by Stuart Woods
“Each of you, when his duty is done in this courtroom, will return to his daily life, and each of you will have to live with himself every day after that. Do you wish to spend the rest of your days in the knowledge that you convicted an honest woman on no evidence? Of course not! When you have declared this woman innocent you can walk from this courtroom with your heads held high, knowing that you have done right in the eyes of God and man, and no one can take that from you, not even Sir Winston and his ministry. Go, gentlemen, and do right!”
Sir Leslie returned to the defense table and sat down.
“Well done,” Stone whispered to him.
The judge spoke up. “I will now charge the jury. Gentlemen, you have heard a case presented by the prosecution and the defense. There can be no doubt that a man is dead and that it is the province of this court and, specifically, of this jury to decide how he met his death and who is to blame for it. Sir Winston and Sir Leslie have each presented their arguments, and now you must decide, beyond a reasonable doubt, if Mrs. Manning is guilty of the murder of her husband. Your verdict must be a majority verdict. You may now retire to the jury room and consider your verdict. When you have reached it, ring for the bailiff.” The judge stood and left the courtroom.
The jury filed out of their box and through a nearby door, which the bailiff closed behind him.
“That’s it?” Stone asked. “That’s a charge to the jury?”
“I’m afraid so,” Sir Leslie answered, glancing at his pocket watch. He beckoned the bailiff over. “May our client join us here at the table while we wait?”
The bailiff nodded stiffly, then went and brought Allison and held a chair for her.
“You were wonderful, Leslie,” she said, patting his arm.
Hewitt permitted himself a small smile.
“How do you read the jury, Leslie?” Stone asked.
Hewitt shrugged. “The foreman, my old tailor, is our best hope; the young boy will do whatever he thinks the others want him to; the views of the others will depend on their relationship, if any, to Sir Winston, and their vulnerability to his whim.”
“After all this, that’s where we are?” Stone said. “That most of the jury will act because of their vulnerability, or lack of it, to Sir Winston?”
“I’m afraid so,” Hewitt said.
“Why has no one left the courtroom?” Stone asked.
Sir Leslie looked at his watch. “Because everyone knows that in living memory, no St. Marks jury has ever been late for their dinner,” he said.
Chapter
57
Stone looked up and saw Hilary Kramer and Jim Forrester beckoning from the gallery; he walked over and shook hands with them. “I’d be interested to have your opinion of how things went.”
“I’d say you’re well on your way to an acquittal,” Kramer replied.
“Both you and Sir Leslie did a brilliant job,” Forrester chimed in. “How can you possibly lose?”
“I’m astonished,” Kramer said, “that this case could even have been brought to court with so little evidence, and I intend to say so in my coverage. This could never have come to trial in an American court.”
“Unfortunately, we’re not in an American court,” Stone said.
“Nobody’s left the courtroom,” Forrester said. “Are you expecting an early verdict?”
Stone nodded. “Leslie says St. Marks juries don’t like to be late for dinner. An early verdict would normally be in our favor, but in this case, I don’t know what to think. Leslie says that the relationship between individual jurors and Sir Winston is going to be the deciding factor.”
“Relationship?” Kramer said. “They have a relationship with him?”
“It’s a small island,” Stone said. “If one of them has something to fear from Sir Winston, he’s unlikely to vote our way.”
“That would be grounds for appeal in the States,” Forrester said.
“The appeal here is to the good nature, or perhaps the whim, of the prime minister, who’s eighty-nine,” Stone said.
“Do you think some of the pressure brought to bear on the government will have some effect on the outcome?” Kramer asked.
Stone shook his head. “I don’t know what that pressure could mean to any of the jurors. I’d hoped we wouldn’t have to go to trial.” He looked back to the defense table, where Hewitt and Allison were deep in conversation. “Leslie was wonderful, wasn’t he?”
“He sure got in his digs at Sir Winston,” Forrester agreed.
“Apparently he’s spent his life digging at the government,” Stone said. “Well, I’d better get back and reassure Allison. Will you both be staying for the verdict?”
“Sure we will,” Kramer said.
“See you later, then.” Stone walked back to the defense table and sat down. “What have you two been talking about?” he asked.
“I’ve just been telling Leslie what a wonderful job both of you have done,” Allison said, smiling. “After what I’ve heard here today, I’m very optimistic.”
“So am I,” Stone said, though he knew he would be uneasy until the jury came in.
“The important thing to remember,” Hewitt said, “is that even if the verdict goes against us, it’s not over. We still have the opportunity for appeal, and I think our position would be excellent.”
“I hope it doesn’t go that far,” Stone said.
“So do I,” Allison echoed.
They became silent, each wrapped in his own thoughts.
It was growing dark outside, and the bailiff rose from his desk and began turning on lights in the courtroom.
Sir Leslie Hewitt looked at his watch. “Almost nine o’clock,” he said. “I must say, I’m encouraged; I’ve never known a jury to stay out this long, so they must be deliberating very diligently.”
Most of the spectators had given up and gone home, but the reporters from the Times and The New Yorker still sat in the gallery, waiting.
