by Wick Downing
But it got embarrassing when I tried to get him to give me an expert opinion, one that would help my side of the case. Mr. Thomas kept objecting to the questions I asked, and the judge always ruled with him.
I thought Grampa would come to my rescue, but it was as though he’d gone away, just as my dad had done to me when I was six. Couldn’t the old man hang around long enough to help me frame a hypothetical question?
That’s what I needed, I realized as my mind dredged up some law on the subject. A hypothetical question that assumed a lot of stuff! I’d never asked one before, but I’d read about them. “Doctor, when you look at the bruises and tooth marks on Monica’s thigh, and where they are, and the way there aren’t any other tooth marks on her, or anything to show that Herman tried to chew on her or anything like that, isn’t it true that the little injuries you found on her are just as consistent with Herman picking Monica up to keep her from rolling into the lake, and then bringing her to Miss Jespersen, as they are with Herman snatching Monica off the ground and running away with her to eat her up?”
Thunderbolts were tossed at me by Mr. Thomas, who could hardly wait to object, and Judge Steinbrunner, who was even quicker to sustain the objection. But I weathered the storm with a smile and had the feeling that some of the women on the jury were proud of me for standing there without even a raincoat for protection.
But where was Grandfather? I wanted him back inside my head, where he could be proud of me. Had he deserted me too? I wondered angrily.
If that was the way he wanted it, fine.
Officer Smith, who arrived on the scene right after it happened, was the City’s last witness. I tried to focus on what he was saying, but I couldn’t get past the badge on his chest and knew it would be impossible for me to get tough with a cop. Mr. Thomas took him through the preliminaries, then asked him what he’d learned in the course of his investigation. “A German shepherd police dog, unattended, had gone berserk,” he said. “The animal knocked a baby carriage down, then grabbed the infant who’d been inside—picked her up in his jaws—and tried to run off with her. But a man who didn’t want to be identified at the time—he’s okay with it now—stopped it from happening.”
“Have you subsequently learned the identity of the man who stopped it from happening?”
“Yes, sir,” Officer Smith said. “Ron Benson.” He nodded with pride, cheering for a hometown boy. “Running back for Penn State, an All-American.”
From the way he testified, it sounded as though he’d seen it happen, but he hadn’t even been there! I should have objected! It was Grandfather’s fault that I hadn’t caught it, but it was too late now. I stood up to cross-examine him and tried to make the best of it, knowing I’d been deserted again. “Officer,” I said, “when you testified just now, I had the feeling you were there and saw it happen. But you didn’t see it happen, did you?”
“No, Miss Hope, I investigated it. Talked to people, found out about it, you know.”
“Then when you said a dog had gone berserk, that’s just what people told you. You didn’t see it happen and can’t say, of your own knowledge, that the dog actually went berserk, can you?”
He laughed, kind of at me, just a kid. “The people I talked to were pretty convincing, Miss Hope. But you’re right. I didn’t see it, and can’t say, of my own knowledge, what happened.”
“Thank you, Officer. The people you talked to were Ron Benson and Ursula Jespersen, and that’s about it, isn’t it?”
“A couple of others, but I didn’t get their names.”
“Was one of them an old man, not very well dressed, with a beard?”
He smiled. “That’d be Spencer Phipps.”
“Mr. Phipps didn’t describe the incident like that, did he?”
“I can’t honestly say,” Smith said. “Spence was babbling his usual nonsense. I didn’t pay much attention.”
“So you decided not to ask him what he’d seen?”
“He may have seen something, Miss Hope; you can’t really tell with old Spence.” He smiled at me and the jury. “Mr. Phipps is known to the Denver Police Department as ‘certifiable.’ Do you want me to explain?”
“Not really,” I said as the gray matter inside my skull went to sleep again, protecting itself from reality. I sat down, and Mr. Thomas rested his case.
“The City has rested,” the judge announced. “It is now the defense’s turn to put on evidence. Are you ready to proceed, Miss Hope?”
