Dominguez stood and objected. Roscoe dropped his face into his waiting fingers and rubbed his eyes and forehead.
“He was trying to revive her,” Semnacher said.
“Would the court please instruct Mr. Semnacher to only answer the question?” U’Ren said. “He is not here to speak on Mr. Arbuckle’s intentions.”
Through his loose fingers, Roscoe watched U’Ren turn to the courtroom. He leaned a skinny arm against the witness stand, looking as loose and disjointed as a scarecrow. He peered up into the ladies hanging over the balcony railing and for a second gave a little grin. A confident batter at the plate.
“At what time did you hear Mrs. Delmont screaming for Mr. Arbuckle to open the door to room 1219?”
“I didn’t hear her scream.”
“Mr. Semnacher?”
“I don’t recall her screaming.”
“Surely you heard her banging on the door with the heel of her shoe?”
“That’s not what I recall.”
“Are you having memory problems, sir?”
“The mind is a funny thing.”
“Some minds are funnier than others.”
U’Ren paced back and forth in front of Judge Lazarus. Judge Lazarus followed the little lawyer with his eyes, never moving his big jaw from his hand. U’Ren walked back to the prosecutor’s table and exchanged whispers with the district attorney, Judge Brady. Judge Brady stood and walked to the railing, leaned over, and whispered something to the Delmont woman.
Maude Delmont, dressed all in black, nodded her head and wiped her nose with a handkerchief. Roscoe looked to Dominguez and Dominguez raised his eyebrows, hands resting on his large stomach waiting to see what was about to be sprung.
“Is it not true that you left the party with Miss Rappe’s undergarments? Her brassiere, bloomers, and garters?”
“I fished a waistcoat from the trash bin.”
“For what purpose?”
“I planned on joshing her later about her condition.”
“Did you not tell Mrs. Delmont, the very person who accompanied you to the Arbuckle suite, that you needed the clothing to wash your machine? Which was it?”
Women laughed. Lazarus stopped the court and spoke for a while, and U’Ren asked the question again. Al Semnacher leaned forward from the witness stand and cleared his throat, speaking loud enough for the ladies in the balcony.
“Maude Delmont is a known liar,” he said.
MAUDE DELMONT GASPED, closed her eyes, and pretended to faint. Kate Eisenhart caught her and hoisted her into her big lap, tapping Maude’s hand over and over and calling her name. Women craned their necks and whispered, and policewoman Kate Eisenhart told the lot of them to get back as she picked up Maude Delmont, threw her over a shoulder, and walked her from the courtroom like a big-game prize. As she walked, Maude opened one eye and looked back at Semnacher on the stand.
That bastard. That lousy prick.
Big Kate took her down the steps and out the front door of the Hall of Justice and told them newspapermen if they took one snap, she’d kick ’em all in the balls. She yelled for a glass of water, fanning Maude Delmont’s face and unpinning the wide-brimmed black hat. Maude fluttered her eyes open and then closed them again.
“Maude?”
She opened her eyes and righted herself on the granite steps, looking out on Portsmouth Square.
“That horrible man,” Kate said.
“The heat is awful,” Maude said. “All this black.”
Kate had a copy of the Examiner she’d plucked from the hands of a curious newsboy and waved it high up and down, breezing Maude’s face. A cup of water was placed in Maude’s hand and she stood.
“He can’t make up those things,” Kate said. “Not in this town, he can’t.”
“Movie people are all alike,” Maude said. “I’m never returning south. It’s a place without shame or a conscience.”
Kate shared a smile with her. The midday sun was a burning white. “Could you please call me a cab?” Maude asked.
Kate disappeared. Maude waited at the foot of the steps of the Hall of Justice for several minutes until Al Semnacher skipped down them, a mongrel group of newsmen at his heels. He tipped his bowler hat at Maude and there were pictures taken.
“I see you’ve made arrangements,” she said.
“How are things at the Palace? Heard the St. Francis kicked you out.”
Maude turned her head away. “I had my luggage moved to the Palace. The accommodations are much more to my liking.”
Al laughed. “Luggage? The only luggage you ever carry is a fresh set of bloomers in your pocketbook.”
Maude leapt at his throat, black hat rolling from her head, dropping her pocketbook and reaching her fingers around Al Semnacher’s skinny neck, trying to wring it like a chicken. His glasses were knocked off and Al fell to his back, swearing and cussing and calling her a nasty whore, and she kneed him in the balls and slapped him across the face until she felt a big arm reach around her waist and pull her back, the sweet voice of Big Kate telling her that her cab had come.
“Mrs. Delmont, are you okay?”
Maude put her hand to her chest and just breathed. “I have no idea what came over me.”
12
Sam walked with Dominguez up Kearny Street away from the Palace Hotel and toward the Hall of Justice. It was the second Monday since the Arbuckle party and the third day with Judge Lazarus and police court, and Frank Dominguez said he wouldn’t bet heads or tails which way the judge was leaning. The fog had burned off in the early-morning heat and Sam got a nice breath going, trying to pace out his answers so as not to sound winded to the fat attorney. He wore tweed pants and a tweed vest with a white shirt Jose had boiled for him, a cap and laced boots.
“How solid is your information?” Dominguez asked.
“Solid.”
“You want to tell me where you got it?”
“I’d rather not,” Sam said. “If it’s all the same with you.”
“U’Ren and Brady are putting up three docs today,” Dominguez said, not winded a bit, taking the hill, the talk, and a big cigar in easy stride. “All three will testify that the girl’s bladder burst from external force.”
“Rumwell?”
“Not Rumwell,” Dominguez said. “One doc who performed the autopsy with Rumwell at Wakefield, one fella, a Dr. Strange, who performed the second autopsy for the county, and a doctor who treated her at the St. Francis.”
“What does the county man say?”
“I haven’t seen his official report yet,” Dominguez said. “I was told it was still being typed up and I’d have ample time to question the man in court.”
“For some reason, I don’t think Brady is going to bring up the missing parts.”
“And I don’t want to look like a fool for asking unless we’re sure.”
“We’re sure,” Sam said.
Bankers, lawyers, and businessmen of all types flowed down the hill, walking past Dominguez and Sam in their buttoned-up coats and waxed mustaches, heavy leather satchels in hand. Two streetcars passed each other on Kearny, electricity sparking off the wires.
“Think this could be enough to throw out the case?” Sam asked.
Dominguez puffed on his cigar, lengthening his strides, cresting the hill at Portsmouth Square. A crowd had gathered on the front steps of the Halls of Justice. Dominguez clicked open a gold timepiece that hung on his waist.
“I don’t believe we’ll get a murder indictment,” Dominguez said. “I think that Lazarus will rubber-stamp the grand jury decision for manslaughter. Probably tomorrow.”
“And we prepare for real court.”
Dominguez puffed more on the cigar and squinted his eyes in the smoke.
“I’ll need you to go to Los Angeles,” Dominguez said. “Miss Durfee spoke to you about what she learned in Chicago about the girl?”
“Some,” Sam said. “But I can’t leave the city. My wife’s about to burst in a week or two. Really, anytime.”
“I can make sure you’re compensated, Sam. A new family needs money.”