Mitch handed the information up to the judge, returned to his place, and stood examining his nails as Judge Weaver took over. This was the way the law charged Smoky Madigan with running amuck on the Fourth of July and stealing a case of whisky from the basement of the home of a saloonkeeper called Kratz and then going on a blast that made even Smoky’s valiant past efforts pale into a sort of uneasy sobriety.
“Mr. Madigan, have you consulted an attorney?” the Judge inquired.
“Nope,” Smoky answered airily. “No money. A man’s gotta have money to ask ’em the time of day.” There was a quick squall of laughter from the lawyers’ chairs.
“Do you understand that you have a right to counsel—that is, an attorney—and that if you are financially unable to employ counsel that the court may, if requested, appoint counsel for you at public expense?”
“Yup, I’ve had ’em before.” Smoky had been around and he had also evidently heard that Judge Weaver was from downstate; he wanted no doubt on that score.
“Do you want counsel now or an opportunity to consult with counsel?”
Smoky grinned amiably. “Nope. I went in Casper’s place an’ stole the whisky, all right. I was sober then an’ I remember so I guess I don’t need no lawyer to tell me what I did.” Smoky paused thoughtfully. “Later, though, I guess I’d of needed all the lawyers here today to help me keep track.”
I could vaguely visualize Smoky’s meteoric course once he had got his hot hands on Casper’s whisky. There was a ripple of subdued laughter and the Judge frowned stonily and the laughter quickly died. “Now, Mr. Madigan,” the Judge pushed on, proceeding patiently through the prescribed ritual, though he and every lawyer in the courtroom now knew that Smoky was dying to cop a plea of guilty and get it over with, “do you understand that you have a constitutional right to a trial by jury?”
Smoky nodded his head yes, and Grover Gleason, the court reporter who was busily taking all this down, looked up and frowningly demanded that the defendant answer yes or no.
“The reporter must record all that we say,” the Judge explained. “He can’t very well hear a nod, you see.”
“Yup,” Smoky obediently said, glancing rather proudly at the reporter as though to confirm that anyone might be recording for a deathless and panting posterity anything that old Smoky Madigan ever had to say. “I unnerstan’ the Constitution says I kin have a jury.”
“Do you wish to have a trial by jury?” the Judge quietly persisted.
Smoky shook his head no and then glanced guiltily at the court reporter and added “Nope” in a loud voice. He plainly appreciated the Constitution’s efforts on his behalf, but, no thanks, he’d pass this time.
“Now you are charged in the information filed against you, and which you have just heard read, that you broke into a man’s house after dark with intent to steal. Do you understand the nature of the offense charged against you?”
“Sure, sure,” Smoky replied airily. “Except I didn’t actually break into no house—I got into old Kratz’s cellar through the coal chute. I simply slid in an‘—bomp!—there I was, practic’ly inside Casper’s furnace. An’ I not only intended to steal somethin’, Judge Your Honor, I really did steal it”—Smoky’s voice took on a note of wistful nostalgia—“a hull case of booze.” He shook his head over the treasured memory.
Judge Weaver smiled slightly and pushed on. “I must remind you that a basement is part of the dwelling and that if you did steal some thing while there the law indulges a mild presumption that you probably also intended to steal it. As for the ‘breaking’ part it is not necessary that one break or smash anything to gain entry; to constitute a ‘breaking’ in law it is sufficient if one merely lifts a latch—or even the lid of a coal chute. Do you understand that?”
Smoky was getting bored with all this laboring of the obvious. After all, wasn’t this his fifth B. & E. rap?—the fifth that he had got caught at, that is? “Sure, sure,” he answered. “Speakin’ technical, I guess I busted in, Judge, like you say.”
“Then you fully understand the charge against you?”
Smoky sighed. “I sure do, Judge. I got nailed fair and square. If I’d a stood sober, though, they’d never of catch me. The shape I was in I was a sittin’ duck.”