“Of course, Your Honor,” I said, shining a confident smile in his direction that was pure lie. What was the use? I looked around for Grampa in my mind but saw my dad instead, driving away from me, with Law, into a snowstorm.
“Justice” was a cruel joke, like everything else in life. I had two witnesses to prove my side of the case, my poor, tired brain pointed out to me. The first was Wilma Willow, who owned the dog that was on trial for his life and would say anything to save him, and the second was a certified nut.
Chapter Twenty-six
“YOU MAY CALL YOUR FIRST WITNESS, Miss Hope.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said, standing next to the lectern and facing my client. She sat at the defense table, looking wilted and very alone. I couldn’t look at her. Instead, I waved a welcoming arm in her direction in a theatrical gesture I’d practiced in front of a mirror the day before, when I’d believed in justice. “I’ll call Miss Wilma Willow.”
“Yes, dear?” her tiny voice quavered back, filled with anxiety.
“Come testify, Miss Willow,” I said, with all the encouragement I could muster on short notice. “Please?”
“Oh dear.”
At first the jurors sympathized with her shyness, but later they squirmed in their seats with embarrassment. She babbled on forever about how brave and loyal and protective her Herman was, who could not possibly have done anything so awful as bite a baby. When I finally got her to focus on what had happened, she told of tethering Herman to a chain leash and going to the concession stand to buy popcorn for the ducks and being almost there when two boys on bicycles knocked her down! And a man made her lie in one position until an emergency ambulance arrived with two nice young people who made sure nothing was broken, but it must have taken at least half an hour before she could get back to her picnic blanket . . . and Herman was gone! And when she saw him later at the animal shelter, he was a bloody mess and they wouldn’t let her take him home or even pet him and . . .
“Objection, Judge,” Thomas said. “The issue is whether or not the animal is a dangerous dog. What happened at the animal shelter isn’t relevant.”
“Sustained.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said, still smiling. But my smile was a mask. “No further questions.”
“Cross-examine, Mr. Thomas?” the judge asked.
“No questions, if it please the Court.”
“Call your next witness, Miss Hope.”
It was after four o’clock when Spencer Phipps walked to the witness box, looking like a puppet made out of sticks. His trousers were too short and his pitifully skinny legs hung beneath the ragged cuffs like toothpicks made out of marble. But his head was high and I tried to suck up some of his courage—or foolhardiness. He looked proud and regal, like the king of Narnia checking out the far reaches of his kingdom, and he nodded royally to the jury, the judge, and all the kids in the courtroom, as though they were his subjects.
“Mr. Phipps, will you spell your name, please, for the court reporter?” I asked, knowing that disaster loomed hugely, over him, and Herman, and Miss Willow.
“Glad to, young woman,” he said grandly, then pronouncing the letters of his name carefully and investing each one with importance. It was obvious that Miss Willow had fallen head over heels in love with him, now that he’d showered, shaved, and donned a clean suit—in spite of the fact that no one else could see him as a knight in shining armor. In fact, people were laughing at him. The judge had covered his mouth to smother his laughs, as had two of the juror
s, and snorts of malicious joy drifted in from the peanut gallery. All that anyone else could see was a sad old fool.
He often went to the park on Sundays, he said, to visit with his dear friend Wilma Willow. When he arrived that day he found Herman tethered on the grass at his usual place of residence when on a Sunday picnic, within a stone’s throw of the lake. But, alas, no Wilma. And so Spence sat himself down on the grass next to the dog and waited, when two boys on small bicycles appeared. They were riding on the paved pathway near the edge of the lake and all at once, one boy gave the other boy a mighty shove!
Spence mimicked the action, letting his hands fly out in front of him, then described the desperation of the boy who had been shoved: how desperately he fought to keep from falling down. “A baby carriage was there,” he said, “and the youngster reached out with one hand and grabbed it!” Spence gripped the rail of the witness box with all his strength to demonstrate the situation. “And as soon as the lad regained his balance, he sent it sailing!” and he threw the offending hand away in a dramatic display of scorn and contempt.
