The Witness

by Dorothy Uhnak

  In the small office just off the courtroom, Christie handed her revolver to Stoner, who examined it carefully and gave it back to her. Marty sang softly, the words to his song lost between bites of a Danish.

  “Marty, I thought you were on a diet. Besides, how do you have any appetite, with those diet capsules?” Christie asked him.

  Marty swallowed. “Cheese Danish is allowed. Besides, I don’t take those pills—they ruin your appetite.”

  Christie shook her head, and looked around at the other men. They seemed so calm. She wondered if she was the only tense person in the room. Casey Reardon looked calm; a little tight, a little quick-moving, but then he always seemed to be holding back some deep driving energy. He was smiling, cracking tough jokes at them, but he seemed at ease, sure of himself. Christie felt an aching weariness beneath the surface tension, and at the pit of her being she felt a terrible dread. The plan—her plan—had seemed so great at first telling; everything had seemed so great. But when the damn diet pill wore off, she felt burned out, more empty than she had ever felt in her life. She took a tissue from her pocketbook and wiped her sunglasses, turned at a touch on her shoulder to face Reardon.

  “Hey, the eye looks better—you heal fast.”

  “Yes, it’s pretty good. But I need the dark glasses—the doctor said for a day or two. Mr. Reardon, I wanted to talk to you a minute.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Well, this—this whole thing—I ...” She shrugged, her hand moving emptily in the air. Reardon’s fingers tightened around her arm and he pulled her to a quiet corner of the room, leaned against a desk.

  “All right, what’s the problem?”

  “Well—the whole thing. I mean, all of a sudden, the whole thing seems ... pretty risky.”

  Reardon’s eyes flickered beyond her, then darkened and focused on Christie. “Listen, Opara. Let’s get something straight, right now. When you first discussed this plan—you remember, the night you were so goddam high you thought everything was one big joke? Well, I heard you out, right? What did we do all day yesterday? All of us?”

  “We kicked it around and—”

  “We kicked it around and we argued it out and we changed it around and we discussed all the various angles and aspects, right? Seems to me we worked—what was it, eight, nine hours? A lot of people were involved, not just you. We’re set now and we’re going to let it roll, so you just hang on tight and do just what we planned and you’ll be fine.”

  “But—I feel so responsible. I mean, if this thing backfires ...”

  Reardon’s face stiffened and he moved so close to her that Christie took a step back. His voice was low and tight. “You feel responsible? Well, then let me straighten you out, Detective Opara. You’re looking at the guy who’s responsible. This is my show. No matter how it falls, I’m the guy holding it. If it works, it works. If it blows up, it blows up in my face. It was my decision. You got that?”

  He walked past her, signaled Stoner, then leaned over a desk, his finger pointing at various names, his voice low, asking questions. Christie heard Stoney comment, “I don’t like the Mayor’s boys, boss. They seem very edgy. They’ve been asking a lot of questions.”

  “The hell with them,” Reardon said tersely. “Is Patrolman Linelli all set?”

  O’Hanlon jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Got him in the little interrogation room next door. Boy, he looks like hell.”

  “He’s in uniform, isn’t he?”

  “Yes sir. Boy, that guy must have lost twenty pounds. The uniform hangs on him.”

  “Yeah? I wonder what his diet is. I’d like Marty to try it.” Again Reardon’s voice was bright, sharp and needling. He rested his hand on Marty’s shoulder, looked him over. “Ginsburg, you must have gained ten pounds since you started your diet.”

  There was some quick wisecracking, a final briefing. Then Reardon walked past Christie, turned for a moment, his eyes scanning her briefly. “You look good in blue, Christie. Ought to wear it more often.” It was not offered as a compliment, just a statement of fact. Then, the smile tight on his lips, Reardon inhaled. “Okay, fellas. I’m going in. Stay loose.”

  Casey Reardon stood inside the wooden railing that separated the magistrate’s desk from the rows of benches in the courtroom. He held his hands over his head and signaled those in the rear to move forward. “I’m going to ask for your complete attention and cooperation. Would you kindly move to the first three rows so that I can be heard?”

