“Captain Slocum perjured himself, didn’t he?”
“You said that. I still work for him, remember?”
“Somebody used a ton of pressure to get hold of my father’s court-martial,” Selby reminded him. “That’s the kind of weight she’s up against.”
“You want it straight, I don’t think Brett’s got a prayer.”
Selby opened the door of his station wagon and dropped the newspaper on the passenger seat. He hesitated a moment, and then said, “We’re still in the game, Wilger. We’re holding some cards. Goldie Boy Jessup is on the hook to perjure himself. They’re paying him for it.”
“How’d you find that out?”
Selby hesitated again, then told Wilger what Goldbirn had heard from the Florida police — that the preacher was being given title to land on the Jersey shore near Avalon.
Wilger whistled. “Pretty expensive real estate for saving sinners.”
“Let me ask you another question,” Selby said. “If you were going to lie under oath, to perjure yourself, what’s the first condition you’d insist on?”
“If I was in a position to make demands, which I probably wouldn’t be, I’d make sure I couldn’t ever get caught. That’s a bottom line.”
“But somebody’s got to lie about Thomson’s fingerprints at Vinegar Hill.”
“Right. Somebody’s got to lie about those prints. Somebody will lie, Selby. Unless they come up with some bullshit explanation, Thomson’s dead. Davic’s got to prove to the jury those prints were in the garage at that farm either before or after your daughter was raped.”
“Then somebody else has also got to lie — will lie — about the time Thomson came home that night.”
“What’s your point, Selby?”
“That whoever tells those lies under oath has got to be damn sure it’s perfectly safe. That no other area of the case will blow up in his face. But it wouldn’t be enough simply to tell a prospective perjurer he’s got nothing to worry about” — Selby studied the detective — “you’re the pro, Wilger. Am I right?”
“Sure... you’d have to prove it.” Wilger shrugged; his expression had become deliberately neutral. “But you’re talking about finding that proof, the heat the defense is using, and why they’re scared shitless to let this trial take its legal course. It could mean a numbered account somewhere, any kind of blackmail material... that means running informants, digging into the sensitive places, surveillance in relays. So try to understand, Selby, I’m a working stiff. I sign in and out of Division, run a shift, fill out case sheets, daydream about a pension... Slocum can nail my ass to the floor if he wants to.”
Wilger removed his glasses, then polished them with the end of his tie. “Good luck over in Jersey. I’ve gone as far as I can, Selby. Do me a favor and forget where you got Emma Green’s address. Okay?”
Selby nodded and got into the car. Wilger closed the door for him with a soft click of finality.
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
“Take care, friend. It’s a cold world.”
After turning off the old Baltimore Pike, Selby drove through Philadelphia and crossed the George Washington Bridge on his way to the town of Jefferson, New Jersey...
In Superior Court Nine, Allan Davic prepared to continue his attack against the foundation of the People’s case against Earl Thomson. He instructed Flood’s clerk to call, in order, Elbe May Cluny, Charles Lee, Miguel Santos and finally the accused’s mother, Mrs. George Thomson.
A waitress in The Green Lantern, Ellie May was in her twenties, solemnly pretty with a full bosom and attractive legs. She made a good witness.
Earl Thomson, she testified, had been in the Lantern around five o’clock that Friday afternoon back in October. Ellie May pointed to Earl and identified him; that was the man she’d served some beers to while he was waiting for Charlie Lee. Ellie May knew Charlie Lee; he worked at a mushroom house in Hockessin, over in Delaware.
On cross-examination, Brett asked how, after several months, Ellie May could identify Earl Thomson so positively. Very few white people came by the Lantern, Ellie May answered. Mr. Thomson naturally stood out. He was dressed cool, too, good jacket, nice sports shirt and a shiny kind of chain necklace and ring, and a watch he kept studying.
He’d talked to Ellie May about buying a gun from Charlie Lee. But Charlie Lee called and told her they’d had a flush — a “flush” was an overnight sprouting of mushrooms that had to be picked right away. She’d put Earl Thomson on the phone.
“Miss Cluny, did you know that Earl Thomson’s car was stolen while he was in The Green Lantern?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t.”
“After the call from Mr. Lee, what did Mr. Thomson do then?”
“He seemed kind of pouty.”
“ ‘Pouty’?”
“Kind of mad, ma’am.”
“But what did he do?”
“He just left, ma’am. Threw down some money, and went out.”
“Miss Cluny, is The Green Lantern’s phone private?”
“No, ma’am, it’s a pay phone. Bartender answers it, calls for whoever it is.”
“Anyone in The Green Lantern can use that phone, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But Mr. Thomson did not return and use that phone?”
“No, ma’am, he didn’t.”
“Have you seen or talked with Mr. Thomson since that Friday afternoon last October?”
“No, ma’am, I haven’t.”
“Thank you, Miss Cluny.”
Charlie Lee was a stocky, middle-aged black man, dressed in a blue suit with a denim shirt and black tie. His testimony was simple and direct: he owned a Parker shotgun and wanted to sell it. Mr. Earl Thomson answered his newspaper ad and they agreed to meet at The Green Lantern. But the mushrooms had flushed a day early, and he had to break the date. Ellie May told him the white man was there, called him to the phone. He’d explained about the flush to Mr. Thompson, told him he had to work.
“Mr. Lee, did Mr. Thomson make another appointment with you at that time?”
“No, ma’am, he didn’t.”
“Did you suggest one?”
“Sure, ’cause I wanted to sell the shotgun. But he told me to forget it, like he was disgusted, and hung up.”
“You had no further contact with him since that time?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did you sell your shotgun to someone else, Mr. Lee?”
“No, ma’am. I still got it.”
“Well, I hope you find a buyer, Mr. Lee. Thank you.”
The attention of the jurors sharpened when Miguel Santos was called to the stand. The testimony of Adele Thomson’s therapist was crucial to the defense structure and it was obvious Davic intended to shore it up as firmly as possible.
Santos was attentive, his voice determined, earnest, anxious. His eyes followed Davic with obedient interest. A film of sweat shone on his broad, smooth forehead.
The Cuban’s nervousness seemed to stem from an immigrant’s pride at participating in such important official proceedings, plus a fear of failing to live up to whatever was expected of him; his attempts to be responsive and cooperative were painful in their eagerness, but seemed to make a favorable impression on the jurors.
On cross, Brett asked, “Mr. Santos, do you have a valid United States driver’s license?”
“No, miss, I don’t.”
“How long have you been in this country, Mr. Santos?”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Sustained.”
“Mr. Santos, are you a competent driver? A good driver?”
“Oh, yes, I drive all kinds of trucks, cars, in Cuba. Very good.”