Chapter 17
Testimony
They were sworn at ten to seven.
There was no Bible. White said that he had thought of one and decided against it. He said that the people in the room were past the point where a book would help. Instead, a card slid out of the oak in front of each of them, white, with a single line printed in the middle, and he asked them to read it aloud.
I will tell the whole truth, including the part that costs me.
"I will tell the whole truth," said Tom Rudd, "including the part that costs me."
"I will," said Frank, hoarsely.
"I will," said Ivy.
Daniel looked at the card for a long moment. It was a plain thing. It was a card, in a plain font, on an old oak table, and he had held a hundred like it in a hundred offices, over a hundred claims. He read it aloud. His voice did not shake. It occurred to him that this was because there was nothing left in him to make it shake.
"Thank you," said White. "Please sit. The court notes that the oath was taken. It is six-fifty-one. I would remind all witnesses that the record is being kept, and that it will be read, in due course, by people who were not here. They will be strangers. I should ask you to speak to them." A paper turned. "I do not propose to question you. I will say only go on."
Tom went first.
He did it standing. They had not asked him to. He got to his feet, a big gray man in a crumpled security uniform, with his cap in both hands, and stood at the side of the table with his eyes on the ceiling, as a man stands in a church to read a lesson. He told it in about five minutes. He told it very simply, in his slow deep voice, and when he had finished it was exactly as he had told it in the kitchen, and not one word had changed.
"I was the bailiff. I was told a woman was on a phone. I did not check. I took her out." He swallowed. "I said, This way, please. I have said it to a great many people. I have never said it to anyone since."
"Thank you, Mr. Rudd," said White.
"I'd like to add."
"Please."
"I'd like to say I'm sorry. To Mrs. Hale." He was looking at nothing. "I know she's, I know it's no use. But it ought to be on the record. That I said it. To somebody."
"It is on the record."
"Thank you," said Tom, and sat down, and put his face in his hands.
Frank took longer.
He did not stand. He sat with both forearms on the oak and his big knuckly hands clasped in front of him, and he did not look at any of them. His face had grown very gray in the night. There were pouches under his eyes like bags of sand. When he began, it was in the flat dry voice of a policeman reading from a notebook.
"I was the lead detective in State against Lowe. I interviewed Ray Dunn on the twenty-ninth of October. I took him to the lineup on the second of November. I stood beside him." He drew a breath. "I took his arm. I said, take your time. I squeezed. He picked the man I wanted."
"Go on."
"I did not think it was a lie. I want that in. I believed it. I thought, he's a, a nervous man, he's seen something, he needs, he needs a nudge." The flat voice cracked. "That's what I told myself. For nine years. It's what I told the board."
"And the other thing?"
Frank's face did not change. But his hands, on the table, closed slowly. The knuckles stood up like a row of small white stones.
"The week before the trial," he said, "the defense lawyer's investigator came to see me. A young woman. She'd been to the chess club. She had a scoresheet. She said it was a, it was the alibi. It showed the defendant at the tournament till, till the last move. Eleven fifty-two."
Nobody moved.
"I took it. I said I'd look into it. I said I'd check the times with the club's secretary." He did not raise his voice. "I didn't. I called the prosecutor. A woman named Fox. She said, Frank, it's a distraction. A guy can be at a chess club at eleven and be on Pike Road at, he can drive. He's got twelve minutes."
"It was twelve miles," said Daniel.
"I know."
"It's twelve miles from the club to Pike Road. I looked. I looked it up, afterward. It's a twenty-five minute drive. At night. With no traffic."
"I know that," said Frank.
His eyes were closed.
"I knew it then. I'm a, I'd driven it. I'd driven it that week. I did it twice. I did it with a stopwatch, in my car, on a Sunday, because I wanted to be sure. It was twenty-four minutes." The voice shook. "And I said, to myself, well, he might have been faster. And I went into the courthouse on the Sunday evening. The defense had left its boxes on the clerk's counter. Nobody was there. I opened the one marked Fourteen. I took the sheet out of its folder."
