Devil's Garden (39 page)

“Did Miss Rappe come there at your invitation?”

Roscoe tapped the stenographer’s desk with the tip of the pencil and turned his eyes to the jury. “No. And I did not invite Miss Blake, Miss Prevon, or Mrs. Delmont and her friend Mr. Semnacher either.”

“They crashed your party, so to speak.”

“Yes.” Roscoe’s eyes lingered on the jury, running down each one, face by face, name by name, cataloging each one of them.

“And a Miss Taube. May Taube?”

“She was invited. We had an appointment at three to go motoring.”

“How were you dressed when the others arrived at your suite?”

“I wore pajamas, socks, slippers, and a bathrobe.”

No running from it, lay it all out like McNab said. When he asks a question, tell it the way it happened. Tell the truth down to the last detail, McNab said. And as Roscoe sat there running down that day, it felt good to say it just as it happened.

McNab walked over to the defense table and brought Roscoe his blue robe, letting him feel the rough, rich texture and identify it. The old man cataloged it into evidence, showing no shame at the attire, nothing scandalous about a fat man wearing a robe at lunchtime.

“Where, previously to seeing her in 1219 taken ill, did you see Miss Rappe?”

“In room 1220. And I saw her go into room 1221.”

“When did you go into 1219?”

“About three o’clock.”

“Was the door leading from room 1220 to 1219 open at that time?” Roscoe thumped the pencil on the desk. “Yes.”

“Did you know Miss Rappe was in there?”

U’Ren was on his feet, objecting, sniffing the air with his feral nose, and the judge sustained the bastard. A smile crept onto U’Ren’s lips, almost frothing to get hold of Roscoe. In a moving picture, he’d be rubbing his hands together. Roscoe would be on a silver platter, an apple in his mouth.

“Where in 1219 did you see Miss Rappe?”

“I found her in the bathroom.”

“Now,” McNab said, talking and walking. “Tell the jury, Mr. Arbuckle, just what you saw and did.”

“Well,” Roscoe said, smooth and slow, though not enunciating and projecting but just talking, finding it odd as hell being up on the stage with all these people and talking regular. “I went from 1220 into 1219 and locked the door, and I went right to the bathroom. I found Virginia Rappe”—saying her last name because he decided that was more appropriate and all—“lying on the floor, rolling around, moaning, and very ill. When I opened the bathroom door it stuck against her and I could only open the door a little ways and had to edge my way in. I lifted her up and I held her head. I held her head, pulling back the hair from her face, while she vomited into the commode.”

“What else happened?”

“Well, after I had helped her sit up, she asked for water and she drank a glass and one half. I wiped her face with a towel. She said she wanted to lie down, so I helped her from the bathroom and assisted her to lie down on the smaller of the two beds in the room. I went back into the bathroom and closed the door.”

“When you came back out of the bathroom again, what did you observe?”

“I found Virginia Rappe on the floor, between the two beds, rolling as if in great pain and moaning. I got her up and got her onto the large bed. She at once became violently ill again. I went at once to 1220, expecting to find Mrs. Delmont. I found Miss Prevost, told her what had happened, and she went right into 1219. I went back into 1219 and Virginia Rappe was tearing her clothes. She acted then as if she were in a terrible temper. She pulled up her dress and tore at her stockings. She had black lace garters on and she was tearing them, too. Then Fishback came into the room. At that time, Miss Rappe was tearing her waist. She had one sleeve almost torn off, and I said, ‘All right, Virginia, if you want to get that off I’ll help you.’ And I did help her to tear it off.”

“What did you do then?”

“Well, I went out of the room for a few moments. When I came back, Miss Rappe was nude on the bed. Mrs. Delmont was rubbing her body with ice wrapped up in a towel. I saw a piece of ice on Miss Rappe’s body and I said, ‘What’s that doing there?,’ and Mrs. Delmont said, ‘Leave it there. You let us alone. I’ll take care of Virginia.’ She then tried to order me to leave the room. I said to Mrs. Delmont, ‘Shut up or I’ll throw you out of the window.’ ”

“What happened then?”

