The Just And The Unjust Page 19

  'He ought to be on the radio,' Joe Jackman said bitterly. The closing door reopened, and Mark Irwin came in. 'Hello, toss-pot!' Joe said. 'Here it is. That's the whole thing.' He lifted one section from a stack of sheets bound in blue paper, glanced at the title page, and handed it over. 'Thanks a lot,' Mark said. 'Hello, Ab. Going to the Nyces'?'

  'No,' said Abner. 'So long, Joe.'

  He went out into the hall and down to the back entrance. The windows of Mrs. O'Hara's sitting-room in the jail were open and boxes of petunias grew between the bars. There was no breeze, but the sun, declining at last, made everything look cooler. There were shadows across the paving of Court Street. Abner walked down to the gaping Romanesque arch of the door to the three-story, shabbily stone-faced Gearhart Building. He went into the hall, and up the wide, much worn wooden stairs. At the head of them was a window with a drawn yellow shade against which the sun blazed full. Abner passed the open office doors of the Childerstown Building & Loan Association. Next to them was a closed door marked Childerstown Water Company. At the end, giving access to the rooms at the front of the building, were double doors of ground glass with black lettering half faded and flaked off: Michael Gearhart's Sons. Real Estate & Insurance; and, lower down, Walk in. Abner walked in.

  FIVE

  1

  THE double doors opened into an anteroom, from which, on the far side, other doors opened. The anteroom was lumbered up with golden oak furniture — desks for a couple of stenographers; filing cases; straight chairs around a circular table. On the walls hung a bird's-eye view of Childerstown in 1890, a stuffed salmon, and the colour print of a painting by Frederick Remington. Between the windows stood a rubber plant, almost eight feet tall and famous in Childerstown offices — most of the girls grew or tried to grow something; but Hazel Finch (not exactly a girl, since her hair was white. She had been thirty years in the Gearhart office) and her rubber plant had never been matched.

  Neither Hazel Finch nor anyone else was there now; but a moment after Abner closed the door, Jesse's voice sounded from the corner room. 'Who's that?' he said.

  'Hello,' said Abner, stepping to the door.

  Jesse Gearhart sat at his desk opposite an old-fashioned safe whose front was decorated with dim gold banderoles and a murky pastoral scene. The desk top was heaped with papers and letters piled around a miscellaneous collection of gadgets; bronze ink stands and pencil racks; two telephone instruments; an onyx ash tray with the gilt figure of a naked girl dancing on the edge; a brass clock mounted in a miniature ship's wheel; two volumes of the State MANUAL and one of WHO'S WHO IN AMERICA between book ends that were replicas of the Sphinx; a bronze elephant with a howdah lettered G.O.P. on its back; all half-buried. In the centre, before him, Jesse had cleared a space in which he was writing a letter.

  He said, 'Come on in, Ab. Let me finish this, will you.' He nodded at the chair to his left in the corner formed by the corner of the building, a five-sided bay window. Seating himself, Abner could look down Broad Street to the north; the building fronts giving way to tree tops; and, far away, to the lower fields and woods; and farther still, backing the narrow vista, to the blue hills — light blue where the slopes were gentle; darker blue where they were steep.

  Jesse's pen scratched rapidly. Above Jesse's head hung the photograph of some political dinner, the long white tables lined with guests, all sitting back and turning their faces so they could be seen. On the wall beyond was a big framed photograph of former President Harding with a personal inscription to Jesse. Abner let his eyes rest a moment on Jesse himself, then. Jesse's wide head was tipped forward, but not far enough to hide the tired-looking eyes as they moved from word to word with the moving pen. Abner supposed that Jesse was about fifty-five; and it could be seen that politics were hard on a man. It was a waiting game, with all that meant in delays and postponements, in negotiations never quite finished, in nursing plans, in working things little by little. There was never any rest; and the rewards, as far as Abner knew, were neither very great nor very certain. In state politics the party chairman of a safe county had some importance, for safe counties were never too numerous; but Jesse probably had enemies among his nominal friends, and these must have succeeded in keeping him down. Though not old enough to pay attention to it at the time, Abner knew now that Jesse had little, and perhaps nothing, to do with his father's appointment to the Superior Court. That, and Judge Coates' subsequent nomination on the state ticket, was all done over Jesse's head, presumably through Judge Coates' friendship with the Chief Justice, and the Chief Justice's advice to the Governor. Abner supposed that the size of it was that Jesse was gladly allowed to manage the county and get out the vote; but in larger affairs he carried no special weight.

