The Witness

by Dorothy Uhnak

  Finally it was over. The shrill whistle hung in the air; the young patrolman, his shield pinned once more to his jacket, stood at the front of the room.

  The Commissioner dropped his hands to his sides and his voice was sad. “At no time, as you have observed, did Mr. Reardon touch any revolver. Three shots were fired: one by Detective Martin, one by Detective Christie Opara, and one by Policewoman Nielsen, the supposed mother in our little drama, or melodrama. I believe you do not need to have the implications pointed out to you. More than half of you accused Mr. Reardon of the shooting; then, after a few hours of free conversation, all but one of you named him as a murderer.”

  Reardon’s eyes moved irresistibly to Barbara, but she did not raise her face. She was very pale and her hands were clenched tightly in her lap.

  Then Reardon addressed them. “Tomorrow morning you are all going to appear before the Grand Jury. As I started to explain to you before, prior to your appearance I will apprise the Grand Jury of the findings of my squad. We have been conducting a very intensive investigation and have uncovered some very pertinent information. I am not at liberty, of course, to disclose any of this to you—nor would I if I could. I will make certain recommendations to the Grand Jury. What action they decide on will be their prerogative. All I ask you to do is to turn over in your minds the events that, transpired here this morning. And more importantly, what transpired on the morning that Billy Everett was killed. Bear in mind that the patrolman whom you have accused of the shooting stood unnoticed and unrecognized by any of you for several hours this morning. Bear in mind that this officer is left-handed and that without exception, in your statements this morning, those of you who stated he held or fired a revolver claimed that he used his right hand. In our reenactment, you learned he held the gun in his left hand.” Reardon hesitated, shook his head. “I want to thank you all for your cooperation and your time. There is nothing further I can say to you at this time.” He turned and walked through the opened door into the small office.

  They were waiting for him: his people and the members of the Department he had borrowed on the basis of age, race, appearance, ability. They stopped speaking when he entered the room, but he had caught the note of excitement. The young patrolmen, two of them still at the Academy, were grinning; this had been something new for them—something real.

  His own people knew better: Stoner, solemn, dark, drawn, and exhausted by his total immersion in the case; Ginsburg, eating nervously, compulsively gathering up crumbs of cake; O’Hanlon, whistling mindlessly between his teeth, doodling shapeless little stars on a scrap of paper.

  And Christie Opara. Her bruised face was half covered again by the huge sunglasses. The small cut by her lip looked sore. She stood with the motherly policewoman and nodded politely over some gossip, but Reardon knew she wasn’t listening. Her thin body looked so vulnerable. Absently, she cradled one elbow in the palm of a hand. Her knees, beneath the short blue dress, were covered with scabs. Her short dark blond hair, cut for a month at the beach, clung damply to the nape of her neck. Reardon’s fingers flexed and he had a strong desire to caress those thick, short, damp spikes of hair, to turn her toward him, to handle her, gently—tell her, gently.

  The two aides from the Mayor’s office were admitted to the room in response to a somewhat hesitant tap on the door.

  “Mr. Reardon?” He offered a clammy, limp hand. “I’m Roger Harris and this is Fred Randall. We—er—I guess you know that we weren’t briefed at all as to what was going to transpire here today.”

  There was a definite note of complaint, slightly peevish and annoyed. Reardon snapped at them, “Right. Worked out pretty good that way, didn’t it?” What had been an oversight now became an advantage. “We figured we wanted you people from the Mayor’s office to be right in the middle of it. No preconceived notions, you know? Well, now you can both give his Honor a completely objective report.”

  The second aide nodded quickly. “Yes, that was really a good idea. We appreciate your thoughtfulness, Mr. Reardon. Don’t you agree, Roger?”

  Roger agreed and as he was agreeing, Reardon led them through a door, down a corridor, to a bank of elevators. He jabbed the down button, patted both men on the back, sent his regards to the Mayor with them. When the doors slid closed, Reardon stepped back and said aloud, “Dumb little bastards.”