“Mrs. Taube came in and I told her to telephone Mr. Boyle, the hotel manager, and she did. She used the telephone in 1220. Then I went back into room 1219 and I told Mrs. Delmont to get dressed, as the manager was coming. I pulled the bedspread over the body of Miss Rappe. Then Boyle came upstairs. I took him into room 1219.”

“What was done then?”

“We got Fred Fishback’s bathrobe out of a closet and put it on Miss Rappe and then I picked her up and, with Mr. Boyle, started to carry her to room 1227.”

“How did you leave 1219?”

“Through the door leading into the corridor.”

“Was that door open?”

“Boyle opened the door.”

“What next?”

“Well, I carried Miss Rappe about three-fourths of the way. She kept slipping and I asked Mr. Boyle to help me. We put her in bed in room 1227. Then I walked back down the corridor with Mr. Boyle as far as the elevator and then went to 1219.”

“Was the door from 1219 into the hall unlocked on that day?”

“Yes. Fishback went out that way when he left to take my car.”

“How was it opened when you removed Miss Rappe?”

“Boyle walked right up to it and opened it.”

“Was the window to 1219 open?”

“Yes. It was always wide-open.”

“While in 1219, did you hear Miss Rappe say, ‘You hurt me’ or ‘He hurt me’?”

“No, I did not. She spoke to me several times, but no one could understand just what she said.”

“On the next day, or at any other time, did you have any conversation with Al Semnacher with regard to the ice on Virginia Rappe’s body?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Did you ever, at any time, in room 1219 on September fifth, 1921, have occasion to place your hand over that of Miss Rappe’s on the door of your room?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you in any way come into contact with that door leading out into the corridor?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know Fred Fishback?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you ever, on any occasion, have a conversation with him in which you are alleged to have asked him if he had the key to Virginia Rappe’s room and in which he is alleged to have said yes and in which you further are alleged to have said, ‘I’ll give this for it,’ showing him a roll of bills?”

“No such conversation ever took place.”

“Now, Mr. Arbuckle, are there any other circumstances that occurred in room 1219 that you can tell this jury?”

“No, sir.”

“And you have related to the jury everything that occurred there on that day as you know it?”

“Yes, sir. Everything.”

“YOU’RE SAFE.”

“What time is it?” Sam asked.

“Noon,” Jose said.

“I need to get up.”

“You need to rest.”

“I feel fine.”

“You have a fever.”

“Why’s it so dark?”

“I pulled the curtains,” she said. “You want me to open them?”

“Please.”

Sam found his feet and dropped his head into his hands. The afternoon light was white and harsh and he squinted and looked down at his skinny legs and stocking feet.

“Where’s the baby?”

“In the bedroom,” she said. “Asleep.”

Jose softly shut the door separating the two rooms of the apartment. She walked back to Sam carrying a little bottle and spoon. “You need to take this.”

“I need a cigarette. Would you mind reaching in my coat?”

“Sam?”

He looked at her, blurred in the light behind her, and he closed one eye. “Open up.”

He did. The balsamea tasted horrible.

She poured another spoonful.

“I wired my aunt,” she said. “We can stay there until I get settled in Montana.”

He nodded. She found his cigarettes and a book of matches.

“I can arrange to have my checks sent direct to you.”

“That’s good of you, Sam.”

“It’s not good of me,” he said. “Don’t ever say that.”

“What’s the matter?”

“The City is nowhere to raise a child. The sooner the both of you get on that train, the better.”

“Whatever you say.”

“But you don’t understand?”

“There are other jobs.”

“Not for me,” he said. “I’m not strong enough to work the docks and not educated enough to work in an office.”

“You could go back to school. To business college.”

“And how would we make it?”

She was quiet.

“I’ll take care of you,” he said. “You have my word. As long as I can work a job, those checks will keep coming.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“I believe you.”

Sam stared at the window, his eyes adjusting, curtains skittering in a cold wind. By the kitchen table, he noticed his steamer trunk, pulled from the bedroom, open and waiting.

“Thought you might need to get packed,” Jose said, catching his stare.