"What did you do with it?"
"I walked down the hall."
"Which hall?"
"The one with the tiles." A thin, sick smile. "I thought, I'll put it in the shredder, in the clerk's office. And I couldn't. I got as far as the door. It was locked. And there was nobody, and it was nearly dark, and I thought, I'll put it somewhere, I'll deal with it tomorrow. There was a door on my right. It was the jury room. It was open. They'd been in on Friday, to set up the chairs. I went in. There was a cabinet, by the water fountain. I opened the, the third drawer. I put it in, under the forms. And I shut it."
The room had gone perfectly still.
"I meant to come back," said Frank. "I did. I thought, I'll fetch it Monday, when the court's sitting. And then it was a, I was on the stand all Monday. And the jury went in on Wednesday, and I couldn't. And then it was Thursday. And then it was, they came out. And they'd said guilty. And I thought, thank God." His voice was a whisper. "I thought, it's over. I can leave it."
"You left it in the jury room."
"For nine years."
"With the forms," said Daniel.
He had not meant to speak. It came out of him thin and strange, like a voice from a long way down. He was staring at the old man, and Frank, slowly, as if drawn by a string, turned his head and looked back. His eyes were red and enormous, and wet, and empty.
"What?" said Frank.
"The third drawer. The cabinet by the fountain." Daniel's lips were stiff. "Under the verdict forms."
Frank did not answer.
"Nine years ago," said White, softly. "On the ninth of March, at five minutes past four in the afternoon. It is in the testimony, I think, of one of our witnesses."
They were all looking at Daniel.
It was a very strange feeling. He had been looked at, in the last days, a good deal. He had been looked at with fear, and suspicion, and pity. He had never been looked at like this. It was a long, level, patient look, from three faces, in an old yellow room, and there was nothing in it at all but waiting.
He stood up.
He did it slowly, with his hand on the back of the chair. He was aware of the water stain, in the ceiling, over his head. He was aware of the white king, standing upright on its black cloth, where somebody had set it. He was aware, from a long way off, of his ribs, and the small hot pain that went with every breath, and a pulse hammering in his ankle. They seemed to belong to somebody else.
"I am Daniel Wells," he said.
"I'm forty-one. I investigate insurance claims." He cleared his throat. "Nine years ago I was the foreman of the jury in State against Lowe."
"For the record," said White.
"I'd like to tell it in order."
"Please."
"I'd like to say first that I'm not going to try to make it sound better than it was. I've tried. I've done it in my head, for a long time. I'm very good at it. I could do it now. I could tell you about my wife, and I'd have you all in tears." His voice was dry. "I'd like to try not to."
He put both hands flat on the oak.
"On the third day of deliberations a juror asked for a piece of paper. She asked politely. It was Exhibit Fourteen, the, the chess club sheets. It was on the index. It wasn't in the box. I said it wasn't evidence. It wasn't. I said it didn't matter."
"Did you believe that?"
"No," said Daniel.
It came out plainly.
"I thought it mattered a great deal. I'm not a stupid man. I could see it, the way she was looking at it. She didn't want the sheet, she wanted the time. She wanted to know where he was. If he was somewhere else, he couldn't have been on the road." He drew a breath. "I thought, if it's what she thinks it is, there's a doubt. And if there's a doubt, there's a day. And a day, and, and the clerk will come, and Helen will be called, and the club owner, and it'll be next week."
"And your wife."
"I had a wife. She was, they'd said days. They'd said, you should be with her."
"I know," said White, very gently.
"I wrote nothing. I put the note in my pocket. I said I'd take it. I didn't." He paused. "On the fourth morning, she said she'd ask the judge herself. And I said she was on the phone. I said it to Tom. It was a lie. I invented it in the corridor, in about three seconds, and I'd like to say that I felt it. I didn't. I didn't feel anything. It was like putting a coin in a machine."
