Devil's Garden (37 page)

Roscoe looked over the McNab and let out a long breath. He readjusted himself in his seat and turned back to Ma and Minta. Minta had on a little fur hat and it was very attractive, and he wondered if the newspapermen would write about it, trying to make some sense of why she wore squirrel now and not monkey or mink. The newsboys always tried to make something out of a little detail. Like that time Roscoe couldn’t bring a manicurist to the jail. They wrote it as if he was trying to be uppity when really he just wanted someone to cut his nails. They even wrote about his playing with elastics, and would probably write about him cleaning his hat in the afternoon editions.

He placed the hat down on the table.

“This is the external condyle of the humerus, this bone called the humerus,” Rumwell said, pointing. “And this would be the arm and this the forearm. This was three inches above the external condyle of the humerus. And it varied in width from half an inch to an inch and it was exactly four inches long—that is, measuring from the posterior surface of the arm.”

McNab stood, tucked his hands in his pocket, waiting for the judge to let him speak. “I wonder, Your Honor, please, if the doctor couldn’t describe that a little more technically?”

Much laughter in the court. Even a few of the jury laughed, which was good because Roscoe had rarely seen them laugh at anything. McNab sat back at the desk, straight-faced, like a good sidekick. Roscoe nudged him in the ribs and winked.

McNab didn’t even respond.

“Over to the left arm,” U’Ren said. “What did you find?”

Roscoe could not take it anymore. It took everything in him not to stand up, walk out into the hallway and out to the park for a smoke. He imagined the whole farce in his head. Not as Roscoe Arbuckle on trial but Fatty. Fatty would be dressed as an infant and they would place him behind the judge’s bench, a rattle for a gavel, and the Kops would bring in his father in shackles. Al St. John would play the part as a wandering drunk, maybe even drop in a role for Luke the dog. They’d dress up Luke as the district attorney, and when a motion was overturned he’d lift his leg on the witness’s leg and run off, a chase would follow, out of the courtroom and onto dusty Hollywood streets. Al St. John would ride a giant bicycle, shaking his fist in the air. They’d rig Baby Fatty’s high chair as a machine and he’d begin pursuit.

Roscoe laughed.

Testimony stopped.

McNab gave him a hard look. Testimony started up again.

“We commonly call that the shinbone?” asked Judge Louderback.

“Yes, sir,” Rumwell said. “A bruise over the shinbone and to either side of the shinbone, oval in shape.”

“Did you examine the back of the deceased?” U’Ren asked.

“There were no marks on the back.”

“No marks on the back at all?”

“No.”

“And all the marks, discolorations, or bruises you found were on the front of the body?”

“Front and a little to the side.”

“Well, Doctor, from your experience in general practice, and from your knowledge and education and your training as a physician, were you able to determine from those marks what caused those wounds?” U’Ren asked. “Was it force or something else that caused—”

“Your Honor,” McNab said, shaking his head. “That calls for an opinion and is not based on anything that he has observed.”

“You misunderstand the question,” U’Ren said. “I mean as to the general nature of the wound, whether it was inflicted by a blow or a hypodermic syringe, a medieval sword or a red-hot poker—or what?”

Louderback held up his hand to stop the lawyers from arguing. He leaned back in his great high-backed chair and stared at the ceiling. You could hear the wood bend and creak beneath him. He wasn’t speaking but contemplating. Roscoe thought it would’ve been much better if he’d used the fist under his chin; that way, it would translate to the folks in the back row. “I should say this, gentlemen, not qualifying as an expert myself, but what I imagine all the doctor could say, or give, would be a general cause, without any particular specifications.”

“My opinion—” Rumwell began.

“Objection,” McNab said.

“Overruled,” Louderback said. “Please answer.”

“Those smaller bruises were fingerprints,” Rumwell said. “As far as the others, I could not tell just what agency caused them.”

“Shall we move onto the internal organs?” U’Ren said. “Did you examine those, postmortem?”

“I made an incision through the skin in front of the median line extending from the middle of the chest down to the lower end of the abdomen,” Rumwell said. “And before I made the incision, I noticed that the abdomen was moderately distended . . .”

Roscoe hoped to God Rumwell wouldn’t produce the photos again of Virginia lying there on the marble slab like a piece of butchered meat. Her body cavity folded open, and you could see her rib bones cut away, her heart removed. Close-up shots of her legs and arms, little bruises that looked like spots to him but that would be made out to be prints from big, fat clumsy fingers that held down the girl while he entered her like a wild animal at a zoo.

