike Allenby hovering over me, mopping my forehead with a cold, wet handkerchief. Showing unusual – for him – empathy, he propped me into a sitting position and waited until I got my bearings before he tried to explain.
‘You okay now? People faint all the time in here. Good thing I caught you going down. Now, I’m gonna walk you to my car – it’s parked right out back – and drive you straight home. Then we’re going to have a talk. You ready to stand up?’
Still a little dizzy, I nodded. I wanted nothing more than to get out of that horrid room. My knees felt like jelly, but the lawyer held firmly onto my arm and steered me through the hallway and out the rear door of the courthouse. We pulled out of the parking lot in Allenby’s fancy emerald-green Packard and headed toward Hollywood in silence.
Less than half an hour later, he pulled up to the curb in front of our house on Fernwood.
‘I’m fine now. I don’t need any help.’ But my words sounded ungrateful, so I added, ‘Thank you for bringing me home.’
‘Let’s get you safe inside before I leave,’ he said, walking beside me into the house and through to the kitchen where Helen and Myrna were sharing a pot of tea. They leaped to their feet when they heard the front door open.
‘What’s the verdict?’ both girls called out.
‘Good news,’ said Allenby with that false, peppy voice people use when they’re about to deliver a blow. ‘Not guilty on the murder and theft charges. Not-so-good news: guilty on the tax and fraud charges. But we aren’t done with that yet. She’s had a rough day.’ Talking nonstop, he guided me out the back door onto the patio where Melva was pulling clothes off the line, and he deposited me on the lounge chair. ‘You girls got any hooch around here? She could sure use a belt. So could I, come to that. Ice, too. And can you cook up something easy she could eat? I’m pretty sure she hasn’t had a bite all day.’
I could hear Myrna charging up the staircase for the bottle of David’s whiskey – it was about to live up to its claim as medicinal alcohol – and Helen banging pots and running the taps in the kitchen. Only then did I notice Kit crouched beside the fishpond. The commotion brought a spark of life into her empty eyes. I didn’t have the energy to write out an explanation for her. Helen could do that later.
The lawyer waited until Myrna brought two glasses of whiskey. ‘Here, this’ll fix what ails you,’ he said, taking a swig from his own glass. I didn’t need persua
ding. He turned to Myrna who was wringing her hands and looking desperate to do something else helpful. ‘Ah, you, girl, what’s your name?’
‘Myrna Loy.’
‘Yeah, Myrna. Thanks, sweetheart. Now if you don’t mind, I need some privacy here with my client.’
‘Oh, gosh, sure. I’ll go help Helen in the kitchen.’
He knew enough not to bother about Kit, who had resumed her place in a wicker chair with her sketchbook on her lap.
‘Okay. Okay, now, listen up, Jessie, this is what’s what. The jury found our friend not guilty of murder or theft – that’s good – but guilty of tax evasion and insurance fraud. Which, just between you and me and the fish here, is a fair verdict. But we weren’t going for fair, we were going for complete acquittal, so we aren’t happy one bit. This is just the beginning. We’re going to be fighting back, so don’t panic. No way that sentence will stand. I have Plan B ready to roll out.’
‘I thought you were confident about Plan A. What went wrong?’
‘I was never worried about the murder or theft charges. We had you, Miss Vandergrift, and that squeaky-clean sheriff to set the jury straight about murder and rock-solid proof that the whiskey was legal and belonged to Mr Carr all along, so no theft there. The feds knew that too. They aren’t dumb. Well, they are, mostly, but not these fellas. Bad luck that we got the only honest feds in the state. This was always about the insurance fraud and the taxes. When I couldn’t get them to budge on bail or buy our way clear of the charges, I knew something was going on underneath the surface. I looked under a lot of rocks, you know? And each time I found slime and thought, aha, that’s what’s really going on. Then I’d learn something else, and realize I was wrong. It was something else. Normally, this sort of thing can be made to disappear with a donation of cash or hooch to the judge or district attorney or even a well-placed office clerk can be worth his weight in bottles, but this time, nothing was greasing the skids. Nothing! Finally, though, I had everything lined up perfect. I bribed the jury.’
I gasped.
‘Not personally, of course, I’m no moron. Someone handles these things for me. Unfortunately, the judge got tipped off and brought in the alternate jurors this morning. I was shocked, mind you, shocked this morning when I learned about the bribery attempt!’
‘But three and a half years!’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘You can’t think like that. Trust me, it’ll never happen. First of all, I’ll be filing an appeal tomorrow.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Geez, there’s lots of grounds. Starting with a challenge to the judge’s dismissal of the first jury after they’d been legally impaneled.’
‘Because he learned they were bought off.’
‘But was it a rumor? Who told him? Did he have proof? You don’t just dismiss a jury over some vague suspicion. Anyway, there are plenty of other things I can cite in his instructions to the jury. He gave them almost fifty instructions before they retired, and I can find flaws in most of them. And even the flimsiest grounds give us the chance to pay off some judges higher up the ladder. Or buy a parole. If it comes down to Plan C, we buy Carr a pardon from the governor. Expensive, but foolproof. The moral of the story is: don’t worry – everything’s gonna be just fine.’
The screen door banged behind Helen as she emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray. ‘Here, Jessie, try to eat some of this oatmeal. I put lots of brown sugar on it. And milk. You’ll feel better with some food inside you. There’s more, Mr Allenby, if you’d like some …?’
The dismay on his face suggested he fancied a bowl of oatmeal about as much as a supper of warm gruel. ‘Uh, no thanks, sweetheart. I’m more a steak-and-potatoes kinda guy. Jessie, you call my secretary if you have any more questions.’ Myrna escorted him out through the house as Helen and Kit kept me company. I could tell the girls were afraid to leave me alone.
