The Glass Village (17 page)

“Your honor.” The old farmer got up, rumbling. “I serve on no jury with
her
. Ye let the daughter of Sodom sit, I leave.”

The room was very quiet. Judge Shinn rubbed his chin as if here loomed a formidable problem. Then he said, “Very well, Mr. Isbel. I yield to necessity. There is no profit in gaining one juror while losing another. In view of your threat, Sarah Isbel is excused.”

And all this, Johnny thought with wonder, is going down in Elizabeth Sheare's notebook. Yielding to necessity! Threats! It would undoubtedly make the most remarkable transcript in the history of American jury trials.

“Proceed, Mr. Clerk,” snapped Judge Shinn.

“I can't, your honor,” said Burney Hackett feebly. “That's all we got. Except for Mr. John Jacob Shinn, who got to be a property owner only this mornin'—”

“Oh, yes,” said the Judge, as if he had quite forgotten. “I said I'd make a special ruling on that, didn't I? Because it appears, ladies and gentlemen, that unless we avail ourselves of the services of Mr. Shinn, we can't satisfy the legal requirements of a twelve-person jury and therefore we can't try the defendant in Shinn Corners.”

The jurors were staring at Johnny with distaste, whispering among themselves. Cruel, cruel the dilemma. Either a trial with a rank outsider sitting among them in a vital village affair, or no trial.

Judge Shinn waited.

And at last their heads inclined toward Hubert Hemus, and the First Selectman said something in an impatient undertone, and they all sank back, troubled but nodding.

The Judge promptly said: “So, although Mr. John Shinn is so newly in residence among us that he is not yet on the voting list from which the jury panel must be drawn, I rule that he may sit as a juror in this case if he otherwise qualifies.”

And there, thought Johnny as he went up to the witness chair assisted by a sly prod from Ush Peague's pencil, is as grandly garbled a ruling as ever was delivered from a bench. How could a man otherwise qualify when the “otherwise” was what disqualified him?

Yes, he was familiar with the facts of the case. No, he had formed no opinion as to the defendant's guilt or innocence … At this, in contrast to their genial sufferance when Samuel Sheare had made the same answer, the people of Shinn Corners glowered. … And Andy Webster waved him cheerily away, and Johnny took the last vacant chair in the second row and immediately discovered that certain powerful emanations from the person and clothing of Laughing Waters were going to create a major problem of the case—for Juror Number Twelve, at any rate.

The last dreamlike development of the morning was Judge Shinn's recessing of the trial in order to allow court, jurors, prosecutor, defense counsel, stenographer, and bailiff to attend the funeral of the victim whose alleged murderer they were in process of trying.

“Court will reconvene,” said the Judge, “at one
P.M
.”

Even the funeral had the quality of something seen in a dream. Or a play, Johnny thought. This might be
Our Town
, minus the rain. The burying ground was uneven, little swells of ground running into one another, with the bleached and blurry edges of the headstones sticking out of them in all directions, old, old, older-seeming than the soil that held them drearily. Johnny felt an unreasonable reluctance to setting foot among them.

The Comfort undertaker's hearse had started from the Adams house and all of Shinn Corners—men and women and children—trudged along behind it up Shinn Road toward the Corners, women fanning themselves with their hands, men wiping their foreheads in the sticky forenoon haze; and they had slowly turned right at the intersection into Four Corners Road and passed the horse trough and the parsonage and come to the sagging iron gate of the cemetery. And Cy Moody and his helper eased the expensive-looking casket out of the hearse, and Ferriss Adams and Judge Shinn and Hubert Hemus and Orville Pangman and Merton Isbel and Peter Berry took hold of the handles and began the death march among the ancient stones to the raw hole dug by Calvin Waters in the very early, morning; and Johnny shivered.

He hardly heard the nasal monotone of Samuel Sheare reading the service for the dead, for it was not good to listen closely to such things read in the dedicated mumble of a man addressing God directly, without regard for neighbor or murderer or even his own troubled soul. Johnny looked instead among the graves and beyond, to Isbel's cornfield, and farther to the south the barn and lean-to of the departed old woman, so near to the place of her birth and yet so far from its living beauty. How often had Fanny Adams stood here listening to Samuel Sheare mutter the final farewell to others? How often had she painted this very scene—the field, the cemetery, perhaps these same mourners? He remembered the liveliness of her eyes and the warmth of her old hands, the deep wise voice with its touch of Yankee asperity; and Johnny was saddened and depressed.

