Decision (39 page)

Chapter 4

The three psychiatrists submitted their unanimous report to the court on Monday. It found Earle William Holgren to be sane and, in fact, well above normal intelligence, perception and comprehension. It did not presume to judge his mental state at the time of the crimes at Pomeroy Station but it did declare him to be, in the respectful opinion of respondents, fully capable of standing trial and participating in whatever inquiries might be directed to him by counsel.

“The report will be accepted and filed,” Judge Williams said without other comment; neither counsel demurred; and the trial moved on. Under the pressures of national insistence and Justice NOW! it lasted just four days more.

Regard’s first witness, as he had earlier announced, was Deputy Sheriff William Lanahan of Pomeroy Station.

Sheriff Lanahan, a dark, intense young man of perhaps twenty-seven who obviously took himself and his duties very seriously, spoke in a backwoods drawl that at first seemed to indicate a slow and cautious mentality. It developed that, while cautious, it was not slow. His testimony was detailed, specific and damaging to the defendant—as far as it went. He was obviously too honest to push it any further.

Yes, he said in response to the attorney general’s questioning, he had returned to the plant after the explosion and begun an intensive search. Presently he had come to the cave, the tunnel, eventually to the well and so to the dead woman and child. No, he did not recognize them of his own knowledge.

When he emerged from the cave, he had been just in time to see the defendant wiping off the detonator that Regard had offered in exhibit, and to join up with the others who had surprised the defendant and were even then taking him into custody. Had he participated in any unduly brutal or excessive attacks upon the defendant? No, sir, he himself had not. Had anyone? He thought “one or two of the boys” might have been “a little too enthusiastic,” but he did not think it had been done with malice, only in the excitement of the moment. Did he consider it a normal, understandable human reaction when confronted by such a heinous crime, aimed at the Supreme Court of the United States and in fact resulting in the death of Sarah Pomeroy? Opposing counsel objected, but not before Sheriff Lanahan agreed that, yes, sir, he supposed that was how you could state it. Did he himself consider the defendant guilty? Opposing counsel objected that this was supposition, Judge Williams agreed, and cross-examination began.

“You did not observe the defendant actually using this detonator”—gesturing to it—“or any other explosive device?”

“No, ma’am.”

“And you did not at any time observe the defendant actually engaged in any activity that could logically be claimed to be part of the alleged crime for which he has been indicted?”

“No, ma’am, but the whole thing was certainly mighty suspicious.”

“Oh, was it,” Debbie demanded. “And why was that?”

“What was he doing there at all?” the witness retorted, unabashed. “Why was he fooling around with a detonator right after a bombing? Just likes ’em, maybe, for a hobby?”

There was a stir of laughter in the courtroom, and outside, where the forces of Justice NOW! were once again in place, a distant, derisive hoot.

“Your sense of humor is not the issue here, sheriff,” Debbie said tartly. “A man’s life is the issue.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the sheriff agreed politely. “And Miss Sarah’s, and those other two, and the Supreme Court, and all.”

Again the bitter hoot; and for a moment Debbie stared down at her papers, lips pursed, jaw set. At her side her client sat, chin on hand, never taking his eyes off the witness, who from time to time stared back as ostentatiously unimpressed as Earle was ostentatiously challenging.

“And after your ‘instinct’ led you back to the cave and you had discovered the bodies of a woman and a child, you quite inadvertently came out just at the moment when the defendant was being seized, and joined in his arrest?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You were not involved in the brutal treatment given the defendant by his captors?”

“No, ma’am.”

“But you observed it.”

“Yes, ma’am—
no,
ma’am, I did
not
see any brutal treatment.”

“Well, did you or didn’t you, sheriff? There seems to be some doubt in your mind.”

“Like I told Mr. Stinnet, one or two of the boys may have been a little too enthusiastic, but that’s understandable, seeing as how it was such a terrible attack on the Supreme Court. To say nothing of the deaths of that sweet little girl Sarah, daughter of our great former governor and now Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, and those other two.”

