“It’s here.”
“What does this indicate in terms of body weight and drinks consumed and in what time period?”
“It shows how much alcohol will be found in the blood of a person weighing a hundred twenty pounds who has consumed six drinks within a period of two hours, each drink consisting of one ounce of eighty-six-proof alcohol, such as those served in a bar or restaurant, or a twelve-ounce bottle of beer.”
“At what alcohol level is a person legally drunk in the state of California?”
“Point-one-zero percent.”
“For those of us with short memories will you please repeat Mrs. Pherson’s weight?”
“A hundred nine pounds.”
“And her blood alcohol content?”
“Point-one-four percent.”
“The chart in front of you indicates some of the behavioral results of various blood alcohol percentages. Can you tell us how the chart describes the behavior of people with point-one-zero percent — that is, legally drunk?”
“Their inhibitions and judgment are seriously impaired.”
“What about point-one-five percent?”
“The behavior pattern is not given for that particular figure.”
“Then what is the next figure?”
“Point-two-zero percent.”
“And how does a person behave at this level?”
“Point-two-zero percent indicates a probable problem drinker who is not fit to drive for up to ten hours after the last drink.”
“And Mrs. Pherson was probably in between these two, factoring in her body weight of a hundred and nine, eleven pounds lighter than the hundred-twenty-pound example. Is that correct?”
“Very likely.”
“Would you say Mrs. Pherson was drunk?”
“This chart is based only on averages and there is—”
“And her inhibitions and judgment seriously impaired?”
“No doubt there was some degree of impairment.”
“And would you say that a person unaccustomed to drinking might have more severe behavioral reactions than someone who drinks regularly?”
“This is not my field of expertise.”
“I’ve spent most of the day trying to locate and pin down your field of expertise and getting equivocal answers like ‘maybe,’ ‘to some extent,’ ‘possibly,’ ‘in my opinion’—”
“I object,” the district attorney shouted. “Such an acrimonious and malicious statement is inexcusable.”
“Strike the defense counsel’s remarks,” the judge said. “Once again I am reminding you, Mr. Donnelly, that you are an attorney in this case, not the judge. You might mull over the following facts: In the county of Santa Felicia there are five Superior Court judges and seven hundred and seventy-five attorneys.”
“I didn’t know that, Your Honor.”
“Once in a while I get lucky and come across something you don’t know, Mr. Donnelly. Have you any more questions for this witness?”
“I would like to continue after a brief recess.”
“Recess of fifteen minutes is hereby declared.”
The judge and jury and most of the spectators left the room. Eva would have liked to stay behind and talk to Cully, but he was deep in conversation with Donnelly, so she, too, went out into the corridor.
Sitting on a bench directly under the QUIET, COURT IN SESSION sign was a middle-aged, grim-faced man wearing a black suit. He had on dark glasses, mirror-coated to reflect the images of other people and obscure his own. It was not the first time Eva had seen him sitting in the same spot, sometimes talking, sometimes with his head bowed as though he were praying or counting the tiles in the floor or simply listening to what everybody else was saying. He never went in or out of the courtroom.
As Eva was about to pass him, the man rose and approached her, holding his arms rigidly by his sides.
“Miss Foster?”
“Yes.”
“I have watched you in court, so I know who you are.”
“I haven’t seen you there.”
“Oh, no. I’m not allowed to go inside. But when the door opens, I look in to see what’s going on.”
“Why aren’t you allowed inside?”
“I was subjoined as a witness. They tell me it’s common practice to keep witnesses away from the courtroom before and even after testifying. But it’s very unfair. I want to be in there hearing what they’re saying about her. I want to be able to stand up and tell everybody what a good woman she was, a good, God-fearing woman.”
“You’re — are you her husband?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll get a chance to speak when your turn comes, Mr. Pherson.”
“That’s not soon enough. I hear people talking in the corridor, so I know what’s going on inside there, the vilification, the lies. She never drank, never touched a drop of liquor in her life. And God knows she’d never go into a bar by herself and pick up a man, a black man. Lies, lies, a crazy quilt of lies patched together by that murderer.”
“Please lower your voice, Mr. Pherson, or the bailiff will ask you to leave.”
He stared at her as if for a minute he’d forgotten she was there, a person, not a blank wall to bounce words against. “You’re his friend.”
“The bailiff and I have known each other for a long time, but that doesn’t—”
“No, the other one, the black man. I’ve seen you talking to each other before court begins, leaning towards each other, smiling, very friendly, very cozy. What do you whisper in his ear?”
“I never whispered anything in his ear.”
“I’ve seen you whisper in that black ear of his. Back home we have a mushroom called a tree mushroom, and it looks like a black ear, and it’s shiny, slimy.”
“Hanging around the corridor like this isn’t good for you, Mr. Pherson.”
“Well, I’ll give you something to whisper in his slimy black ear. Tell him — tell him that if he’s found innocent, he won’t be free, never, ever. I’m going to get him. If he tries to run away, I’ll track him down no matter how far and fast he runs.”
“I think you’d better go home and rest, Mr. Pherson.”
“My home is far away.”
“Where are you staying while you’re in town?”
“The Biltmore. I have a room on the beach. At night I lie awake and listen to the sea, where he threw her after he violated and strangled her.”
“None of that has been proved.”
“It has to me. He drugged her with liquor and took her down to that boat and ravished her, then stripped her of her jewels and threw her overboard. I’ll get him for that. I’ll get him if it takes the rest of my life. Tell him. Tell him for me.”
The sympathy she’d felt for him at first was beginning to dissipate. “Delivering death threats to a defendant is not part of my job, or anyone else’s around here.”
“I tried to tell him myself, but the deputy wouldn’t let me near him. I wrote him a letter at the jail, but I don’t think he got it.”
“The mail there is censored. A threat like that wouldn’t be allowed through.”
“Then it’s up to you.”
He put his hand out and touched her arm. Its coldness almost instantly penetrated the thin fabric of her sleeve, and she took a step back as if to evade the touch of death.
“I think you should go home to Bakersfield, Mr. Pherson, and wait there until the district attorney is ready to put you on the stand.”
“He’s ready now. I’m going to be next.”
“Then you’d better start calming down. Do you have any kind of tranquilizer to take?”
“My wife and I have never believed in chemical dependence.”
“A lot of your beliefs may be shot full of holes before this is over. If I were you, I’d use all the help I could get.”
He took off his glasses, and for the first time she saw his eyes, dark and bitter and rimmed with red.
“You’re talking to me as if I were a silly old fool. I’m not a silly old fool, Miss Foster. And I meant what I said. I’ll get that black bastard if it takes the rest of my life.”