He searched the headstones and saw Shinns scattered among them like sterile seed, Shinns whose blood ran in his veins and who were stranger strangers to him than the Chinese and Koreans. He saw dates so old they had worn away, names so forgotten they seemed visitants from another planet.
Thankful Adams, She was an empty tale, a morning flower, cut down and withered in its hour … Widow Zilpha, relict of Reverend Nathaneal Urie
…
Jebuon Waters, O Mortality
…
Here Lieth Elhanon Shinn Died of Scalding but God will Heal him …

And you, Fanny Adams, he thought. You and me both.

Four
…

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” said Ferriss Adams, standing before the twelve campchairs, “I'm not going to make a long speech. On trial for his life before you is one Josef Kowalczyk, who came tramping through your fine little town on the afternoon of Saturday last, the fifth of July, was here less than one hour, and left behind him a tragedy that none of you will ever forget—the murdered body of Aunt Fanny Adams, good neighbor, benefactor of Shinn Corners, from one of your oldest families, and a world-famous person.

“The question before you is: Did Josef Kowalczyk willfully, and with malice aforethought, and during the commission of a felony, pick up a poker belonging to deceased and with it beat her so savagely on the head as to cause her death?

“The People believe that Josef Kowalczyk did so murder Fanny Adams and that his guilt can be proved. …”

As Adams went on to sketch in general terms the nature of the “People's” proofs, Johnny watched the faces of his fellow jurymen. They were listening with grim intensity, nodding at every third word. Even Calvin Waters's blank features were lightly stamped with intelligence.

Josef Kowalczyk was mercifully so occupied in trying to follow Ferriss Adams's English that he might have been a mere spectator. The furred brows were painfully one; the bruised lips curled back over his poor teeth in the effort. When Adams sat down and Andy Webster rose, a look of pleasure passed over Kowalczyk's face.

Old Judge Webster said: “When a man is on trial, the law says that he doesn't have to prove he did
not
commit the crime, the People have to prove that he
did
. In other words, as you all know, a man is held to be innocent unless and until he is proved guilty beyond the shadow of a reasonable doubt. The burden of proof is on the People. And proof isn't a matter of belief, like faith in God Almighty or an opinion about politics. Proof is a matter of fact. … We won't attempt to make ourselves out lily-white angels, ladies and gentlemen; there are very few angels walking the earth. The defendant in this case is a man who, handicapped by being in a strange land and having trouble understanding and speaking our language, nevertheless has tried to make an honest living by the sweat of his hands. The fact that he's failed, that he's poor—poorer than any of you here—should not be held against him, any more than you should hold against him his foreign origin or his other outward differences from yourselves. … Josef Kowalczyk doesn't deny that he stole money from Aunt Fanny Adams. In his poverty he was tempted, and he knows now that in yielding to temptation he committed a sin. But even if you can't find it in your hearts to forgive his stealing, the fact that he stole money from Fanny Adams does not legally prove that he murdered her.

“That is the crux of this case, neighbors of Shinn Corners. Unless the People can lay the
murder
at his door, you will have to find Josef Kowalczyk not guilty.”

But their doors were shut, locked, and bolted.

So it began.

Ferriss Adams put into the record the statement by Kowalczyk on his capture, relating his arrival at the Adams house before the rain Saturday, Fanny Adams's offer to feed him if he would split some firewood, and all the rest of his story as he had told it to the Judge and Johnny, including his admission of theft. The statement had been taken down by Elizabeth Sheare in the cellar of the church on Saturday night, and it had been signed by Kowalczyk in a stiff European hand.

Andrew Webster did not contest.

Judge Shinn directed Adams to call his first witness, and Adams said: “Dr. Cushman.”

“Doc Cushman to the stand,” cried Burney Hackett.

