“How do you know?” the prosecutor asked. “We always hear that.”
“I know,” she said flatly.
The prosecutor looked at her curiously. It was natural for a sister to protest her brother’s innocence. But something in her manner pointed to definite knowledge of some sort. Her chin was up and her mouth was clamped tight. He asked mildly, “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Is there any reason I should?”
He was not annoyed at her hostility. She was right to view him with suspicion. From her viewpoint he meant her brother no good. “Do you think I’d take advantage of any information you might give me?”
Her shrug was answer enough.
“Do the police know your brother?”
“Not especially.”
“Did I ever meet your brother before Saturday?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Then what makes you think he means anything to me?” he demanded.
“I’ve got nothing to tell you,” she said firmly.
“I think you do,” he said sharply. “You’ve got something on your mind. Why not spill it?”
“How do I know how you’ll use it?”
He laughed. “Your brother means nothing to me. There’s no election turning on this case. Nobody’s going to get to be governor by convicting your brother. The whole idea is just tiresome. Now, let me tell you — we have overwhelming proof that your brother killed this old man. We believe that proof. But our minds aren’t closed. We’ll take anything now. If the evidence goes to his innocence, we’ll follow it there. If it goes to his guilt, well, that’s where we are already.”
She stuck to her guns. It took an hour’s hammering and cajoling to break her down. “All right!” the prosecutor shouted. “Somebody told you he was innocent. Who was that man?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Where did you hear the news?”
“I was in a bar.”
“What bar?”
“Farley’s Bar,” she muttered, “on Henry Street.”
“When?”
“Early Saturday morning a man came in and said, ‘They got your brother, but he didn’t do it.’ ”
“What does that add? He didn’t say any more than you’ve been saying.”
“He saw the whole thing,” she burst out, and then bit her tongue.
“An eyewitness?”
She nodded.
“What’s that man’s name?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I promised I wouldn’t get him in trouble.”
The prosecutor was incredulous. “Your brother is facing the chair. We’ve got an airtight case against him. You’re his sister. You claim you have evidence to prove his innocence. Now you tell me that you’ll let a promise to this man stand in the way of saving your brother.”
She said stubbornly, “I can’t tell you. I gave the man a promise.”
Finally after several hours of tedious harangues and pleas and arguments, the girl promised to ask her witness to come in voluntarily the next day. As she left, she said, “I hope I’m doing the right thing.”
Schreiber called in to say, “I got something for you.”
“What is it?”
“There might be something in Kennedy’s story at that. I finally got the owner of the bar and his bartender. There was a fight there just before this cutting. Two civilians and a sailor. I’ve got a feeling one of the civilians could be our man.”
Within the hour, Schreiber produced a white-haired old man who owned the bar, and his stocky bartender. A few threats directed against the liquor license loosened their tongues completely. They agreed that one of the civilians, a tall powerful man, had been drinking heavily. Finally, in an ugly mood, he had quarreled with the bartender. “Mr. District Attorney,” the Negro bartender said quietly, “the things he said about me and mine I wouldn’t take off any man. Besides, he was making a nuisance of himself. So I asked the boss for the okay and I threw him out. He wasn’t gone five minutes when I saw my sandwich knife was gone. Then a little after that, maybe five, ten minutes, I hear this woman scream, and everybody ran out. I closed up the place and went home. I didn’t want to be around if there was trouble. Of course if I’d have known old Caspar was going to die, I’d have stuck around. But I thought they got the man.”
“Who was the tall man you threw out?”
The bartender shook his head. “I never got his name. I remember seeing him in the neighborhood.”
The prosecutor showed both a photograph of John Kennedy. “Was it this man?”
They studied it carefully. “No.”
The prosecutor had the witnesses outside and asked Schreiber, “What does this prove?”
“How many men are roaming around that hour in the morning looking for trouble with sandwich knives?” Schreiber protested. “What do you want — moving pictures?”
“There’s a chance you’re right,” the prosecutor admitted. “But we’ve got to do better. What about Butch and Louie?”
“I passed the word along to have them come in, if they exist,” Schreiber said.
Statements were taken and the witnesses were released. The following morning, Margaret Kennedy’s missing witness proved he was not a myth by showing up. He was a man of thirty, short, with a pimpled face, wavy hair of which he was proud, a low grade of intelligence, and frazzled nerves. He sat pulling at his knuckles.
“What’s your name?”
“Jerry Capone!”
“Capone?” the prosecutor studied the witness. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was,” Jerry said sadly. “I get a lot of ribbing.”
“All right, what happened — Capone?”
“It wasn’t Johnny Kennedy.” Jerry licked his lips. “I don’t know anything else. I just came because they asked me.”
The prosecutor arose. “Are you trying to insult the district attorney’s intelligence, Jerry? I don’t mind a man’s lying to me. I get to expect that. But I won’t tolerate anyone’s insulting the intelligence of the district attorney.”
Jerry shrank back. It was as though “insulting the district attorney’s intelligence” was a graver crime than murder. He started talking.
“Well, I saw the whole thing. I was across the street with some friends. We were sitting on boxes drinking rum colas. I went into the bar and I saw a sailor and two civilians. One of the civilians, a big man in a white shirt, started a fight with the bartender. I picked up my drinks and left. I wasn’t interested in any fights that night. About fifteen minutes later, I saw these two men and the sailor walk out and go west. They stood at the corner a while looking back. One of them, the big one, turned back. I thought he was going back to the bar to finish the fight. But he stopped at this old man and made a pass at him. I didn’t know what he was doing at that time. Then he went back to his friends and I lost sight of him. Then Kennedy and two boys walked right past me, as close as you are to me, and said, ‘Hello.’ I said ‘Hello’ back. Then I didn’t watch. A few seconds later I heard screams and I saw the mob running after Kennedy. I hung around until they caught him. Then I beat it. You never know where those things end. I found Kennedy’s sister and told her about the trouble.”
The prosecutor took careful notes and asked, “Was anyone with Kennedy?”
“I told you, two other boys. I never saw them before.”
“Did you hear what they were talking about?”
“Sure. Women.”
After a moment, the prosecutor asked, “All right now, who was the big man?”
“I don’t know,” Jerry said nervously.
“Sure you know. Out with it.”
“I wouldn’t like to say,” Jerry pleaded. “I’m scared.”
Schreiber took over. In other circumstances, his manner might have been regarded as unduly harsh. Jerry cowered and finally wept, “They call him Herman. I’m scared he’ll find out I told on him.”