  Bill Ferranti and Arthur Treadwell were on the phones when Reardon arrived at the Squad office. They each indicated a series of messages and Reardon scooped them up, reading as he moved toward his own office. He was behind his desk, his finger dialing, before he looked up and saw his daughter. He replaced the receiver.

  “Well, now you know what was up this morning. You okay, Barbara? You look sick.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sick. I know you’re terribly busy, Dad. I think I really understand now how very busy you’ve been with all this. But, can I have a minute—just a minute?”

  Reardon sensed that this was important; he leaned back but he worked at looking casual. “A minute, that’s about all.”

  She clenched her hands, one over the other, then looked up at him. “Dad, I was the one witness who said that you didn’t shoot the prisoner.”

  Reardon shrugged. “Well, then you were the only one who was accurate on that score.”

  “No. That isn’t it.” She raised her face toward the ceiling, her eyes closed tightly. “You see, I thought you did fire the shots. At least one of them.” Her eyes were wide open now and seemed to be pleading with him. “I really thought you did. But when it came to putting it on paper, I just couldn’t. Even though I knew it was a test, I couldn’t write that you had shot someone.”

  Reardon didn’t move. “Okay, Barbara. You thought I was guilty and you tried to protect me. That’s natural enough under the circumstances, isn’t it?”

  “That isn’t the point,” she said impatiently.

  “I know it isn’t the point. But do you?”

  For a moment she was surprised by her father’s sharpness, then reassured. It was, after all, the most familiar thing about him. She stood, walked to the front of his desk, and her voice was very soft but certain. “Yes, Dad. The point is—I was not a reliable witness. I really did think I saw you shoot that man. With Billy—with Billy that morning ...” She faltered, but Reardon didn’t help, just waited. “With Billy, there was so much emotionalism involved. In trying to reconstruct it now—after what I learned in that courtroom today—I don’t think my statement has any validity. I don’t think I should go before the Grand Jury tomorrow and—”

  Reardon stood up and his voice was harsh. “You don’t think you should? Well, you just listen to me, baby. You’ve been subpoenaed. Weren’t you served in the courtroom?” She nodded, fumbled in her pocketbook and held up the document. “Damn right you’ll appear.”

  “But—what will I say?”

  “You will respond to the questions put to you. Just like every other witness will do. You’ll tell the truth, exactly as you know it. I won’t rehearse you any more than I will any other witness. That’s the way you want it, isn’t it?”

  Barbara Reardon carefully folded the subpoena and put it back into her pocketbook. “Yes. That’s how I want it.”

  “Okay, your minute’s up. Get out of here and let me get back to work.”

  “Dad, one more thing.”

  Impatiently, Reardon smashed the phone back into place. “Now what?”

  “Dad, when you can, and try to make it soon, have a talk with Ellen. She has something she wants to discuss with you. It’s very important.”

  “Like what?”

  Barbara smiled, pressed two fingertips to her lips. “You’ve got work to do. Dad, thanks. I really mean it.”

  Reardon dialed, waited for an answer. He felt a sudden new surge of energy. No matter how this damn thing turned out, at least he had this.

  THIRTY-FOUR:

  THE PRESENTATION TOOK THREE full days. Reardon’s opening statement and collection of evidenc
e relating to the Secret Nation took the first full day. He carefully laid the groundwork for his case and backed up each of his accusations with evidence collected by members of his squad. He impatiently answered questions submitted by members of the Grand Jury; they were anticipating him and he refused to be sidetracked. He would present everything he knew in good time.

  The Police Commissioner was his first witness and he established the identity and assignment of Patrolman Rafe Wheeler. Stoner Martin continued the narrative of Rafe’s short life as a member of the Police Department. A coroner’s report was submitted, citing cause of Rafe’s death. A ballistics report was introduced relative to the bullet that had caused the death and relative to the gun removed from the hand of one Eddie Champion.

  What had been the crux of the matter, in the minds of the Grand Jurors, now became secondary. They listened with interest to the testimony of Detective Christie Opara, interrupted with two or three questions to which she responded quietly. Reardon felt a warm pride; he had seen many normally confident, reliable police officers quake under the scrutiny of the Grand Jury, whose members ranged around the large room, seated on raised chairs. The witness was in the position of a victim in an amphitheater. The chairman of the Grand Jury, a retired industrialist, complimented Christie on her performance and testimony.

