A Covenant with Death (23 page)

Parmelee blinked up at me, vexed. I could not restrain a glance at Hochstadter; he nodded gravely.

“Well, what's in the information?” Parmelee asked.

“The specifics of the murder, and the charge that Bryan Talbot committed it,” Dietrich said. “And the names of the witnesses.”

Parmelee said thoughtfully, “Including the Judge, here, and the arresting officer, and Judge Hochstadter, and the District Attorney.”

“That's right,” Dietrich said, “and if you want to move to disqualify everybody and get a change of venue, go right ahead.”

“Never mind that now,” Parmelee said. “All right then. We're charged with murder. I'd like a little time to think.”

“How about Monday at ten?” I asked him. “You can have more time if you want it.”

“That'll do,” he said slowly. “But if I need more time I'll ask for a postponement.”

“Fair enough. All right with you, Mr. Dietrich?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Good. We'll adjourn until four o'clock this afternoon, at which time I imagine we can dispose of the old business. Mr. Talbot, I'm sorry you have to go back to your cell. I've explained why you must; and I should also point out that if you were cleared of the first charges now it would be Alfred's duty to arrest you on the spot for the murder of Willie Waite.”

“I understand,” he said calmly. “Can I have a decent lunch brought in?”

“A decent lunch!” Alfred was outraged, and on that note of low comedy we adjourned the hearing.

I went to my chambers and hung up the robe, and settled to my scrivening while John unburdened himself of character analysis: Dietrich would bear watching and did not respect me, Parmelee was tricky and the surprises were not over. Hochstadter dropped in to announce his imminent departure. “This ought to be very hard or very easy,” he said. “A man can't run around cutting down agents of the law. I'll make you a bet. I bet Parmelee takes an offer of second-degree, and Dietrich asks for a light sentence.”

“That might save trouble,” I said. “I don't know if you've thought it through—”

“I am on vacation.” He smiled, blinking lazily.

“And second-degree gives me leeway; ten to life.”

“That is right. What would you give him?”

“We'll worry about that when we get to it. No offense.” I smiled politely.

He waved a hand. “Of course not. I hope that's how it goes.”

“Me too. It seems likely.”

“Hot again,” he said. “I was wrong.” He looked out at the sycamores behind the courthouse. “No breeze now.”

“You should worry,” I said. “This time tomorrow you'll be—where? Colorado? Wyoming?”

“Colorado,” he said. “No hurry. Mountain air. Ah. Montana Monday.”

“Should have gone earlier,” I said absently, my mind on the orders: non obstante veredicto. Peremptory command. Ringing phrases. Subject, verb, object. The adjective is the death of the noun. The adverb is the death of the verb. Well, no. It was a rich world and a rich tongue and why impoverish either? Why kill? Why demean? Why prune and slash and dominate? In what fear? Why geld?

“Earlier? What for?”

“Dempsey and Gibbons.”

“Ah,” he said, “fighting. Who cares? Fishing, that's the sport. What are you going to do this afternoon?”

“N.O.V.,” I said.

“Good. Saves expense. You going to let Talbot have bail?”

“Yes.”

“Poor fellow. Poor you. Saddled with something like this the first week. Maybe you'll have an easy session afterward.”

“I hope so. By the law of averages this town ought to be a safe place for a long time to come.” I wished he would leave.

“You've got my address up there,” he said. “If anything goes wrong, you send me a wire. It may take a while to get to me. I'll be out there with the Blackfeet.”

“Blackfoot, sir,” John said.

“What? What's that?”

“They're the Blackfoot,” John said. “Singular or plural.”

“Is that right?” Hochstadter was delighted. “Never knew that. Never knew that.” And he bubbled on for half an hour, and the farewells were ceremonious, not to say sentimental. He stood in the doorway and said, “I know you think I'm an old gasbag—”

“That isn't true,” I said flatly. “My doubts are of myself.”

His eyebrows soared. “Hoo,” he said. “Sorry. I wanted to give you some advice, and I wasn't sure how you'd take it.”

Well, I experienced affection for the old puffer. You never know what irrationalities will assail you without warning. “I'd take it very kindly,” I said.