“Yes, Mr. Lanahan,” Debbie said dryly, “we know all about who they are. And I submit to you that no matter who they are, there is no excuse for ‘one or two of the boys’ being ‘a little too enthusiastic’ when their enthusiasm is of a nature so violent as to result in the type of injuries to my client which are disclosed in these photographs taken by the Associated Press just after his arrest”—she held them up toward the bench—“which, your honor, I request be placed in exhibit at this point in the record.”

“The country has seen the photographs, Miss Donnelson,” Judge Williams reminded. “But you have permission to place them in the record if you wish. Please proceed.”

She hesitated a moment and then said, “Thank you, your honor,” as her client muttered, “For nothing,” under his breath. “I would like to ask the witness now if he observed the manner in which the defendant was taken into custody.”

“I’ve already said I was there,” the sheriff said, looking a little surprised.

“And was the defendant advised of his rights at that time?”

“I was somewhat on the outside of the group, ma’am. There was a lot of noise. I couldn’t hear everything that was said.”

“Sheriff Lanahan, stop being disingenuous. You know whether or not defendant was advised of his rights at time of arrest. Was he?”

“He may have been, ma’am, I really don’t know.”

“He says he was not.”

“Well, ma’am, he may have some interest in presenting his own variation of the facts.”

There was a snicker from the audience as Debbie flushed and snapped:

“Those are the facts!”

“If you say so, ma’am,” the sheriff said with great politeness.
“I
wouldn’t know.”

“
I
don’t say so!” she said angrily.

“Well, ma’am,” he said, “neither do I.”

Again the audience was audibly amused and from outside came faint derisive sounds.

“No more questions for this witness, your honor,” Debbie said, and sat down. Her client leaned against her shoulder and muttered, “Smartass bastard.” “They’ll all be alike,” she responded. “There’s no point in calling any of them. They’ve got their story all lined up.”

“So have I,” he reminded her, “if Old Yahoo puts me on the stand.”

“Well, just stick to it,” she advised, “and don’t get too smart-ass yourself.”

“The only good thing is, we’re getting on record that Stinnet
does
have his witnesses all lined up. Right?”

“Right,” she agreed; and added, as Regard released the sheriff and turned toward the bench with a portentous air, “Now what?”

“Mrs. Marion Holgren,” he said. The audience craned forward, the pool television camera swung in on the small, well-dressed, dignified woman who stood up and proceeded, looking neither left nor right, to the stand. Her son remained absolutely motionless in his seat as she was sworn. She only looked at him once in all her time on the stand.

“You are Mrs. James Holgren—Mrs. Marion Holgren?” Regard said.

“I am,” she replied in a small, clear voice.

“You have one son.”

“I did,” she said in the same soft but distinctly carrying tone. A little stir ran through the room.

“Mrs. Holgren,” Regard said gently. “I can understand your answer, I think, and the emotion that prompts it. However, it is not sufficient in a court of law, or for the purposes of this case. You do, in fact, presently have a son.”

“Yes. May God help him.”

“Do you see him in this courtroom?”

“I have seen him in this courtroom.”

“Mrs. Holgren,” Regard said, still gently but with a trace of growing firmness, “please respond directly, painful though it may be. Remember it is painful for all of us. Is it your son who sits beside Miss Donnelson, counsel for the defense?”

For the briefest second her eyes flicked across Earle’s face as he stared at her with impassive impudence. Then she looked away and did not look back.

“It is.”

“Known variously by many names but christened Earle William Holgren in Greenwich, Connecticut?”

“Yes.”

“Tell us something of his childhood, Mrs. Holgren. Was he a good child?”

She looked back a long way, to the far side of a mixed-up, bloody life where a small boy shimmered in a long-gone golden haze. Her lips trembled but she steadied them.

“He was a very good child,” she said firmly. “His father and I had no cause to complain. And we gave him everything.”

“Was he well behaved?”

“Very.”

“Was he a good student in grammar school and high school?”

“Very.”

“Was he steady? Reliable? Truthful? Dependable?”

“All those things. He was a
good
boy.”

“Where did he go wrong, Mrs. Holgren?” Regard asked. Debbie was on her feet.

“Your honor, I object. That question is—”

“Objection sustained,” Perlie Williams said.

