Flight Dreams (28 page)

Jerry Klein and Arthur Mendel sit at a table near the front of the room with Roxanne and an assistant, who busily prepare stacks of briefs, notes, and accounts. At a similar table sits a dapper attorney who Manning assumes to be Hank Ferret. He lounges in his chair with his legs crossed at the knees, watching the activity at Roxanne’s table with a vague, detached curiosity. In contrast to Ferret’s easy manner, his young underling, also at the table, appears jittery and preoccupied, thumbing through a thin pile of notes. Behind them, seated among a group of reporters, Humphrey Hasting picks his teeth with the cap of a ball-point pen.

Cameras are not allowed in Illinois courts, so the hearing will be aired on radio. Technicians fidget with bouquets of microphones placed at the lawyers’ tables, the witness stand, and the judge’s chair at the bench. Several sketch artists, who will render these scenes in colored chalk for newspapers and television, make quick-study drawings of the room, of the lawyers, of Manning himself. Manning suddenly realizes that he will not be able to report on the hearing because of his own role in it, and he wonders if the
Journal
has thought to send another reporter. Turning in his seat to scour the rapidly filling gallery for a familiar face, he is relieved to spot one of his associates, who waves his reporter’s notebook and flashes Manning the “okay” sign.

The deputy announces that all should rise as Judge Clement Ambrose emerges from his chambers to take his place at the bench. He is a shrunken man who walks with a hobble, his robes crossing the floor in jerky black puffs. A thin smile reveals a kindly, fatherly nature, while a glimmer in his eye betrays a smoldering wrath that he sometimes vents in the dispensing of justice. Seating himself, he nods to the others in the room, who then resume their own seats.

Normally absorbed by every detail of an event he is covering for the
Journal,
Manning feels his mind go blank during the opening procedures of the hearing. He is here in court, after all, as a participant, not a paid spectator, and he is concerned with only two questions: What will they ask? How will I answer? Manning consciously shifts his attention to Hank Ferret, who now stands for his opening statement.

Ferret tugs once, briskly at his lapels, then strokes his moussed temples with the palms of both hands. He straightens his tie and steps forward. “If it please the court, your honor,” he begins in a deep, booming tone developed for just such occasions, “we have lived for nearly seven years in the anguish of doubt that has surrounded the disappearance—and, alas, the probable death—of Helena Carter.” Ferret turns from the judge and strikes a pose for the gallery, prompting an audible scratching of sketch books from the row of artists. “She was a fine woman, a good woman—a woman of faith who was deeply religious, a humanitarian who loved animals.”

Humphrey Hasting licks his lips.

“But she has been snatched from our midst,” the lawyer laments. “Is there still reason to cling to any shred of hope that she might again grace the North Shore with her benign presence? This is the question we hope to answer through the inquest that begins today. We are not here to accuse, but to learn—not to punish, but to vindicate. We have called here Arthur Mendel, houseman to Helena Carter for many years, that he might share with us any knowledge, any insights, into the circumstances that led to his employer’s disappearance. Let us go forward, then, with this fact-finding mission in a spirit of candor and open-mindedness, that the cause of justice may be served, and that Mrs. Carter’s estate may be expeditiously settled according to the terms of her will. Thank you.”

He ends with a sweep of his arm that could pass for a Shakespearean bow, drawing a smatter of applause from pockets of the gallery. Humphrey Hasting claps far more loudly than the others, causing Ferret a tinge of embarrassment as he returns to his seat.

Judge Ambrose snuffs the demonstration with a single slam of his gavel, then turns to Roxanne. “Well, Miss Exner?” he says with a smile. “I assume madam counsel has a few thoughts of her own on this matter. Do you wish to respond with an opening statement?”

