The Just And The Unjust Page 6

  'More than once. Certainly.'

  'You were a doctor in the army, were you not?'

  'During the last war. Yes.'

  'You saw gunshot wounds then?'

  'Yes. I have also seen a certain number during the hunting season.' The jury laughed.

  Judge Vredenburgh said, 'That is no laughing matter,' but he smiled.

  Harry Wurts smiled too. 'In short, Doctor,' he said, 'when you answered the question of the learned assistant district attorney you meant that while you did not pretend to know it all —'

  Bunting said, 'I object to counsel's telling the witness what the witness means.'

  'Correction,' Harry Wurts said. 'In short, Doctor, your experience has familiarized you perfectly with bullet wounds?'

  'I think I may say that I am familiar with them.'

  'When you stated that, in your opinion, the wounds, bullet wounds, in Frederick Zollicoffer's body were the same size, that was a conclusion you formed on examining and comparing the wounds at the time of the postmortem?'

  'Quite so.'

  'And you are still of the same opinion?'

  'I am.'

  'I have no more questions,' Harry Wurts said.

  Bunting said, 'That is all, Doctor Hill.' He looked at the clock above the door to the Attorneys' Room. He said to Abner, 'Quarter of four.' He looked at his list of witnesses. 'I think we could get through with Mrs. Z. if she behaves herself. If she makes a mess of it, it would be all to the good if Harry can't cross-examine until to-morrow morning. We'll let Cholendenko wait.' Ida Cholendenko, the Zollicoffers' servant, had presented a little problem. Though, in one sense, her testimony corroborated Mrs. Zollicoffer 's, she could testify to events preceding by a few minutes on that night of the kidnapping anything Mrs. Zollicoffer could testify to.

  Abner said, 'There's this about it, Marty. If Harry wrecks Mrs. Z., it would be handy to have Cholendenko. She could straighten some of it up; and I don't think Harry could do a thing with her.'

  'We'll need her,' Bunting said. He turned and looked sharply at Mrs. Zollicoffer, pushed his chair back, and arising, called out her name. To Abner, he said, 'Look through that folder and get what she said about the telephone calls. Just lay it open so I can look at it if I need to.'

  Mrs. Zollicoffer sat first in the row of the Commonwealth's witnesses, with Mrs. Meade in the tipstaffs chair beside her. Mrs. Zollicoffer hesitated, dazed and quailing; and Mrs. Meade confirmed Abner's guess. Mrs. Meade, with gentle solicitude, arose and helped Mrs. Zollicoffer to arise. Though she did no more than her duty, her duty now served the Commonwealth in a way the record would not show. The jurors all looked at Mrs. Meade, who made a good figure. Her white hair was tidily waved. Mrs. Meade wore a blue skirt, and a blue jacket which did not differ from the jacket the men wore, with the word tipstaff embroidered on the sleeve, and the silver badge pinned to the breast; but Mrs. Meade wore with it a white blouse with a lace-edged open collar, pretty and neat. She was the widow of a former clerk of the Orphans Court, and came of good people, and looked it. Sympathetically showing Mrs. Zollicoffer how to go, even giving Mrs. Zollicoffer's arm a reassuring pat, Mrs. Meade offered in evidence her opinion that Mrs. Zollicoffer was an unfortunate, unhappy woman who should be treated considerately. Because of Mrs. Meade's official position, her lady-like appearance, and the fact that she was well known to all or most of the jurors, her evidence was at once accepted as excellent. Though, subsequently, the jury might themselves observe, or hear other people say, things to change the picture, a general prepossession in Mrs. Zollicoffer's favour would remain, mysteriously breaking the force of good arguments against her, persistently suggesting that, even so, how could you be sure?

  Mrs. Zollicoffer passed behind the jury; and Malcolm Levering, from the tipstaff's seat at the end by the door of the Attorneys' Room, came to meet her. The two state police officers drew back to make more room, and Malcolm gave her an encouraging smile, bobbing his mostly bald head politely, half offering his arm, which she did not take, half shooing her along to the steps of the witness stand. He remained a moment while she dragged herself up them. Nick Dowdy had come in behind Joe Jackman's desk and proffered his Bible. Mrs. Zollicoffer stood dazed; so Nick indicated, with a gesture, that she should put her hand on the open page. He reeled off the oath and looked at her inquiringly, nodded himself, to show her that she should nod, and said, 'Your name, please?' She whispered something, and Nick turned away, saying loudly, 'Marguerite Zollicoffer.'

