Presumed Innocent (43 page)

Ms. Beatrice says that she saw a white man on the eight o'clock bus one Tuesday night in April. She does not know what Tuesday night it was, but it was Tuesday, because she works late on Tuesdays, and it was April, because she remembered it as last month when she first spoke to the police, who were doing random interviews in the bus station in May.

"Now, ma'am," Molto says, "I ask you to look around the courtroom to see if there is anyone you recognize."

She points at me.

Molto sits down.

Stern begins cross. Ms. Beatrice greets him without apprehension. She is an elderly woman, quite stout, with a lively and kindly face. Her gray hair is drawn back in a bun, and she wears round wire-rimmed glasses.

"Ms. Beatrice," says Stern amiably, "I take it that you are the kind of person who gets to the bus station a bit early." Stern knows this, of course, because of the time shown in her police interview.

"Yes, sir. Ms. Youngner run me up each night at quarter to so's I can buy me a paper and a Baby Ruth and get me a seat."

"And the bus on which you go into the city is the same bus that comes out of the city, is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"It terminates — that is, it ends its run in Nearing and goes back in?"

"It turn round in Nearing, that's right."

"And you are there each night when that bus arrives at a quarter to?"

"Quarter to six. Most every night, yes, sir. 'Cept Tuesday, as I explain."

"And the people coming home from downtown get off the bus and walk past you, is that right, and you have occasion to see their faces?"

"Oh, yes, sir. They looks tired and weary, many a them."

"Now, ma'am — well, I shouldn't ask you this—" Stern looks again at the report of the police interview. "You are not saying you recognize Mr. Sabich as the man you saw on the bus that Tuesday night, are you?" There is nothing to lose with the question. Molto's direct has left the impression that is, in fact, the case. But Ms. Beatrice makes a face. She shakes her head most emphatically.

"No, sir. They is somethin here I like to explain."

"Please do."

"I knowed I seen this gentleman." She nods to me. "I tol' Mr. Molto that many a time. I seen this man when I go to get on the bus. Now I recollect, they was a man on that bus one Tuesday night, cause I works late that night on account of Ms. Youngner don't get home till near 7:30 on Tuesdays. And I recollect he was a white man, cause we don't get many white gentlemens that ride on the bus goin into town that time a night. Now I just can't remember whether 'twould be this man or another man. I know he look real familiar to me, this man do; but I can't say that's cause I seen him in the station or cause I seen him on the bus that night."

"You have some doubt that it was Mr. Sabich you saw that night."

"That's right. Can't say 'twas him. Coulda been him. I just can't say."

"Have you spoken with Mr. Molto about your testimony?"

"Many a time."

"And have you told him all of what you've just told us?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

Sandy turns in Molto's direction with a look of silent and lofty reproof.

After court, Stern tells me to go home. He takes hold of Barbara and draws her toward me.

"Take your pretty wife to dinner. She certainly deserves some reward for her fine support."

I tell Stern that I was hoping we would begin talking about the defense, but Sandy shakes his head.

"Rusty, you must forgive me," he says. As chairman of the Bar Association's Committee on Criminal Procedure, he is responsible for a formal dinner to be given tomorrow night in honor of the retirement of Judge Magnuson, who has sat as a felony judge for three decades. "And I must spend an hour or two with Kemp," he adds offhandedly.

"Would you like to tell me where he has been?"

Stern screws up his face.

"Rusty, please. Indulge me." He again takes Barbara's arm and mine. "We have some information. I will tell you that. It bears on my examination tomorrow of Dr. Kumagai. But it is not worth repeating now. It may be a complete misunderstanding. I do not wish to raise false hopes. You are better off in the dark, rather than having your expectations dashed. Please. Accept my advice on that. You have been working long hours. Take an evening off. Over the weekend, we can discuss a defense, if it comes to that."

" 'If it comes to that'?" I ask. His meaning is elusive. Is he proposing we rest — offer no evidence? Or is this new information so explosive that the trial will come to a halt?

