Halfway House (14 page)

Bill Angell grasped the edge of the jury box with such vehemence that his knuckles whitened. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the law gives to the defense the same privilege of announcing in advance and in general terms what it will prove as it gives to the prosecution. You have just heard the prosecutor of your county. I shall not take so long. My learned friend the prosecutor, His Honor the Judge, can tell you that in most instances in trials for murder the defense waives its right to address the jury in advance, because in most instances the defense has something to conceal or must build its case out of the ragged remnants of the prosecution’s case. But this defense has nothing to conceal. This defense addresses you out of a full heart, confident that justice can be done in Mercer County and that justice will be done in Mercer County.

“I have merely this to say. I ask you to forget that I am the brother of this defendant, Lucy Angell Wilson. I ask you to forget that Lucy is a beautiful woman in the prime of her life. I ask you to forget that Joseph Wilson did her the cruelest wrong in the power of any man. I ask you to forget that he was really Joseph Kent Gimball, a man of millions, and that she is Lucy Wilson, a poor loyal woman who comes from just such a walk of life as your worthy selves. I ask you to forget that during the ten peaceful years of their married life, Lucy Wilson did not derive a single penny’s worth of benefit from Joseph Kent Gimball’s millions.

“I would not ask you to forget these things if for the space of a single instant I entertained the most minute doubt of Lucy Wilson’s innocence. If I thought she were guilty I would emphasize these things, play upon your sympathies. But I do not think so. I know Lucy Wilson is not guilty of this crime. And before I am finished, you will know that Lucy Wilson is not guilty of this crime.

“I ask you to remember only that murder is the most serious charge which a civilized State can level against any individual. And, because this is so, I ask you to keep in mind during every moment of this trial that the State must prove Lucy Wilson a red-handed murderess beyond the last faint shadow of a reasonable doubt. His Honor will no doubt charge you that in a circumstantial case, such as this, the State must prove, step by step, without the slightest gap, the movements of the defendant until the very moment of the commission of the crime. There must be no gaps left to guess-work. That is the law of circumstantial evidence, and you must be guided by it. And remember, too, that the burden of proof is wholly upon the State. His Honor will instruct you in this.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Lucy Wilson asks you to keep this principle constantly in mind. Lucy Wilson wants justice. Her fate lies in your hands. It lies in good hands.”

“I,” said Ella Amity, “want a drink of whatever is in that bottle.”

Ellery did things with cracked ice, soda, and Irish whisky, and passed the red-haired young woman the result. Bill Angell, his coat off and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, shook his head and went to the window of Ellery’s room. The window was open wide; the Trenton night outside was hot and noisy and as turbulent as a carnival.

“Well,” said Ellery, regarding Bill’s silent back, “what do you think?”

“I’ll tell you what
I
think,” said Ella, crossing her legs and setting down the glass. “I think there’s a large black gentleman in the woodpile here.”

Bill turned sharply. “What makes you say that, Ella?”

The uppermost leg swung in an impatient arc. “Look here, Bill Angell. I know this town and you don’t. Do you think Pollinger’s a complete fool? Give me a butt, somebody.”

Ellery obeyed. “I’m inclined to agree with the press, Bill. Pollinger wasn’t born yesterday.”

Bill frowned. “I’ll admit the man struck me as capable enough. But, damn it all, the facts are there! He simply can’t have anything important which he hasn’t disclosed.”

Ella snuggled deeper into the Stacy-Trent armchair. “Listen to me, you idiot. Paul Pollinger has one of the keenest minds in this State. He was weaned on a lawbook. He knows old Judge Menander the way I know the facts of life. And he’s an expert on juries in this county. Do you think a prosecutor like that would pull such a boner? I’m telling you, Bill—watch your step.”

Bill flushed angrily. “All right, all right. Will you kindly tell me what I can expect this magicián to pull out of his hat? I know this case like the palm of my own hand. Pollinger’s been misled by his own eagerness to get a conviction in a sensational case. It’s been done before, and it always will be.”

“You feel, then,” asked Ellery, “that there’s no chance for a conviction?”

“Not a chance in the world. I tell you this case won’t even go to the jury. The law’s the law in Jersey as anywhere else. When Pollinger rests the State I’ll make the usual motion for dismissal, and I’ll bet you every cent I’ve got that Menander throws the case out then and there.”