“I’m hungry,” Allison said.
“I wish we could go out to dinner,” Hewitt said, “but I’m afraid the bailiff wouldn’t allow it. If you want to eat now, I can see that you’re fed in a cell.”
“No, I’ll wait,” Allison sighed.
Stone was hungry, too, but he hadn’t thought about it until now.
Then, from somewhere beyond the courtroom, a bell rang, something like a big brass schoolyard bell. The bailiff rose and left the room.
“They’re coming in,” Hewitt said. “Perhaps now we can all have dinner together.” He smiled at Allison.
The bailiff returned to the courtroom and escorted Allison back to the dock. A moment later, the jury filed in.
“All rise!” the bailiff called out, and when everyone had stood, the judge entered and took his seat.
“Gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?” he asked the jury.
The retired tailor rose. “We have, Your Lordship,” he said, handing a sheet of paper to the bailiff.
The bailiff took the paper to the judge, who read it without expression. “Read the verdict,” he said to the bailiff.
The bailiff held up the paper and read it once to himself, then out loud. “We, a jury of freemen of St. Marks, have considered our verdict in the case of the Government of St. Marks versus Allison Ames Manning. After due deliberation, we unanimously find the prisoner guilty of murder.”
The courtroom erupted in gasps and whispers; there was even a little scattered applause. Stone felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the courtroom. He turned to Allison and mouthed the words, “Don’t worry.”
Allison was as white as marble. She sat rigidly, expressionless, looking straight ahead of her but, apparently, not focusing on anything before her. Finally, she turned and looked desolately at Stone, who mouthed his message again. She nodded, then looked down at her lap.
“Sentence will be pronounced immediately,” the judge said, nodding at the bailiff.
Sir Leslie Hewitt was on his feet, in his hand a white env
elope sealed with a blob of red wax. “Your Lordship, the defense has prepared an appeal, which we request be sent to the prime minister’s residence without delay, and that sentence be postponed until we have heard from the prime minister.”
The bailiff took the envelope and delivered it to the judge, who glanced at it and returned it to the bailiff. “Deliver this personally as soon as court has adjourned,” the judge said to him, then looked up at Hewitt. “I see no reason to reconvene court at some later time,” he said. “Sentence will be pronounced immediately.” He nodded to the bailiff.
The bailiff went to a small cabinet under the bench and unlocked it with an old brass key. From the cabinet he removed a fringed cushion that supported a black cloth. He walked around the bench, climbed the few steps, and presented his burden to the judge. The judge took the black cloth from the cushion and placed it atop his wig. “All rise to hear the sentence!” the bailiff called out.
Stone struggled to his feet, along with the rest of the court.
The judge looked at Allison. “The prisoner will rise,” he said.
Stone looked over his shoulder at Allison, who was still seated. Her head jerked up, and slowly, she got to her feet. There was fear written across her face.
“Allison Ames Manning,” the judge intoned, “you have been found guilty of the crime of murder by a properly constituted jury of St. Marks freemen. Do you have anything to say before sentence is pronounced?”
Allison looked bleakly at him. “I am innocent,” she said, her voice breaking.
The judge nodded, then continued. “By the power vested in me by the people of St. Marks, I now direct that on the morrow, at the hour of sunset, you be taken from a cell in this building to the inner courtyard, where a scaffold shall have been erected, and be hanged by the neck until you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul.”
Allison looked briefly at the wall above the judge; then her eyes rolled up in her head, and she collapsed backward, sending her chair skittering across the floor.
“Court is adjourned,” the judge said, then left the bench.
Stone and the bailiff ran for the dock.
Chapter
58
Stone reached Allison simultaneously with the bailiff, and a moment later, a court aide appeared with a folding canvas stretcher and placed it on the floor beside the inert woman. Stone slapped her cheeks lightly, but she did not respond. “Please get a doctor,” he said to the bailiff.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mr. Barrington,” the bailiff said. “Let’s get her onto the stretcher.”
Together, the two men lifted Allison and set her gently on the stretcher. The bailiff and the court aide each took an end and carried her from the courtroom. Stone and Sir Leslie followed them down the stairs and past the front desk of the jail into a corridor, then to the last cell before the hallway ended in a stout wooden door. By the time they had laid her on the cell’s bunk, Allison was stirring. Stone put a pillow under her head and felt her neck for a pulse. It was rapid, but strong.
“What is this place?” Allison asked weakly.
“The jail,” Stone replied. “You fainted; how do you feel now?”
“Weak,” she said.
“I’ll get her some food,” Sir Leslie said, then disappeared.
“Did I dream it all?” Allison asked.
“No, but don’t worry about it; your appeal has already gone to the prime minister. We should hear something tomorrow sometime.”
Allison nodded. “I’m sorry I fainted,” she said. “I’m usually better under pressure.”
“I don’t blame you,” Stone said. “I still can’t believe it myself. An American jury would have acquitted you in minutes.”
“I’d like to sit up,” she said. As she did, with Stone’s help, a woman in a denim shift came into the cell, bearing a bowl of something hot.