"Please," Sandy says again. He begins leading us out of the courtroom. Barbara now intervenes. She takes my hand.

So we have dinner at Rechtner's, an old-fashioned German place near the courthouse which I have always liked. Barbara seems especially cheerful after the pleasant developments today. She, too, was apparently affected by the dour events of yesterday. She suggests a bottle of wine and, once it is open, questions me about the trial. She enjoys the opportunity to finally have me at close quarters. Clearly, my unavailability has frustrated her. She asks serial questions with her large dark eyes still and intent. She is very concerned about the Hair and Fiber stipulation of yesterday. Why did we choose that, rather than testimony? She requires a full account of everything the lab report revealed. Then she inquires at length about Kumagai and what his testimony is expected to show. My responses, as they have been throughout, are laconic. I answer briefly, telling her to eat her meal, while I try to contain my discomfort. As ever, there is an aspect to Barbara's interest that I find frightening. Is her wonder truly as abstracted as it seems? Is it the procedures and puzzles that attract her, more even than their impact on me? I try to shift the conversation, asking what we hear of Nathaniel, but Barbara realizes she is being put off.

"You know," she says, "you're getting like you were before."

"What does that mean?" A terrible evasion.

"You're like that again — distant."

I am where I am and she complains. Even with the wine, a jolt of galvanic anger rockets through me. My face, I imagine, is like my father's, with that monumental look of something dark and untamed. I wait until it has passed.

"This is not an easy experience, Barbara. I am trying to get through it. Day by day."

"I want to help you, Rusty," she says. "However I can."

I do not answer. Perhaps I should be angry again, but as always happens, in the wake of rage I am left in the lightless caverns of the deepest sadness of my life.

I reach across the table and take both her hands between mine.

"I have not given up," I say. "I want you to know that. It is very hard now. I am just trying to get to the end. But I am not giving up on anything. I want as much left as possible, if I get the chance to start again. All right?"

She looks at me with a directness she seldom has, but she finally nods.

As we are driving home, I ask again about Nat, and Barbara tells me, as she has not before, that she has had a number of calls from the director of his camp. Nathaniel is waking twice a night with screaming nightmares. The director, who originally put this off under the rubric of adjustment, has now decided that the problem is acute. The boy is more than homesick. There is a special anxiety about my fate which has been exaggerated by being away. The director has recommended sending him home.

"How does Nat sound on the phone?"

Barbara has called him twice, during luncheon recesses, the only time he can be reached. I have been with Stern and Kemp on both occasions.

"He sounds fine. He's trying to be brave. But it's one of those things. I think the director is right. He'll be better off home."

I readily agree. I am touched and, with whatever perversity, heartened by the depth of my son's concern. But the fact that Barbara has kept this to herself plays on old strings. I find myself once more on the brink of anger, but I tell myself that I am unreasoning, irrational. The idea, I know, is not to increase my burdens. Yet she has a flawless and undetectable way of keeping things to herself.

As we unlock the door, the phone is ringing. I imagine that it is Kemp or Stern, finally ready to share the big news, whatever it is. Instead, it is Lipranzer, who still does not give his name.

"I think we got somethin," he says. "On that matter." Leon.

"Can you talk now?"

"Not really. I just want to be sure you're free tomorrow night. Late. After I'm off."

"After midnight?"

"Right. Thought maybe we could go for a drive. See a guy?"

"You found him?" My heart picks up. Amazing. Lipranzer found Leon.

"Seems like. I'll know tomorrow for sure. You're gonna love this one, too." In the phone, I hear someone speaking nearby. "Look, I gotta go. I just wanted to let you know. Tomorrow night," he says. He laughs, a rare sound from Dan Lipranzer, especially in these times. "You're gonna love it," he says.

"Doc-tor Kumagai," says Sandy Stern in a tone which from its first syllable bristles with derision. It is five past two, the beginning of the afternoon session, and these are the first words of a cross-examination which both Kemp and Stern have promised me privately will be the most eventful of the trial.