“I do, your honor.” Roxanne rises and turns to the gallery. A gleam of resolution flashes in her eyes as she weighs her thoughts, focusing on the faces that peer back at her. The silence is broken only by the muffled abrasion of colored chalk on paper. She finally says, “I’m directing my comments to you, spectators from the general public and representatives of the press, because there’s no jury in this courtroom.” Her voice is clear, loud, and deliberately unladylike, delivering her message in sharp, staccato jabs. “There’s not a jury because this is not a trial. I urge you all to remember that basic fact and to dismiss the sensational nonsense you’ve been reading that has led to this opening session of the so-called ‘Houseman Trial.’ But I repeat: This is
not
a trial, merely a hearing. No one has been charged with a crime, and there’s not a scrap of evidence that would warrant charges. Remember that as this inquisition unfolds. Remember that as you observe the techniques of my skilled colleague, Mr. Ferret. Remember that as you witness the unconscionable spectacle of unspecified charges being leveled for unspecified crimes. And remember it, you who hold the power to inform the masses, as you rush from this room to milk ‘news’ from this hearing—a hearing that was spawned without justification and that will produce nothing of substance except the unprovoked humiliation of an innocent man.
Remember it.
”

She spins on her heel and sits. The crowd stares, stunned. Even the artists have abandoned the drawings that lie in their laps. Arthur Mendel seems more frightened by the lull than comforted by her words of defense.

The
filthy
bitch, Hasting tells himself. Putting down his pen, he decides that not a single word of Roxanne’s will appear in the
Post
—not in
his
paper, by God.

“Thank you, Miss Exner,” says Judge Ambrose. “Your point is well made and forcefully stated. We’ll all try to keep in mind the issues you’ve raised. Now, Mr. Ferret”—he swings his head—“please call your first witness.”

Ferret calls a police detective to the stand. The officer is sworn in, then proceeds to answer a long string of questions from Ferret regarding the underworld connections of many famous—and infamous—horse-racing figures. The questioning is structured to leave the impression that anyone involved in any way with horses, as Mendel was, must necessarily have connections with organized crime. The questioning also reveals, to Manning’s amusement, that neither Ferret nor Hasting has discovered Mendel’s past gambling peccadillo, which could have been used to build a far more incriminating argument.

Roxanne listens, refraining from the objections she could easily raise. When at last it is her turn to cross-examine the witness, she has but one question: “Do you know of any evidence linking Arthur Mendel to the disappearance of Helena Carter?” The detective answers, “No, ma’am,” and Roxanne dismisses him.

Hasting’s lips curl into a pout.

Ferret calls a psychiatrist to the stand and questions him on various aspects of the criminal mind, leaving the impression that any man who has spent his career in a role servile to a woman would eventually have to strike out against that woman as a means of asserting his manhood and restoring self-esteem. In extreme cases, murder might well be the unhappy resolution to a situation described by the doctor as “psychologically untenable.”

When Roxanne cross-examines the witness, she again poses the question: “Do you know of any evidence linking Arthur Mendel to the disappearance of Helena Carter?” The doctor answers, “No, ma’am,” and is dismissed.

Hasting fumes.

Ferret then questions the county coroner on techniques for disposing of a body under various circumstances, failing to include—Manning notes—the possibilities presented by concrete or construction sites. The coroner describes an array of grizzly procedures glossed over with technical jargon, rendering his morbid expertise unemotional and businesslike. He leaves the impression that if a person set out to destroy the mortal remains of a victim, it is a task that any clever child might accomplish.

Roxanne again asks her sole question. The coroner responds that he knows of no such evidence. He is dismissed.

Similar examinations and cross-examinations take place with a bank president, a priest, a jockey, a forensic pathologist—a parade of “expert witnesses.” Roxanne begins to wonder if Ferret will ever call Mark Manning or Arthur Mendel. She herself is determined not to call them to the stand, but she is surprised that Ferret has not yet lunged. It’s nearly one o’clock, and the proceeding has grown sluggish. Attorneys and witnesses alike are getting hungry and irritable.

Judge Ambrose finally asks the two lawyers to approach the bench. He asks how many witnesses they still intend to call, wondering if they should first break for lunch.

A murmur swells from the gallery. Humphrey Hasting, straining to hear what is being said, slips from the edge of his chair. Fumbling, he spares himself the ignominy of landing on the floor.

“Before calling our star witnesses,” Ferret confides with a wink that makes Roxanne want to slap him, “I’d like to question Mrs. Carter’s sister, Margaret O’Connor, but I’m amazed that I haven’t seen her—”

“Your honor,” Roxanne interrupts, “Miss O’Connor is not here today. Jerry Klein tells me that she preferred not to attend, finding the proceeding too painful. If called, however, she will willingly testify.”

