Five Smooth Stones

by Ann Fairbairn

  There was a short wait after the old man left, and then a stir as the jury entered. As they filed into their seats, David noticed a tall man entering through the double doors. The man walked with an ambling stride that seemed casual, but covered the ground between doorway and one of the counsel tables with surprising swiftness. His skin was the color of coffee well laced with rich cream; the hair was dark and nappy, but not so dark and nappy as David's; the face was thin, the lines appearing to be more those of worry and lack of flesh beneath the skin than those of age. He had been looking at his wristwatch when he entered, but now his eyes swept the well of the court, and David saw them clearly: the nearly true green eyes of some mixed-blood Negroes, so common in New Orleans and throughout Louisiana one did not look twice on seeing them, but here, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, he stared, and did not even realize he was staring. This must be, had to be, Brad Willis, whom the feature article had described with special emphasis on the green eyes, and who was unmistakably a Negro. When he had heard the name mentioned at the Sutherlands', there had been no reference to his being a Negro. David was chagrined at his own surprise; he had thought himself well up on the accomplishments of those of his people who had made it in the white world, but this was one he had missed.

  David watched the tall man as he greeted his assistant, saw the blond young man turn to him and smile warmly, watched them as they talked briefly and then turned to stand in respectful silence while the judge entered and an ancient cracked voice intoned, "Oyez—Oyez—" and finally, "God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts." There was a rustle as the people in the courtroom sat down, and he realized he was still staring at the man who seemed, after he entered, to dominate the room so effortlessly.

  He judged Willis to be a man who did not smile often, and after noting his greeting to his assistant thought him wise to reserve the smile. The lawyer favored the jury with it now as they squirmed and settled into their seats, running his eyes along front and back rows, including each man and woman in a silent greeting, commiserating with the women in a sort of silent communion because they were not at home tending to what must be tended to, and with the men because they were not at desk or wheel or wherever they belonged in the economic scheme of their lives, thanking them wordlessly for being there and helping him.

  David glanced quickly at Abbott, the defendant's attorney, saw him trying to emulate his opponent's attitude, his smile an effort, behind it all too painfully evident the feeling that this was needless fol-de-rol to which he was stooping. Thinks he's better than any of them, thought David. Willis is saying, "Sit down. Res' yo'self."

  When Willis conferred with the judge he was polite without undue deference; when he turned from the judge to Abbott he was gracious; a graciousness, David decided, he would trust only as far as he could sling a man-eating tiger. He was saying to the judge now: "The plaintiff is ready, your Honor, but because of the unfortunate illness of the next witness we planned to call we must change our procedure slightly. However, rather than try the patience of the court by further delays, we ask permission to call this witness at a later time, possibly out of order, when she is feeling better."

  David drew a deep breath. How did he do it? In a few sentences David had been made to feel sorry for some unfortunate, unnamed female who meant nothing whatever to him, suffering on a bed of pain with what was probably only a head cold; he had been made aware that during the preceding days the attorney for the defendant had messed things up generally by uncalled-for delays, and he was also conscious of having been appealed to for tolerance and sympathy in an unavoidable situation that might give rise to a special reques for a favor later. And the statement had been such a simple one, drawing only a nod from the judge, and an impatient slap by the opposing counsel of a yellow legal tablet on ai oak table.

  David leaned forward, arms on knees, knowing he had been trickled into a partisanship that had nothing to do wit! coffee-colored skin or the nappiness of close-cut hair. At that moment he succumbed to his first attack of hero worship since his childhood when he had collected baseball pictures, regarding baseball players as without color, as he did the gods of Olympus the Prof had told him tales about.

  He sorted out the issues of the case quickly: a suit for heavy damages growing out of a crippling back injury. Someday, he thought, the maneuverings of people in a squared-off area in front of a judge—like a prizefight ring—would be as clear and familiar to him as the strategy of a baseball game, but now he was like a spectator seeing that game for the first time, not knowing what to watch for, missing a stolen base, bewildered by a double play. By midmorning he was hoping desperately that the case of Parsons vs. Bay Indemnity would be over before classes started next week so he could hear all of it. If a simple suit for damages could be, in the hands of Bradford Willis, as all-absorbing as this, what would a murder trial in the same expert hands be like? He was glad he had decided to concentrate on civil and constitutional law; he strongly doubted his own capabilities in the rough-and-tumble of trial law, disliking open conflict as he did, preferring strategic battles, but whether it was civil or criminal law, he knew he was watching a master this day in the Middlesex County Courthouse.

  During a pause in the proceedings, while a witness was sought, Willis and his assistant moved away from the counsel table, toward the railing in front of David. They spoke in low tones, Willis half facing him. David realized he was staring rudely, and looked away from the pair in front of him, but not before Willis's eyes had flicked to him and away, the glance so quick it was felt more than seen. Lord! thought David. Lord, Lord! He knows my height, weight, previous condition of servitude, the size of my collar, where I bought my suit, and the size of my shoes he can't see. And that I've got no more manners than an untrained pup.