  There was a heavy brushing, scuffling of feet, a subdued sound of voices and bodies as the rows directly in front of Reardon were filled. He waited until the noise faded, then spoke quietly, his voice pleasant and friendly.

  “I’d like to thank you all for coming here this morning in response to my telegrams—I believe you all know who I am—Assistant Supervising District Attorney Casey Reardon. I’m responsible for the investigation and preparation of the case involving the death of William Everett, Jr. You have all signed sworn depositions relative to what you witnessed on the day in question and I’d like to brief you relative to what the procedure will be tomorrow morning.”

  Reardon’s voice was that of an instructor: clear, certain, professional. “Now, I assume that most of you know the function of a Grand Jury. It is to hear information, take testimony from witnesses and anyone having direct knowledge relative to a matter under investigation. Before any witnesses are heard, I—as the District Attorney in charge of the case—will make an opening statement, spelling out in detail what the findings of my own investigation—”

  The door in the paneled wall to the right of Reardon opened suddenly and two men lurched across the front of the room. The interruption was so startling that for an instant there was complete silence. The first man, a frightened Negro youth dressed in dirty tan denims, was pursued by Stoner Martin who quietly locked his arm over the fugitive’s chest and throat.

  “For Christ’s sake, Stoney, I told you to keep him out of here!” Reardon’s voice was harsh and angry.

  As the detective tried to pull the boy back, Reardon moved toward them and somehow the boy wrenched free. He turned, stunned by the rows of faces confronting him. He grasped the railing, his fingers curled tightly, and leaned forward. His voice was a ragged scream. “They keeping me in there! They holding me prisoner. For God’s sake, somebody get help! Get me outta there—they going to kill me!”

  As the boy was shouting, the door opened again and Ginsburg and O’Hanlon raced across the room and joined in a wild struggle, assisting Stoner Martin to pry the boy from the railing.

  A voice cracked across the courtroom. “That’s Eddie Champion’s brother! That’s Champion’s brother—let him talk! Why you holding him?”

  The youth, his arms held in back of him, stared into the courtroom, searching for the person who seemed to have recognized him. “They framed Eddie,” he called out. “You seen the papers this morning—they holding him. They saying he shot Billy. They trying to frame me, too. Don’t let them—don’t.” An arm was forced across the boy’s mouth and his voice was held back.

  A tall blond boy leaped from one of the benches and vaulted the railing. He pulled at the detectives, shouting. Reardon’s voice called out and the door in the wall opened again and a uniformed police officer, gun drawn and held toward the ceiling, faced the rows of benches. His face was sick and his hand trembled but his voice was strong. “Everybody stay put! No one move. Stay in your seats!”

  The Negro prisoner disappeared beneath the shoulders and backs of the detectives; the blond boy fell, pulled a detective down with him, climbed up, was down again. A tall, thin, light-skinned, middle-aged Negro woman burst across the room from the door, dragging Christie Opara with her.

  “That’s my son!” she screamed. “What are they doing to my son? Help us, please, somebody help us! Dear Jesus, they killing my boy.”

  “They killed him!” a voice from the benches called out, and his shout was interrupted by a burst of gunfire and a loud,
piercing, animal scream. The woman fell on the boy who lay crumpled and silent. She began to wail. Everyone on the benches was shouting and one voice reached over the others, strong and steady. “Reardon shot him! Reardon shot him!”

  Barbara Reardon, in the second row, limp against the smooth wooden bench, shook her head slowly, as if she were in a trance. Her voice was a whisper behind her clenched hands. “He didn’t. No, he didn’t. My father didn’t. He didn’t.”

  The Mayor’s aides, two young men not quite thirty, chalk-faced and glassy-eyed, moved to the railing, not sure of their authority over the stone-faced patrolman who stood, legs apart, revolver leveled. “Mr. Reardon! Mr. Reardon, we’re representatives of his Honor the Mayor.”