  Joe Jackman twisted in his chair, looking up from the light on his ruled paper, and said, '-g-u-e-r-i-t-e?'

  Starting at the unexpected voice from an unexpected direction, she nodded, continuing to stand; and Judge Vredenburgh said, 'You may sit down.'

  Bunting, who had been looking at her closely, his sharp nose up, his eyes narrowed, came down before the jury and said to her, 'Mrs. Zollicoffer, where do you live?'

  Running through the piled folders of notes and stenographic transcripts, Abner had found the conversations about the telephone calls. He twitched the open folder around and pushed it up to the edge of the table behind Bunting.

  Bunting said evenly, in a mild clear voice with the slight stiffness of good control that betrayed to Abner, who knew of it, but probably to no one else, the annoyance and contempt he felt, 'You are the widow of the late Frederick Zollicoffer?'

  Mrs. Zollicoffer's appearance, the black clothes, the gaunt but regular features, the faded blonde (and not, as you would have expected, in any way retouched) hair that showed under a simple, and even becoming, hat, spoke for her, just as Bunting hoped; but now, speaking against her, was something else, like her appearance, like Mrs. Meade's solicitude, not part of the record, yet incontestably part of the evidence. In the office it had not seemed so apparent; but here, set off by silence, her speaking voice was bad. Abner saw the change in one or two members of the jury as they recognized, surprised and then displeased, strong traces of a tough and uneducated accent.

  The jurors were plain or homely speakers themselves, indifferent to grammar and disdainful of elegant pronunciations; but that particular accent of Mrs. Zollicoffer's served as a reminder that she, like all the rest of these people, came from the city. With irritation the jury heard the foreigners, the people from somewhere else, having their presumptuous say. Justice for all was a principle they understood and believed in; but by 'all' they did not perhaps really mean persons low-down and no good. They meant that any accused person should be given a fair, open hearing, so that a man might explain, if he could, the appearances that seemed to be against him. If his reputation and presence were good, he was presumed to be innocent; if they were bad, he was presumed to be guilty. If the law presumed differently, the law presumed alone.

  Bunting said, 'And did you see your husband, Frederick Zollicoffer, on the night of the sixth of April?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Do you know of your own observation whether your husband returned to your home that night?'

  Bunting had been at pains to go over this part of it with her, explaining to her what the question meant, and what the Court would and would not allow her to answer. She hesitated, and Abner knew that there was a good chance she would either forget or deliberately answer as she pleased. She said finally, 'No, sir.'

  'You don't know, of your own observation,' Bunting said, probably with inward relief. 'Did you hear anything at or near your home in the course of the evening?'

  Mrs. Zollicoffer hesitated again. 'Why,' she said, 'do you mean his horn? He blew his horn about twenty minutes after ten.'

  Bunting bit his lip. 'If you do not understand any of my questions, Mrs. Zollicoffer, just ask me to repeat them. Who blew what horn?'

  'My husband did. He blew it like he did — always when he came in he blew it so I would know who it was.'

  'Objected to,' said Harry Wurts.

  'Sustained,' Judge Vredenburgh said. He gazed intently at Mrs. Zollicoffer, as though trying to make up his mind about her. 'Just h
ow did he blow this horn?' Bunting asked. George Stacey, half arising beside Basso, said, 'I also object to it, implying this "he" was her husband, and whether he blew his horn or not, unless it is shown he was in his car.' The effort made him turn red, but Harry gave him a cordial nod and George sat down.

  Bunting said, 'Mrs. Zollicoffer, you say you heard a horn blown. Is that correct?'

  'Yes. My husband's horn.'

  'I object to that!' Harry Wurts said. 'That is what we object to!'

  'Yes,' said Judge Vredenburgh. 'That part of the answer is stricken.' Bunting said, 'Now, please answer only what I ask. You say you heard a horn that night.'

  'Yes.'

  'How was that horn blown?'

  Mrs. Zollicoffer shook her head distractedly. 'I don't know how you mean did he blow it. Just about twice. Like a little tune on it.'