A whitehaired old man with a steamy red face and eyes like coddled eggs rose from one of the spectator seats and came forward. Bailiff Hackett offered him a Bible, the old man placed one shaky hand upon it and raised the other, and in guitar-string quavers swore to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help him God.

He sat down in the witness chair.

“Your full name and title?” said Ferriss Adams.

“George Leeson Cushman, M.D.”

“You reside and practice medicine where, Dr. Cushman?”

“Town of Comfort, Cudbury County.”

“You are the Cudbury County coroner's medical examiner for Comfort and Shinn Corners and certain other nearby towns, Doctor?”

“I am.”

“Did you examine the body of Mrs. Fanny Adams, ninety-one years of age, of Shinn Corners, on the afternoon of Saturday, July the fifth—this past Saturday, Dr. Cushman?”

“I did.”

“Tell us the circumstances.”

Dr. Cushman jerkily brushed his neck. “Received a phone call 'bout three-twenty
P.M.
Saturday from Constable Burney Hackett of Shinn Corners, askin' me to come right off to the Adams house in this village. Told Hackett I couldn't get away just then, I'd had an office full of patients since one o'clock and was still goin' strong, was somebody sick? He didn't say, just said to come soon as I could. I didn't get away till after five. When I got to the Adams house Constable Hackett took me to a room at the back, off the kitchen, where I saw the body of Fanny Adams layin' on the floor, her head covered by a towel. I removed the towel. I'd known Fanny Adams all my life, and it was a shock.” Dr. Cushman dabbed at his head nervously. “I determined at once she was dead—”

“At the time you first examined her body, Dr. Cushman, how long would you say she had been dead?”

“'Bout three hours.”

“And your examination took place at what time?”

“'Tween five and five-thirty, thereabouts.”

“Go on.”

“Saw right off it was a case of homicide. Fierce multiple blows on top of the head, compound and complicated fractures of the skull—it was cracked in several places like a dropped squash and the gray matter'd been smashed right into. Worst head injuries I've ever seen outside some bad auto accidents.”

“Could these frightful wounds, in your opinion, have been self-inflicted?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Could Mrs. Adams have lingered after being struck?”

“Instantaneous death.”

“What did you do then, Doctor?”

“Phoned the county coroner in Cudbury, then waited beside the body till Coroner Barnwell got there. We agreed an autopsy wasn't necessary, as the cause of death was so plain to see. I signed the death certificate, then I went back to Comfort leavin' Coroner Barnwell there.”

“When you first examined the body, Doctor, did you see anything that might have been the weapon lying near the body?”

“I did. A heavy iron poker. It was spattered with blood and bits of brain tissue and it was bent out of shape a bit.”

“Is this the poker you saw?” Ferriss Adams held it up, and the room was deathly still.

“Aya.”

“You mean yes, Dr. Cushman?”

“Yes.”

“Is there the slightest doubt in your mind that this poker was the instrument of Fanny Adams's death?”

“No.”

“Have you any additional reason for that opinion, Dr. Cushman, besides the bloody appearance of the poker?”

“Fracture lines in the cranium, and the shape and depth of the wounds in the brain, were just such as would have been produced by an instrument of this kind.”

“Exhibit A, your honor … Your witness, Judge Webster.”

Andy Webster tottered forward. Two or three of the women murmured resentfully. Judge Shinn had to rap on his table with the darning egg he had filched from Aunt Fanny Adams's sewing basket.

“You have testified, Dr. Cushman,” said Cudbury's oldest legal light, “that when you examined the deceased she was dead about three hours, and you have also testified that the time of your examination was ‘between five and five-thirty.' Can you be a little more exact about the time?”

“Time I examined?”

“Yes.”

“Don't know's I can. Got there, I said, a bit after five, finished with the body around five-thirty.”

“Was she dead three hours figuring from ‘a bit after five,' or three hours from ‘around five-thirty'?”

“Now I can't answer that,” said Dr. Cushman indignantly. “Mighty hard to put your finger on an exact time of death. Lots of considerations—temperature of body, rigor mortis, post mortem lividity, temperature of room, whether the body's been moved—don't know how many questions come up. You couldn't get it to the minute, anyway. Most times you're lucky if you can get it to the hour.”