“I want to discharge him.”
Judge Polk looked at Newberry. “You want to withdraw from the case?”
“I withdraw from the case. I have withdrawn. I do withdraw. I don’t want any more to do with it.”
Judge Polk sighed. “Very well,” he said, “the order will be granted. The defendant will act for himself in propria persona.
“Now then, Mr. Calhoun, do you wish to put on another witness?”
“Call Colburn Hale,” I whispered.
Calhoun looked at me, then looked at the indignant back of Newberry who was stalking out of the courtroom.
“I’ll call Colburn Hale as my first witness,” he said.
While Colburn Hale came limping forward and held up his right hand as though his entire body hurt, Calhoun whispered, “What the devil do I ask him?”
“Sit down beside me,” I said, “and ask the questions as I feed them to you.”
I whispered to Calhoun, while Hale was giving his name, address and occupation to the clerk, “Make your questions as short as possible and encourage him to do the talking.
“Now, your first question is whether or not he ever saw the gun, People’s Exhibit B. Hand the gun to him and ask him if he ever saw it, and if he says, ‘Yes,’ ask him when was the last time he saw it. Encourage the guy to talk.”
Calhoun was as awkward as a man trying to water-ski for the first time. He floundered around and said to the clerk, “Please show this witness the gun and I want to ask him if he ever saw that gun before.”
“What is the object of this?” Judge Polk asked.
Calhoun looked at me.
I said, “We want to find out how the gun got into that field.”
Calhoun passed my comment on to the judge.
“Very well,” Judge. Polk said. “I think that is probably a legitimate part of the defense, since the prosecution has made a point of it. Let the witness answer the question.”
“I have seen the gun before,” Hale said.
“Where? How? When? And what happened to it? When did it leave his possession?” I asked Calhoun.
“When did you see it?”
“I saw it — well, I guess it was about the seventeenth.”
“How did you get it?”
“Nanncie Beaver gave it to me. She told me that—”
“Just a minute,” Roberts said. We object to any conversation between the witness and Nanncie Beaver.”
“Sustained,” Judge Polk said.
“When did you last have the gun?” Calhoun asked.
“I lost it on the evening of the nineteenth.”
“How did you lose it?”
“Puggy took it from me.”
Calhoun looked at me.
“Who’s Puggy?” I whispered to him.
“Who’s Puggy?” he asked. “Tell me all about it.”
Hale said, “I was on the track of this dope shipment. I had this gun. I was following the dope shipment up from San Felipe. I thought I was being smart.
“I didn’t know there was a tail car behind me. When we got almost to where the La Puerta road turns off, this tail car closed in on me and crowded me to the side the road. Then the pickup with the houseboat trail stopped.
“The man who was driving the tail car was evidently a pugilist, because the other guy called him Puggy started working me over. I tried to pull the gun on and the man from the dope car — I guess that was Ed Sutton — had me covered and said, ‘Get your hands up, or your brains will get smattered all over the side of your car.”’
I nudged Calhoun. “Tell him to go on.”
“Go on,” Calhoun said.
I whispered to Calhoun, “Every time he stops talking, just tell him, ‘Go on.’ ”
Calhoun nodded.
“Well,” Hale said, “they really worked me over. That’s where I got this shiner, and I got a bloody nose and a cut lip. There was blood all over my shirt and I was pretty much of a mess by the time they got done with me.”
“Go on,” Calhoun said.
“They got me down and they kicked me and really gave me a beating. Then they put me in my car, tied me up with some kind of a thin, strong cord, sort of like a fishing line — that is, a heavy fishing line — and they drove me down the side road, put a gag in my mouth, parked the car and said, ‘Now, stay there, you smart son of a bitch. That’ll teach you to interfere in things that don’t concern you.’ ”
“Go on,” Calhoun said.
“They took the gun. The man called Puggy took the gun.”
“Go on,” Calhoun said.
“Well, that’s all of it,” Hale went on, “except the fact that about — I don’t know — seven o’clock in the morning — eight o’clock, I guess, this very fine Mexican gentleman by the name of José Chapalla came along and saw my car by the side of the road. He stopped to take a look and saw me tied and gagged and he untied the ropes and took the gag out of my mouth. I was about half dead by that time, and José Chapalla took me to his home and they gave me coffee and some eggs and tortillas and then I went to sleep, and then José took me back to my car and after a long while I drove away. I started for Mexicali and got as far as a roadside restaurant where I went in to get some beer, and that’s where Donald Lam and Nanncie Beaver found me.”
“Ask him if he’s sore and stiff,” I said.
“Are you sore and stiff?” Calhoun asked.
“Of course I am! My ribs are just about caved in. I’m more sore now than I was the day of the beating. I not only have this black eye, but I’m afraid my ribs are cracked.”
“Tell him to show us the bruises,” I whispered to Calhoun.
“Can you show us the bruises?” Calhoun asked.
Hale pointed to his eye.
“On his ribs, on his sides, on his torso,” I said.
“The other bruises,” Calhoun said. “Where are they?”
Hale put a hand tenderly to his side. “All over.”
“Show us,” I said.
“Show us,” Calhoun echoed.
“What do you mean, show you?” Hale demanded.
“Pull up your shirt,” I whispered.
“Pull up your shirt,” Calhoun echoed.
Hale looked at us and suddenly there was panic in his eyes. “I am not going to disrobe here in public,” he said.
“Just show us a bruise,” I whispered. “Show us a bruise on your arm. Show us a bruise anywhere on your torso — just one single bruise — one black-and-blue mark.”
Calhoun stammered, “Show us your body, anything that’s black and blue.”
“I don’t have to,” Hale said.
Calhoun seemed to be at an impasse.
“Tell him he’s a liar,” I said. “Tell him he can’t show a single bruise, that he hasn’t got a spot on his body. Ask that the Court appoint a doctor to examine him.”
Calhoun ran his fingers through his hair and said, “How about having a doctor make an examination, Your Honor? This man hasn’t got a bruise on his body.”
“He’d have to have,” Judge Polk said.
“He’s lying,” Calhoun said.
“Wait a minute,” Roberts said. “You can’t impeach your own witness. I don’t like to be technical with a man who is putting on his own defense, but we have to protect the rights of the people. He can’t impeach his own witness.”
I said, “Ask the judge if he wants to get at the truth in the case.”
Calhoun was good that time. He said. “Does Your Honor want to get at the truth of this case or not?”
Judge Polk looked at the uncomfortable Colburn Hale and hesitated.
“Just a minute,” Roberts said. “Who’s trying this case? What does this private detective think he’s trying to do? Donald Lam isn’t an attorney. He doesn’t appear in the case. He has no standing in court.”
It was too much for Hale. He jumped out of the witness chair and scurried like a rabbit for the side door of the courtroom.
“Stop that man!” Judge Polk yelled at the bailiff.