“Then what is your plea—guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty, of course,” Smoky said, turning away to leave.
“Just a minute, Mr. Madigan,” the Judge continued patiently. “Before I can accept your plea of guilty there are a few more questions I must ask you. This duty is imposed upon me by law for the protection of the public and of you and men like you, so please bear with me a little longer.”
“Shoot,” Smoky said indulgently, shrugging his shoulders as though to say, “If this talky old beaver wants to prolong the agony old Smoky ain’t going to spoil his fun … .”
The Judge aimed and shot: “I ask you, Mr. Madigan, if this plea of guilty you have entered to this information is freely, understandingly and voluntarily made?”
“You bet. I got caught an’ I might’s so well face it.”
“Has there been any undue influence, compulsion or duress on the part of the prosecuting attorney, the officers of this court or any other person to induce you to enter a plea of guilty?”
“I don’t understand all them words, Judge, but nobody bulldozed me into coppin’ out, if that’s what you mean. I’ve thunk it all out—since the night of July sixth across de alley dere.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the jail. “That’s when they catch me.”
“Very well. Did you enter your plea of guilty because of any threats, inducements or promises made to you by the prosecuting attorney, any officers of this court or any other person? Did anyone promise to go easy on you?”
“Nope. Dey knew dey had me—dey caught me good dis time.” Earnestly: “You see, Judge, da coppers never promise a man nuttin’ when dey got you dead to rights.”
A quiet ripple of laughter ran along the row of waiting lawyers, most of whom were boredly awaiting the call of the civil calendar. The Judge frowned and stared hard and Parnell and I glanced significantly at each other. Whatever else this judge might or might not be, he was plainly going to run his court, there’d be no fooling.
“Do you plead guilty to this charge, then, Mr. Madigan, because you are guilty, because you did the things charged against you by the People in their information?”
“Yup, Your Honor.”
“And are you fully aware that you may be punished for your crime?”
Smoky’s voice was like a benediction. “I sure am, Judge. I’m kinda like da June bride—it ain’t a matter of if but when. All I hope is you send me any udder place but Marquette prison. Any place a-tall but dat crummy joint.”
Nobody tittered this time. “I will accept your plea of guilty,” the Judge said gravely. “You will be sentenced later, Mr. Madigan. You may now return to your place.”
Smoky shrugged and resignedly rolled his eyes up at me as he turned away to resume his seat next to Lieutenant Manion in the jury box. I swallowed a lump in my throat. “The poor dumb likeable kindly bastard,” I thought. There but for the Grace of God—
The Judge consulted his calendar. “People versus Clyde Tate,” he called out. “Forgery.” Sulo waved the luckless Mr. Tate to his feet and he advanced blinking and stood before the Judge, where the whole dreary ritual would again be repeated. I must have witnessed it a thousand times … .
Smoky’s was the first case on the criminal docket and the Lieutenant’s was number twenty-three, numbered democratically on the basis of first come, first served. I whispered to Parnell that I was going out to have a smoke. I left the courtroom and made my way out to the empty jury room—the jury was not due to report for two days—and stood staring out across Lake Superior, watching the long undulant smoke plume of an invisible boat, probably an ore boat, thinking how glad I was that I was no longer prosecuting attorney of Iron Cliffs County—that and reviewing, the swift and tang
led events of the past two weeks.
We had finally pried a psychiatrist out of the Army, but not before I had all but picketed the Pentagon, not before Parnell and I were ourselves practically candidates for a psychiatrist’s couch. In retrospect there was an unreal Alice-In-Wonderland quality about the whole thing, an air of shimmering fantasy, as though we had partaken in some grotesque and unsmiling comedy waveringly enacted at the bottom of the sea. There had been a reverberating silence to my second Army letter; I had waited nearly a week and gotten frantically on the phone; an aide had said that the officer I had written had been in sick bay; the matter would be looked into; I would be duly notified. ‘But …’ I argued. More days had dragged by and I had reopened fire over the phone; the matter was still being looked into; the request was very unusual and had to be studied … . This time I had sworn, the Army had sworn, and someone had hung up … .
