"But how did you know that if you'd never seen them before?"
"Well, they were loitering in the bushes by the marina."
"But anyone could walk over there, correct?"
"Sure. But they..." He looked over at Weissech, who was stony.
"But they what, Sergeant?"
"I just know what I know."
"I see. Now, as to these kids. Have you tried to find them?"
"No."
"Did you take a report from Mr. Williams and Mr. Jones about the attack?"
"No."
"Why not?"
O'Connor looked angry, all of a sudden. I was wondering how much coaching he'd had from Weissech. Everything was way off script, obviously, and no one was coming to O'Connor's defense. He was about one sentence from committing perjury.
Kenneth waited. O'Connor didn't say anything. He just looked right at Weissech. The judge seemed amused but he didn't say anything either. Kenneth said, "No further questions," and walked back to his seat.
The judge said, "You may step down."
O'Connor got up and slouched over to his chair.
Weissech stood up and said, "Call Dr. Gerald R. Wildman"
A middle-aged man with thinning blonde hair stood up from a chair right behind Garety. He walked primly to the stand and was sworn in. As he sat down, he leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. I noticed that he kept his right hand on his knee, as if he was trying to restrain his leg from swinging.
Weissech walked up to the stand and said, "Please state your name and profession."
"My name is Dr. Gerald R. Wildman. I am a psychiatrist in private practice based here in San Rafael. I also consult with law enforcement."
"What are your credentials?"
"I have a Bachelor of Science in Psychology from the University of California and a Doctor of Psychiatry from Harvard. I did residency at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. I have published a number of journal articles and have authored three books."
"What is the title of your latest book?"
"Law Enforcement and the Male Homosexual."
"What is the thesis of this book?"
"I propose a scientific method for handling sexual deviancy when it enters into the public sphere and where law enforcement is called in to intervene. I am not interested in private relations, as these are generally of no concern to the general public. My entire focus is on how to safeguard the community from sexual deviates in public."
"Thank you. I enter this witness as an expert, Your Honor."
The judge looked at Kenneth, who stood. "No objection, Your Honor."
"So entered. You may proceed, Mr. Weissech."
"Thank you, Your Honor. Now, Dr. Wildman, you heard the testimony presented here today. You heard the defense counsel ask about an attack by a gang of youth. What is your professional, expert opinion on this subject?"
The doctor looked over at me and Carter. "It is my opinion that a deep subconscious need for male authority approval drove the defendants to approach the police and present a disingenuous story of being attacked by a gang of youth."
"On what basis do you form that opinion?"
"On the basis that all male homosexuals, having been disaffected from their fathers at an early age and having formed unhealthy attachments to their mothers as a result, have a constant craving for validation from male authority figures. This is why so many male homosexuals risk lawful imprisonment by having immoral and unnatural relations in public spaces. They take this risk because they harbor a deep subconscious desire to be caught. Once they are caught, my studies show that they nearly always agree to plead guilty. Since they know that they are, in fact, guilty not only of the crime committed but also of the expression of unnatural desires, we see this result again and again in courtrooms across the United States and Canada."
"What does your research show about whether these defendants were lying when they said they had been attacked?"
"They most certainly were lying. The male homosexual will find any pretense to approach law enforcement. Again, the deep subconscious desire is that strong. I advise any law enforcement officer to assume that a male homosexual is lying whatever he may say. I emphasize this in my training courses." He smiled and picked an invisible piece of lint off his coat sleeve.
"So, in your expert opinion, Sergeant O'Connor did the right thing by not taking a report on this alleged attack."
"He not only did the right thing, but he directed the limited resources of the Sausalito Police Department in the right direction. The crime here was not assault. It was vagrancy. Sergeant O'Connor recently attended one of my training courses and has scientifically applied my research in exactly the right way."
Weissech nodded and said, "Thank you, Dr. Wildman. Your witness."
While the good doctor had been talking, Kenneth had been taking copious notes. He stood and asked, "May I approach, Your Honor?"
"Yes, counselor, you may."
"Thank you, Your Honor."
Kenneth walked to the stand and stood back about three feet. I wondered why.
"Dr. Wildman, you said that you believe all male homosexuals should be considered liars, am I correct?"
The doctor looked at Kenneth with a condescending smile. "Yes. That is right."
"And, you said that this arises from their constant need for male authority approval?"
"Yes, as far as the male authority is properly expressed."
"What does that mean?"
"Well, the male homosexual may be very forthright with an employer he respects. He may even be forthright in a military setting. But, with law enforcement, his words should always be suspect."
"Can you explain that? What is the difference between an employer, a military officer, and a police officer?"
"The difference is based on the context. In the workplace, the male-bonding relationship between worker and employer is completely voluntary. The worker must decide, on his own volition, to apply for the job. He must decide each day to enter the workplace. He must decide in each part of the day, to what extent he will exert his mental forces to do a good job and accomplish the tasks laid before him. At each step, his participation in the job is voluntary. An employer relationship does not reflect the father-figure archetype since the worker may quit at any time or be fired for just cause or no cause at any time.
