He sat on the concrete and metal bench at a bus stop. He had never before sat at a bus stop or given one more than a passing glance or wondered about the people waiting there. A teenaged Mexican boy was reading a book on computers while a pensioner dozed under a straw hat.
At the other end of the bench was a young black woman with two small children. She had a paper bag on her lap with flowers sticking out of the top. The children were sharing a box of Cracker Jack. They stared at Donnelly with the frank, friendly curiosity of the very young.
“Hello,” Donnelly said.
The mother’s arm shot out with the speed of a karate expert and pulled both the children toward her.
“Don’t you speak to no strange men, you hear?”
Donnelly’s emotions seemed to be rising closer to the surface with each of the day’s incidents. Normally he would have ignored the woman’s remark, probably would not even have heard it or taken it personally. Now it bothered him. What did she mean by a strange man? Did she mean a stranger? Or did she feel instinctively that he was strange?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t intend—”
“Pertaining to myself, I don’t speak to no strange men neither.”
The paper bag on her lap rattled; the flowers nodded their heads; the children continued eating Cracker Jack.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and there was something in his voice that brought the old man out of the past and the teenager out of the future. They both looked at him disapprovingly as though he were an unwelcome intruder from the present.
The clock in the courthouse tower struck the third quarter of the hour. He sat on the flagstone steps of the entrance and watched a pigeon drink from the fountain. It was a day of firsts. He had never before watched a pigeon drink. It dipped its bill in the water, then threw its head back like a man gargling.
He wondered how long he was genetically programmed to sit on the courthouse steps and watch a pigeon drink.
Shortly before two o’clock District Attorney Owen arrived for the afternoon session with his three sons, Chadwick, Jonathan and Thatcher. They were big, handsome boys who bore a strong resemblance to their father. Bailiff di Santo had been forewarned and set aside three seats in the front row. He solemnly presented each boy with a notebook and a ballpoint pen, the same kind the jurors used.
Thatcher, the youngest, construed his notebook and pen as gifts and thanked the bailiff with a fine, firm handshake. The other two eyed theirs with suspicion.
Chadwick said, “What’s this for?”
“To make notes,” the bailiff told him.
“Notes like about what?”
“The trial. What’s going on, et cetera.”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Court hasn’t convened yet. When court convenes, you will see the American judicial system at work.”
“Jeez,” Jonathan said. “This is worse than school. I thought we came here for fun.”
“This is not,” the bailiff said, “a fun place.”
The boys were the center of attention until the jurors returned to their seats. Dr. Woodbridge took his place in the witness box, and the judge reentered through his private door.
Dr. Woodbridge began showing his long list of blown-up pictures of the body of Madeline Pherson. The pictures were shown to the defense counsel, the judge and then the jury. Spectators caught only a glimpse of them, which considerably disappointed the boys.
Chadwick picked up his pen and wrote: “This is not a good example of the American system of justice on account of I can’t even see the pictures. What’s so judicial about that?” At this deprivation the boys began to protest in whispers until their father turned and scowled them into silence.
It was Jonathan who seconded his older brother’s opinion: “This is a rotten example of the American judicial system on account of I can’t even see the evidence.”
The idea of communicating by note caught on and there was a flurry of exchanges:
O. O. should let his hair grow longer so his ears won’t stick out.
The judge looks snockered.
Watch the way that clerk shakes her boobs when she walks.
O. O. is boring.
One of the jurors in the front row is asleep.
So am I. I am writing this in my sleep.
That’s what it looks like, you morron.
I vote we split. People are going in and out all the time so no one will notice.
Are you nuts? O. O. will miss us.
He’ll miss Thatcher. You and me can split and Thatcher can stay.
I wanna split too I’m just as bord as you are You gotta take me along.
Shut up and write the names of the presidents backwards. Ha ha ha.
If you leave me here I’ll cry.
Jeez he will too. And O. O. will take his side.
O.K. we all stay, and die like heroes.
I don’t wanna die. If you make me die I’ll cry.
Dying’s too good for you little shit.
The district attorney turned again toward the spectators and saw his boys diligently writing in their notebooks. He felt pride rising up through his chest like gas.
Jonathan saw the expression on his father’s face and interpreted it correctly.
He wrote:
He’s going to brag about this at his club. We better start paying attention. Who’s on trial?
The black guy.
Do you think he’s guilty?
How would I know? I never saw him before.
O. O. thinks he’s guilty.
O. O. thinks everybody’s guilty.
Jeez, what if he wants to see our notebooks afterwards?
We’ll tell him he’ll have to get a search warrant.
In case he does we got to have something to show him.
Such as what?
Do we think the black guy is guilty or not?
Chadwick wrote: “A man is innocent until proven guilty by the evidence. Evidence must be based on facts. I don’t have any facts, so maybe he is and maybe he isn’t.”
“This,” Jonathan wrote, “is a baffling case because I don’t know anything about it. I’ve never seen a dead body except in movies and TV. I’d like to become a pathologist so I could see a real dead body (providing the pay is right).”
Thatcher wrote, “My dad is the best districk atturny in the world so the black guy is guilty. I saw a dog on the lon. I want a dog. Why don’t we by a dog?”
During the course of the afternoon the boys learned a number of interesting facts.
The body of the woman bore numerous contusions, abrasions and lacerations. (“Hell,” Jonathan said, “my body’s got those all the time.”)
The woman had four broken ribs, three on the left side, one on the right. (“Hey,” Chadwick said, “remember when Thatcher broke two ribs falling out of a tree and cried for a year?”)
The woman’s lungs contained only a small amount of salt water. Lungs are seldom filled with water in drowning victims. (“I bet I swallowed more than a small amount when I was learning to surf,” Chadwick said. “You never did learn to surf,” Jonathan replied.)
The cause of the woman’s death was asphyxsia caused by immersion in water.
Each of the boys wrote their verdicts in their notebooks.
Guilty Chad Owen
Guilty Jon Owen
Guilty Thatcher Hamilton Owen, Esq.
When court adjourned at four-thirty, a deputy in plain clothes drove the boys home in a sheriff’s car.
Thatcher asked the driver, “Are you a real cop?”
“Pinch me and find out.”
“I might get arrested.”
“You bet. For assaulting an officer.”