Then I had launched an alarming series of communications: letters, phone calls, telegrams. For a spell I even wildly contemplated launching guided missiles. I had got the Lieutenant and Laura to join me; we had pulled out all the organ stops; we had pelted the Army with words. Then at last I had received a phone call; the matter had crept up the ladder of brass—it had at last come to the attention of the General himself; it was in turn being referred to that patron saint of all Army snafus, the Judge Advocate; it was hoped that I understood that the situation was most unusual; also very ticklish; I must realize that things like this could start a bad precedent; the Army traditionally never liked to interfere with the affairs of the civil courts and certainly didn’t want to appear to do so now. Finally, one did not want to predict the ruling in Washington (“smart boy,” I thought) but we shouldn’t be too disappointed if … “What!” I had shouted and then I had sworn, the Army had sworn and someone had hung up … .
There the matter uneasily rested. Early the Tuesday morning before court opened—less than a week to go—I tottered out of bed after a sleepless night and fired a telegram at the General himself. Perhaps my wire possessed the eloquence of desperation. I reminded him that our request for a psychiatrist had been pending nearly three weeks; that now it was far too late to turn elsewhere; that surely this was not the first time since Valley Forge that an Army man had run afoul of the civil law and had needed and requested medical or similar aid from the service; that we didn’t want to bother them any more than they apparently relished being bothered, but that my man was stony broke, there was no choice, there was simply no other way; that to turn down the Lieutenant’s request now was not only to sentence him to three more months in jail—the case having thus to be continued—but possibly for life, since insanity was the heart of our defense. I pointed out that all we requested now was an examination; and I dangled the bait that the Army psychiatrist might still find him sane on the fatal night, in which case we would quietly fold our tents … .
I wound up by stating that it would be a plain act of Christian charity to take their man off the spot and that if I didn’t get an answer in twenty-four hours my client and I would reluctantly assume that the Army, for which he had fought in two wars, had now deserted him, that the answer was finally no. Then I sat back and waited for a couple of nine-foot M.P.’s to come and take me away.
In the meantime Parnell and I had been looking law and writing legal memorandums and preparing our hypothetical question for a mythical psychiatrist and drafting requests for instructions—all this practically day and night. Then we had gone over the jury list with a fine-comb—phoning, driving, searching, checking, nosing, inquiring—and had prepared little graded dossiers on each prospective juror. Parnell had not taken a drink since the night we had stopped off at the Halfway House, all of which added to the growing sense of fantasy. Only Maida and I had valiantly kept our office from resembling an Upper Peninsula branch of the W.C.T.U.
Parnell had done yeoman service on the law books, coming up with dozens of obscure but pointed old cases I had never heard of. In his green eye-shade he looked like a cashier for a syndicate of bookies and even at times like the master engraver of a ring of counterfeiters. He was in a seventh heaven of delight, planning, digging, writing, dictating. “Take this, dear Maida, if you please … .”
“But what’s the use?” I wailed. “What’s the use of looking all this law if we can’t lasso a goddam psychiatrist? And here I’ve gone and wasted all this fishin’ … .”
Late that Tuesday night the Army had phoned. Parnell and I had jumped a foot, and I knew it was the Army before I answered. Colonel Somebody-or-other was on the line. My wire had been received and the General had just issued an order. Wait, he would get the order … . I strained to catch the sound of marching fifes and rumbling caissons. Ah, yes, here was the order … . If the lieutenant would present himself Thursday morning at eight o’clock at the Bellevue Army Hospital in lower Michigan an Army psychiatrist would be assigned to examine him; this order would be confirmed later in writing. In the meantime the Colonel would please kindly like to read me the General’s order. The order, in occupationally limpid military prose, read as follows:
“There will be no objection should the civil authorities deliver the accused to an appropriate military facility for the purpose of having a psychiatric examination conducted, with a view to utilizing the determination at a civil trial. Bellevue Army Hospital in Michigan is designated as the appropriate medical facility.”
