“Well, I reckon that’s a tolerable deal,” said Vincent.
“Excellent. Mr. Kelso, it’s time for you to open your case.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
Kelso began by introducing into evidence a letter dated December 15, 1991, addressed to the president of the United States, in which Bob Lee Swagger argued in a strident, faintly irrational tone that he deserved the Congressional Medal of Honor for his exploits in Vietnam.
The letter was projected on a portable screen that Kelso’s minions quickly assembled.
“Your Honor, this document was what initially put Bob Lee Swagger on the Secret Service list of potentially threatening suspects and earned him an investigation, albeit a tragically inefficient one, by the FBI.”
Nick winced.
Object, he protested silently. Make the point that Bob was on the C-list, felt to be the least dangerous and that even the Secret Service guys had said he could be skipped.
But Sam Vincent and his client sat mute at their table.
“Your Honor, I have here the depositions of four handwriting experts in the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the New Orleans Police Department, the New York City Police Department and one widely respected consultant, stating that they’ve identified – well, it varies, Your Honor – but between fifteen and thirty-one similarities in handwriting between this document and authenticated samples of Bob Lee Swagger’s penmanship.”
“Mr. Vincent.”
At last Vincent spoke.
“Your Honor, I know I can’t enter evidence, but if I could, I’d enter three depositions from handwriting experts in Los Angeles, London, England, and Chicago, Illinois, stating that the document is a forg – ”
“Objection, objection, surely Your Honor can see that the defense is trying to enter evidence which is – ”
“Objection sustained. Mr. Vincent, you do know the rules.”
“Sir, I do and I apologize. But, the truth is in handwriting analysis there’s just no way to know positively. You can have more experts than a mama possum has teats” – laughter from the spectators in the darkness – “and you won’t get any two of ’em to agree. And let me point out one last thing; Mr. Swagger unfortunately didn’t have the benefits of a fancy education like some among us. He’s a product of public schools in rural Arkansas in the 1950s, with no college experience. Thus his handwriting, as you all can see, remained somewhat in the primitive stage; it looks to sophisticated people as if it were written by a child. Now the one thing most handwriting experts agree on is that such a script – it’s called, oh, I think, ‘infantile cursive’ ” – he said this as if he were just making it up – “is indeed the easiest for any kind of accomplished forger to imitate.”
“All right, Mr. Vincent,” said the judge, “I’ll allow that, and keep it in mind, but please remember you are only permitted to attack the government’s evidence, not introduce your own.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How can they win if they can’t introduce evidence?” Sally whispered into his ear.
“He’s got to show that their evidence doesn’t add up to what they say it does,” Nick said.
Meanwhile, Kelso struck back quickly.
“Your Honor, I’m not here to indulge in comedy or groundless conspiracy speculation, even when they amount to the same thing. I’m here to argue a point of law. And although this isn’t the forum where absolute truth is to be decided, I think Your Honor will concede that I’ve made exactly what the law demands of me at this point in the proceedings: that is, I’ve established a reasonable argument for motive. It was enough for the Secret Service and the FBI to begin to monitor Mr. Swagger and it should be enough for the court.”
“Young man, it’s not necessary for you to tell me my job,” said Judge Hughes. “But let’s just say your observation isn’t without merit, even if it was delivered to this court in a fashion dangerously close to contempt.”
“I apologize, Your Honor.”
“Then you may proceed with the second part of your argument.”
“As Your Honor pleases,” said Kelso. He retreated briefly to his table.
“We’re not doing too well, are we?” whispered Sally.
“No, I’m afraid we’re not. I thought this old man would have something more than tit for tat stuff.”
“Nick, I’m scared.”
“Just hang on. My part is coming up next and – ”
But Kelso had returned to the center of the floor.
“Your Honor,” he said, “I’d like to enter into evidence the sworn statement of a New Orleans police detective named Leon Timmons. Detective Timmons is not here because, tragically, he was slain in the line of duty last April. But it was Detective Timmons who heroically interceded as Bob Lee Swagger was – ”
“Your Honor, I object,” said the old man, stirring himself to Biblical wrath. “This here evidence is hearsay, beyond the reach of cross-examination. Moreover this ‘heroic’ detective has been named in several internal affairs reports of the New Orleans Police Department of having suspected ties with organized crime in the greater – ”
“Your Honor, Leon Timmons won three commendations for valor under fire in his eighteen years with – ”
“And he drove one of them damned German convertible sports cars that cost more than sixty thousand dollars on a salary of twenty-two thousand five hundred per year – ”
“Your Honor – ”
“All right, all right, gentlemen, quit your squabbling,” Judge Hughes said with a groan. He paused.
“Mr. Kelso, don’t you have a live witness?”
“Shit,” said Nick to Sally.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s end this here. You put your sworn testimony into evidence and I’ll read it at my leisure and if the issue is still in doubt, rule then on its admissibility.”
“That’s fine, Your Honor. I feel my next witness will clear up any doubts anybody will have about the viability of the government’s case.”
Suddenly a bailiff was standing next to Nick.
“Mr. Memphis. From Mr. Utey.”
It was a note.
Nick unfolded it.
It said, Last chance. As you can see, Bob is lost. You can still turn this to your benefit and the Bureau’s advantage. Don’t throw your life and that poor girl’s away for nothing that can be helped anyway.
“What is it, Nick?” Sally whispered.
So here it was.
The whole thing come to this.
His life could be so fine.
Bob was gone anyhow; that was clear. Old Sam Vincent was a cracker-barrel windbag. The evidence was overwhelming. RamDyne had won. He looked behind the prosecution table and saw Hugh Meachum sitting there, his face serene, his blue eyes opaque.
“The prosecution calls Mr. Nicholas Memphis.”
Nick leaned to Sally.
“It’s a note from a ghost,” he said, crumpling it, and walked to the witness’s box without looking at Howard.
Nick took the oath without a lot of emotional investment and tried to find a comfortable position in the hardwood chair. He could see Bob, ramrod stiff, all Marine, staring not at him but into space; and sitting beside him, his slouch carrying with it a suggestion of collapsed feed bags heaped in the barn corner, old Sam Vincent, his jowls slightly rising and falling as he breathed heavily, his eyes enormous behind the thick glasses.
“Your current employment, Mr. Memphis?” asked Kelso.
“I’m currently unemployed. As of yesterday.”
“And until yesterday?”
Nick summed himself up quickly: twelve years, Federal Bureau of Investigation, special agent.