The Glass Village (16 page)

“Hello, Ush! Barnwell, I want to see you.”

The editor of the Cudbury
Times-Press
grinned as he stood at bay beside his car. “It's okay, men,” he was saying. “I haven't got a thing on me but a pad and a pencil.” He waved at Johnny, whom he had interviewed with great skill the week before.

Judge Shinn said wrathfully to the coroner, “Barnwell, have you lost what little mind you have? I thought I'd made myself clear over the phone. Why did you tell Usher Peague, of all people!”

“I didn't tell Peague,” retorted Coroner Barnwell, “Peague told me. He heard about it somewhere—from Doc Cushman, for all I know, or Cy Moody. A country newspaper gets automatic coverage on deaths, Judge; they're one of its most important items. Peague queried me on it, and I thought I'd better bring him over myself rather than let him run around loose. You didn't think you could keep this a secret from the newspapers forever?”

“I could hope. Well, we'll have to face it. But what do we say to him?”

“If you want my advice,” said Johnny, “take Peague into your confidence. He'll get the story anyway. For another thing, he edits a weekly paper that comes out on Thursdays. This is only Monday morning. By Thursday we ought to be well out of this thing. The only problem is to get Peague to agree not to tip off the wire services, and that's no problem if he wants a scoop on the story.”

Judge Shinn convinced Hubert Hemus that the presence of the press was a necessary evil, and then he hustled Peague away from the villagers, who seemed to fascinate the Cudbury editor.

“Who's declared war on whom, and who gets shot?” the newspaperman was saying. “What goes on here, Judge?”

“All in good time, Usher,” said the Judge soothingly. “How's Remember?”

“She blooms. Listen, don't con me! There's something rotten in Shinn Corners, and I'm not leaving till I find out what.”

When Peague saw old Andy Webster in the Shinn house, his reddish eyes widened. “They got you away from your 'mums! This must be big. Come on, men. What's the story?”

“Tell him, Johnny,” said Judge Shinn.

Johnny told him. Peague listened in suspicious silence. He was a former big-city newspaperman who had settled in Cudbury, married Remember Bagley, publisher of the Cudbury weekly, and taken over the editorship. During Johnny's recital Peague glanced at the two old men as if he suspected a practical joke; but at the end his eyes were glistening.

“Peague the Lucky,” he said softly. “What a story! You mean if I tried to leave Shinn Corners now Remember'd maybe be picking buckshot out of my rear? They're not kidding? Man, oh, man. I'm going to try it.”

Johnny grabbed him. “What would you do with the story now, anyway? Donate it to the Associated Press?” They closed in on him. “Look, Peague. We're at your mercy. You can't use the story till Thursday. Why not stick it out with us here? Report the trial!”

“They'll let you sit in as a spectator, Ush,” said Judge Shinn. “I've got the First Selectman's promise. I'll go further. If you're worried about other reporters, I give you my word that if any other newspaperman shows up he'll have to stay out of town to wait for your story. You can be our sole representative of the press. Does anyone else on your paper suspect anything?”

“No.”

“What about Remember?” demanded Judge Webster. “That wife of yours has the pickup of a vacuum cleaner.”

“I'll handle Remember,” said Peague absently. “Okay, it's a deal. If I can also interview this Whatsisname, that is. By the way, is he guilty?”

Fanny Adams's living room looked distorted, too. Most of the furniture had been hauled into other rooms. Midway between the front windows an old chestnut dropleaf table had been set up for Judge Shinn, before a tall wing chair. A hickory Windsor stood beside the table as the witness chair. Elizabeth Sheare had been installed at a small kneehole desk before the corner cupboard containing Aunt Fanny's collection of Sheffield.

Two rows of six campchairs each, from the Town Hall, were arranged along the fireplace side of the room at right angles to the “bench,” as the jury “box.” A long pine trestle table from Aunt Fanny's dining room, blackened and rubbed by time, faced the Judge; this was for defendant and opposing counsel. Other camp-chairs and chairs from the house stood in rows behind the counsel table for the panel; in a front seat sat Usher Peague, an endtable before him to write on. (Coroner Barnwell had been ordered back to Cudbury. He went in Peague's car, his chin over his shoulder longingly.)