  From the back of the courtroom came a long, shrill, unbelievably loud whistle. All the spectators turned, their mouths open. A tall slender Negro youth stood in the center aisle, his fingers in his mouth. He emitted the whistling sound twice more; then, all eyes on him, the young man took a silver shield from his back pocket and pinned it to his jacket and walked down the aisle. “I am Patrolman Ralph Jenkins. Everyone will please sit down and remain seated.”

  Casey Reardon yanked a heavy chair from beside the long smooth table inside the railed area and centered it, then stood on it. “There will be no talking.” The rows of heads spun from the patrolman to Reardon. “Knock it off. I want absolute silence in this room!”

  They obeyed. Shocked, stunned, leaderless, they listened to Reardon. Four young men seated among the witnesses rose, carefully pinned silver patrolmen’s shields to their shirts and walked to the front of the room. They reached over the railing and took lined white papers from Stoner Martin, then distributed the papers to everyone on the benches.

  “What you have just witnessed,” Reardon said carefully, “was all planned. Every word, gesture, action was carefully rehearsed by all participants.”

  There was a slow, indignant hum within the room, the fear and shock turning now to anger. Reardon silenced them swiftly. “Knock it off—I told you there would be silence in this room. Okay. The ‘prisoner’ who called out for your help is a patrolman.” Reardon gestured and the young man stood up, his eyes on his audience. He nodded solemnly. “The woman who claimed to be his mother is a policewoman.” The policewoman, rubbing a wrenched elbow, smiled slightly. “All the people you saw and heard—with the exception of me—are police officers.”

  A stocky young man waved the sheet of paper over his head to gain Reardon’s attention. He stood up and his voice was deep, his words clear. “Mr. Reardon, I am Victor Callum,” he said briskly, “third-year law student at St. John’s.”

  Reardon nodded, acknowledging the introduction. He was impressed by the poise and self-assurance of the student.

  “Before we go any further with this ‘experiment,’ I would like to ask just one very pertinent question.”

  He waited politely for Reardon to consider his request, then continued at Reardon’s nod. “Sir, it is apparent at this point that you intend to test our reliability as witnesses. My question is this: What is the authenticity of this test? How do we know that you won’t change things to suit your intent?”

  What had occurred to Victor Callum so quickly now occurred to the others and they began to call out their demands and protests. Reardon moved his hand, and a familiar figure, the large, easy-moving Commissioner of Human Relations, who had been seated in the rear of the courtroom, came forward.

  “You all know me, I believe?” Reardon jumped from the chair and shoved it aside, making room for the Commissioner. “I was with Mr. Reardon and all the people involved in this for several hours last night. They performed what you have seen according to an exact script—exactly as you saw it reenacted here this morning. Mr. Gerald Friedman was also present.” He nodded and Gerry came from his seat among the students.

  The boy was very pale and his face was damp. His voice trembled when he spoke. “It was all according to an exact script. I can verify that. The Reverend Morse was present last night as was the Commissioner, and Dean Lockwood of the Columbia School of Law. I will assist these gentlemen in evaluating the papers you are going to fill out. We are the control in the experiment.”

  Reardon brusquely waved down any further comments. “Now, I want your complete cooperation. There is a procedure you are to follow. First, no conversation of any kind. Second, will you kindly seat yourselves throughout the courtroom so that you are not sitting in close proximity to anyone else.” There was the noise of feet and bodies, but no words. “Fine. Thank you. Now, you’ve all been provided with paper and something to lean on. Don’t put your name on the paper. In response to my questions”—Reardon held a typed list before him—“you are to answer according to what you witnessed here this morning. First, I would like you to put down, in narrative form—take as long as you want—exactly what happened from the moment I first began addressing you. Naturally, you are to assume that everyone was who he or she claimed to be. Then I will ask you specific questions.”

  The two young men from the Mayor’s office looked about them uncertainly, then looked at Casey Reardon nervously. They decided not to speak, and bent over their papers.

  A girl near the back of the room stood up unexpectedly. Her voice, high-pitched and nearly hysterical, declared, “Mr. Reardon, this whole thing is incredible. You staged the whole thing—for what? To prove what? We were entirely unprepared for this and—”

  Reardon’s voice cut through her words. “Were any of you prepared to witness the murder of Billy Everett?”