“You surprise me.” He smiled, and a bashful look came over him. “I was going to say, if you have any tough decisions to make, make them strong. Whatever you rule on, rule firmly. Don't be afraid of reversals and such. Because if they're going to reverse, they'll reverse a lot quicker if you've been wishy-washy. And a judge who hedges is no judge at all.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I'll remember.”

“One other thing.” He squinted away from me, and wetted his lips. “Don't take this badly, now. You're one of the smartest people I know. You have a quick mind and you don't miss much and you're a damn good kid. But sometimes I think your, ah, intelligence is a little separated from your life. You know what I mean? You've got to have confidence. You've got to figure that if you feel strongly a certain way, and you're a good man, the feeling has a good chance of being right. Sometimes I think you don't get into things feet first—you kind of hang around the edges. That doesn't work.”

“You're a smart one yourself,” I said, between anger and rue.

“That's all.” He smiled. “Good luck.”

When he was gone John said, “Gros Ventre. That man is a Gros Ventre.”

“That man is a good judge,” I said sharply. “I don't think he needs criticism from people like us. Let's get some lunch. He only wanted to help.”

“You don't need help,” John said.

“The hell I don't,” I said.

Shortly before four o'clock I donned the robe and stepped from my chambers into the vast and virtually empty courtroom. Seated at the defense table were Parmelee and Talbot; Alfred was behind them in a folding chair. Harvey Bump sat below me, expressionless. Dietrich leaned on an elbow at the prosecution's table. None of them had bothered to rise. I remained standing and stared coldly.

After a moment Harvey stood, and the others followed him lazily, and he said “Oyez oyez” and recited his incantation. The flag hung limp and a muggy, silent calm hovered in the room, as though we were the only survivors of a freak summer hurricane and were gathered together in its eye; as though its leading edge had passed and no man knew what might come after.

“Bryan Talbot,” I said. “Please rise.”

Willie Waite had been dead for ten hours; it seemed weeks.

Talbot came to stand below me. He had stood on that spot when Hochstadter sentenced him. I read off my first judgment of the session, and this was most of it:

“Court has this day entered an order acquitting you of all charges in the matter of the murder of Louise Talbot.

“Court has done so in accordance with Section 94, paragraph C, of the Criminal Practices and Procedures of this state, permitting a judgment non obstante veredicto in defendant's favor at any time before sentence is executed.

“An acquittal non obstante veredicto is more than a convenience available to the Court: upon introduction of irrefutable and uncontested evidence of the defendant's innocence, such a judgment is a peremptory command of the law, rooted in ancient doctrine and ancient faith.… Judgment carries the full force of an acquittal upon retrial, and may not be appealed; nor may defendant ever again be placed in jeopardy of life, limb, or liberty on the instant charge.…

“You now stand acquitted of the murder of Louise Talbot, in common justice and by order of this Court. You are free.”

Talbot smiled and said, “Thank you, Your Honor.”

Alfred set a hand on his shoulder and said, “You are under arrest for the murder of Willie Waite.”

12

Talbot's temporary freedom shocked the local experts. I continued the bail Parmelee had put up and let the prisoner go home. Home was not, however, his destination. He stopped off to pick up clothes and then, displaying more gall than wit, checked into the Territorial. At dinner he enjoyed lonely splendor while a large and subdued audience—Ettore made money that Saturday night—pretended to be drinking and chatting. Colonel Oates was naturally among them, and confessed to a paralyzing conflict. “My impulse was to say hello. But the man was a murderer! And impulses are not trustworthy. Against my better judgment I caught his eye finally, and nodded. I should have known better. He waved ostentatiously and raised his glass to me. It was bad taste, bad taste. A simple nod would have sufficed. Talbot was just not a gentleman.”