  When noon recess was called, David went downstairs— once again behind the jury—and into the paved area in front of the building. He realized the jury, like sheep, must be driven to pasture somewhere. He continued to follow them, up Third Street, although he was not particularly hungry.

  At the counter of a little restaurant on Cambridge Street he lit a cigarette and ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. He had not had such a good time, he reflected, since he had been to his first major-league ball game, a thousand years ago on a warm spring day in Cincinnati. He realized he had gone three hours without missing Sara, but now he missed her so achingly that when he put his cigarette out he ground it to a shredded mess in the ashtray.

  The restaurant was crowded, the tables along one side filled, and there were standees behind him waiting for a seat. When the girl sitting next to him finished her coffee and left, the man who edged in to take her seat brushed his shoulder, and said, "Sorry." Glancing sideways David saw long, firm, coffee-colored hands with short well-trimmed nails pick up a menu, and sat, motionless, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. Willis was talking over his shoulder to someone behind him, on the side farthest from David. He heard the words "sure as hell talk over their heads," and heard the other person say, "How about making him draw a diagram on the blackboard?"

  "I'd thought of that." It was sarcasm, but not wounding or unkind.

  "There's a seat down below. I'd better grab it."

  David swallowed coffee to moisten his throat, turned and said: "Excuse me. You two gentlemen are together. I'll go down to the other seat."

  Willis turned to him and smiled. "Most certainly not. Stay where you are. Actually, this young man is sick of the sight of me." He spoke over his shoulder again. "Scram. Down the line. Forget it for a while. Go dream of Ella in Iowa."

  Willis folded long arms, waiting to be served, turned and looked directly at David. "Did you enjoy the session?"

  "I—it was—" David swallowed a youthful "Gosh," and went on, "It was about the most interesting morning I've ever spent."

  The older man's eyebrows went up. "Not exactly a cause celebre. Rather run of the mill."

  "I don't know about that, sir. It didn't seem that way to me. I suppose it's becaus
e it's the first time I've ever watched a real trial. I thought—well—I thought you were great."

  Willis smiled broadly. "Well, thankee, young sir. But wait till you hear me expound on the human spine. At this point I think I know more about the human spine than our expert medical witness."

  "Will you do that soon?" He tried not to sound too eager.

  "Probably this afternoon. Are you curious, just killing time, or an interested party?"

  "None of those, sir. I'm a student. Harvard Law. Or will be next week."

  Willis's eyebrows went up again. He poured quantities of sugar into his coffee, said, "Energy," then turned curious eyes on David again. "Are you telling me that you have completed all the academic courses required for entrance to Harvard Law School? My own, incidentally. You're not old enough."

  "Yes, sir. I mean yes, I have, and yes, I am." He cleared his throat and smiled. "I'm older than I look. When I wear my glasses I look my age."

  "I'll bet. Anyhow, you'll look older than your age when they get through with you up there. But it was nice of you to drop in. I was watching you. Even lawyers need the stimulus of a rooting section sometimes."

  Bradford Willis had been watching him! David could have sworn the lawyer had not even known he was there until that quick glance when he and his assistant had been standing near the railing. He looked down at his sandwich and saw that it was cold, soggy, and greasy, a fact that bothered him not at all. Willis was struggling with a well-stuffed hamburger, and David applied himself to the sandwich before him. He hoped Sudsy would be at home that night. It was going to be quite pressingly necessary that he talk to someone. Sara. No. Not Sara. She was back from Paris; Tom Evans had told him this in a letter. But even if he had a hundred dollars in his pocket for long-distance calls to Chicago, not Sara.

  Sara had probably never heard of Bradford Willis, but Sara would be as excited as though he had told her he had lunched with the President at the White House. As he talked to her he would be able to see her—as he always could— bouncing like a child with happiness for him, saying: "David! David, that's wonderful! Oh, David I'm so thrilled. Tell me about it, sweet—" No! Not Sara.

  He finished his sandwich, decided against pie after a mental check of his resources, and accepted more coffee. Willis's assistant, who must either have bolted his lunch or settled for pie and coffee was back, standing behind Willis. The lawyer stood, and David looked up at him. He started to say "Thank you—" and saw that the tall man was looking at him expectantly. "Drink your coffee, and come along," he said.

  "I—gosh—" he wasn't able to swallow the "gosh" this time. "I don't really want it." He grabbed his check and followed the two men to the cash register, paid for his lunch, and when he left the building found them standing on the sidewalk outside.

  'This is my assistant, Bill Culbertson," said Willis. "Bill this is—who?"

  "Champlin. David Champlin."

  Willis seemed to take it for granted he would walk with them to the courthouse. At the corner he said, thoughtfully, "Champlin—Champlin—I have a feeling I should know the name—"

  "Suds—Clifton Sutherland and I were at college together. We're still pretty good friends. I've been up here visiting them a couple of times. They've talked about you—"

  "Hold on—Champlin—automobile—I made out a bill of sale for a car of Clifton's—you were the second party—I remember."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You're from New Orleans, aren't you?"

