Antonelli - 03 - The Judgment (5 page)

“I became aware that I was being watched. A few feet away from me, sitting straight with his back against the cement wall and his hands extended to his knees, a gaunt figure was staring at me. As soon as he saw me look, he came over and without a word sat down next to me the same way he had been sitting before.

” ‘Thank you for coming, Mr. Steelhammer,’ he said, his eyes focused straight ahead.

“Ignoring him, I started to move away. ‘We have an appointment, Mr. Steelhammer,’ he said, turning his head toward me.

‘I’ve been waiting for you since yesterday when my wife called you.’

“I shook my head to let him know he was making a mistake.

” ‘You’re my lawyer,’ he insisted. ‘The trial starts tomorrow.’

” ‘I’m not Mr. Steelhammer. I’m not your lawyer.’

” ‘Just a minute,’ he said, quite serious. ‘I’ll ask my wife.’ Squinting his eyes, he started moving his lips, noiselessly, like someone forming the words they are reading from a book held right in front of them. His lips stopped moving, and his eyes opened wide.

‘Yes, now I understand.’ His gaze raced from one side to the other.

Then he leaned over and whispered, ‘She told me that you didn’t want to use your real name in here. What shall I call you?’

” ‘You just talked to your wife?’ I asked. ‘Where is she?’

” ‘In Rome. She’s a nun,’ he replied. ‘She’s the Pope’s daughter,’ he added, eager to share this proof of his own importance.

“Madness has a logic of its own, and there was nothing to be gained by insisting on the rules of reason that every normal person follows without a conscious thought.

” ‘I’m not your lawyer. I was sent here to make sure you were all right. Mr. Steelhammer will come tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. In the meantime,’ I cautioned him as if it were a matter of the gravest importance, ‘you are not to talk to anyone about this.’ He followed every word with obedient eyes. ‘Silence is the key,’ I insisted.

” ‘Silence is the key,’ he repeated, nodding to himself. Without another word, he went back to his place on the bench, stretched his hands out to his knees, and, perfectly content, started once again the endless wait for someone who would never come.

“If I slept at all that night, it was only for a few minutes at a time. Chased by nightmares, men cried out like children, lonely and afraid, or woke up with a start, screaming obscenities or throwing wild punches at anyone they thought had disturbed their rest.

“I stayed in that holding tank—that dungeon—all weekend long, living a slow-motion death. They never moved me to a cell of my own; they never let me shower or change my clothes. Monday morning they let me go, but not until nine o’clock when, as the jailer reminded me when he gave me back my briefcase, I had only thirty minutes to get to court.

” ‘Why wasn’t I let out two hours ago? That’s the normal time, isn’t it? Seven o’clock?’

“He was reluctant to answer, but finally relented. ‘It wasn’t up to me,’ he explained as he emptied out the contents of a manila envelope. I picked up my keys and then my wallet. ‘Judge Jeffries signed the order.’ He hesitated, a question in his eyes. ‘You’re not really going to go to court like that, are you?’

“I had not shaved since early Friday morning. I had not brushed my teeth or even washed my face and hands. My hair felt like it was alive, infested with a million microscopic organisms on a feeding frenzy. I itched everywhere. My suit was in ruins, rumpled, wrinkled, soiled with sweat and God knows what else. My black wing tip shoes were dirty and scuffed. One of them was dis-colored with a stain left when one of those drunks sitting next to me had urinated down his leg.

“The more he looked at me, the more sympathetic the deputy became. He offered to help. ‘I’ve got some things in the back. A razor, an extra toothbrush.’

” ‘Thanks,’ I said, as I turned to go, ‘but I think I owe it to the judge to let him see me the way I am.’ “

Three

_______

Adrink in his hand, Harper Bryce let his eye wander across the bar and grill. A few more people had come in while we talked, a blast of late winter wind announcing each new arrival, and it was now almost half full. It was one of those places that stay in business for years, seldom empty but never crowded. The dishes had been cleared from the table, and the coffee had gone cold, but no one felt any pressure to leave. We could sit there all day if we wanted, talking among ourselves, and no one would think twice about it.