His voice ricocheted around the room like that of a Shakespearean actor delivering a soliloquy. “Herman, brave and splendid hound, saw the baby carriage careen for the lake!” Spence thundered in full, rich tones. “At that moment, his true nature came to the fore! He was simply magnificent! The noble animal flew into action, yanking the tether out of the ground with the ease of a grown man snapping a thread!”
The jurors smiled at him and nodded, the way mothers encourage two-year-olds to keep them talking. Spence thought it meant they were hanging on his every word, and believing in the scene he drew for them to see with all their hearts. But it didn’t mean that at all. With grand, flourishing movements of arms and hands, he described the further heroics of the dog, who flew through the air toward the baby carriage as it careened recklessly and directly toward the water! A bare moment before it splashed into the water, Herman knocked it over, and a tiny infant popped out and began rolling down the grass and into the pond! Just in time, the magnificent animal prevented that from happening, by tenderly picking the squalling baby up in his mouth.
A young couple, who Spence assumed were the parents, emerged from behind a lilac hedge. They were somewhat disheveled, he recalled. The woman rushed hysterically to the child and picked her up, frightening her terribly. The man, a muscular fellow who apparently was threatened by what he imagined, grabbed the leash and viciously beat Herman with the chain. “Poor Herman,” Spence said, lifting his arms and shielding himself from unseen blows. “He covered himself and tried to dodge and run away, but he simply could not defend himself from this powerful man, who yanked the chain with great force, choking Herman, as he continued slashing and whipping the dog with the chain.
“I tried to inform the young couple of what had actually transpired, but they would not listen.” He shrugged his shoulders. “A crowd quickly gathered, of course, and instantly, it seemed, everyone leapt to quite the wrong conclusion.”
“Then what did you do, Mr. Phipps?”
“I was gravely disheartened, Miss Hope. All minds had closed to the truth. There was nothing I could do for Herman. And so I departed.”
“Thank you, Mr. Phipps,” I said. “No further questions.”
I might as well have thrown the lovable old bum to the wolves. When Mr. Thomas took him on cross-examination, he dismantled his ego one piece at a time. He had documents in his hands proving that Spence had been in the state mental hospital in Pueblo, but he didn’t need them, as Spence cheerfully admitted he’d been hospitalized many times. Following his experiences in World War II, he explained, he’d developed an addiction to alcohol, and at precisely the same time, the State began to persecute him.
Mr. Thomas asked him if he’d once seen a herd of flying horses stampede through the skies above Denver. Quite true, Spence readily agreed. Hadn’t he also been forced to flee when several buildings chased after him? That happened as well, Spence stated with the same degree of certainty, adding that he doubted that others believed him, apart from those who’d had similar experiences.
Mr. Thomas then told Spence he’d noticed that he and Miss Willow had been holding hands earlier in the day, and asked him if she was special to him. Indeed she was, Spence said, and Mr. Thomas asked for details. Spence may have thought he was Romeo in Romeo and Juliet. He gazed at his old sweetheart with fondness and told the world of his love for her—how he’d been smitten by her charms in high school, forty years before, and had worshiped her from afar ever since.
“Do you love her enough to lie for her, sir?” Mr. Thomas asked.
“Of course,” Spence said. “It would be a lie for me to tell you otherwise. But there is no need to tell lies concerning this matter.” He smiled at Miss Willow.
Only to find that she could no longer look at him. An expression of shock, as though he’d suddenly fallen off a cliff, registered on his face as rows of people in the gallery hid behind their hands and tried not to laugh. Most of the jurors had to stare at the floor, and it was awful for me to watch the old man drop out of his dreamworld, into a nightmare of humiliation. “Wilma?” he begged with his voice. “Miss Hope? You believe me, don’t you?”
It was after five when Spence was excused from the stand. He ran down the aisle without even seeing Miss Willow, shaking and looking like what he was: an old bum who needed a drink. Miss Willow watched him go with tears in her eyes and as the doors closed behind him, I wondered if I would ever see him again.
