“And how do the minds of juries work?”
“They work like this: Here’s this guy Dupaul, a bad apple, a two-time loser — look what happened up at Attica the other day. Last time they had a riot up there forty-three guys got killed. Riots are bad things; any guy starting one ought to be shot. What’s the judge saying? Don’t pay any attention to the riot and him starting it? What’s the judge saying? The guy isn’t charged with the riot, just with another murder eight years ago? Well, hell, sure he’s guilty! Any guy who would start a riot at a place like Attica must be a mad dog; ought to hang. I vote guilty.”
Coughlin pointed his finger around the room, stabbing it toward imaginary jurors.
“Me, too! Me, too! Me, too!”
He stared across the desk, his hand falling beside him.
“That’s the way the minds of juries work, Mr. Ross, nine times out of ten. And we both know it.”
Ross’s face was expressionless. “Anything else?”
“I think you have the picture,” Coughlin said. “Your turn.” He leaned back.
“Then let me ask you a few questions. Any objections?”
“None.” It was apparent that Coughlin did not lack confidence.
“Good. First of all, then, where were you — physically — when you were watching this baseball game?”
“On the south wall.”
“With the guards there? In one of the towers?”
“No. Over the athletic field. The field is located between the south wall and the main cell block, with the shops and the power plant and the hospital and rec building around it like sort of half an H. Anyway, over the athletic field, maybe halfway along the wall between towers, they’ve built a little sort of press box mounted down from the top of the wall a bit. A spectator box would be a better word for it; I guess they don’t get many reporters at their sports events. It’s for visitors, or off-duty guards, or anyone else who wants to watch a game and has the clearance to sit there.”
“And you have clearance?”
Coughlin looked at Ross as if this was a question beneath the intelligence of the other. Ross returned the stare imperturably. Coughlin shrugged.
“Of course.”
“Were there any other visitors there at the time? Any off-duty guards watching? Or were you there alone?”
“I was alone. Oh, the warden came by and said hello, but that was before the game started. They were at batting practice when he was there. All little angels. But I was up there alone when the game started.”
“How about on the field itself during the game? Any non-convicts? Who umpires the games, by the way? Other convicts? Trustees?”
“Guards,” Coughlin said emphatically. “They used to have prisoners as umpires — trustees — but the story is that after one bum call, or anyway one unpopular call, that trustee wandered into the Yard after lunch and was ganged up on. Damn near killed. Now they use guards.” He smiled humorously, his huge teeth showing. “The men can’t hate umpires more than they already hate screws.”
“I see. And who coaches the ball club? Or ball clubs? Do they have more than one team?”
“Well, sure. You ever try to play ball with just one team? They have a regular league. Six thousand men at Attica, remember.”
“And who runs the league? Who schedules the games, handles the equipment, things like that? Other guards?”
“Father Swiaki handles the whole sports program. He’s the prison chaplain. Remember Swiaki? All-American from Holy Cross about ’65 or ’66? A fabulous tackle.”
Ross disregarded Father Swiaki’s credentials.
“Was Father Swiaki present at the time of the game? And the disturbance?”
“You mean the so-called disturbance. The Maypole dance. Sure,” Coughlin said. “But he was sitting on the bench. I could see him.” He paused, leaned forward significantly, and added, “You can’t see a thing from field level. You sure can’t judge a ball from a strike sitting on the bench. That’s why I get such a kick out of a manager charging from the dugout and screaming about a call. Hell, he’s lucky he can see the batter’s shoes from there!”
“But you can see clearly from the spectator’s box?”
“Clear as a bell,” Coughlin said smugly.
“And what did Father Swiaki do during the riot? According to you, the so-called riot?”
“What could he do? Oh, he was out there trying to separate guys, but it was a joke. Like I’m trying to tell you it was a plant, a fake. It wasn’t a real riot. Five will get you ten nobody got a scratch in that Maypole dance!”
“I’m not a betting man.” Ross picked up a pencil idly; he looked from the pencil to Coughlin’s face. “All right. I’ve got the scene. Now, tell me about the ball game itself.”
“I told you. Dupaul purposely threw four straight balls to a klutz like Ryan to give the men a chance to yammer, and they did. And that was the cover-up for the escape try. Clear?”
“Clear enough,” Ross said. “In your story — or rather, the story you passed on to a staffer on the Mirror and for which you got no credit — did you mention your suspicion that the riot had been staged?”
“It was no suspicion.”
“Whatever it was. Did you mention it?”
“Who, me?” Coughlin assumed an innocent air, but there was a faint smile on his face. “And open myself up to a possible libel suit? Or — even worse — find myself testifying to that effect in court? Not a chance. Oh, I may have said that an unidentified guard claimed it as a possibility, but that’s about all.” He paused significantly. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here doing you this favor.”
Ross nodded. He put his pencil aside and leaned back in his swivel chair, his hands behind his head, studying the confident figure across from him. He seemed to come to a conclusion and brought his hands down, straightening up.
“All right, Mr. Coughlin. Let me see if I understand you correctly. According to you, you are the sole reliable witness as to what occurred yesterday on the athletic field at Attica Prison. The guards on the field were in no position to properly judge the pitching — other than the umpire, who agrees with you — and Father Swiaki was on the bench, which is also a poor place for proper observation. And the prisoners in the bleachers, of course, would have been in on the plan. Correct?”
“You’re doing fine, Counselor.”
“Now,” Ross continued, “if I also understand you correctly, what you saw at the ball game clearly indicated that Billy Dupaul threw four balls purposely for the purpose of giving an excuse for the riot that followed, and in which three men, including a guard, died. This testimony, in your opinion, would be very detrimental to Billy Dupaul’s chances in his pending murder trial. Am I still correct?”
“Right on,” Coughlin said, and nodded his head, as one would to encourage a bright child in a recitation.
“All right,” Ross said. “You are also willing, I gather — for a price to be determined — to go on the witness stand in court and, according to your statement here today, perjure yourself and state that William Dupaul pitched both honestly and well, but that Dupaul was the victim of poor umpiring. I assume as a sports reporter you could qualify as an expert. Therefore, Dupaul would be innocent of any part in the escape attempt, and therefore of any culpability in the death of the prison guard. Is that substantially it?”
“Mr. Ross!” Coughlin looked shocked, but the pose was transparent. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. “If you should really have a tape recorder going—”
“I don’t.”
“—I would simply like to go on record as saying I suggested no such thing! I would never perjure myself on the witness stand. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I’m really not stupid.”