"In the case of the military officer, whether commissioned or not, there is an inherent inflexibility to the job of soldier, sailor, airman, or marine. The soldier is told what to do, where to go, with whom he can fraternize, what job he must perform, when he will do that job, and when he won't. There is no ambiguity in the soldier's relationship to his commanding officer. He must obey. To not obey brings dire consequences. An officer relationship does not reflect the father-figure archetype since neither the officer nor the soldier has any choice in the matter.
"However, in the case of the police officer, here we have the perfect father-figure archetype. The police officer is present in the community to defend the community, just as the father defends the home. The police officer must follow a strict set of rules but has flexibility in how he applies those rules, just as the father knows how far to go when deciding whether and to what degree to apply the rod. The police officer is friendly and helpful to the citizens of the town, just as the father is the son's friend, guide, and companion along the road to manhood."
Right at that moment, I head John behind me whisper, "Jesus Christ." Carter chuckled, I nodded slightly, and Lettie very quietly said, "Bullshit." Somehow, none of us said anything or made any noise in response.
"So, the helpful police officer resembles the father? Correct?"
"Correct?"
"And your premise is that the male homosexual projects his need for a father on the police officer?"
"Correct. That is why your clients ran to the police station to report a phantom attack by a gang of youth when, in fact, they were really expressing like children who have a need to confess their guilt t
o relieve the stress of their unnatural desires."
"Now, in order for your theory--"
"It's not a theory. I have proven this scientifically." He sniffed.
"I see. Let me rephrase. In order for this to work, the police officer must know that he is dealing with a male homosexual. In your expert opinion, how would Sergeant O'Connor have known that's who he was dealing with?"
The doctor sputtered, as if he was answering the most obvious question. "Well, once Sergeant O'Connor heard the name Nicholas Williams, he would have to know he was dealing with a male homosexual. Mr. Williams is notorious across the country. His name and likeness have been in every newspaper across the country."
Kenneth nodded. "But, the sergeant testified he didn't know who Mr. Williams was."
"But--"
Kenneth interrupted the doctor. "No further questions." He walked back to the table and sat down. I noticed he was shaking slightly.
The judge said, "The witness is excused."
The doctor pursed his lips and stood up. He walked back to his seat and sat down.
Weissech stood up. "That concludes our testimony, Your Honor."
The judge said, "I'm ready to rule from the bench."
Kenneth stood up and motioned for us to do so, so we did.
"In the matter of the State versus Williams and in the matter of the State versus Jones, I find that there is sufficient evidence to proceed to trial."
Several people in the gallery gasped. I was stunned. Kenneth stood there, looking forward, and didn't move.
Weissech said, "In that case, Your Honor, the People ask the court to remand the defendants to the county jail. Mr. Williams has nearly unlimited resources and poses a flight risk."
The judge looked at Kenneth, who said, "Mr. Williams and Mr. Jones had a very good reason to leave the jurisdiction last week, Your Honor. Instead they chose to stay here even though the District Attorney graciously agreed to allow Mr. Jones to travel. Mr. Williams is a native of the area, has significant business interests, and poses no flight risk. Both Mr. Williams and Mr. Jones will surrender their passports, if requested."
The judge looked at the D.A., who said, "As I said, Your Honor, Mr. Williams has nearly unlimited resources. He owns not only a yacht but two private airplanes. He could easily fly to any number of jurisdictions that do not recognize extradition to the United States."
The judge said, "Bail is revoked. Defendants are ordered to the custody of the county jail pending the trial." He banged the gavel and that was that.
Chapter 8
Marin County Jail
San Rafael, Cal.
Monday, July 12, 1954
Lights out
I stretched out on the cot and thought about the day. It had been rough, there was no doubt about it. As the sheriff's deputies were leading us out of the courtroom, I saw my father looking shocked and upset. Lettie was holding his arm and whispering something. But, for the first time that I could remember, I felt an affection for the old man. I smiled and hoped he saw it.
I knew the worst that could happen is that we would do three months. I'd been in the Navy. I knew what it was like to be confined to small spaces. And the Marin County jail wasn't San Quentin. It was smaller than the Dougherty County jail in Georgia had been. I'd been a guest of theirs for a couple of nights the year before.
I turned on my side and looked at the brick wall. It was faintly illuminated by a streetlight outside. There was a small window, covered with simple horizontal bars, that was about two feet square and that let me see the street outside. The cell was slightly above ground level. There was a warehouse across the street with a loading dock that had been busy at the end of the work day.
The clothes I'd been given included a thick cotton undershirt, a button-down denim shirt, and a pair of dungarees. I was allowed to keep my BVDs. The shoes I was wearing had obviously belonged to someone else. They didn't have my size, so these were too big. They smelled. I had taken them off when I was led to my cell and had only put them back on when dinner was called.
All of Carter's clothes were too small and that included his shoes. When we were walked into the small mess hall, or whatever they called it, he came in line with the men from his row of cells. I got a momentary glance at his feet and saw that he was walking on the heels of the shoe and that his feet stuck out about an inch.
