Judge Flood said, “Mr. Davic, the court notes your apology and the defendant’s contrition. But I warn you, I will tolerate no further displays of temper from him.” Judge Flood liked the sound of that.
“You have my word for that, Your Honor.”
“Will you then call your witness?”
There was a stir of anticipation when the clerk stood and said, “The defense re-calls Mr. Harry Selby.”
“You are still under oath,” Davic reminded Selby after he had taken the stand. “I asked you yesterday what knowledge you had of the defendant or his father prior to the alleged attack on your daughter. I will ask you that again: what knowledge did you have, Mr. Selby?”
“None.”
“You knew nothing of Earl Thomson, his family or his background?”
“That’s right.”
“Mr. Selby, is your conscience comfortable with the charges your daughter has brought against the defendant?”
Brett stood up. “I object, Your Honor. The question is pointlessly subjective—”
“Sustained,” Flood said. “Please come to your point, Mr. Davic.”
“The point, as I emphasized from the outset, is truth.” Davic turned from the bench and studied the jurors. “Truth is the heart of this matter. At the heart of the truth, ladies and gentlemen, is the question of motive.” Then in an almost conversational tone he said, “Mr. Selby, will you now tell us why you are attempting to destroy the good name of the defendant, Earl Thomson—?”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
Davic quickly pursued his questioning. “What personal reasons have compelled you to inflict such pain and anguish on him and his family? Why are you attacking this young man who—”
“Objection, Your Honor! The question is haranguing, abusive and presumptive.”
“Sustained.”
“All right, Your Honor, but I intend to produce supportive evidence.”
Davic turned to the defense table, where Royce handed him a cardboard filing case.
“Your Honor,” Davic said, “I will ask the court to identify the following material as Defense Exhibit K.S. 36663864, the United States Army’s referral number for this particular material.”
“The court stenographer will so identify it.”
Several inches thick and bound in a gray plastic, the front cover of the file was stamped with an identifying label. Davic gave each juror an opportunity to read the lettering:
Headquarters of the U.S. Army Office of the Adjutant-
General Washington, D.C.
“This document,” Davic then told them, “is the transcript of a U.S. Army court-martial, registered in the Office of the Adjutant-General.”
“Your Honor!” Brett was standing.
“Miss Brett?”
“The prosecution, Your Honor, attempted to obtain the files Counselor Davic introduced. We were told by the Office of the Adjutant-General that the materials were classified and not available.”
“Counselor Davic?”
“I don’t understand. My request for these files was granted as a matter of course.”
Brett said sharply, “Then the material has been mysteriously declassified since our request.”
Flood said, “I will instruct the defense to provide the People with copies of this document. You may proceed, Mr. Davic.”
Selby saw Earl Thomson smile briefly at his father.
“The proceedings of this court-martial,” Davic informed the jury, “were recorded more than a quarter of a century ago in South Korea. The trial was ordered by the commanding officer of a counterintelligence unit of the Seventh Army.
“Specifically, a sergeant was charged with manslaughter and unlawfully administering drugs to enemy prisoners, drugs he obtained by theft. As a result, numerous prisoners died, others suffered permanent brain damage. That sergeant received a dishonorable discharge and was sentenced to five years in a military prison.”
Davic studied each juror deliberately. “The sergeant who disgraced his country and his uniform was Jonas Harold Selby, the father of Harry Selby, who is seated before you now in the witness stand.
“The president of the court-martial that found Jonas Selby guilty of those charges is also present today” — Davic pointed to the gallery behind the defense table — “he is George Thomson, formerly Major George Thomson, Sergeant Jonas Selby’s commanding officer in Korea. I asked Mr. Selby why he set out to persecute and defame Earl Thomson. I think the reasons are now transparently clear. Harry Selby is attempting to avenge his own father’s disgrace and punishment by striking at George Thomson through his son, Earl—”
“Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Davic has made what amounts to a closing statement to the jury.” Brett controlled her voice with an effort. “He is drawing conclusions from evidence the People have had no opportunity to examine. The issue at trial” — Brett raised her voice over Flood’s gavel — “is not a court-martial convened in Korea thirty years ago. The issue at trial is the current violent abuse of a minor child. Is the accused guilty or not? That is the issue at—”
“Miss Brett, you will not tell me what issues are at trial. You will not instruct me on what is pertinent to these hearings. Don’t press me in that fashion again... Mr. Davic?”
But Allan Davic was content to rest on the doubts he’d created. Brett attempted in her redirect to establish that Selby had had no information about the details of his father’s court-martial, and no knowledge of George Thomson’s part in it. But when she finished her examination it was obvious from the reactions among the jurors that certain sensitive scales had definitely tipped against the credibility of the People’s case.
At the recess Selby walked to the underground parking lot where he’d left his car. A slender man with rimless glasses joined him a few minutes later.
“It’s a small world, isn’t it?” Burt Wilger said, and handed Selby a folded newspaper. “Emma Green’s address is on a piece of notepaper clipped to the sports section. She probably won’t talk about Earl Thomson. If she tells you to kiss off, I wouldn’t crowd her. I’d say she’s gun-shy.”
“She learned that from Captain Slocum, I guess.”
Wilger shrugged, put a toothpick in his mouth and chewed on it, then said, “Well, Selby, cops come in all shapes and sizes. All of them don’t shit chocolate ice cream and spend their spare time teaching civics in ghettos.”
“Who’s leaning on Brett now? Is that Slocum, too?”
“She tell you about it?”
“My daughter did,” Selby said. “She heard you talking.”
“I don’t think it’s Slocum.” Wilger spat the toothpick from his mouth. “It’s some characters from New York, that’s all I got. I picked up one of their calls to Brett. They mentioned somebody named Toby Clark. Brett clammed up on me, wouldn’t talk about it. The name mean anything to you?”
“No. Who are the New York people working for?”
“Who knows? Davic maybe. Or Lorso, or Thomson himself. There’re two of them. Brothers. Ben and Aron Cadle. Might’ve been that pair that tried to hit Brett the other night. Lucky you were there. If you wonder why I owe you, by the way, that’s it. She’s good people.”
“Let me ask you something,” Selby said. “Maybe you can’t give a civilian a straight answer, but at least you can tell me if I’m wasting our time—”
“Stop being so damned hard-nosed. Try me.”
“Do you believe my daughter’s telling the truth?”
“Goddammit, I helped make Brett’s case, didn’t I?”
“Do you think she’ll nail Thomson?”
“I got a very cracked crystal ball about things like that, Selby.”