“Then when Mr. Thomson called you on that occasion we’re talking about — early Friday evening, October sixteenth — you weren’t worried about driving over to Muhlenburg to pick him up? Is that correct?”
“Si, yes, correct.”
“It didn’t bother you to be asked to drive fifteen miles at night through rush-hour traffic? That didn’t worry you at all?”
“No, miss. I drive very well.”
“You were not concerned about not having a driver’s license?”
Santos shrugged uncertainly. He looked for help to Davic, who stood and said, “Your Honor, many Cubans who fled the present regime there are political refugees. Naturally they don’t have official papers. It’s difficult for them to obtain U.S. drivers’ licenses. That isn’t Mr. Santos’s fault.”
“Your point is well taken, Mr. Davic. The question is irrelevant in any case. Go on, Miss Brett.”
“Mr. Santos, how long have you worked for the Thomson family?”
“Seven years, ma’am.”
“In that time were you ever asked to serve as a chauffeur for Earl Thomson?”
“No... I don’t think so, miss.”
“Do you mean ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ Mr. Santos?”
“I mean no, miss.”
“Then you must have been surprised when Earl Thomson asked you to drive to Muhlenburg and pick him up. Were you surprised?”
“A little.” Santos shrugged. “But I am there at the house to work, you know, miss. I do what work is there, what I’m asked.”
“Then you were not surprised at Mr. Thomson’s request?”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Sustained.”
“Judge Flood,” Brett said, “I’m trying to establish that the actions Miguel Santos took that night were of an unusual nature, an unprecedented nature. Surely the jury is entitled to a clarification of these unique circumstances.”
“Miss Brett, I have sustained defense counsel’s objection. I’d appreciate it if you’d get on to something else now.”
Brett again took the stocky Cuban over the events of that particular Friday night — a second time and a third. With each repetition, it became increasingly obvious that Santos’s testimony had been carefully committed to memory; his answers were a word-for-word duplication of his testimony to Davic on direct examination.
Santos had been in his quarters above the garage when Thomson had phoned from Muhlenburg. This was five-thirty — “or maybe a little after.” Mr. Thomson asked Santos to drive over to Muhlenburg. The chauffeur, Richard, was not home — he was in New Jersey with Mr. Thomson, Mr. George Thomson. Santos had left immediately in a family car. Santos described the route he’d taken that night with mechanical accuracy, listing without hesitation a stream of street names and route numbers. But Brett gained little by establishing that Santos’s account seemed to be memorized; his methodical delivery strengthened his credibility with the jury because it appeared so in keeping with his character. The Cuban obviously was the sort of person who would have to be certain of his facts before he would put a hand on a Bible and swear to them.
“Mr. Santos, where did you pick up Mr. Thomson in Muhlenburg?”
“In front of a diner. He told me where he would be. The Bellflower diner.”
“He was waiting outside?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Who drove home then, Mr. Santos?”
“He did. Mr. Thomson.”
“Did he tell you his car had been stolen?”
“No, miss.”
“Did you ask him about it?”
“About what, miss?”
“About what happened to his Porsche Turbo 924?”
“No, miss.”
“Weren’t you curious?”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Sustained.”
“Mr. Santos, what time did you and Earl Thomson arrive at the Thomson home?”
“Seven o’clock, just about seven.”
“What time did you go to bed that night?”
“Maybe ten, ten-thirty o’clock.”
“Did you have dinner after you returned from Muhlenburg?”
“Yes.”
“Did you eat alone?”
“In my room. Yes.”
“You stayed alone in your room until you went to bed?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Santos.”
The defense then called Mrs. George Thomson, but Judge Flood ordered a half-hour recess to give the TV technicians time to set up and test their equipment and remote hook-up to her home.
Adele Thomson wore tiny pearl earrings and a blue bed jacket with a microphone clipped to a quilted lapel. Her maid had brushed her tight, vibrant curls into a soft crescent around her fragile forehead; they were like a small, shining halo against the white bedstead and pillows.
Her image was brought to the courtroom on a large screen set up beside Judge Flood’s bench. It was immediately obvious that her appearance created a favorable and heightened emotional impact on the court and the jury; her motionless body provided a touching contrast to her resonant voice and lively, intelligent eyes. She seemed intent on testifying clearly and accurately, her manner suggested an eagerness to cooperate and, more important for its effect on the jurors, a gallant indifference to her physical helplessness.
Her account was simple and straightforward... Earl had stopped by her room around seven o’clock on the night in question. She was certain of the time. Two clocks, one electric, the other solar-powered, were in clear view of her bed.
Earl was dining with her that evening. After looking in to say hello, he’d gone off to shower and change. He returned fifteen minutes later. They had a glass of wine and watched the end of the news. Dinner had been prepared; Earl set up trays and served.
Davic asked if she could have been mistaken about the time. Had she taken any medication before Earl arrived? Was it possible she’d been drowsy or confused?
Adele Thomson replied firmly in the negative. She had taken no medicine, cough syrups or alcohol (except the single glass of wine) that night. She volunteered that she did take medication on occasion, both for pain and to help her sleep. Prescription drugs — five milligram Valium and Dalmane. Actually she hadn’t taken anything that night. With a smile, she said, “Imagine taking a sleeping pill when you’re expecting your son for dinner.”
They had talked and watched television until ten-thirty or eleven o’clock. Then Earl went off to his own room.
“Then it’s your sworn testimony, Mrs. Thomson,” Davic said, “that your son was with you from seven o’clock until approximately eleven o’clock on that Friday night last October sixteenth?”
“Yes. That’s what I’ve told you, Mr. Davic, that’s right.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Thomson. I know this has been an ordeal for you. I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
Brett began her cross-examination by assuring Mrs. Thomson that if she wanted to pause or rest at any time, that would be satisfactory to the prosecution.
“Thank you, but I don’t require any special consideration. I’m not a hothouse flower, Miss Brett, regardless of what you may think. I can be as strong as I need to be, particularly in circumstances like these.”
“Mrs. Thomson, when your son stopped by your room for the first time on that night in question — before he showered and changed — did you notice what he was wearing?”
“No, I don’t believe I did.”
“Was his hair damp?”
“I think it was. Yes, I’m sure it was. It had started to rain, as I recall.”
“Were his garments wet, Mrs. Thomson?”
“I suppose they were. Does it matter?”
“Did you notice if his shoes were muddy?”
“No, I would have noticed that.” Adele’s frail hand gestured to her carpets. “Everything here is white, you see. He would have tracked dirt all over the place.”