  'Exactly,' said Bunting, 'that is just what I mean —' Everitt Weitzel, the tipstaff who usually acted as doorman, came down the sloping aisle from the main door and limped carefully, as though making himself invisible, across the well of the court. Coming up beside the Commonwealth's table, he bent low past Abner's shoulder and spread out a half sheet of printed stationery. It was headed 'Earl P. Foulke, Justice of the Peace.' In Earl's fancy, but now senile, curlique script was written: 'Mr. Bunting or Coates. Like to have you get touch with me at once. Important. E. P. F.'

  'Where did get this?' Abner murmured.

  'Kid up there brought it in. One of Mr. Foulke's grandsons, I think.'

  'He didn't say what the trouble was?'

  'Just said Mr. Foulke said to see you got it right away.'

  'Well, tell him we did get it. Tell him to say we'll call him when court adjourns.'

  Bunting, his left arm doubled behind his back where he clasped and unclasped his fingers, took a turn past the end of the table. 'After you heard this horn blown,' he said to Mrs. Zollicoffer, 'did you hear anything else?'

  George Stacey got to his feet and said, 'I object again to this witness testifying in relation to the blowing of any horn unless she can some way identify it. All cars of the same make have the same horn. This is on a travelled thoroughfare.'

  Judge Vredenburgh took off his glasses. 'That objection was sustained as to the identification at this particular time.' George Stacey's father had been a close friend of his, and the glint of his eye was affable, the light of amusement over seeing the children grow up. 'There is no objection, however, to her stating that she heard a horn. That she can testify to. Objection overruled.' He shook his head, smiled faintly, and put his glasses on. Bunting said to Joe Jackman, 'Will you repeat the question?' Jackman drew a breath, stared at his notes, and read it. 'No, I did not,' said Mrs. Zollicoffer. 'Did your husband return to your home that night?'

  'I heard him down as far as the garage.'

  'That I object to,' Harry Wurts said with an accent of long-suffering. 'Objection sustained,' said Judge Vredenburgh. 'She has not shown how she knew it was her husband.'

  Looking at Abner, Bunting rolled his eyes up, though he took care to keep his face turned away from the jury. Pushing out the sheet of paper with Foulke's message on it, Abner tapped it; and Bunting gave it a quick look. 'Old fool!' he said softly. He faced the witness stand and said, 'Madam, you stated that you heard sounds down as far as the garage, after you heard this horn. Did you see anything?'

  'No, sir.'

  'When was the last time that you saw your husband?'

  'In the morning. That morning. The sixth of April.'

  'That was the last time you saw him alive.'

  Mrs. Zollicoffer brought up a handkerchief from the wadded ball she had made of her gloves and put it to her nose. 'Yes.'

  "When did you next see him?'

  'When they found him, brought him up to the —' She began to cry.

  'You were present when he was brought to the undertaking establishment of Mr. Westbrook in Childerstown?'

  She nodded, the handkerchief in the palm of her hand pressed over her mouth. Judge Vredenburgh said to Malcolm Levering, 'Bring her a glass of water.'

  'You saw the body and you were able to identify it?'

  Mrs. Zollicoffer took the paper cup Malcolm Levering held up to her, swallowed a little water, coughed, and nodded.

  'Whose body was it?'

  'My husband's.'

  'Take a little more water,' Bunting said. 'The jury can't hear you. It was the body of Frederick Zollicoffer?'

  'Yes.'

  'Mrs. Zollicoffer,' said Judge Vredenburgh,'you must try to control yourself.'

  Mrs. Zollicoffer began to sob aloud, catching her breath with wailing gasps, letting it out in lamentable broken groans that carried clearly to the statuelike rows of spectators in the gloom. The shadows of the latening afternoon filled the great wood-panelled vault, but now a little slanting sunlight was reaching the inside edges of the north-western windows. Reflected from black walnut, the radiance was melancholy; less than the light now falling from the thousand-watt bulbs behind the stained glass wheel of the skylight.

  Bunting said, 'Do you wish me to stop, sir?'

  'Well, does she go on like this? She'll have to be examined. She must know that —' Judge Vredenburgh looked at Harry Wurts, and jerked his chin, beckoning him up. 'What about this, Harry?' he said.

  Harry Wurts said, 'We don't like it, naturally, your Honour. I don't think the district attorney ought to provoke such a display —'

  Judge Vredenburgh said, 'I think it is beyond the district attorney or anyone else's control.'

  'Well, sir,' said Harry, 'if Mr. Bunting stops harping on the body, there might be some other line he could take, I suppose. I'm perfectly willing to waive cross-examination to-day, if the Commonwealth will recall her to-morrow morning.'