  He kept them as closely guarded as a jury in a first-degree-murder trial. They could smoke, relax, talk, order sandwiches and coffee, leave the room—escorted—for the washroom. They could not leave the building or make phone calls.

  Afterwards, it took an hour for the papers to be marked and catalogued and witnessed. The students were restless and irritable and started to protest when Reardon emerged, followed by his control group, and once again distributed papers. His instructions were identical to those he had previously given; they wrote their narratives, then answered his list of specific questions.

  The grading of the second papers took less than half an hour. When Reardon approached with papers for the third time, several of the students folded their arms and shook their heads.

  “Last time,” Reardon said cheerfully. He forced the papers on them, waited for them to finish their narratives. Reardon scanned the serious young faces and he felt a great wave of sympathy and understanding. They were all so young and untouched and earnest. His daughter’s face had a stricken look and she never once met his eyes. Some of them, he noticed, seemed to hesitate, to search behind closed eyes for accuracy of recall. He knew their answers would be carefully and honestly given.

  He read the list of familiar questions to them. Then, very quietly and unexpectedly, he inserted a new question. “What is the name and shield number of the uniformed police officer?”

  There was a gasp somewhere in the center of the room, a startled realization. Reardon’s voice was firm. “Not one word. No talking! If you can’t answer the question, draw a line through that number.”

  The final evaluation took nearly an hour. The results of the tests were carefully noted and the Commissioner of Human Relations, flanked by Gerry Friedman and Reardon, addressed them.

  “Twenty-seven of you—including the two gentlemen from the Mayor’s office, witnessed what occurred here this morning. Relative to the use of revolvers, there were two main points of contention: who drew revolvers, who fired revolvers. In the first statement, in narrative and in response to specific questions, seventeen people stated that Mr. Reardon drew a revolver from his back trouser pocket and fired three shots at the body of the victim, whom twenty-two of you identified as Eddie Champion’s brother. One of you stated that the uniformed patrolman fired two shots directly at the victim. Seven stated that each of three detectives drew revolvers and fired one shot each.

  “Relative to the uniformed patr
olman: in the first go-round, eighteen people stated he drew his revolver when the melee started; five stated he drew his revolver after the shooting had occurred; three stated he did not have a revolver in his hand at any time. All persons who stated the uniformed patrolmen had a revolver in his hand at any time stated it was in his right hand.”

  The Commissioner’s voice rolled over the collection of statements; he did not look up at his audience. Their silence was enough to assure him of their rapt attention. “Nineteen people stated that the alleged prisoner’s alleged mother was thrown to the floor by the female detective. Three people stated that the woman forced herself into the middle of the struggle with the prisoner and was violently hurled back by the detectives. One person stated that the woman leaped to a chair and was knocked off the chair by Mr. Reardon. One of you never mentioned her presence. Three people stated she entered the room after the shooting.

  “Relative to the words spoken by the prisoner—” The Commissioner shuffled his papers, stopped, then resumed. “Yes. We have twenty-seven versions of what the prisoner said. Four are reasonably accurate; the remainder are very disparate and bear no relation to what was actually said.

  “Now, before Mr. Reardon and his staff have a reenactment for you, I want to point out one very disturbing factor. In the first statements taken, seventeen people stated that Mr. Reardon drew and fired a revolver at the prisoner. In the second statement, taken one hour later, twenty-four of you stated that he fired at the prisoner. In the third and final statement”—the Commissioner’s eyes slowly circled the room—“twenty-six people stated that Mr. Reardon fired at the prisoner. Mr. Reardon will now have a step-by-step enactment of the original scene which you witnessed. I will vouch for the authenticity of what you saw earlier and are about to see now.”

  Once again, Reardon stood before them. Once again, he addressed them, was interrupted by the eruption of violence and sounds and confusion. This time, however, the movements were slowed, the words carefully stated, the speakers easily identified. At crucial points throughout the reenactment, the Commissioner asked them to pause. Then he consulted his papers and read out significant inaccuracies. Then, his eyes on the students, he asked the police officers to continue.