‘Don’t worry, Helen, I’m not going to drown myself in the fishpond.’
‘I know, Jessie. We’re all so very sorry about David. But honestly, I know it’ll all turn out fine in the end. Look here!’ she said, in a patent attempt to distract me from my problems. ‘Look what Kit’s been drawing!’ She took the sketchbook out of Kit’s hands and held it up so I could see the drawing of me, sitting on the lounge chair, which she’d not finished. I reached out for a closer look.
It wasn’t a good likeness. The child really didn’t have much artistic talent, poor kid, but drawing portraits seemed to amuse her, and she had little enough to occupy her hours. I gave her an encouraging smile and feigned an interest in her work, flipping back a few pages to see some of her previous drawings.
‘Kit’s going to stay with us another week,’ said Helen. ‘I got a telegram from Rose Ann yesterday asking if she could impose a little while longer. She was up north in San Francisco and hadn’t found a place to live yet. I hope you don’t mind.’
I assured her I did not. ‘Kit is no trouble. I’m only sorry the child has so little to do during the daytime.’ I came to the picture she had drawn on Monday night when Allenby and I had been meeting on the porch. She’d exaggerated all his features, much like caricature artists do, making his ears bigger than they were, his hair thinner, and his stomach fatter. Atop his head she’d drawn two black horns, giving him a sinister appearance. I scribbled on the bottom of the picture, ‘Sprinkle salt on him and he’d shrivel up like a grub. But I’m trying to be nice because he’s helping David,’ and returned it to her with a smile.
I only hoped he was as good as David seemed to think he was.
THIRTEEN
Pickford-Fairbanks was not one of Hollywood’s larger studios. Squeezed onto eighteen acres behind Santa Monica Boulevard at Formosa, it opened in 1922, and in the three years since, buildings had sprouted like mushrooms after a cool rain. Most offices were located in the low stucco building that fronted Santa Monica, but my workspace was in a bungalow toward the back. Every day we passed through the front gate where a security guard kept a keen eye out to make sure no tourists, salesmen, or nosy children slipped inside. The entrance was narrow, just wide enough to admit an automobile, and it was topped by a painted arch that read Pickford-Fairbanks Studios.
Usually I grabbed a cup of coffee at the canteen and headed straight to my desk or the set, but today I arrived early – at seven thirty – for a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and warm cinnamon bread. David’s lawyer was right: life looked better on a full stomach. And keeping my mind on my work while Allenby spun his spider’s web of legal intrigue would distract me from brooding about David.
Once when I was young and my mother and I were playing in Atlanta, I went exploring on my own and was lost for most of a day. When a kindly gentleman returned me to my mother, she hugged me tight, cried, shouted, and spanked the daylights out of me. The next time I saw David, I didn’t know which I’d do first: throw myself in his arms or slap him. I was furious that he’d become involved in another shady scheme, especially when he kept swearing he’d left his old life behind, and worried sick that a long prison sentence would smother all his good qualities, leaving only bitter dregs. David was … well, David. He really was a good person – although how someone could be a bootlegger and gangster and killer and still be a good person, I couldn’t explain to anyone, not even myself. But I cared for him. I don’t know if it was love, but I cared. A lot.
After breakfast, I made my way to the set for the ship’s deck, which was wedged in between two old sets that had not seen action since the filming of Don Q: Son of Zorro. Although we had not yet reached the halfway point in The Black Pirate, we were, that morning, preparing to shoot the final scenes. This was not one that involved acrobatics or explosions or technical wizardry; it was the simple, romantic climax that comes when the princess, having learned that the pirate chief is really a duke, falls into his arms for a happily-ever-after embrace. Something I wasn’t going to experience for a long, long while.
There is a secret to this scene that very few people
know: Billie Dove, the actress who played the princess, was not in it. On an impulse, Mary Pickford donned Billie’s blue gown and wig that day and stepped into the part for a joke, thus adding another chapter to the legend of her love for Douglas Fairbanks. So Douglas is really kissing his wife in that last moment of the picture, a fact made all the more emotional for me, missing David as I did.
Miss Pickford laughingly insisted on several takes. Finished at last, she reached up on tiptoes and whispered something into Douglas’s ear that brought his eyes straight to me. An earnest conversation ensued. Then she left the set. But when Douglas made no move to beckon me over and we had moved on to another scene on the poop deck, I figured I had misread the situation. It was not until Director Parker called for a short break an hour later that Douglas approached me, still dressed in his raggedy pirate garb.
‘Jessie,’ he began, draping one muscular arm around my shoulders and guiding me to a quiet corner. ‘A problem has come up. I’ve just learned that a gaggle of newspapermen is milling about the front gate asking for you.’
‘Me? Oh, dear. Why?’
‘Hmmm, yes. Looks like your testimony at yesterday’s trial has made you popular with that highly unsavory crowd. I can only imagine what they want to ask you. I’ve sent an extra guard to the gate. That will keep them out of the studio, of course, and Mary has notified the police chief that we will not tolerate this sort of harassment.’
‘Thank you.’ I thought he would ask me about my testimony and what had happened in court yesterday, but he did not. I suppose he didn’t need to – it was in this morning’s paper – but I wanted him to ask. I wanted him to care about David.
‘Hmmm, yes. I expect some officers will arrive shortly and will run off these troublemakers. But they can’t prevent them from congregating on the public sidewalks, so I’m afraid they are going to hang around across the street until you come out. Sort of like vultures waiting for their prey to give up the ghost.’