Judge Steinbrunner wanted to finish the case that night, as all that was left was final argument and jury deliberations. But the mothers on the jury had to get home to fix dinner for their husbands and children, so the judge continued the case until nine the next morning. Miss Willow started to stand, but the judge made a gesture with his hand that told her she should stay in her chair. “The parties will stay for a few minutes,” he said. “There is a matter we need to discuss out of the presence of the jury.”
What else could go wrong? I wondered as the jurors and many of the spectators left the courtroom. “Miss Hope,” the judge said, “we need to decide where Herman will spend the night.”
“We do?” I asked. “I thought that had been decided, sir. He stays with Miss Willow until the case is over.”
“The situation has changed, unfortunately. I cannot ignore the testimony that’s been presented today. Of course, it’s still up to the jury to make a final determination, but the evidence I’ve heard to this point is enough to convince me that the animal may very well have a vicious streak in him that could erupt at any time. He could even turn on Miss Willow. Therefore—”
“But Your Honor,” I blurted, “the evidence shows that the only person Herman even touched was little Monica, and that was to keep her from rolling into the lake and drowning!”
The roof didn’t fall on my head, and lightning didn’t strike me dead for interrupting a judge in the middle of a sentence. In fact, the expression on his face showed kindness and concern—even though it was way too firm. “That is certainly one way to view the evidence,” he said, “but I can’t take that chance. It is therefore my order that Herman be remanded to the custody of Officer Milliken, to be transported by him to the Denver Animal Shelter until further order of this Court.” He whacked the marble plate on the bench with his gavel before I could say anything more, and he quickly stood up. “Court is adjourned.”
I tried to move, but the muscle had drained out of my legs and they wouldn’t respond to the demands of my brain. “What did he mean, ‘remanded to the custody of Officer Milliken,’ dear?” Miss Willow asked me.
“He means Herman will spend the night at the animal shelter,” I said. “But they’ll let you go say good night to him. Won’t you, Officer?”
Officer Milliken had been listening to us talk, and shrugged. “Sure, as long as she doesn’t get too close. You heard the judge.”
Mr. Thomas, Officer Milliken, and Miss Willow weren’t having proble
ms with their legs. They were able to walk out of the courtroom without help, but I couldn’t. I nodded my goodbyes to them, but couldn’t stand up, feeling numb all over. Then I heard sounds behind me and turned to see what it was.
Kenny Benson was staggering around like a drunken puppet with Sally and some other kids for an audience. “I have a vision,” he said. “A heroic dolphin will descend from heaven above. See you him, my children?” he asked, weaving around and throwing a heavenly gaze at the ceiling with his hands outstretched. “Hark ye! Off in the distance I observe Kate Hope, fair attorney. Madame!” he called out to me, almost falling but grabbing the rail to keep his balance. “Will you join me in a toast to Herman, noble and gallant beast?” He raised his free hand invitingly, shaped like a goblet ready to clink against mine.
At least his jeering comments brought some energy back to my legs. I stood up and packed my briefcase, ignoring him.
“Tomorrow then, O Great Mouthpiece, defender of the innocent!” he called out, leading his band of merry men into the hall.
The reporter from the Rocky Mountain News watched the whole charade from his front-row seat. “How do you feel, Kate?” he asked me. “What are your chances?”
Mom’s smile came to the rescue. “Don’t count Herman out yet, Mr. Briar,” I said. “You cover sports, too, don’t you?” I asked with cheerful breeziness.
“Yeah.”
“You know, like they say in baseball, it ain’t over till it’s over.”
But it was over. Herman would die. “Why, Daddy?” I asked, as though he could give me an answer.
I forced myself outside with a manufactured spring in my step, and walked for the office.
Chapter Twenty-seven
IF I GIVE UP NOW, I thought, walking toward the office where I would grab a cushion to crush in my arms and cry on, then Mom and I can go see Mary Poppins tonight. I’ll be able to sleep until eight in the morning, and I’ll let Mom drive me to the courthouse where I can model that black party dress I got for Christmas. Mr. Briar will take my picture for the Rocky Mountain News, and I’ll smile all the way through final argument, then hold Miss Willow’s hand tenderly when the jury comes back with its death sentence.