  Jesse folded the sheet and put it in an envelope. Licking the flap, he said, 'How's your dad, Abner?'

  'Pretty well,' Abner said.

  Jesse sealed the envelope and put a stamp on it. He said, 'Good. Glad to hear it. You know, my father had a stroke. He got over it, almost entirely. If the Judge is better now, he'll go on getting better, ten to one.'

  'I hope so,' Abner said.

  Jesse pushed his chair away from the desk and tilted it back. 'See that Mason boy?'

  'Yes. Jake brought him around.'

  'What did you think of him, Ab?'

  Abner said, 'He looks like a nice kid.'

  'He's a son of George Guthrie Mason, the National Committeeman, you know. He's a fine man. He was certainly upset when he called me. The boy just sent him this telegram saying he'd been in an accident and was in jail — he was coming home from college. The boy's mother was frantic, of course. Mr. Mason called me up at seven this morning.' This was all understandable and could be viewed with sympathy. In such circumstances, anyone would and ought to do what he could for anyone he knew. Abner nodded. He swallowed down the unreasonable discomfort Jesse's words caused him — Jesse's unphrased but present and detectable alacrity to serve, and real pleasure at the chance, must be the irritant. This George Guthrie Mason, this National Committeeman, this fine man (and doubtless this rich man, this man of influence, this man worth pleasing) could be imagined looking at the date line of the disturbing telegram, finding out right away what county that was, racking his brain for someone from there he might have met sometime. Suddenly Mr. Mason (all men in his position had phenomenal memories) would place the inconsequential county politician. It just showed you! You should always be genial to such small fry; it was little trouble and took little time and they appreciated it. So here was what's-his-name, Gearhart or something, by George Guthrie Mason himself brought to the telephone at seven o'clock in the morning; and tickled pink to find that Mr. Mason remembered him perfectly, and when he thought of Childerstown, thought of Jesse at once; and of course Jesse would find out about it, of course he'd see the boy had the best lawyer, of course he'd speak to the district attorney —

  Abner made himself say, 'I think there may be a good chance we won't have to hold him. Marty's arranged the coroner's inquest for the day after to-morrow. He probably told you. He's probably seen the police report by now.'

  'How's Pete working out as a J.P.?'

  'As far as I know, we've always got along with him fine.'

  'You've had some trouble with Earl Foulke, though, haven't you?'

  'I think Foulke's made Marty pretty mad once or twice. He goes off half-cocked, and then we have to straighten it out. But they seem to like him, down there; so I guess we'll just have to put up with it.'

  'Not necessarily,' Jesse said. 'A younger man who was popular would have a good chance, I think. Do you know Albert Greer?'

  'I think I've met him,' Abner said. 'Isn't he the one who has the lumber yard at Jobstown? You see his coal trucks around all the time.'

  'No, that's his brother, older brother,' Jesse said. The ready, encyclopaedic information was part of Jesse's business. 'Bert's at Middlebrook. Real estate. He's been handling that development out by Candy's quarry —' Reminded that he had thought
of going there with Bonnie to swim to-night, and that it was getting later, Abner inclined his head a little so that he could see the clock on a column before the Examiner office. Maynard Longstreet, a straw hat on the back of his head, his coat over one arm, and under the other a batch of copies of his newspaper which he was not above delivering himself to the newsstand by the Childerstown House on his way home, let the screen door to the office slam and came down the three steps to the sidewalk.

  Jesse said, 'Bert's as smart as a whip. I think he'd run. I hoped you knew him. Anyone down around there, Jobstown, Middlebrook, Saratoga, you think would be good?'

  To find himself gravely consulted by Jesse on such a matter made Abner want to laugh, and yet at the same time there was a sort of annoyance in it — what kind of a damned fool did Jesse take him for? If this Bert Greer wanted for some reason (generally it was a curious little vanity, a perverted self-importance that sought gratification. The trifling perquisites and fees would not pay a busy or able man for the time required) to be a J.P., it was nothing to Abner. Abner said, 'I don't know anyone who'd want to bother with the job, Jesse.'