“The tear in the bladder wall did not seem to be quite fresh,” Rumwell said, the bastard’s bad eye wandering a bit. “But it was not very old, either, because it was not lined with any visible amount of new tissue. Then we investigated—”

“Doctor, what in your opinion caused the death of the deceased?’ U’Ren said, finally getting to the goddamn point, leading them from head to toe, eyes to anus, and finally getting where they wanted to get, Fatty crushing the little waif beneath his whale body.

“My opinion?” Rumwell said. “Rupture of the bladder.”

Roscoe looked down, grabbing his hat. There we go. He let out an enormous amount of air and felt the jury’s eyes all upon him. He looked at his hands, folded them neatly and respectfully for what was about to come.

“And what would cause such a rupture in a woman who was in the very pink of condition?” U’Ren said, walking and smiling, really good at both, keeping that smooth motion down, waiting for the final exclamation from his witness.

Rumwell swallowed, his Adam’s apple enormous.

“Well, sir,” Rumwell said, one eye moving back in line and both lining up dead on McNab and then back to U’Ren. “Upon further examination I found the bladder to be quite diseased.”

Brady was on his feet, yelling. U’Ren could not speak, Roscoe believing the weasel had choked.

Roscoe dropped his hat and it rolled off the table and onto the floor. Louderback was hammering the desk with his gavel to stop the goddamn buzzing in the bleachers.

“Possibly from a venereal ailment,” Rumwell said without being asked.

“I believe gonorrhea. Yes, gonorrhea. I have the bladder in a specimen jar if you’d like to see it.”

“Dr. Rumwell,” U’Ren said, shouting. Rumwell merely blinking back, seemingly confused by all the action. “You will be charged with perjury. I have full transcripts of you earlier testimony . . .”

Roscoe rubbed his eyes, half waiting for Luke to run down the center of the courtroom and bite U’Ren square on the ass. It would be a hell of an ender, a close shot on Luke’s ugly, satisfied mug.

SAM FOUND FISHBACK staying at the new YMCA in downtown Oakland registered under the name of F. C. Hibbard. He took the ferry across the bay and a taxi to 1515 Webster and walked up the great stairs and into what looked like a massive assembly hall. Only instead of chairs and a platform, he saw vigorous men jumping rope, tossing medicine balls, and stretching their bodies with an odd assortment of pulleys and racks. The whole thing looked like torture to Sam, but Fishback seemed to enjoy getting a good sweat while tossing the medicine ball back and forth to a fat man. Fishback was smoking a cigarette, the front of his white undershirt bathed in sweat.

Sam introduced himself and handed him a Pinkerton card.

Fishback dropped the card on the ground.

“Hell of a show at the Manchu.”

Fishback shrugged. He was a good-looking guy and knew it, with an aquiline nose and dark brown eyes. His cigarette hung out of his mouth and he just nodded or shook his head to the questions Sam asked.

“You are not a member here,” he said finally.

“But I’m an upstanding young man,” Sam said. “And an occasional Christian.”

“You’re not the law,” Fishback said. “You are not a policeman.”

“Why’d you turn on Roscoe?”

The ceiling was very high and very elaborate with moldings and designs. The windows high and bright, sunlight making long shapes on the wooden floors. Fishback tossed the ball around some more, lit another cigarette. “Ty Cobb smoked this brand. He said it’ll make you mentally and physically alert.”

“Always liked Babe Ruth,” Sam said.

“He’s old, worn-out. Smoked Home Runs. Terrible tobacco.”

Sam shrugged. Fishback picked up another medicine ball, a heavier one, and the leather thwacked hard and fast back and forth in the men’s hands. Fishback threw it over his head and started to catch it at his hip, rotating his waist.

“I don’t believe what you said in court,” Sam said.

“About what?”

“About Roscoe wanting to peep in on the Bathing Beauties.”

“He’s a pervert. A big, fat, lousy pervert. The man would stick his willie in a sewer pipe.”

“He thought you were his buddy.”

“I had to tell the truth,” Freddie said, grinning. “It’s the law.”

“How much are you getting?”

“What?”

“From Hearst,” Sam said. “How much did he pay you to direct that little morality play? I bet it was in silver. Or maybe a deal with his picture company? That’d be worth it to an up-and-comer like you.”