My row was seated on a long bench in front of a long table. We sat in the order we were marched in. I was at one end of my side, since I was in the last cell of my row. The man next to me didn't speak and neither did I.
Carter was on the other side of the table in the middle. I counted twelve men on his side. I tried to look down my row to count, but was called out to keep my head down when I did so. So, I followed instructions.
The man across from me looked like he was recovering from a bender. He was having a hard time eating anything but the soup.
The food was basic. There was a bowl of vegetable soup, a piece of bread with a small pat of butter, a surprisingly tender piece of boiled beef, and a pile of mushy boiled carrots. There was no salt or pepper to be tasted or to be had. The butter was the only flavoring of any sort. The food wasn't horrible. It would do.
As I ate my soup, I managed a couple of glances at Carter. He smiled and I replied in kind. After dinner, I'd stayed in my cell stretched out on my cot, not sure what to do. At some point, Carter had walked up to the door and asked how I was doing. I sat up, he walked in, and sat down next to me. We sat there for a long time talking about childhood antics again, like we had in the Sausalito jail. At one point, he'd leaned into me. Even though there was no one around, I leaned back for a moment and then mentioned how we ought to be careful. He'd sighed and leaned away.
An officer came by and told Carter to get back to his cell for the nightly check and light's out. As he left, I whispered, "I love you, Chief." He smiled and only nodded in reply as the officer was standing outside waiting for him.
As I began to drift off, I could hear someone singing. I couldn't quite catch the tune, but it continued until several voices began to protest. There was a sharp metal rap somewhere and suddenly everything was quiet.
. . .
At some point in the night, I woke up and relieved myself in the uncovered toilet. A roll of brown toilet paper sat on the floor next to the white porcelain base. The toilet was in the corner next to a small sink. There was a cake of rough soap on the sink's small lip. I turned on the cold water tap, the only one available, and washed my hands. The soap stank of lye. It reminded me of the kind we'd made ourselves in New Guinea. I knew there was a county farm somewhere. I wondered if the prisoners made their own soap out there.
I sat back down on the bed and wished I had a cigarette. Everything had been taken from me when we were processed, including my beat-up old Zippo. For some reason, I was missing that more than anything.
My cot was pushed up against the wall. I pulled my feet up off floor and sat with my legs crossed. As I'd been doing since the hearing ended, I played the events in the courtroom in my head over and over again.
Obviously, O'Connor had been coached. His and Wildman's testimony had been designed to match, point by point. O'Connor was just a good cop, doing a good job, according to the psychiatrist. Wildman was helping good cops do their best to deal with the intolerable problem of the male homosexual on the prowl. It was a situation that had to be dealt with. All reasonable men and women could see that was the case.
The judge was a piece of work. From his question about Uncle Paul, he'd made it clear where things was going. The stunt of making Kenneth ask to approach while Weissech just wandered around at will was one piece. The ridiculousness of the way he handled Weissech's objections was another piece. I wondered, however, at the objections that Weissech didn't make. I thought there might be a glimmer of hope there.
I was convinced that O'Connor had perjured himself. I had no proof, but he had to know who we were.
As he'd testified, I kept thinking a
bout what Dawson had said. There was something wrong there. He'd been on the force for nineteen years and yet this Mountanos, this kid, was a shoe-in for police chief. I wondered what the real story was.
Wildman was definitely one of us. He might not have been in the life, but he was the very definition of a male homosexual. His idea about "cop as daddy" seemed to me to say more about him than anything else. What was the real nature of his relationship with O'Connor? The sergeant had something odd going on somewhere but I didn't think he was one of us. Was O'Connor aware of this thing and trying to help the man, while also fixating on the man as his own kind of daddy? I didn't think that made any sense. I was sure the doctor was the older man.
I wondered how I would fit into his analysis. I sure as hell had a disaffected relationship with my father. But I didn't have time to form an unnatural attachment to my mother, since she left when I was only 7 years old. Of course, as had been pointed out to me, I tended to like other people's mothers more than their own children did.
I was grateful for Lettie's presence in my life. I'd known the woman just about a year and I considered her my mother, even if I still couldn't bring myself to say that word. I had been deeply touched by the fact that Mrs. Jones had come back to San Francisco. I was captivated by Mrs. Kopek, who was a mother to not just Ike but just about any chickadee she might come across. She would have rescued half of Eastern Europe, given the chance.
Were these unnatural attachments? Or were they lines of affection, formed by circumstance and proximity? Was I disaffected from my father because I preferred the men in my life to be strong, kind, and loving and he was none of those? Or was it because there was something wrong with me? Or him? Or both?
I tended to take any psychological theory with a heave dose of salt. It never seemed to me that anything was just black or white. Not even Negros were just black or white.
As I sat there, I remembered a sailor from New Orleans, by the name of Boudreaux. Everyone in the ward had called him Loozy because he was from Louisiana and he had a thick accent. He'd pronounced it, "Looziana," and the name stuck. He'd been a patient at the hospital in New Guinea where I'd worked as a corpsman.
The Iniquitous Investigator (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 8) Page 9