  As soon as he had said it, Abner saw that it was a lapse in tact or judgment. Simulating cordiality or friendship toward a person you did not like was taxing. However tough on the surface, however cynical and designing (Jesse surely filled that bill), at heart the parties to the make-believe were as sensitive as young girls, suspiciously looking for affronts and expecting rebuffs. Unless you were a good natural deceiver and could throw yourself into a part with the sincerity of being pleased to play it well, you were out of luck. Abner knew that he had no talent for that kind of thing.

  But at that kind of thing Jesse was past master. The anger in Jesse's eyes, when he jumped, by taking what Abner said the wrong way, to the right conclusion that Abner had no use for him, was scarcely disclosed before it was gone. Fruit of a lifetime of dickering, Jesse's control was as good as a saint's. Jesse was slow to wrath. If you let yourself be angered when somebody, whether clumsily or with intention, said something to anger you, what was that but letting him tell you what to do? He called the tune, and at his word, you like a fool danced.

  From a coign of vantage, unreachable, withdrawn behind his pale wise opaque eyes, Jesse inquired suddenly, 'Want to run for district attorney in the fall, Ab?'

  It was not that Abner couldn't answer; but, exactly like Leming on the stand this afternoon when Harry hounded him, the answer was demanded before there was time to get it ready. Here was a trick of Abner's own trade, the calm but sudden devastating question. Abner knew all its dangers and he also knew the defence. Judge Coates often said, and indeed it was not only his saying, but the wisdom of the ages, that when you were not sure what to answer, then keep your mouth shut. This was advice so simple and clear that nobody could doubt or mistake it. What anybody could do, and what most people did do, was forget to remember it. The impact of surprise and embarrassment opened Abner's mouth, and before he could stop, he had said 'Well, that depends —'

  'What's it depend on?' said Jesse, sitting back farther in his chair. Jesse's tone, the tone of the much-tried man who asked a plain question and could not get a plain answer, suggested that Jesse was resigned to beating about the bush (but did not see why he had to), and Jesse's movement, which was that of settling himself as comfortably as possible to wait out the explanations, made Abner say sharply, 'Well, for one thing, it depends on Marty, of course.'

  Abner saw at once that this was another mistake. Either Marty had told him of his plans, or Marty hadn't. If Marty had, what was Abner's idea in pretending he didn't know them? If Marty hadn't, did the answer mean that Abner was ready to be sounded out behind his boss's back? Abner repaired it as well as he could. 'Marty told me he was thinking of resigning,' Abner said, 'but until he does —'

  'Look, Ab,' Jesse said patiently, 'every now and then you say funny things. Marty's one of the best district attorneys in the state. You know what his record is. He could keep the job just as long as he wanted it. You don't have to worry about that. When he quits, you're naturally in line for it. If you want to run, that is.'

  'Frankly —' said Abner. He paused; for, frankly, what he wanted was to get out of this, to end the discussion (how, hardly mattered). After all, he had one advantage over a hapless defendant on the stand. If he wanted to get down, he didn't have to wait until Jesse said he might. Abner said, 'As a matter of fact, I don't know how good a candidate I'd make.'

  'Well,' said Jesse dispassionately, 'your name's worth something. A lot of people know you; but practically everybody in the county knows your family. You've had this experience working with Marty. He thinks you're the man. The Judges would be satisfied. From what I hear, we 'll have Art Wenn running against us again. He won't be hard to beat.'

  Art Wenn was a lawyer from Warwick, a big cheerful back-slapper. Most people liked Art, and he was widely acquainted. His politics were loud and vigorous —at the last election, when he ran against Bunting, half the fence posts and telephone poles in the county had come out with red, white and blue cardboard squares bearing simply the words: SAY WENN. This quip was much appreciated; but, on counting the votes, three-quarters of them, more than the normal majority, were for Bunting. It was safe to guess that Art's exuberance and hearty ways, while they made people like him, won him little support. He was not taken seriously.