  The young student-witnesses appeared. One after the other, briefly, they answered Reardon’s questions. One after the other, they could no longer swear to their previous statements. When the fourth witness, Gerald Friedman, negated his sworn affidavit, the chairman, indignant, perplexed, demanded an explanation.

  Gerry raised his thin face, his eyes bright and steady, his voice firm and clear. “Sir, I am appearing here today in good conscience. My emotional involvement in the entire situation interfered with my good judgment at the time of my original statement. I have had an opportunity to reflect on everything, calmly and unemotionally.”

  The chairman shot a cold glare at Reardon, then back to Gerry. “Did anyone tell you what to say this morning? Anyone prompt you in any way?”

  “Absolutely not!”

  One member of the jury mentioned the word “perjury”; he whispered loudly to a man seated beside him and Gerald Friedman raised his eyes, intent on the whisperer. “Sir, if there is any element of perjury involved in my statement here today, or in my written statement made on the day of the shooting, I am unaware of it. It would be perjury for me to stand by my original affidavit. It was made in error. I am correcting that error right here and now.”

  After he had left the room, the chairman, smiling, asked Reardon, “Law student, no doubt?”

  “Third year—Columbia.”

  Barbara Reardon’s words were almost identical to Gerald Friedman’s. They were spoken honestly, in a nervous voice that shook with determination. The chairman motioned to Reardon and whispered, “Any relation?”

  “My daughter,” Reardon said.

  “Good girl, good girl,” the chairman said.

  Only two of the witnesses adhered to their original statements. Reardon did not question them beyond their direct testimony and no one had any questions for them.

  On the third day, three of Reardon’s men carried in a large collection of evidence. Evidence which described the involvement of segments of the Police Department with the Royal Leader of the Secret Nation. The material included a thick manila folder of information carefully prepared by one Tomlin Carver and held in safekeeping for him by one Mr. Richard C. Jackson.

  Mr. Jackson nervously glanced past Reardon’s head, his eyes seeking the many faces that watched his every move. Reardon leaned close to him. “Mr. Jackson, please speak in a loud clear voice, and talk directly to me. I am the only person who will question you at this time.”

  Carefully, Reardon led him through a series of identification questions: Yes, he was Mr. Richard C. Jackson. He spelled out his home address, stated his office address; he was an insurance broker.

  “When did you first meet a Mr. Tomlin Carver?”

  Mr. Jackson pursed his lips, then nodded. “It was two years ago, come next October.”

  “Would you describe that meeting?”

  “Yes. Yes, it was very unusual. I was at my office, which as I said is located on Staten Island. And it was just before lunchtime and this very—large, fat man came into my office and asked if I was Mr. Richard C. Jackson and I said that I was. He sat down on the chair next to my desk—and I remember this so well because—well—the chair collapsed under him.”

  The Grand Jurors appreciated the predicament of the insurance broker, but Reardon cut through their laughter. “Go on, Mr. Jackson. Did Mr. Carver purchase any insurance from you?”

  “Yes. In fact, I didn’t even make any suggestions about it to him. He took out a slip of paper, said he wanted to buy twenty thousand dollars’ worth of life insurance on his own life. He wanted the beneficiary to be his son, a Mr. Randall Carver, in Chicago.”

  “Did you prepare the policy for Mr. Carver?”

  “Yes. He came to my office a week or so later and paid cash for the policy. Paid up in full for two years, which is unusual, of course.”

  “Did anything else unusual transpire?”

  “Well, yes. Something I didn’t like, too much. Mr. Carver—I mean, after all, I had never seen the man before in my life—he gave me a large manila folder, all bound around with string.” Mr. Jackson craned his neck, trying to see behind Reardon to where the envelope was on the table.

  “What did he tell you about the envelope?”

