Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

Wagner still stood with his back to Jackson. He looked annoyed. So did the jury. Matt shook his head slowly, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing, then Matt started writing.

Wagner slowly turned and faced the judge, who said, “Mr. Clair, in summing up a lawyer has the right to interpret the evidence. You did that in your summing up. The court is perfectly capable of reprimanding anyone violating courtroom procedures. Continue, Mr. Wagner.”

Jackson made a slight bow toward the judge, sat down. Wagner turned back to the jury—I don't think he'd moved a step since he started summing up.

“Let us examine the claim that the defendant was 'temporarily insane' at the second he struck his wife. What a convenient form of insanity! We have not heard any testimony that Matt Anthony was ever mentally unstable before is his life—although he has lived an adventurous life and been in trying situations. You have heard noted doctors state he was insane at the moment of striking his wife, and that he wasn't. The State's psychiatrists have proved he knew the difference between right and wrong. Now the science of the mind is not as exact as the science of mathematics. For one thing, the science of the mind is relatively new. In mathematics we can state positively two and two equal four. We can't be that positive about the mind, and that will be up to you to decide. However, it seems to me any man who can write a book while in court on trial for his life is far from emotionally unstable—under any circumstances!

“I say to you that from the moment Matt Anthony shouted, 'I'll kill you!,' at his wife he fully intended to murder her and carefully planned the murder. She was fishing, alone in the bay, as she did almost every day. That Matt Anthony had this underwater outfit she didn't know about. He deliberately and with intent to kill, swam out, killed her, tried to give it the appearance of an accident, returned to his guests and set up a false alibi. Francine Anthony's death wasn't an accident nor was it manslaughter. It was a cold-blooded planned murder by a man who thought his cheap mysteries put him above the law. Far from being blind with rage, or blacking out, Matt Anthony knew exactly what he was doing from the second he threatened his wife until he lied to his guests in order to establish an alibi.

“Francine Anthony is dead, her head crushed, and her killer must be punished. The law must be upheld, we do not live in a jungle. On the basis of the facts brought out in the testimony, I ask you to punish Matt Anthony for the killing of his wife by bringing in a verdict of first degree murder. Mr. Clair asked that you have compassion for Matt Anthony, I ask you to have compassion for a dead woman. Thank you.”

As Wagner sat down an old lady two seats away from me whispered loudly to a young woman sitting next to me, “What did he say? My hearing is poor on the left side and I got a stiff neck.”

“He said he thought Mr. Anthony killed his wife.”

“Well, I think so, too,” the old biddy grunted.

It was a quarter to twelve. The judge told the jury, “I know you have had a tiring morning. You may return to the jury room and rest for 15 minutes. At noon I shall start explaining the various points of law, the charges involved. It will take about an hour. I want to get this over before lunch, so you can immediately start your deliberations. Also, once I have finished my charge you will be locked up and the lunch will be on the court.” He gave them a yock-yock grin and like faithful citizens about to save two-bits, most of the jurors beamed their gratitude.

I was too restless for a smoke to listen to the finer points of law. I went outside and lit my pipe, waited for the court to recess so I could have lunch with Brown. But when I finished the pipe a half-hour later the judge was still charging the jury, so I had lunch alone, walked down to the inlet and as a nouveau yachtsman bulled with an owner of a work boat and found out I might easily have put in another four or five hundred bucks into my boat before I put it 'over' next summer. This character must have been looking for a listener and soon had me dizzy with all the things that can go wrong with a boat. When I finally begged off, saying I had to get back to the trial, he said, “I hope they give that murdering slob the works.”

A lot of people were talking and getting the sun in front of the courthouse. I saw Jackson holding up the building and talking to a pot-bellied man. I went over and Jackson introduced us; the man was a reporter. I asked Jackson how things looked and he said, “Shoo-in. Wagner was comical, with that highschool dramatic act, repeating 'I'll kill you!' over and over. But he's a clever man—made me lose my head and object while he was summing up.”

“What's wrong with that?” I asked.

“Looked bad in the jury's eyes, like I was trying to take over. If they don't bring in a not guilty verdict, I'll appeal the manslaughter verdict. Judge was wrong in allowing Matt's books into evidence—I can even ask for a new trial. Hope the jury comes in by five, I have a supper engagement in town. Excuse me, fellows, there's a man from Life I know.”

As Jackson walked away the reporter asked me, “Have you read any of this book Anthony is writing?”

“We have some chapters in the office but no one's looked at it.”

“This is one book I'd be willing to buy. Time I put on the feed-bag. Like a beer?”

I shook my head and walked around the short main street, stopping to buy a dainty shell necklace for Michele. At two I phoned her at school, said there was a good chance I'd be home that night. I walked main street again, bought a paper and leaned against the courthouse as I read. There was a big crowd milling around, afraid to go too far away in case the jury came in. At three-ten there was a whispered roar that the jury had reached a decision and we all started pushing our way in. Brown appeared from out of nowhere and I asked, “Like to drive back to New York with me?”