Tatsuo Kumagai — Ted to his friends — the state's final witness, faces Stern, limp with indifference. His hands are folded. His brown face is placid. To this audience, he presents himself as a man without need of expression. He is an expert, an unaffected observer of facts. He is dressed in a blue pincord suit, and his abundant black hair is folded back neatly in a small pompadour. His direct examination this morning was the first occasion on which I've seen Painless testify and he was somewhat better than I expected. The medical terminology, and his unique speech patterns, caused the court reporter to interrupt a number of times to ask for answers to be repeated or spelled. But he has an undeniable presence. His native arrogance is translated by the witness chair into a developed confidence becoming an expert physician. His qualifications are impressive. He has studied on three continents. He has given papers all over the world. He has testified as a forensic pathologist in homicide cases throughout the United States.

These credentials emerged as part of the lengthy process of qualifying Painless as an expert. Unlike a so-called occurrence witness, who is confined to telling what he saw or heard or did, Painless is charged with considering all of the forensic evidence and rendering an opinion on what occurred. Prior to his appearance, various stipulations were read. The forensic chemist's analysis. The results of blood tests. On the stand, Painless used these facts and his own examination of the body to provide a comprehensive account. On the night of April 1, Ms. Polhemus had had sexual relations, almost certainly consensual in nature. This opinion was based on the presence of a 2 percent concentration of the chemical nonoxynol-9 and various jelly bases, indicating the use of a diaphragm. The man with whom Ms. Polhemus had intercourse was, as I am, a type-A secreter. Soon after she had had sex — the relative time indicated by the depth within the vagina of the primary seminal deposit — Ms. Polhemus was bludgeoned from behind. Her attacker was right-handed, as I am. This can be determined from the angle of the blow to the right side of her head. His height cannot be approximated without knowing her posture at the time of the attack or the length of the murder weapon. The best indication from the cranial wound is that she had reached her feet, if only briefly, when she was struck. The diaphragm was apparently removed at this time, and Ms. Polhemus, already dead, was bound. Without Stern's objection, Painless testified that the presence of the spermicidal compound, coupled with the unlocking of the doors and windows, led him to believe that a rape had been simulated in order to conceal the murderer's identity, and that the murderer was someone familiar with the methods of detection of crime and Ms. Polhemus's routine responsibilities in the P.A.'s office.

When Nico had led Painless through this summary, he asked if his opinion of how the crime occurred had ever been communicated to me.

"Yes, sir, I met Mr. Sabich about April 10 or 11 this year and we discuss this case."

"Tell us what was said."

"Well, Mr. Sabich try to convince me that Ms. Polhemus must have die accidentally as part of some kind of deviant sexual activity, in which she had voluntarily been bound."

"And how did you respond?"

"I say that was ridiculous, and I explain what the evidence show really occur."

"And after you informed Mr. Sabich of your theory of what occurred, did you have any further discussion?"

"Yes. He became quite upset. Angry. He stood up. He threaten me. He say that I better be careful or he gonna prosecute for tamperin with an investigation. There's some more, but basically, that's it."

Both Stern and Kemp on either side of me watched Painless do his stuff with a calm approaching the beatific. Neither one bothered to take notes. I do not yet know what is coming, although that is my choice.

Kumagai made a mistake, Kemp told me when I arrived at their offices this morning. A big one.

How big? I asked.

Enormous, said Kemp. Huge.

I nodded. To myself I thought that if it were somebody other than Painless, I would be more surprised.

Do you want to know what it is? Kemp asked me.

Strangely I found that Stern's assessment was right. It was better not to know details. Simply hearing that there was some outsized error was enough to steer me directly to the peripheries of my deepest rage. I had no desire to enter that region of disorder.

Surprise me, I told Kemp. I'll hear it in court.

Now I wait. Painless sits there, unfluttered, impassive. At lunch, Kemp told me he believed that Kumagai's career could be over tonight.

"Doc-tor Kumagai," Stern begins, "you have testified here as an expert, is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"You have told us about your papers and your degrees, have you not?"

"I answer questions about that, yes."