  “Well, he said that it was some very personal documents that he wanted me to keep for him. Said that in the event of his death, from whatever causes, I would be notified. He kept a little card in his wallet with my name and phone number on it, as the person to be notified, which I was of course, as you know and—”

  Reardon cut him short. “The envelope. What were your instructions from Carver?”

  “Oh. Yes. That I immediately contact Detective Stoner Martin and deliver the envelope to him upon hearing of Mr. Carver’s death.”

  “Mr. Jackson, do you know now, or have you ever known, the contents of that envelope that you kept for Mr. Carver?”

  The man shook his head. “No, sir. Don’t know. Don’t want to know.”

  “When it was put in your keeping, what did you say to Mr. Carver?”

  “Well, I told him I didn’t think I was the proper person to have it. I suggested an attorney, but he said he didn’t trust lawyers. I suggested a safe-deposit box, but he said that would be too involved and the material would not get to Detective Martin fast enough that way.”

  Reardon held the envelope before Mr. Jackson. “To the best of your knowledge, is this the material you held for Mr. Carver?”

  Mr. Jackson pushed his glasses against the bridge of his nose, frowned and nodded. “Yes, sir, that’s it.”

  Reardon stepped back, turned to the jurors. The chairman had a question. “Mr. Jackson, have you any idea why this Mr. Carver selected you to safeguard this material?”

  Mr. Jackson flicked his tongue over his dry lips. “Well, sir, Mr. Carver, when I asked him that, I thought maybe someone had recommended me, but he said that he picked up the Staten Island phone book, flipped through the yellow pages and picked my name out. Just like that.” There was a degree of hurt professional pride in his voice and the chairman told him kindly, “Well, sir, I think he made a wise choice.”

  At the end of the third day, Reardon’s presentation was completed and he went home and slept for twelve uninterrupted hours. The fourth morning, the Grand Jury acted. They moved to indict Eddie Champion for the fatal shooting of Patrolman Rafe Wheeler; further moved to indict Champion for the fatal shooting of William C. Everett, Jr., based on the testimony of Detective Christie Opara. The matter of the attempted assassination of the Mayor of the City of New York would be held pending, as would the homicide death of Tomlin Carver which had been accomplished unwitnessed.

  The chairman then re
ad a long list of tentative charges against Darrell Maxwell Littlejohn, also known as the Royal Leader of the Secret Nation, and declared that the jury had settled on one charge of first-degree murder, pending continuation of current investigations. The charge was based on the sworn and witnessed statement of Eddie Champion, made suddenly and unexpectedly and in full knowledge of his grave condition and impending demise. The statement covered some fifteen typed pages and cited twenty-two homicides ordered directly by the Royal Leader and executed by his Royal Guards. The homicide for which Littlejohn had been indicted had been committed by Claude Davis and witnessed by Eddie Champion. Davis had not been able to resist a beautiful ruby ring his victim had worn on his right pinky and, acting against all orders, he had wrenched the ring (which bore its owner’s initials) from the dead finger, and placed it on his own.

  Claude Davis was indicted on a charge of murder-one, based on the statement of Eddie Champion and on a charge of felonious assault against Eddie Champion, based on his own legal confession.

  Reardon strode through the squad room, his eyes scanning the activity of his people. He switched on the radio in his own office, jiggled the switch on the air conditioner, hit the machine with the flat of his hand. There was a low growl and a blast of lukewarm air hit his face. He listened to the news report. The commentator had an ominous voice, but his words were more encouraging than anything he’d had to report in many days. The anticipated riot had not occurred. All incidents were under control. Reardon had heard the taped voice of the Mayor several times on television and radio last night. He listened again, with admiration for the quiet guts of the guy. Carefully, calmly, effectively, he reported to the people of his city that the complete facts of the Everett case were in and that the solution was an honest one. To prevent anticipated reaction to his announcement, he had moved quickly. In a clockwork-precision operation, the Mayor appeared, with startling rapidity, surrounded by his aides, on various street corners in various parts of the city. He took along a large group of students: the eyewitnesses, who stood with him, telling the people that it was true: the cop hadn’t shot Billy after all.