“Thanks, Norm. I'd like to.”

“Looks good for Matt. Jury was out only about two hours.”

“I hope so.”

We found seats in the rear of the court. Matt was brought in, looking very pale. An attendant told us to rise as the judge entered. The jury's speed must have caught him by surprise, his robe seemed a trifle cockeyed. The foreman was a thin, middle-aged man in tacky clothes. When asked if the jury had reached a decision he stood up and reading from a trembling slip of paper, his voice shrill with self-importance, said, “We have. We find the defendant, Matt Anthony, guilty of murder in the second degree.”

There was a terrible hush in the courtroom. I couldn't believe my ears. Jackson looked as if he'd been punched in the stomach. Matt's big frame began shaking, his eyes grew large. The little smile appeared on his lips, grew bigger— and then he threw back his head and laughed. It was a horrible laugh, unreal, insane, filling the courtroom. I don't know, it seemed to last forever, but I suppose it only took a brace of seconds. As the judge raised his gavel, Matt collapsed, pitching forward across the table with a great thud-sound. The courtroom was in an uproar as everybody jumped to their feet. I saw Jackson, Wagner, and an attendant bending over Matt. Somehow I heard Brown mumble, “Jesus, that means at least 20 years!”

The judge was pounding his gavel like an idiot and yelling for the court to be cleared. A deep voice, probably Jackson's, called for a doctor.

Several cops appeared and began plowing through the crowd and with everybody shouting and asking what had happened, I had a feeling I was in the midst of a riot. Somebody kept climbing up my back and I dug my elbow into a belly, heard a gasp. Brown was pushing toward the front and I followed. I couldn't see Matt but Jackson suddenly boomed, “Please, step back! Give him air. Air!” I had a brief glimpse of the jury members leaning out of their box, horrified, as if they had struck Matt down. An attendant cupped his hands and bellowed, “Silence!” In the immediate hush, before the talkers could gather steam again, the judge yelled, “I order this court cleared at once!”

The cops started pushing, but now we all turned and headed for the doors, quickly and almost orderly. Outside, everybody milled around, the crowd growing. I kept telling Brown, “I simply can't believe it,” over and over, as if it made any difference whether I believed it or not. Brown looked sick and kept shaking his head, fingering his broken nose.

A man with a press card finally pushed out past the cops guarding the door. People rushed at him, knocking the press card from his lapel and I heard him say, “There's a doctor with Anthony. He's suffered a heart attack but the doc says it isn't serious.”

While I was trying to get closer to the reporter—and being bounced around on the fringe of the crowd, I saw the newsman Jackson introduced me to come out. I grabbed his arm as he headed down the steps, probably making for a phone. “Remember me? From Mr. Anthony's publishing house? How serious is his attack?”

“I think he merely fainted. How about that jury! The doctor says he'll be okay. Second degree, I never figured on that...”

“Are you sure Matt's all right?”

“That's the doctor's statement They have Anthony on a cot, waiting for an ambulance. They gave him a shot of something. He's able to sit up and talk.”

Brown and I hung around for another ten minutes. Finally I said, “We might as well go. I'll pick you up in front of your rooming house.”

We left Riverside a half-hour later, and at first we didn't talk at all. Then I said, “How in the hell did the jury ever arrive at that verdict? What is 2nd degree?”

“Killing without premeditation, but with intent to kill. I suppose it means if there's a gun around, you suddenly pick it up and shoot. 20 years to life. Poor Matt, he'll never come out alive.”

“I don't understand it. I thought they'd let him go. Wagner's summing up didn't impress me. Saying, 'I'll kill you!' over and over like a stuck record.”

“Isn't repetition the secret of advertising?”

“Cut it out, Hank. That was a lot of crap.”

“To you, but you weren't on the jury. Wagner's clever, he pulled out all the stops with that stuff about 'hick' cops and 'yokels.' And tying in all that violent trash Matt has written. When you come down to it, a man thinking of violence for any length of time probably would turn violent.”

“You think Matt really meant to kill her?”

“I still think he had nothing to do with it. But that's my little opinion.”

“Jackson will probably do something on appeal, a new trial.”

Brown was silent, staring at the dash board. Then he said softly, “Seems so damn wasteful. The fruits of ten years of writing summed up by a kick in the nuts and slapping breasts.”

“What the devil, it was merely a way of making a living.”

“Matt should have done something else for pork chops.”

“Why? What difference would it have made if he'd been writing copy? Or if he spent 8 hours a day driving a bus, or standing behind a counter? Don't tell me you think he would have written the great American novel in his spare time. That's a crock.”

“No, Matt would probably have never written a line then. That isn't the point, he betrayed his talent, prostituted it. It would have been better if he had let it die.”

“Look, Hank, as long as we do anything we don't want to do, for money, security, or whatever you wish to call it... I mean, you're working at a job you don't especially like now. Advertising is just a way of earning a buck for me... aren't we being whores? I think Matt knew exactly what he was doing: knew he could only be a good hack writer and nothing more.”