The judge turns from Roxanne to Ferret. “Well, counsel,” he says, “it seems you won’t be questioning Miss O’Connor today. Do you wish to go ahead and call Arthur Mendel?”

“No, your honor. That can wait.”

“How about you, Miss Exner? Any witnesses you wish to call today?”

She begins to answer in the negative, then stops herself, reconsidering. She says aloud, for all to hear, “Yes, your honor, I
would
like to call a final witness—Mark Manning.”

The murmur from the gallery immediately surges into a cross fire of excited discussion. Judge Ambrose raps for order and calls Manning to the stand. An expectant smile spreads across Humphrey Hasting’s face, and he watches with a predatory stare as Manning is sworn in and seated.

Roxanne asks her witness, “Is it true, Mr. Manning, that in the course of your investigative reporting of the Carter case, you’ve had occasion to interview the family houseman, Arthur Mendel?” Roxanne’s delivery sounds cool and prosaic, as though she has never met the man she now questions.

“Yes, Miss Exner, I spoke with Mr. Mendel at length on two occasions in October.” Manning’s mind snaps into focus as he falls into the expected pattern of questions and answers.

“And what was the purpose of those interviews? Did you plan to write a story about him?”

“No, I wasn’t planning a specific story. They were background interviews. I had reported events surrounding the Carter disappearance since the day after it happened, and though I’d met Arthur, I’d never interviewed him because there was no reason to think he was involved. But since his name kept popping up as a possible suspect—”

Roxanne asks, “You mean, in Humphrey Hasting’s articles in the
Post?”

“Exactly. Because the
Post
repeatedly named him as a suspect, I decided to talk to Arthur simply as a means of confirming—in my own mind—his noninvolvement.”

“You’ve been reporting for the
Journal
for how long, Mr. Manning?”

“Nearly twenty years. I joined the paper right out of college.”

“Your reputation for the work you’ve done there is widely known among the press. At the risk of embarrassing you, Mr. Manning, would it be accurate to say that you are generally respected for your fairness, your thoroughness, your judgment?”

“That would be accurate,” he replies, not at all embarrassed.

“You think of yourself, then, as a good judge of character—that’s an important part of your job, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Miss Exner.”

“Tell us, then, what conclusions you drew from your discussions with Arthur Mendel.”

Manning smiles. “After some initial doubts, I found it inconceivable that he could be in any way involved with Mrs. Carter’s disappearance. In fact, I know that he is innocent.”

Hank Ferret shoots to his feet. “Your honor, the witness is expressing opinions. Mr. Manning’s statement is irrelevant to this proceeding.”

“Don’t be silly, counsel,” the judge snaps at Ferret. “All character witnesses are called to express their opinions, and Miss Exner has demonstrated that Mr. Manning’s opinion in this matter is indeed relevant. Objection overruled. Sit down, Mr. Ferret.” He cracks his gavel and turns to Roxanne. “Please continue.”

Taking an unexpected turn, she asks, “Mr. Manning, has your involvement with this case proved in any way threatening to your health?”

Ferret is again on his feet. “Your honor, I
must
object. Madam counsel’s transparent attempt to dramatize the witness’s bandaged arm is obviously a sympathy ploy beneath the dignity of this court!”

With a menacing leer, Judge Ambrose tells him, “Overruled. I’m intrigued by the question. The witness will please answer.”

Manning says, “Yes. My life has been threatened. Twice.” His words are met with astonished mutterings. “My arm was broken a few days ago in an auto accident resulting from potentially lethal mischief that seems clearly related to the Carter case; I do not know who was responsible. Earlier, on October nineteenth, I received a death threat in the mail; I have never taken the October incident seriously, however.”

Roxanne asks, “Do you still have this letter?”

“Right here,” Manning answers, producing the envelope.

Roxanne has Manning read the insipid note into the record, then she has it entered into evidence and hands it to Judge Ambrose, who studies it closely.

The judge asks Manning, “Do you have any idea who sent this?”

“Yes, your honor, I know exactly who sent it.”

The judge’s eyes pop.
“Who?”

Manning tells him, “Humphrey Hasting, reporter for the
Post.”