Regard nodded.

“Very well. Let me rephrase it. When, in your opinion, Mrs. Holgren, did your son become less steady—reliable—truthful—dependable—and good?”

“I would say,” she said with a certain objective thoughtfulness, “when he was about a sophomore in college.”

“Now ask her what college I went to,” Earle whispered sarcastically to Debbie. “Might as well play on all the prejudices.” But Regard, too smart for that, had other plans.

“How did you become aware of this?”

“When he came home for holidays and vacation he was—different.”

“How ‘different’? In dress? In manner? Habits? Beliefs?”

“Pretty much all of them. Though it took his father and me a while to realize how much he had changed.”

“Was there dope?”

“Some. But we felt that was an effect, not a cause—something he felt he had to do to satisfy some—some peer group that was watching him. To look big in their eyes.”

“‘Watching him’?”

“Telephoning. Calling him away to meetings. Keeping an eye on him. Encouraging him.”

“Encouraging him to do what, Mrs. Holgren?”

“Hate us. Hate his country. Hate everything we had reared him to be.”

“Did you feel that this came from his college?”

“It centered there. Where it came from, we didn’t know. Maybe just”—her lips trembled again, again she steadied them—“maybe just—from us.”

“From you?” Regard asked with genuine surprise. “How could that be?”

She made a vague gesture, brought a tightly clutched handkerchief to her face.

“I don’t know,” she said, and began to cry. “He just began to—to hate us. Just hate us. He told us he—he despised us and everything we—we stood for. He never gave us any real reasons why. I’m not sure he even knew.”

The defendant stirred in his chair and the television camera obediently zoomed in on his face. It wore a scowl of moody contempt, unmoved and immovable, untouched and untouchable.

“And this went on until he left college?” Regard inquired, voice gentle again.

“Left college and left us,” she said bleakly. “He came into a substantial inheritance from his grandfather when he graduated, and he took it and just—just disappeared. We never saw him again until we entered this courtroom last week.”

“Did you have any idea where he was?”

“Your honor,” Debbie said, “I object. What has her guess got to do with the case here?”

“Anything that throws light on the character of this individual is pertinent to this case, your honor,” Regard remarked with some asperity.

“Objection overruled.”

“Did you have any idea where he was, Mrs. Holgren?”

“We had suspicions,” she said, more calmly, “but we never knew. We never knew. We advertised. We advertised a lot, wherever we could think of. We hired private detectives, we tried to track down people we thought might be friends who had known him—” She gave a wan little smile. “We did lots of things. But we never found out.”

“And he never contacted you, in all these years.”

“No,” she said, starting to cry again. “He never contacted us, in all—these—years.”

“Where did you and Mr. Holgren really think he was, Mrs. Holgren?” Regard asked softly, and again Debbie was on her feet.

“Your honor, I really must object. Any answer to that would be entirely suppositional, prejudicial—”

“Let her answer it, Miss Donnelson,” Perlie Williams said quietly. “The perception of this defendant that people have is important, I think you will agree. Let us find out what two decent, loving, puzzled people, the closest people to him by virtue of blood, thought about this. If you don’t mind.”

And after she had returned his unyielding gaze for a long moment she looked away, shrugged and sat down.

“Now, Mrs. Holgren,” Judge Williams said, “if you can, or care to, please answer Mr. Stinnet’s question. Where did you and his father think your son really was?”

“We thought,” she said, still crying, “we thought he was in some—some kind of life where he might—might be doing—awful things. And I guess,” she concluded with a sob, “I guess maybe—maybe this—shows—that we were right.”

“Your honor!” Debbie cried, on her feet once more. “I really must object! In all fairness, your honor!”

“Are you through with this witness, counsel?” Perlie Williams inquired. Regard nodded.

“Yes, your honor,” he said quietly. “I would just observe, however, that this is yet another example of the kind of human damage that this individual seems to spread around him wherever he goes. All the misery, all the unhappiness, all the pain. It is a great tragedy, your honor. A great tragedy, all around.”

“Your honor!” Debbie cried again, but Perlie Williams, face stern, said only, “Your witness, counsel, if you care to cross-examine.”