The newspaperwoman sighed. “You poor, poor egomaniac. Maybe that’s why I’m wasting all this time and energy on you. Confidence! I adore you, Bill, but there’s a limit even to my patience. You’re playing around with your sister’s life. How the devil can you be so cocksure of yourself?”

Bill stared out the window again. “I’ll tell you,” he said at last. “Neither of you is a lawyer and so you can’t see my point. All you can see is the usual layman’s misconception of circumstantial evidence.”

“It sounds pretty strong to me.”

“It’s weak as hell. What has Pollinger got? A dying declaration, which unfortunately I myself was responsible for bringing to light. This declaration, admittedly made by the victim in the full knowledge that he was dying—an important point legally—accused a veiled woman of stabbing him. He has the treads of the tires of a Ford car in the dirt before the scene of the crime. I’ll even grant for the sake of argument that he can make out a positive expert’s identification of Lucy’s Ford as the one which made those tire marks. So what? Her car was used by the criminal. In her car was found a veil—not even hers; I know it isn’t hers, because she’s never worn or had a veil. So he can’t possibly prove it’s hers. He has, then, her car used by the criminal, who was a veiled woman. Possibly he has someone who can testify to seeing this veiled woman in the Ford near the scene of the crime. But whoever the witness is, he can’t conceivably identify Lucy as the woman in the Ford. Even if he lies, or testifies to a positive identification under a mistaken impression, it will be child’s play to break down his credibility. The mere fact that a veil was worn makes positive identification in the legal sense an incredibility.”

“She has no alibi,” pointed out Ellery, “and a theoretical double motive of uncomfortable potency.”

“All embroidery.” Bill’s tone was savage. “We don’t need an alibi, legally speaking. Even at that, though, I’m in hopes that I can get the cashier of the Fox theatre to identify her. At any rate, that’s the extent of his case. And will you tell me, please, where in this set of facts there is anywhere the slightest implication of Lucy
in person
? You don’t know the law. Circumstantial evidence strong enough to convict must place the accused at the scene of the crime, above all other evidence. You tell me how Pollinger’s going to
prove
that Lucy Wilson, herself, in the flesh, was in that shack on the night of June first!”

“Her car—” began Ella.

“Rats. Her car doesn’t put her there. Anybody could have stolen her car. As a matter of fact, that’s what happened.”

“But the inference—”

“The law doesn’t countenance such inferences. Even if Pollinger produced an article of her clothing in that shack—a handkerchief, a glove, anything—that wouldn’t be proof
she
was there. I mean proof within the rules of circumstantial evidence.”

“Well, don’t throw a fit over it, Bill,” sighed the red-haired woman. “It sounds good the way you put it, but…” She frowned and, picking up her glass, took a long drink.

Bill’s face softened. He went to her and seized her free hand. “I want to thank you, Ella—I haven’t had a chance before. Don’t think I’m ungrateful. You’ve been a pillar of strength, and your newspaper articles have unquestionably swayed public opinion. I’m damned glad you’re on our side.”

“Hey, that’s my job,” she said lightly, but her smile was tender. “I don’t believe Lucy knifed that ape. All’s fair in love and murder trials, isn’t it? And the class-angle on this case was too tempting… I hate the guts of that Park Avenue crowd, anyway.” She pulled her hand free.

“So,” murmured Ellery, “does Bill.”

“Now listen—” began Bill. “Just because I recognize a certain human balance doesn’t mean…” He stopped, flushing.

Ella Amity glanced at him with raised brows. “Aha,” she said. “Snoop Scents Romance. What’s this, Bill—another case of the Montagues and the Capulets?”

“Don’t be silly,” he snapped. “You two have the most annoying faculty for making mountains out of molehills! The girl’s engaged to be married. Hell, she’s ‘way out of my class. I’m just…”

Ella’s left eyelid drooped at Ellery. Bill champed his jaws in a helpless fury and turned away. Ella rose and refilled her glass. None of them spoke for a long time.

In the jammed courtroom Paul Pollinger launched the State’s case with a fanged rapidity, as cold and sure as if the trial were an inconsequential formality to the fore-ordained conviction. Even though the tall windows and skylights were open and the electric fans going, the room was suffocating with the heat of packed bodies. Pollinger’s collar was a rag, and Bill’s face steamed. Only Lucy Wilson’s at the defense table, flanked by two hard-eyed State troopers, seemed impervious to the heat. Her skin was dry and pallid, as if already the vital processes of perspiration had ceased. She sat stiffly, her hands in her lap, staring at the seamed face of Judge Menander and avoiding the embarrassed glances of the mixed jury.