  "That's right—"

  "My father came from New Orleans. Near there, anyhow. Mandeville Parish."

  "Right across the lake."

  "You know it?"

  "Know it well. My grandfather used to take me hunting and fishing over there when I was a kid. You know back of Mandeville there, where—"

  "Never been there," said Willis. "If God is good, I never will be."

  "No, sir," said David, feeling rebuffed. "Guess you're smart not to."

  "Someday we'll go into it, Champlin—David. The Willis family and New Orleans. Meanwhile, you are aware that the human spine has never adapted itself to the comparatively recent upright posture of the genus we whimisically call human?"

  "Yes, sir." David laughed, and the laugh surprised him because it broke through his shyness and came out easily and naturally. "I know it, and you know it, but what's going to happen if you've got a couple of people on the jury who don't believe in evolution?"

  "Ah—those are the things you think of when you select a jury. Although I must say it appalled me to have to take it into consideration in the mid-twentieth century. My opponent was snorting with impatience."

  Inside the courthouse Willis left them, walking with that deceptive amble down the main corridor. As he left he said to Culbertson, "Set up the blackboard, please." And to David: "Enjoy yourself, David. Make notes if you want, and I'll be glad to go over them with you after it's over."

  Culbertson walked upstairs with David, accommodating himself unobtrusively to David's slower ascent. "He's great," he said. "He's the greatest."

  "He's just about got to be," said David. "Why—-he never even saw me before."

  As they stood outside the courtroom, Culbertson said, "Let's see—blackboard—chalk—Oh, God! Chalk!"

  "If they have a blackboard here they must have chalk."

  "He'll want colored. Three colors anyhow. Hell!"

  When David brought the chalk back from a variety store on Cambridge Street, he felt something like the man who brought the message to Garcia whose name no one—certainly not he—ever remembered.

  The old man who had shown him where to sit that morning was nowhere in sight. There was a conference going on at the bench, and when Willis turned away to return to the counsel table and saw David in the doorway with his package, he made a quick beckoning gesture. David, feeling now like Clarence Darrow, fumbled with the hinged gate in the low-railed barrier, finally got it opened, and crossed the well of the court to Willis.

  "Good." Willis checked the chalk, saw that it was varicolored, and smiled with pleasure. He touched David's shoulder briefly, said: "Get back to your grandstand seat and learn about the spine. And thanks. See you again, I hope."

  CHAPTER 39

  Before David left for Cambridge, Li'l Joe Champlin predicted, "You going to be res'less, working like you has all summer outside and all, then jes setting on your rear studying—"

  After two weeks of classes he would have welcomed a spell of restlessness. At Pengard he had learned what was meant by a "trained mind," but not until he reached Harvard had he known what it was to be surrounded by them, in students as well as faculty. At Pengard he had felt the concern of his instructors; at Harvard he learned that excellence was not something to work toward, that it was expected and taken for granted, and he approached both classwork and study with tense apprehension. He was not aware of any problems created by his race; if they existed, he was too preoccupied to care or notice.

  Isaiah Watkins had sent him to see a cousin who, with her husband, lived just off Massachusetts Avenue in Boston, near the subway, and who rented rooms. They had available a two-room-and-bath basement apartment, with separate entrance. The rent was more than he could afford, but a gas plate and small refrigerator meant he could prepare his own meals and save, and he took it thankfully. Nevertheless, he knew he was going to have to find a job to augment his money, but in those first weeks he did not worry about it; there was too much else to worry about. Gray by Christmas, he thought. That's what I'll be, gray by Christmas.

  Late in the afternoon on Friday of his third week, someone hailed him as he came down the steps of the library. He turned and recognized Bill Culbertson, the young assistant he had met with Bradford Willis at the East Cambridge courthouse. He smiled broadly, and waved; here at last was someone to talk with; he had begun to doubt that he would ever make friends at the law school; even among his own people no one had time, not even, he admitted, David Champlin.

  They shook hands, and Culbertson
said, "Where in hell have you been?"

  "Living in a book," he answered. "Living plumb in the middle of a book. Not always the same one—"

  "God, I know! Murder, isn't it? Brad Willis sent me bird-dogging for you."

  "Bradford Willis? For me?"

  "Don't look so shocked. How about a drink?"

  "Hell, yes!" Three weeks of self-imposed loneliness began to recede.

  "I've got Brad's car," said Culbertson. "I know a good place where we can get a drink and eat, both."

  David hesitated. Money was involved in eating out. In the refrigerator were filet gumbo, red beans, and a bowl of rice, made the day before. He hadn't skimped on the quantity; there was plenty for two. Should he ask this white boy to eat with him and risk an effusively concealed snub? He told himself not to be a supersensitive fool. The boy was working for a Negro lawyer; there had been no slightest smell of Crow when they had first met. He said: "Let's have the drink first. If you like real New Orleans gumbo I have it and I'd be glad—"