“And I want you to take this for luck.”

She smiled with her eyes and handed him the little card given to them at Mary Jane’s birth. On the flip side was her hospital number and footprints stamped in ink.

He didn’t say anything, only tucked the card in his jacket. He did not meet her eye as she continued to talk, only watched the curtains that brought in the cold air and the smell of the sea. The baby started to wail in the next room. Sam lit a cigarette and watched Jose go, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

“NOW,” MILTON U’REN SAId, pacing, smiling with those sharp teeth, his long bony fingers clasped behind his back, “you stated that you never attempted to borrow a key from Mr. Fishback during August of 1919 in Culver City? Is that correct?”

“That is correct.”

“Now, where were you employed during August of 1919?”

“I had my own company.”

“You had your own company, yes, but where?”

“At Culver City.”

“And you had a studio there?”

“No, sir.”

“Were you using a studio?”

“I was renting a studio there.”

“And from whom were you renting the studio, if from anyone?”

“Mr. Lehrman.”

“Yes, then during August of 1919 you did occupy the studio in conjunction with Mr. Henry Lehrman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you do not recall whether you had a conversation about Miss Rappe with Mr. Fishback?”

“The conversation never occurred.”

“Yes or no would be sufficient,” U’Ren said.

U’Ren was sweating now and the sweating pleased Roscoe a great deal. Roscoe stopped tapping his pencil and leaned back into the hard chair. He crossed his legs, resting his ankle on knee.

“You knew Miss Rappe before the fifth of September, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long had you known her?”

“About five or six years.”

“About five or six years?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Before Miss Rappe came to your rooms on the fifth of September, did you know that she was coming there?”

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Fishback didn’t say anything to you about her coming there?”

“He said that he was going to phone her.”

“Do you know whether or not he did phone her?”

“I didn’t hear him phone.”

U’Ren took a breath, his jaw twitching. He stared down at the courtroom floor as if it would provide him some kind of key, some kind of answer, to make Roscoe reverse a story he’d been telling for months and had been playing time and again in his mind.

“How long a time elapsed from the time you saw Miss Rappe go into room 1221 until you went into room 1219?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“What did you do when she got up and went into room 1221?”

“I got up. I don’t know what I did, went to the Victrola or something, or danced. I don’t know. I don’t remember that time.”

“Well, how long a time would you say elapsed from the time you saw Miss Rappe go into room 1221 until you went into room 1219?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“Well, was it a half hour?”

“No, I don’t think it was that long.”

“Well, fifteen minutes?”

“I wouldn’t say what time it was. It was—”

“Isn’t it a fact that when you saw Miss Rappe going into 1221 that within two or three minutes thereafter you went into room 1219?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No.”

“And nothing you have heard during this trial refreshes your memory upon that subject?”

“When Miss Rappe went into 1221, I fooled around.”

“It was more than two or three minutes after Miss Rappe went into room 1221 that you went into room 1219?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, how much longer than two or three minutes?”

“Well, probably five or ten minutes.”

“Probably five or ten minutes,” U’Ren said, parroting it back, throwing up his hand carelessly. “All right, what were you doing in that five or ten minutes?”

“Just fooling around in that room.”

“Just tell the jury what you were doing the next five or ten minutes.”

“All right, I suppose I danced with Miss Blake.”

“Not that you
supposed
. Tell the jury what you
remember
doing.”

“I don’t remember what I did in the room,” Roscoe said, looking to the jury, wanting to tell them that he’d been drunk out of his mind. He leaned into his left arm, resting on the stenographer’s desk.

“What time did Miss Rappe go into room 1221?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“What time did Miss Rappe go into room 1219?”

“Like I said, I never saw her go into 1219.”

“What time did Mr. Fishback leave your room?”

“Between one-thirty and a quarter to two, I guess.”

“To go motoring and view some seals for a motion picture?”

“Yes.”

“Between one-thirty and a quarter to two,” U’Ren said, repeating for the jury. “Did Miss Rappe go into room 1219 before or after Fishback left your room?”

Roscoe looked to McNab, who sat behind the defense table stifling a yawn.