At ten minutes of ten everyone was there.

Josef Kowalczyk was brought in by the Hemus twins. His arrival precipitated an argument. Constable-Bailiff Hackett remarked in tones of nasal displeasure that the conveyance of the prisoner to and from the coalbin cell was part of his, Hackett's, official duties; the twins might go along as extra guards, but the defendant was to be in his personal charge and might not be moved or removed except under his direction. The twins replied in expressionless drawls that they were the bastard's guards this morning and don't let your tin badge go to your thick head. Judge Shinn ruled in Constable-Bailiff Hackett's favor.

“Morever,” said the Judge, “there will be no profanity in this court. Any use of bad language, any outburst against the defendant or other interruption to the orderly conduct of these proceedings, will expose the violator to a citation for contempt of court. I will not entertain as an excuse the youth of the violator. Take off those chains!”

The twins had lashed Kowalczyk's wrists with a length of chain, which they had then passed around his waist and secured at his back. Another length of chain was hooked to the waist chain, and the prisoner had come in on this lead like a dog on a leash, Dave Hemus gripping the end of it while Tommy Hemus prodded the chained man along with the muzzle of his gun.

Hubert Hemus said something from his seat; his sons immediately removed the chains.

“The defendant is not to be secured in this fashion again, Constable,” said the Judge sharply. “You may take proper precautions against a possible attempt at escape, of course, but this is an American court, not a Communist one.”

“Yes, your honor.” Burney Hackett glared at the Hemus boys. “Won't happen again!”

“All persons not eligible for jury duty, or not required as witnesses or for other purposes, will leave the courtroom. There are to be no children here. Has any provision been made for the care of the youngsters?”

Hubert Hemus spoke up from his chair: “Judge, we decided that durin' sessions of the court the young children would be kept on the school grounds in charge of Selina Hackett, seein' that Selina can't serve on account of bein' so deef, with the older girls like my Abbie and Cynthy Hackett helpin' out, and Sarah Isbel.”

“All persons addressing the court will please rise when doing so,” said Judge Shinn curtly.

Hube Hemus's jaw dropped. “Yes, Judge,” he said. He rose uncertainly. Then he sat down again.

Someone—Johnny thought it was Prue Plummer—tittered. Hemus flushed.

Johnny wondered why the Judge had gone out of his way to humiliate the all-powerful First Selectman. It seemed an unnecessary discipline. To antagonize Hemus when the object was to conduct the proceedings so smoothly as to cover up the deliberate infractions they planned …

“Counsel, are we ready to select a jury?”

Andrew Webster and Ferriss Adams rose and said they were.

Johnny swallowed a grin. His honor was back in the groove and off to the races. Court had not been formally convened, no charge had been read into the record, no “People Against Kowalczyk” … the defendant had not even entered his plea. For all the record would show, they might have been preparing to try Andy Webster.

But then Johnny lost all appetite for humor. He saw Josef Kowalczyk's face.

The prisoner sat by Andrew Webster's side at the pine table with the quivering rigidity of a man who expects a bullet in the back. The two jurists had felt it wiser not to reveal their plan to Kowalczyk; clearly, he thought he was on trial for his life.

He had made an effort to present a decent appearance. His hair was carefully brushed; he had tried to scrub the coal dust from his skin; he wore a dark tie, whose sobriety suggested Pastor Sheare's wardrobe. But his skin was even grayer and darker this morning, the timid eyes wilder and more sunken. Even the bruise on his lower lip was white. He sat gripping the edge of the table with both hands.

“The town clerk will read the selectmen's roll of eligible jurors,” said Judge Shinn. “One at a time, please.”

Burney Hackett read from a paper in a loud voice: “Hubert Hemus!”

The First Selectman rose from his campchair and went to the witness chair.

“Mr. Adams?”

Ferriss Adams came away from the pine table.

“Your name.”

“Hubert Hemus.” Hemus was still smarting under Judge Shinn's reprimand.

“Mr. Hemus, have you formed an opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant, Josef Kowalczyk?”

“Do I have to answer that?” He glared at the lawyer.

“The state's attorney must ask that question, Mr. Hemus,” the Judge said sternly. “And you must answer it truthfully if you wish to serve on this jury.”