The prisoner passed a pleasant weekend at the city's best hostelry, like a retired businessman. My own weekend was also quiet. I reread
Jonathan Wild
and spent two hours over the Sunday newspaper. I also fended off an impulse—untrustworthy—to call Rosemary. Bruised pride, of course, but much more: a split vision of her, one eye seeing her clear and cold and twenty years ahead; the other clouded by the usual glandular viscosity and distinguishing only—well, circles and triangles. No young lover was quite so calculating, and the suspicion burgeoned that I was either no longer young or no longer a lover. But I was enough of both to sleep badly. How do you know when, or how much, you have hurt a woman? How can you tell when the last rending moan is a lie? If you have given as good as you got? Hard questions and even if the answers are in your favor you may have inflicted hurt. I could remember Tommies, relieved in both senses, heading for the rear and roaring “She was poor but she was honest, And her parents was the same, Till she met a city fellow, And she lost her honest name.” Who are you? I once asked Rafaela, when she was ten or so and masked, sombreroed, holding us up at gunpoint, and she said, I am Montemayor; give me your watch and your money. You should never tell your name, I warned her, my hands in the air, and she said, It is a good name and mine. Ignacio approved, but reminded her that Montemayors did not rob their guests. We were grave and did not mock her. I could remember her at ten because of that, the mask coming off to reveal those wide, disquieting black eyes and the face of an angel.

Go to your bosom; knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know. No answer; so I slept badly.

On Monday I saw Dietrich first. He knocked at a quarter of ten and entered my chambers briskly, like a professor about to lecture. “Parmelee has something up his sleeve,” he said. “There was a look in his eye, and he wouldn't bargain with me.”

“Should you be talking to me this way?” I leaned back in my chair.

“I don't see why not.”

“I do. I don't believe I should see either of you alone until the case is decided.”

“Oh.” He stared down at me.

“You're the stickler for procedure.”

“All right. I won't argue.” He lingered, hesitated. “Look: are you sure you can handle this?”

I stood up, four inches taller than he and a good deal angrier; but my voice was calm and obliging. “Why don't you ask me in open court?”

His eyes were steady, but he made no answer.

A sprinkling of spectators this time, Edgar among them with his notebook, the Colonel of course, and Geronimo; I wondered if he had left the store unattended. All rose as I entered, and once more I suppressed the impulse to grin and wave, to jig, the actor's impulse or the high priest's, the politician's, any man's who stood alone, the solitary oak in a garden of eyes.

Oyez. And Dietrich concentrating on Parmelee, watchful; and Parmelee on me, thoughtful, with that same narrow, measuring regard. And Talbot's glance skipping about: the murderer in spite of himself, guilty, guilty. I would postpone sentencing for at least a week.

“Mr. Talbot, will you please rise. Counselor? Please.”

They came forward. Dietrich was frowning now. Harvey read the information in his gravelly, matter-of-fact monotone, and sat down.

Parmelee was not pensive now but excited, head thrust forward, eyes glittering. I became aware of my heartbeat, the tap of blood at my temples, a fluttering of foreknowledge, almost alarm.

“You have heard the information. Do you understand the charge?” Talbot nodded. Oliver Parmelee said, “We do.”

“And how do you plead?”

“I plead not guilty,” Bryan Talbot said.

I stared. No one moved.

Oliver Parmelee smiled gently and said, “By reason of self-defense.”

PART FOUR

13

“Furthermore,” Oliver Parmelee said, “the defense at this time waives all right to trial by jury and moves for trial by the Court. The facts and evidence are not at issue; we stipulate those. We also move for dismissal or immediate acquittal.”

No blurred vision, or roaring in the ears: a moment of pure clarity. Too pure, as on mistless mornings when through the cold desert air buttes loom and arroyos wander, too sharply outlined to be real, too minutely speckled and stippled and striated to be so distant. A crystalline moment, unnatural: trompe-l'oeil, trompe-l'oreille, trompe-coeur.

Bryan Talbot was calm, but his eyes were cold and hard. He seemed, at that moment, alone and stark, in the lonely quiddity of a man whose life had been reduced to one struggle, one meaning.

I leaned back, and the motion restored one or two of my mental processes. Not credulity, not yet, not even resentment, certainly not coherent thought, but at least professional reflex.

I turned to Dietrich, inquiring silently. He made no move. I held his gaze for ten seconds or so; he looked away. I returned to Parmelee.