  Abner said, 'Well, if Marty thinks I ought to run, I don't mind.'

  'You don't mind,' said Jesse. 'If you aren't any keener about it than that, do you know what I think? I think we'd better get somebody else, if we can. It's an important job, and the man who has it ought to feel that. He ought to be willing to give all he's got to it; not just say he doesn't mind if he has it.'

  Put thus entirely in the wrong, Abner searched for words. A resentment, all too impotent, but rising, at the idea of Jesse reading him a lesson in principles filled him with a certain heat. 'I think it's an important job,' Abner said slowly. The thought came to him that since he had made such a mess of it, a little more wouldn't hurt — would, in fact, be a relief. 'That's why I wouldn't take it, if I found I was going to be — well, obligated to someone.'

  Jesse said, 'I don't quite get you, Ab. Do you mean that you think Marty's obligated to someone?'

  'No, I don't mean that,' Abner said, 'and you know damned well I don't!'

  'Well, what do you mean?' Jesse said. 'Say it. You can say anything you like.'

  'Thanks!' said Abner. 'Well, I'll tell you this. If I were district attorney and anyone called me up about some friends of his —' He necessarily paused. 'Sure,' said Jesse. 'Go on, go on.'

  'No,' said Abner. 'I won't. I guess what I mean is this. I don't like politi — politics, so I guess you're right; you'd better get somebody who does.'

  'Well,' said Jesse, 'we can do that.'

  'O.K.,' said Abner, 'good night.' He got up and walked over to the open door.

  'Just a minute, Ab,' Jesse said.

  Abner turned, and Jesse went on, 'You're a young man and I'm an old one, so suppose I give you some advice. I don't know who said it first, but it's been a lot of use to me. Old Senator Perkins said it to me once. He said, "You wouldn't worry so much about what people were thinking of you, if you'd just remember that most of the time they're not."'

  'What is that supposed to prove?' said Abner.

  'Well, go along, Ab,' Jesse said, 'I can't explain it to you.'

  Abner went through the shadowed ante-room and closed the ground glass doors after him. The Childerstown Building & Loan office was shut now and in dead air and echoing silence he went downstairs and out on to the shadowed street. His mind felt sore all over. He had not exactly had a row with Jesse — what he said didn't amount to a row. So I told him he'd better get someone else; I simply said to him, I don't like politics — in short, he rejected the proposals; only, as it happened, no proposals were made him. If he rejected anything, he rejected the possibility of proposals. Jesse had asked his 'advice' about who wou
ld be a good justice of the peace; and then asked him if he wanted to run in the fall; and Abner answered that he didn't like politics; and that if he were district attorney and anyone asked for favours he would — he implied — refuse them. A connection did exist; but it wasn't strong or cogent. Could he say that confronted by a certain situation he had taken on principle certain steps? He had in fact acted on impulse, in a mood or state of mind in which instead of doing what he meant to do, he did what he meant to avoid, refused what he really wanted, and with unprovoked pique, out of hand, in a minute, came to new and definite decisions that might — more than might, must! — affect his whole life.

  Walking up to where his car was parked behind the courthouse, Abner did what he could to adjust himself to such a great change of plan. It would certainly be a load off his mind. When you were in the district attorney's office they kept you on a sort of treadmill. Quarter Sessions were sure as death and taxes. You cleaned up the term's trial list, and as soon as you were through, indeed, before you were through, it began all over again. Night and day, people (and often old familiar ones) were busy with projects considered or unconsidered, which would suddenly collide with the law and become public. In advance you could count on case after case — always fifteen or twenty — of operating a motor vehicle while under the influence of intoxicating liquor. Boys were swiping things because they had no money; and some of them were going to be caught and held for burglary, larceny, and receiving stolen goods. There would be forcible entries here and felonious assaults there. Somebody would wantonly point a firearm; and somebody else would sell malt beverages on premises without licence. Fornication had duly resulted in bastardy, and the Commonwealth was charged with seeing that the disgruntled father supported his little bastard. Heretofore respectable, an old man would feel indescribable urges to expose himself to women, and this was open lewdness. Forged instruments would be uttered, fraudulent conversions attempted; and, in passion or liquor, somebody might seek to kill a man or rape a woman.