Tom Rudd bowed his head.
"They took her out. Greg came in. We voted. It was a quarter to four." He moved his hand, a very little, on the wood. "And I went to the cabinet, there, by the fountain. To get the form. It was in the third drawer. We'd been shown. A clerk with a cold had shown us, on the first day. Forms are here. Don't lose them."
Frank had lifted his head. His mouth was open.
"I opened it. I took out the top form. It was yellow. It was MC-J-417." He spoke very evenly, as one speaks in a dream. "It was a thick drawer. It was full of blank forms. There was a folder, under them. A manila one. It had a label. It was written in a woman's hand, in blue. It said, Ex. 14. DEF. Not admitted."
Nobody breathed.
"I took it out."
He saw it. He had not let himself see it for nine years, and now he saw it as clearly as the table. A manila folder, soft with handling, on a strip of green felt, in the light of the old strip. It had a coffee ring on it. It had a bit of tape, curling. He had stood in the jury room with his coat on his arm and the other eleven waiting, and he had put his thumb under the cover.
"It was a scoresheet. It was printed, in a grid. It had two players' names at the top. M. Lowe, White. And a name that I didn't know. It had the moves, in pencil, in two columns. They were small and neat. And at the bottom, there was a, a space for the time." His voice sank. "It said, Result: 1-0. It said Checkmate. And in the margin, in a different hand, in ink, someone had written the time that the game was over."
"What time?" said White.
"Eleven fifty-two."
Ivy made a small noise.
"It was initialed. By both players. And by the, by a tournament director. And a stamp. It had the club's stamp." He swallowed. "I stood there. I looked at it for about a minute. And I did the sum. I did it in my head. Eleven fifty-two. Twelve miles. Twenty-four minutes."
"You knew."
"I knew he couldn't have done it," said Daniel.
The room did not move.
"I want that in," he said. "Not that I thought so. I knew. It was, I could see it, as clearly as I can see you. A man who finishes a game at eleven fifty-two, twelve miles from Pike Road, with a hundred people watching and three signatures, can't have hit a girl at eleven-forty. It's not a, there's no doubt. It's not even close."
"And you put it back."
"I put it back."
"Why?"
"Because it was four-ten," said Daniel.
He heard his voice break. It was a harsh, cracked, awful sound, and he did nothing to stop it. "Because it was four-ten, and they'd voted, and I'd already, they were all standing there in their coats. They'd said it. It was done. It was twelve-nothing. And I thought, if I show this, I have to say that I've had it. I'd have to say I'd, that it was in the drawer all along, that I'd, that I'd sent a woman out of the, that she'd asked. I'd have to say I lied." He took a breath. "And my wife was in a bed. And the whole thing would start again."
"So you signed."
"I took the form. I put the folder back under the others. I closed the drawer." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I took out a pen. I wrote my name. I did it standing up. I wasn't, I wasn't even angry. I was so tired. I thought, there are people who'll deal with it. There are appeals. There's a system."
"And?"
"And there wasn't."
He stopped.
It was very quiet. The strip hummed. Someone was weeping, softly, at the end of the table, and he did not look to see who. He looked at the white king, which stood in front of him, with its small thin cross, on its black square.
"I'd like to say the rest," he said.
"Please."
"I went to the hospital. I told my wife that it was a good jury. She asked me if they'd been kind. I said they were." A thin ghost of a laugh. "She said, Was there anyone who wasn't? I thought about it. I thought, there's one. She was kinder than any of them. And I said, No."
"And then?"
"And then she died. On the Tuesday. I was holding her hand." His voice was steady now. "I was in the chair. I'd got there at six. She had a sort of, she woke up. She looked at me. She said, Did you do the right thing?"
He could not go on.
For a moment the whole of the room seemed to hold its breath. Then, in the stillness, from the head of the oak table, from the chair that had been Greg's, came a voice that was low and rough and unlike any he'd heard from it.