Pushing up the sleeve of his shirt just far enough to steal a glance at his watch, Jonah Micronitis started to say something, another reminder that it was getting late and there were things they had to do. Time was money, and money, for Jonah Micronitis, had always been everything. Asa Bartram ignored him. With a slight movement of his head, and an even less discernible movement of his hand, he stopped him from making a sound.

“Did you really go to court, Calvin’s court, like that?” Asa asked, encouraging me to go on. His arms, folded together, rested on the table. A faint smile flickered at the corners of his broad mouth. There was a look of nostalgia in his aging eyes, as if he had been reminded of some indiscretion of his own, some act of defiance which he had grown too prudent to commit, but on which he still looked back with pride.

“I did not even stop at the men’s room to comb my hair and wash my face. I was furious. I don’t think I had ever felt quite so righteous in my life.”

Asa knew exactly what I meant. “Having nothing left to lose is a kind of liberation, isn’t it?”

“You would have thought I was leading a slave rebellion. Three days in that place, and in some ways I had become more demented than any of the poor souls I found there. I could have killed Jeffries and gone to my execution convinced that I was entirely justified for what I had done. I didn’t kill him, of course, but when he took his place on the bench I tried to murder him with a stare. I need not have bothered; he damn near died when he saw what I looked like.

“I was sitting at the counsel table, pretending there was nothing out of the ordinary, one leg crossed over the other, my left arm trailing over the back of my chair. With my thumb and forefinger, I stroked my chin like some elegantly dressed fop, bored to tears with everyone around him. Mrs. Larkin, sitting in the chair next to me, did not know what to make of it. The deputy district attorney, who had been reading his file, lifted his head, like an animal which has just caught a scent. Jurors shifted uneasily in their chairs, nudging each other to make certain they were all seeing the same thing.

” ‘Mr. Antonelli!’ Jeffries shouted, his face red with rage.

“I had already turned to the same juror I had been talking to on Friday. ‘Thank you, your honor,’ I said without looking back.

‘Now tell me,’ I went on as if time had stood still, ‘even if you’re convinced the defendant is probably guilty, will you still vote to return a verdict of not guilty if the state fails to prove that guilt beyond a reasonable doubt?’

“I’ll never forget the look on that juror’s face. The poor woman did not know what to do. She was willing to answer my question, but afraid to open her mouth.

” ‘Mr. Antonelli!’ Jeffries was screaming from the bench.

“With a speed that surprised even myself, I shot to my feet.

‘Will you stop interrupting me!’ I shouted back at him. ‘I’ve earned the right to ask that question!’

“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anyone that angry. ‘Do you know who you’re talking to, counselor?’ he asked, clenching his teeth so hard his whole face seemed to tremble.

“I had always had a fondness for the kind of English barrister we used to read about in the old novels, the ones who could stand there, hand on hip, and with only a slight change of in-flection destroy an opponent with a single well-turned phrase. I don’t know where I got it—it must have been something I had read. I certainly did not make it up myself, but all of a sudden I remembered, and before I knew what I was doing, the words just came out.

” ‘Your honor, I’m not sure. Because, you see, I’m like a Bud-dhist in front of his idol: I know you are ugly, but I feel you are great.’

“The jury, the bailiff, the clerk—everyone in the courtroom—

froze, and every eye turned to see what Jeffries would do.

“I had called him ugly and I had called him great. He could not contest the one without contesting the other. He stared hard at me, but behind those piercing eyes he was gaining control of himself, quickly calculating what he could safely do. Folding his hands together, he lowered his head and pursed his lips. When he looked up again, he nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face.

” ‘That was very good, Mr. Antonelli,’ he said in a quiet, reassuring voice. There was an almost audible sigh of relief from around the courtroom. ‘Very good, indeed,’ he added before he turned to the jury. ‘Mr. Antonelli,’ he informed them with a solemn smile, ‘has obviously been under a great deal of stress. I’m sure that with a good night’s sleep he’ll be back to his normal self. In the interest of everyone concerned, I think it would be better if we recessed now and started again tomorrow morning.’

“I went straight home, threw my clothes into a pile on the bathroom floor, and took a long hot shower. When I was finished, I crawled into bed, languishing in the pure luxury of clean sheets.