‘By the end of the first day,’ typed the cross-eyed reporter from the
Philadelphia Ledger
, ‘Prosecutor Pollinger demonstrated once more in a murder trial his genius for lightning construction of vital elements. Mr. Pollinger built his case rapidly. During the day he put on the witness-stand Coroner Hiram O’Dell, Defense Counsel William Angell, Chief of Police De Jong, Grosvenor Finch of New York, John Sellers, Arthur Pinetti, Sergeant Hannigan, and Lieutenant Donald Fairchild of the New York Police Department. Through the testimony of these witnesses he succeeded in establishing an insurance motive against the defendant, primary facts concerning the discovery of the body, and a number of important exhibits, including the broken halves of the radiator-cap alleged to come from the defendant’s Ford coupé. In the opinion of trained observers Mr. Pollinger scored a damaging blow when he was able, over the constant hecklings and objections of Mr. Angell, to inject into the record the testimony of his experts concerning the all-important Firestone tire prints in the mud before the shack where Joseph Kent Wilson was stabbed to death. The entire afternoon was consumed by the direct testimony and cross-examination of Sergeant Thomas Hannigan of the Trenton police, who first examined the tire impressions, of Chief De Jong, who found the Ford coupé alleged to belong to Mrs. Wilson, and of Lieutenant Fairchild. Lieutenant Fairchild is a recognized authority on the science of automobile-tire identification.’

‘On the stand,’ clicked out the telegrapher in the press-room, continuing his transmission of the
Ledger
man’s story, ‘Lieutenant Fairchild resisted all Mr. Angell’s savage attempts to cast doubt upon his findings, substantiating to the last detail Sergeant Hannigan’s testimony. The New York expert compared photographs and plaster casts of the tire prints from the roadway with the actual tires of Mrs. Wilson’s Ford, exhibited in the courtroom by the State.

‘“In the case of worn automobile tires,” testified Lieutenant Fairchild in summing up his findings, “it is possible to make as positive identification as in the case of human fingerprints. No two tires which have seen service for any length of time will be found to leave the same impressions in a plastic surface. These Firestones are several years old and their treads are scarred and gashed. I have carefully run the defendant’s car over the driveway before the scene of the crime, under conditions exactly similar to those on the night of the murder. I found that these tires left scar-prints, gash-prints, worn areas and so on identical with those in these plaster casts.”

‘“And your conclusion from this, Lieutenant?” asked Mr. Pollinger.

‘“In my opinion there is no doubt whatever that the impressions from which these photographs and casts have been taken were made by the four tires in evidence.”

‘An attempt by Defense Counsel Angell to insinuate that the “four tires in evidence” were not the tires from Mrs. Wilson’s car but had been deliberately substituted by the police was effectually resisted by Mr. Pollinger in re-direct examination.’

“No fireworks yet,” said Bill Angell to Ellery on the evening of the third day. They were in Bill’s room at the Stacy-Trent. Bill was in his undershirt, bathing his cheeks in cold water. “Whew! Have a drink, Ellery. Soda’s on the dresser. Ginger ale, if you like.”

Ellery sat down with a groan; his linen suit was crumpled and his face was caked with dust. “No, thanks. I just had a couple of exquisitely lousy lime concoctions downstairs. What’s happened?”

Bill picked up a towel. “The usual. To tell the truth, I’m getting a little worried myself. Pollinger can’t conceivably hope to get a conviction on the case he’s presenting. He hasn’t connected Lucy at all. Where’ve you been all day?”

“Gadding about.”

Bill flung the towel away and pulled on a fresh shirt. “Oh,” he said. He seemed vaguely disappointed. “Decent of you to come back at all. I know this mess must be cutting into your own plans.”

“You don’t understand,” sighed Ellery. “I went to New York on a little inquiry for you.”

“El! What?”

Ellery reached over and picked up a thick sheaf of mimeographed papers. They constituted the official transcript of the day’s testimony. “Chiefly nothing. I had an idea, but it didn’t pan out. Mind if I go through this transcript? I want to know what’s happened in my absence.”