“Sure I've formed an opinion!” exploded the First Selectman. “So's everybody else. That murderin' tramp was caught practic'ly redhanded!”

Johnny apologized mentally to Judge Shinn, who was putting a handkerchief to his mouth. Get Hemus mad enough …

“But if the evidence should cast a reasonable doubt on the defendant's guilt,” Adams asked quickly, “you would not vote to convict him, Mr. Hemus, even though as of this moment you're convinced he's guilty?”

And that nailed it to the record.

Hemus looked grateful. “Mr. Adams, I'm a fair man. If they convince me he's not guilty, why, I'll vote that way. But they got to convince me.”

Some of the women giggled.

“Let the record show that there was laughter from the panel at that last remark,” said the Judge to Elizabeth Sheare complacently. “There must be no demonstrations in the court! Proceed, Mr. Adams.”

Adams turned to old Andy Webster. “Does counsel wish to challenge?”

Ex-Judge Webster rose solemnly. “In view of the limited panel, your honor, I submit that the utilization of challenges during the selection of this jury would effectually prevent a jury from being selected. Consequently, if we are to have a trial—and I assume that to try Josef Kowalczyk for murder is what we are all here for—I cannot challenge and I do not challenge.”

Neatly done, thought Johnny as Andrew Webster sat down.

“Hubert Hemus will be entered as Juror Number One. Clerk will proceed with the panel.”

“Orville Pangman,” read Burney Hackett.

The comedy went on. By one device or another, between them Ferriss Adams and Andy Webster, with occasional help from Judge Shinn, maneuvered each panelist into admitting his bias for the record. None was challenged.

It went quickly. Orville Pangman was Juror Number Two. Merton Isbel was Juror Number Three. Burney Hackett read his own name and was disqualified. Mathilda Scott was Juror Number Four; neither her husband's nor her father-in-law's name was brought up. Peter Berry was Juror Number Five. The name of Hosey Lemmon was called; no one responded, and Lemmon was stricken from the rolls at the Judge's direction.

Johnny awaited with curiosity the examination of Samuel Sheare. They had to ask the minister the same questions they were throwing at the others; and Adams did so.

“Have you formed an opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant?”

“I have not,” said the minister in a firm voice.

Johnny looked around. But none of Mr. Sheare's flock seemed resentful of their pastor's affirmation of open-mindedness. They expected him to carry the burden of Christian charity as befitting his spiritual calling. Apparently they did not consider it possible that he might vote for an acquittal when the evidence should have been presented. There were sometimes advantages, Johnny grinned to himself, in dealing with single-track minds.

Mr. Sheare became Juror Number Six. He was not asked if he believed in capital punishment, and he did not volunteer a statement of his belief. Mr. Sheare had been got to, and Johnny, watching Judge Shinn's bland benignity, thought he knew by whom.

Elizabeth Sheare was excused as not qualifying, since she was acting as court stenographer.

Rebecca Hemus, Millie Pangman, Emily Berry, and Prue Plummer were selected in rapid succession as Jurors Number Seven, Eight, Nine, and Ten, and they took their seats behind the six men in the jury “box.”

There was some difficulty in getting Calvin Waters to understand what he was being called upon to do. In the course of his examination the conspirators managed to get into the record the town handyman's having fallen on his head as a baby, his lifelong reputation for dull-wittedness, and the fact that he was barely able to write and could read only a few simple words. Hube Hemus looked uncomfortable, but he voiced no objection.

Calvin Waters was recorded as Juror Number Eleven and duly shuffled to the fifth chair in the second row of jurors, his empty face momentarily filled with bewilderment.

“Continue, Mr. Clerk.”

“Sarah Isbel.”

She was the only one left in the spectators' section except Johnny and Usher Peague.

At the reading of her name, Sarah Isbel went white. Merton Isbel was gathering himself, his craggy features stormy. The woman jumped up and said faintly, “I can't serve on any jury. I have my child to …” The rest went away with her. When the front door banged, Merton Isbel sat down again.

“A member of a panel may not arbitrarily refuse to serve on a jury,” said Judge Shinn. “The bailiff will return Sarah Isbel to the courtroom.”