I slept all day and got up only long enough to have something for dinner before I went back to bed. The next morning, wearing a fresh shirt and a new suit, I sat at the counsel table and as if I had never laid eyes on her before began questioning that same juror.

” ‘At the end of this trial, after you have heard all the evidence, if you believe that the defendant is probably guilty, but you also believe that the state has not proven it beyond a reasonable doubt, will you return a verdict of not guilty?’

“Instinctively, her eyes flew toward the bench. Jeffries was hunched over, reading something. ‘Yes,’ she replied, her eyes coming back to me.

“We moved rapidly through voir dire, and by the end of the morning had a jury. That afternoon we made our opening statements and the next day the prosecution called its first witness, Edward Larkin.

“He could have been anyone, the father of the kid down the block, the husband of a woman you work with, a pleasant-looking, well-dressed man, someone you would chat comfortably with while you stood together waiting for a bus. He spoke about the sexual relationship with his daughter as if he were a psychologist describing something that one of his patients had done. That was what you had to understand about him: He had learned to ana-lyze his past behavior with almost clinical detachment. Yes, he had for years been having sexual intercourse with his own daughter. Yes, he understood this was something he should not have done. But now he was in counseling, where he was learning how to deal with his problem. Remarkable how a few words can change the way we think. His problem! Suddenly, it becomes something private, his own possession, something that ultimately does not concern anyone else, except insofar as the people affected by his behavior can help him with his problem. He is no longer the subject who has inflicted an unforgivable wrong that must be punished as an example to others, but an object for the professional attention of those trained to deal with his particular disease. He testified at the trial of his wife as if he had been called as an expert witness on a case that had nothing whatever to do with him.

“He admitted everything; he gave no indication that he was embarrassed, much less ashamed, of anything. In response to the questions put to him, he described the way he had several times each week left the room he shared with his wife and gone down the hall to his daughter’s room. Though he said he always waited until his wife was asleep, he said it in a way that suggested he could not always have been sure.

“The prosecution tried to make certain no one missed the point.

‘Then, it’s quite possible, isn’t it,’ Spencer Goldman asked, ‘that during the years this was going on, your wife became aware of what you were doing with your daughter?’

“It was a call for speculation if there ever was one, and I was on my feet shouting my objection before he was finished with the question. But if I had thought that Jeffries was through with me, I quickly learned just how wrong I could be.

” ‘Overruled!’ he barked, motioning for me to sit down.

” ‘Your honor,’ I insisted, still on my feet, ‘he’s—’

” ‘He’s eliciting testimony that the mother must have known what the father was doing,’ Jeffries interjected. He gave me a sharp look. ‘And he’s doing that to demonstrate that the mother herself must have had something to hide. Isn’t that correct, Mr.

Goldman?’

“I stood there, speechless. There was no precedent for this. The judge had become the prosecutor, and I was the one he was after.

” ‘Isn’t that correct, Mr. Goldman,’ he asked again, his eyes still locked on mine.

“Astonished at what Jeffries had done, Goldman had difficulty getting the words out. ‘Yes, your honor,’ he said finally.

” ‘Objection, your honor,’ I said, forcing myself into an even-tempered voice.

“He thought I was repeating the same one. ‘I’ve already ruled,’

he said, turning away.

” ‘I’m objecting to the comment of the court. It was gratuitous, and irrelevant, and completely prejudicial. I ask that the court withdraw it and instruct the jury to ignore it.’

” ‘You what!’ he blustered. Then, aware that a packed courtroom was watching, he stopped himself before he said or did something he might later regret. ‘You made an objection, Mr. Antonelli.

I ruled on it. You made it again. I gave you the reasons for my ruling.’

” ‘The reasons for your ruling, your honor?’ I shot back. ‘Or the reasons why you think the jury should convict?’

“He was livid. It was written all over him. But we were now on a public stage.

” ‘I hope you’re not questioning the integrity of this court, Mr.

Antonelli,’ he said, with an ominous glance.

” ‘Far be it from me, your honor,’ I replied with a quick, ag-gravating smile, ‘to deprive anyone of the right to hope.’