Fishback walked over to large rack and planted his feet in some stirrups, bringing up a long pulley system and stretching his wide, muscular torso, a new cigarette in his teeth.

“You look like Wallace Reid,” Fishback said.

“No kidding,” Sam said.

“I don’t like Wallace Reid,” he said. “He’s a dope fiend.”

“How much?”

“How much they pay you, Pinkerton?”

“Three dollars a day.”

Fishback laughed. Sam smiled back at him.

“You heard from Al Semnacher lately?”

“Who?”

“The guy who you got to wrangle the girls,” Sam said. “Hollywood agent. He was in the papers. Wears glasses. Goofy smile.”

“No.”

“Funny,” Sam said. No one else has heard from him either. If I were you, I’d watch my back.”

“What he did to that girl wasn’t right,” Fishback said. “He is a beast, you know.”

“He didn’t kill her.”

“Did she crush herself?”

“She wasn’t crushed.”

“I didn’t have a goddamn thing to do with this,” Fishback said.

“You’re a cog in the wheel.”

“What’s that?” he asked in his thick accent.

“A piece of lousy machinery,” Sam said.

“Are you different?” Fishback asked.

30

I
know them,” Roscoe said. It was late and he sat in his hotel room over a bottle of bourbon with Gavin McNab. “I don’t follow,” McNab said, rubbing his eyes, still buttoned tight in his boiled-and-pressed shirt and tie, black coat slung over the back of his chair.

“You know your audience.”

“They’re not an audience,” McNab said. “They’re a jury.”

“What do you think an audience is?”

“They watch you sing and dance and do a little comedy. We’ve spoken of this before.”

Roscoe shrugged and took a sip of the bourbon. Minta had packed along a few bottles for him in her suitcase, knowing they couldn’t be tipping a bellboy during the trial, risking some kind of side scandal.

“What about Mrs. Nelson?”

“What about her?” McNab asked.

“She called her occupation that of a housewife.”

“So?”

“She said it forcefully—like, take it or leave it. She’s no-nonsense. Doesn’t get wrapped up in emotion or bullshit.”

“Did you see her hat?” McNab said.

“Of course,” Roscoe said. “Enormous. Reminded me of something a pirate would wear. I like her. Rock-solid old broad.”

“Who else do you like?” McNab said, a smug grin creeping into one cheek, indulging the fat man.

“Mr. Sayre? C.C.?”

“Clarence,” McNab said. “Cement contractor.”

“He smiles. Big smiles, rosy cheeks. That’s a man who knows what it’s like to drink a few whiskeys, do a little dance. He knows there’s no harm in that. No Satan creeping in the bottle.”

McNab finished off his whiskey. He leaned back into his seat. “Roscoe?” “Hold on,” Roscoe said. “Hold on. Kitty McDonald.”

McNab’s face was fogged out by the smoke coming from his lips, squinting across the table, genuinely intrigued now. The whole indulgence thing passed. “Go on.”

“Rich woman,” Roscoe said. “A fine-looking woman. Did you see her furs?”

McNab nodded.

“She doesn’t want to be there. She wants this whole business to wrap up.

She’ll swing with the rest of ’em. Okay, who’s next? Miss Whosit? The old broad?”

“Mrs. Winterburn.”

“Fantastic name. Isn’t it? Winterburn. Don’t you love saying it? She’s the prim-faced schoolteacher, the woman who’d whack your knuckles with a ruler. Sour old kisser. Didn’t she say she was in one of those women’s clubs?”

“She’s not a Vigilant, if that’s what you’re asking. Do you think I’m an idiot, Roscoe? Her club is literary. She’s part of the Jack London Society.”

“Ha!” Roscoe said, pounding his fist on the table, the whiskey glass trembling. “A woman of the arts. And what am I?”

“You make movie pictures.”

“The arts.”

“If you say so.”

“Okay. Okay. I’m running them down in my mind. I watch them. Not directly but slyly out of the corner of my eye. I don’t want them to think I’m trying to make contact, as if I am a desperate man.”

“God forbid,” McNab said, waving the smoke away with his hand. His eyes squinting more at Roscoe, maybe a little less curious now. He checked his timepiece again.

“It’s two minutes past.”

“Past what?”

“Last time you checked,” Roscoe said.

“Christ Almighty.”

“August Fritze.”

“Solid fellow. Brokers cotton.”

“That’s not why I like him,” Roscoe said, pointing his index finger at McNab.