“Here you are, dear,” she said to Allison, setting the tray on her lap. “This’ll do you good; I made it myself.”
Allison began eating the stew. “It’s good,” she said. “Lots of fish in it.”
From the direction of the inner courtyard, the sound of hammering came through the window high over the outside door.
“What’s that?” Allison asked.
“Oh, just some work being done,” he lied. “Ignore it.” He knew exactly what that hammering meant.
Stone sat beside her on the bunk, and Sir Leslie returned with a chair.
“I don’t want you to worry,” Hewitt said. “Your appeal will be in the prime minister’s hands in just a few minutes.” He reached into his briefcase and retrieved two sheets of paper, handing them to Stone and Allison. “Here’s a copy for you.”
“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” Allison said, continuing to eat the stew.
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
“I’ll read it later,” she said.
Stone put his copy into his pocket. Apparently Hewitt had not been as sanguine as he about the outcome of the trial, since he had written the appeal in advance. He looked at his watch: half past nine. “I have some important telephoning to do,” he said to Allison. “You’re going to have to stay here tonight; would you like me to bring you some things?”
“Thank you,” she said. “A cotton dress, some underwear, and my cosmetics case.”
Stone stood up. “Thomas is outside, I’m sure; he’ll drive me. I’ll be back as soon as possible.” He left the cell and walked down the hall to the front desk, where he found Hilary Kramer and Jim Forrester waiting.
“Is she all right?” Kramer asked.
“Yes, she just fainted; she’s having some dinner now.”
“I don’t blame her for fainting,” Kramer said. “I would have, too, under the circumstances.”
Jim Forrester looked almost as pale under his tan as Allison. “When do you expect to hear about the appeal?” he asked.
“Probably not until tomorrow.”
“Any way to gauge her chances?”
“None that I know of. I’m about to make some phone calls to muster as much support as possible.” He looked at Forrester. “Jim, you look awful; are you feeling all right?”
“I’m okay. I guess I wasn’t expecting a conviction; you don’t get much of this sort of thing in the travel-writing business.”
“Speaking of travel writing, do you think you could call some of your travel editors and get them to send telegrams of protest to the prime minister first thing in the morning? If he thinks hanging Allison is going to hurt his tourist trade, maybe that’ll help.”
“I’ll call a couple of people tonight,” Forrester replied.
“Good, now I’ve got to run back to the marina, make some calls, and get some things for Allison.”
“Stone,” Kramer said, “give me one good quote for my piece.”
“The defense is absolutely shocked at this outrageous verdict. In the United States this case would have been dismissed out of hand, and now we face the prospect of St. Marks executing an innocent American woman who has already been devastated by the entirely natural death of her husband. If this happens, no American will ever be safe in St. Marks again. I urge every American who cares about justice to wire or fax the prime minister of St. Marks in protest.”
“Great!” Kramer replied.
“Hilary, I know it’s late, but this piece isn’t going to do Allison any good if it runs the day after tomorrow. Is there any way you can get it into tomorrow’s edition?”
“I may have to break some legs, but I’ll get it done.”
“Thanks; I have to go now.”
Thomas was waiting at the door. “How is she?”
“Much better; she’s eating, anyway. Can you run me to the marina, then let me borrow your car to get back here?”
“Of course; let’s go.”
As they pulled up at the marina, Stone saw the fast motor yacht that Allison had previously chartered pulling into a berth.
“What’s that doing back?” Thoma
s asked.
“It’s been in Guadeloupe waiting for a call from Allison to pick her up. Would you tell them that Mrs. Chapman has been delayed and to stick around until tomorrow? I hope she’ll be here to go aboard.”
“Sure.” Thomas handed over his car keys, then walked off toward the big motor yacht.
Stone went aboard Expansive and ran down below. In a moment he had the satellite phone up and running and a call in to Bill Eggers’s home.
“Hello?”
“Thank God you’re there,” Stone said.
“Stone! What’s up? How did the trial go?”
“She was convicted.”
“What?”
“I’m not kidding, Bill, and we’ve got less than twenty-four hours to save her life. Here’s what I want you to do.”
“I’ve got a pencil; shoot.”
“Start with the State Department: call the duty officer and ask him to alert the Caribbean desk that an innocent American citizen is about to be hanged in St. Marks. Demand that they call the secretary of state and have him bring to bear every ounce of influence he can muster. No, wait—first call the chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee—it’s Jesse Helms, God help us—and get him to call the secretary of state. Call Senators Dodd and Lieberman of Connecticut and get them onto him as well. Hell, tell them to call the president.”
“You think they’ll do that?”
“They might; we have to try. Call both Phil Woodman and Max Weld and see if you can get them to make some calls. Then call your PR people and tell them to start calling reporters at home and the wire services. We need an all-out mobilization between now and tomorrow morning. Everything should be directed to the prime minister of St. Marks; it’s all in his hands now. Tell the PR people to call travel editors, too; we’ve got to let them know that hanging Allison will kill their tourist business. Jim Forrester is calling a couple of them.”
“Who?”
“Forrester is down here doing a piece for The New Yorker, but he’s done a lot of travel writing.”