“You mean,” I said incredulously, “we have to deliver our man to an Army hospital near Detroit before we can have our examination?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“But damn it, Colonel,” I said, “Lieutenant Manion is in the county jail way up here in the brambles on a charge of first degree murder. Murder is an unbailable offense—he can’t get out for love or money. Not even, believe it or not, for the United States Army. Tell me—how do we get to spirit the Lieutenant out of jail and down to lower Michigan for an examination or anything else?”
The Colonel was adamant. “That, sir, is your problem, The General’s orders are as I have just read them to you; that is our final word; these orders will be confirmed in writing.” Then I had sworn, the Army had sworn—and this time I had hung up and rantingly told Parnell about it.
“I’ve a damn good notion to go out and get drunk,” I said, staring morosely at the telephone. Parnell grabbed up his hat.
“Where you going, old man?” I said. “Keeping me company? Good. We’ll pitch us a dandy.”
“We’re going to the county jail and prevail on the Sheriff to have himself or a deputy drive our man to lower Michigan,” Parnell said. “We’ll pay the freight and that way he’ll technically still be in civil custody. Everybody saves face. It’s the only way, Polly. I think it was Napoleon who said, ‘If you can’t beat an army head on then go ’round it.’ C’mon, boy—it’s gettin’ late.”
“Me too,” Maida said, grabbing her pad and pencils. “Better take the files, too. Can’t ever tell what’ll happen next in this haunted case.”
We luckily caught Sheriff Battisfore home from highway patrol; in fact I held my audience with him in his bedroom. It was surprising and a little disillusioning to note how prosaically Midwestern he looked out of his cowboy gear and in a rumpled cotton nightshirt. Well at least he was bow-legged … . I swiftly explained my adventures with the Army, and then the dilemma posed by the General’s order. I remembered that the sheriff was an old Navy hand and I morosely regretted that the Lieutenant had not been in the Navy—I’d bet the Navy’d have cut out all this toe dancing and delaying red tape; they’d never have let one of their men down … .
“What to do? What to do?” I murmured, trying to look half as disconsolate as I felt.
“It’s easy, Polly,” the Sheriff quietly said. “I’ll have my under-sheriff Carl Vosper drive him there tomorrow. Carl’s a steady head and a good fast driver. You’ll have to pay the shot, of course-gas, mileage and Carl’s per diem—so nobody gets criticized … . Now better you get home and catch so
me sleep, Polly—you look like you’ve been pulled through a knothole.”
“Sheriff, you’re a genius;” I said, and we had solemnly clasped hands. From now on for my part Max Battisfore could patrol day and night, dressed even as an Indian chief—he was my man. But instead of going home to bed, Maida and Parnell and I had taken over the Sheriff’s office, down in the jail, finishing up our tricky hypothetical question and whipping up a background letter to a psychiatrist we’d never heard of and whose name we still didn’t even know.
“Please give this to Sulo to give to Lieutenant Manion in the morning,” I told the night turnkey, handing him the fat envelope.
“The Sheriff’s typewriter,” Maida said, after it was all over, rubbing her numbed fingers, “—it should lie in state in the Smithsonian Institute. It’s surely the same machine they used to draft the terms of Cornwallis’ surrender.”
The birds were twittering and scolding as we drove home. I noted morosely that the leaves were beginning definitely to turn, a bleak reminder that fishing was mostly over and done … . Back at the office Parnell almost joined Maida and me in a drink—almost, but not quite.
“Here’s to Napoleon, Max Battisfore and Parnell J. McCarthy,” I toasted. “My three favorite foxes.”
Anatomy of a Murder Page 23