She was in my mind, night and day, day and night, and I wondered continually if she was thinking of me.
Not knowing now how she felt about me tormented me.
III
Five weeks after Gilda’s arrest, on a hot September morning, the trial opened in an atmosphere of tension and excitement.
Those five weeks had been anxious ones for me, but as the days passed and I heard nothing from the police, I began to feel more confident that they hadn’t found out about us nor had anyone apparently recognized Gilda at the Italian restaurant — and they would have done I felt sure, for, by now, every newspaper carried photographs of her.
As one of the principal witnesses for the prosecution I was kept in the witness room away from the court during the opening proceedings.
The other witnesses waiting with me were Delaney’s Mexican maid, Maria, Sheriff Jefferson, Doc Mallard, the pharmacist who had sold Gilda the cyanide and a fat, important looking man I hadn’t seen before who kept to himself.
There was a police officer in the room and he didn’t allow us to talk. I could see poor old Doc looked pretty shaky and unhappy and he had lost all his arrogance.
Jefferson was grim-faced, and he just nodded to me and then studiously avoided looking at me. I didn’t blame him. I knew he had guessed I had had something to do with Delaney’s death, and it was through me to a large extent that he had been forced to resign.
It wasn’t until half-past two in the afternoon that I got my call, and that was after Doc Mallard, Jefferson and the pharmacist had been called.
I braced myself.
I hadn’t seen Gilda now for six weeks and I remembered Hunt’s warning.
As I walked down the corridor towards the courtroom I asked the police officer escorting me how the trial was going.
“That guy Maddox!” he said. “This is the fourth time he’s tangled with Lowson Hunt and from the look of it, he’s scored again. You should have heard him sound off. By the time he was through with his figures and his hunches, the jury was looking away from her, and that’s always a bad sign.”
As I walked into the courtroom, I didn’t look at Gilda. It wasn’t until I had taken the oath that I glanced in her direction.
My heart gave a lurch when I saw how strained and pale she was. But she looked beautiful. I had never seen her look more beautiful, and I longed to go to her and take her in my arms.
She didn’t look at me and that hurt. She sat motionless beside Hunt, staring down at her hands.
I glanced over at the jury. They were a dead-looking lot: three of them women, the rest men. They stared at me, their eyes bored.
The DA got up and began questioning me about the TV set.
I went through the story of how I had found Delaney and why I had assumed he had died from an electric shock.
The DA took me over the story about finding the glass.
The jury now lost their bored expressions and I could see they were listening intently.
“I believe there was an experiment carried out by you and Mr Harmas,” the DA said, “to do with the removing of the back of the set. Would you tell the jury just what this experiment was, Mr Regan?”
“Mr Harmas seemed to be under the impression that Delaney, paralysed as he was, couldn’t have reached the bottom fixing screws that held the back of the set in place,” I said. “I tried to remove the screws from Delaney’s wheel chair and had great difficulty in reaching the screws.”
“Is it not a fact,” the DA said, “that when you were tied into the chair you couldn’t get anywhere near these screws? Nor could you pick up the screwdriver that was lying on the floor?”
“That’s right,” I said, and I had to make an effort not to look at Gilda.
The DA wasn’t satisfied with that. He took me over the experiment again in different words, asking questions, enlarging, and generally hammering into the minds of the jury that Delaney could not have taken off the back of the set nor could he have picked up the screwdriver.
At last he seemed satisfied he had made his point and he stepped back.
“Okay, Mr Regan, that’s all,” he said, and glanced at Hunt.
Without even bothering to get out of his chair, Hunt said he had no questions to ask me, but he would call me later.
I was taken out to spend another hour in the stuffy little witness room; this time on my own.
I heard from my police escort that the DA called Harmas after I had gone and took him through the story of the experiment.
It was on this business of taking the back off the set that the case against Gilda rested, and the DA hammered it home.
Around four o’clock I was called into the courtroom. There was an atmosphere in the room you could lean against.
The fat, important looking man who had been in the witness room was on the stand. He told Hunt that his name was Henry Studdley, and he was a specialist in the diseases of the spine. He said Delaney had been his patient.
He explained that there was nothing unusual about Delaney’s disability. His spine had been injured resulting in total paralysis from the waist down. Hundreds of people had been disabled in car accidents as Delaney had been disabled.
“Much has been made by the District Attorney,” Hunt said, “of the fact that Delaney could not have reached the two lower screws on the set. It is on this point that my client is being tried. I want to get this clear, doctor. Tell me, in your opinion, would it have been possible for Delaney, seated in his chair, to have removed those two bottom screws?”
“It would have been quite impossible for him to have reached the screws,” Studdley said emphatically.
This caused a major sensation, and the DA, thinking that Hunt had walked into a trap of his own making, was scarcely able to suppress a guffaw.
Hunt seemed quite unperturbed. He thanked Studdley, and asked him to step down, but not to leave the courtroom. Then he turned to the jury.
He said he was satisfied that Delaney had committed suicide.
Delaney was a drunkard and unstable. He and his wife had quarrelled the night before he died. He had assaulted her. Although she had put up with his evil temper and his drinking habits for the past four years, loyally doing her duty as his wife, this was the final straw. She decided to leave him. Delaney knew his money was exhausted. When he was on his own, realizing he now had no wife nor money, he decided to kill himself. He knew that if he arranged things to look as if he had died accidentally his wife would come in for the insurance money, and she would be able to clear his debts. That was what he had done.
I could see the jury wasn’t impressed by this theory. The DA’s constant reminder that Delaney couldn’t have taken off the back of the TV set made Hunt’s suggestion a waste of time.
“I am in the position to demonstrate to you how Delaney got hold of the screwdriver and how he did in fact take off the back of the set,” Hunt went on. “I would like to put Dr Studdley on the stand again.”
While Studdley walked to the stand, I saw the jury were showing interest and the DA was scowling at Hunt.
“Three days ago, doctor,” Hunt said to Studdley, “I telephoned you and asked you to arrange something for me. Would you tell the court what it was I asked you to do?”
“You asked me to find a patient who had the exact symptoms that Delaney had,” Studdley said.
“And did you find such a patient?”
“Certainly. It wasn’t difficult. I have at least six patients under my care who have exactly the same symptoms as Delaney had.”
Hunt turned to the judge and asked permission for the patient to take part in a demonstration.
The DA got to his feet, roaring objections.