"What did you say?" said Tom Rudd.
"I said yes."
Nobody spoke.
"I said yes," said Daniel. "It was the last thing I told her. And she smiled. And she, she said, I knew you would." He closed his eyes. "She died about an hour later."
He told the rest in ten minutes.
It was not a long story. It was a plain, gray, unfurnished sort of story, a story of a man who had been busy. He told how he'd gone back to work the next month. He told how he'd read about the appeal in the paper, in the second year, a small paragraph, on page nine. Lowe's attorneys argue that a document favorable to the defense was never provided to the jury. How he had read it in a diner, over a plate of eggs, with his daughter in a high chair beside him, and put down the paper, and finished the eggs.
"I thought, someone else will say. I thought, I'm not the only person who knows."
"You were," said White.
"I know that now."
"Please go on."
He told how, in the fourth year, he had heard that Lowe was dead. It had been a news item, three lines, in the local section, under a picture of a dog. He had stood at the counter in the kitchen, and read the three lines twice. Then he'd taken a very sharp knife, and cut the item out of the paper, and put it in his wallet.
"And in the fifth?" said White.
"She died."
"Who?"
"Mrs. Hale." It was strange to say it. It was like saying a name in a language he had never learned. "I saw it in the paper. A small notice. Margaret Hale, retired teacher, beloved wife of Walter. It gave the, it said the funeral was at two, at St. Anselm's."
"You came," said White.
Daniel opened his eyes.
"I saw you," said the voice. It was very quiet. "I was in the front pew. I was alone. I did not look round. But I have good ears, Mr. Wells. A man stood in the doorway for the whole of the service. I heard him breathe. I heard him come in, and I heard him go out, before the hymn. And I knew, from the weight of the step, who it was."
"How?"
"Because I had been listening to it on the stairs for four days."
Daniel put his hand to his mouth.
"You did not speak," said White. "You did not sit. You did not come to the house. I waited. I thought, he'll write. I thought he will, a person who comes to a funeral must have something to say." There was no reproach in it at all. "You sent a card. It was a plain white card. It said, With sympathy."
"I'm so, I know."
"You signed it D. Wells."
"I couldn't, I couldn't think what else."
"It is what you signed the form," said White.
He could not look at them. He stood at the head of the table with his hands over his face, and the strip light buzzing, and the voice in the ceiling, calm and tired and without anger, said, "Go on, Mr. Wells. You have almost finished."
He took his hands down.
"I kept the note," he said.
"I know."
"I don't know why. I mean I do. It was the one honest thing I could do. I couldn't throw it away, because that'd be, that was another lie, and I'd done enough. And I couldn't, I couldn't give it. So I put it in a tin. I put it where I could always find it." His voice was a whisper. "I thought of it every day. I thought of it every night. And I told myself I'd say. Tomorrow. Next week. When June was older. When I'd saved up. When it wasn't spring." He laughed, a dreadful, breathless little sound. "I've been saying tomorrow for nine years. I've got a very good reason for every single one."
"Yes," said White. "I know."
"And then you came. And I said, I don't know what you mean. I said it to Helen. I said it to Greg. I said it, I lied, in this room, three times, when a man was dying."
"Four."
"What?"
"You lied to Mr. Dunn," said White. "In the cage. When he said that he thought he had put an innocent man away. You looked at him, and you said, You did what you could."
Daniel could not remember it.
"It does not matter," said White, kindly. "It was a kindness."
"I'd like to, I'd like to say one more thing."
"Say it."
"I can't tell you I'd do it differently." He lifted his head. His face was wet, and gray, and steady. "I want to. I'd like to say, if I could, I'd go back, and I'd send that note. I think I would. I think I'd take it down the hall." He swallowed. "But I was thirty-two, and she was dying, and I didn't know. I can't swear. I've tried, I've tried so hard. I can't tell you I wouldn't."