  Judge Vredenburgh said, 'We will recess for ten minutes. Mrs. Meade, will you come and take the witness out, please? Very well, Mr. Wurts. Make whatever agreement you like. Perhaps we'can have another witness.'

  Bunting turned from the sidebar and, looking at Abner, formed with his lips the word, Foulke.

  Nodding, Abner got up and crossed over to the door of the Attorneys' Room. Inside he leaned against the wall by the telephone, waiting while the number was rung. Above the fireplace, empty, unused for forty years, hung a big framed photograph, faded and a little blurred, taken in 1866 of the county bench and bar gathered in the old courthouse. Abner's grandfather, who was then, like George Stacey now, one of the youngest members, peered over a couple of heads at one side. Despite fading, and the handicaps that the photographer, using a wet plate indoors, had to overcome, the faces were mostly clear, and Linus Coates, despite his youth, carried an air that you didn't find in George Stacey.

  Linus Coates had, in fact, been to the wars. He served in a nine months' regiment and got a bullet through his hip at Chancellorsville. In those days it was not the fashion to be embittered or disillusioned by such an experience, so what Linus Coates looked was simply grown-up, self-possessed, ready for responsibilities. When, years later, the duty confronted him as a judge, you could understand how he sentenced men to hang, just as he said, without loss of appetite.

  As though to emphasize the point, George Stacey came in then, headed for the lavatory. Seeing Abner at the telephone, he said, 'Well, how's the assistant superintendent of the waterworks?'

  'You're a hard man, George,' Abner said. 'Shut up, will you? Yes. Mr. Foulke. Mr. Foulke, this is Abner Coates. Mr. Bunting is in court Can I help you?'

  Earl Foulke's voice was high and rapid, and hearing it, Abner could see Earl's face, his prominent pale eyes magnified by his silver-rimmed glasses, his lips tucked in over his toothless gums — he put in his teeth only when he held what he took care to call, not a hearing, but Court; or when he performed marriage ceremonies under a portable white-painted wood arbour covered with artificial roses which stood ready in the corner of his parlour. When his teeth were not in, the ends of his scanty, scraggly long moustache hung well below his chin. Earl owned and Wore
a black frock coat — one of the only two such garments remaining in the county (the other belonged to a Baptist minister who wore it at rustic funerals). He was a preposterous figure, and even the farmers of Kingstown Township could see that he was; but Earl had been Squire for twenty-five years, and Abner supposed that the voters kept re-electing him because they felt that he now had a vested interest in the office; and, moreover, was too old and incompetent to go back to farming for a livelihood.

  As well as preposterous in appearance, Earl was stupid and officious; and Marty, who had been obliged to straighten out several senseless legal snarls in which Earl had involved both himself and the district attorney's office, no longer regarded Earl as merely pathetic or comic. Earl Foulke was a damned old nuisance who ought to be forcibly retired. It was an opinion that Abner was obliged, in common sense, to share.

  'Yes, Mr. Foulke,' Abner said when Earl seemed to have finished. 'We know about the Williams case. That was assault and battery. Marty has your transcript, I know. He'll want to see Mrs. Williams —'

  'Now, just a minute, just a minute, Ab,' Earl Foulke said. An annoying habit of Earl's was his trick of beginning in the middle. He would describe a situation and ask what he should do; and when he was told, he began at once to scruple or object; and in support of his objections, he trotted out new, not-before-mentioned circumstances leading up to or ensuing from the situation described, which, Earl was quite right in maintaining, certainly did change the picture.

  'Oh, Lord!' said Abner to himself. 'Well, Mr. Foulke,' he said, 'I'm afraid you couldn't do that. You accepted bail for Williams' appearance here in court, you know. That exhausts your jurisdiction.'

  Earl Foulke's voice went squeak, squeak, squeak; and Abner said, 'No, Mr. Foulke. It's impossible. You wouldn't be competent; a justice of the peace isn't allowed — no, I can't off-hand cite the act, or whatever it is. You must have one of those handbooks. Your powers are defined there. Marty wouldn't have any authority to do it. Even Judge Irwin or Judge Vredenburgh couldn't authorize you to reopen the case, because it is out of your hands. If Williams decides to plead guilty, he'll have to come in and tell Marty. He can't just go to you —' Sudden suspicion seized Abner, and he said, 'You haven't done anything about it, have you?'