"Thank you," said White.
"That's the worst of it."
"It is the truth."
"It's the worst of the truth."
"It is generally," said White, "the worst."
He sat down.
His legs gave under him. He fell into the head chair as if his strings had been cut. He sat with his hands between his knees, and his head bowed, and the room tilted round him in a slow gray wheel. He could not hear anything. He could only hear, a very long way off, the sound of a person breathing out.
It was Ivy who moved first.
He did not see her stand. He saw only a pair of white sneakers, and the hem of a pair of blue scrubs, coming round the end of the long oak table. They came toward him, slowly. They stopped. He raised his eyes.
She was standing in front of him, a yard away, white as a candle. She had stopped crying. Her face was stiff and drawn, with two deep shadows under the eyes, and in it, clearly, there was no forgiveness. There was nothing so simple. There was a sort of vast, stunned, incredulous emptiness, like the face of someone who has run toward a door for a very long time, and has opened it, and found a wall.
"He was winning," said Ivy.
"I know."
"It was a checkmate. He'd, it says so. He gave mate. At eleven fifty-two. He was playing a game." Her voice was a small hoarse thread. "I know the game. I've seen it. I've seen it in, he used to show me. He'd set it up on the table. He used to say, this is the best one I ever played. It's got a, there's a knight."
"I'm sorry."
"There's a knight that comes in from the side. Nobody sees it. And it's mate."
"Ivy."
"It was in the drawer," said Ivy.
She was shaking, very slightly, from head to foot. She did not raise her voice. "It was in the drawer. For nine years. He was dead, and my mother was dead, and I was in a home in a, I had four, and it was in a, it was in a drawer. And you opened it. You had it in your hand." She drew a breath. "You read it."
"Yes."
"Say you're sorry."
"I'm sorry."
"Say it again."
"I'm so sorry."
She hit him.
It was not hard. It was a small, sharp, open-handed slap, across the cheek, and it made a sound like a clap. He did not move. He sat with his head turned a little to one side, and felt the sting spread slowly across his skin. She stood over him. Her chest heaved. Her hand was still raised. She looked at it, as if it belonged to someone else.
Then she sat down on the floor.
She sat suddenly, with her back against the leg of the table, and drew up her knees and put her arms round them. She laid her forehead on her wrists. She said nothing. She did not cry. She only sat, like a child at the end of a long day, and rocked, very slightly, backward and forward.
After a time, Tom Rudd got up, and went round the table, and took off his gray uniform jacket, and laid it round her shoulders.
Nobody said anything. In the long yellow room, the reels of the old machine were still. A pale green light burned on the table. On the wall, the clock, which ran too fast, marked off the seconds in small impatient ticks, and in the speaker in the ceiling there was a silence that was longer, and deeper, than any he had yet heard.
"The record is complete," said White.
He said it so softly that they hardly knew it was speech.
"I have been waiting for that for nine years. I should like to say that I did not expect to feel anything. I find that I do." A very small pause. "I should like to thank the witnesses. I think it was well done."
Nobody answered.
"It is five minutes to seven. The court will sit in Courtroom Two at seven o'clock. I should be obliged if the witnesses would walk." The old voice was level again, and tired. "It is forty steps, as you know. I think you will find that some of them are rather different from what you remember."
The little drawer in the cabinet by the water fountain slid open, without a sound.
It was the third one. It slid out, a full ten inches, like a tongue. In it, on a pile of yellow forms, in the dust of nine years, lay a flat manila folder with a coffee ring on its cover and a curl of old tape at the corner.
Ex. 14. DEF. Not admitted.
It was not the folder that made him cold. It was the thing that lay beside it. It was small and white and new, and it had been set down with great care, exactly in the middle of the drawer, as one sets a thing on a table that one has been waiting to give.
It was a chess piece. It was a white knight, carved from wood, worn smooth at the top by someone's thumb.