Mason’s eyes showed that he was interested. “How can you tell?”
“Lots of little ways. The tenderfoot tries to tell you how he always rode bareback as a boy, and then he grabs hold of the horn and cantle.” He snorted disgustedly. “Now, you never touched the cantle with your hand. Have a good ride.”
Mason’s eyes were thoughtful as they trotted away from the hotel and up the bridle path.
“What now?” Della Street asked.
“That talk about getting on a horse made me think — you know, a lawyer must always be on the alert for details.”
“What does getting on a horse have to do with it?” she asked.
“Everything — and nothing.”
She reined her horse close to his.
“The little things,” Mason said, “little details which escape the average observer, are the things that tell the whole story. If a man really understands the significance of the little things, no one can lie to him. Take that wrangler, for instance. The people who come here have money. They’re supposed to be intelligent. They’ve had, as a rule, the best education money can buy. They usually try to exaggerate their ability as horsemen in order to get better mounts. And they’re utterly oblivious of the little things to do which give the lie to their words. The wrangler stands by the hitching post, apparently sees nothing, and yet can tell to a certainty just how much a person knows about a horse. A lawyer should appreciate the significance of that.”
“You mean that a lawyer should know all of those things?” Della Street asked.
“He can’t know them all,” Mason said, “or he’d be a walking encyclopedia, but he should know the basic facts. And he should know how to get the exact knowledge he needs in any given case to prove a man is lying when his own actions contradict the words his lips are uttering.”
She looked at his somewhat drawn countenance, the tired weariness of his eyes, said, “You’re worrying a lot about that case.”
He said, “Seventeen years ago, a man was hanged. Perhaps he was guilty. Perhaps he was innocent. But just as certain as fate, he was hanged because a lawyer made a mistake.”
“What did the lawyer do?”
Mason said, “Among other things, he presented an inconsistent defense.”
“Doesn’t the law permit that?”
“The law does, but human nature doesn’t.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Mason said, “Of course, the law has been changed a lot in the last twenty years, but human nature hasn’t changed. Under the procedure, as it existed in those days, a person could interpose a plea of not guilty, go into court, and try to prove he wasn’t guilty. He could also interpose a plea of insanity which was tried at the same time as the rest of the case, and before the same jury, and as a part of the whole case.”
She studied him with eyes that saw deep beneath the surface, seeing those things which only a woman can see in a man with whom she has had a long, intimate association.
Abruptly, she said, “Let’s forget the case. Let’s take a good, brisk canter, soak up the smell of the desert, and come back to business after breakfast.”
Mason nodded, touched his horse with the quirt, and they were off.
They left the village behind, rode up a long winding canyon, came to water and palms, dismounted to lie in the sand, watching the purple shadows seek refuge from the sunlight in the deeper pockets where the jagged ridges offered protection. The absolute silence of the desert descended upon them, stilled the desire for conversation, left them calmly contented, souls purified by a vast tranquillity.
They rode back in silence. Mason took a shower, had breakfast, and dropped into a deep, restful sleep. It wasn’t until afternoon that he would see John Witherspoon.
Della and Perry met him on the shaded veranda which furnished a cool shield against the eye-aching glare of the desert. Shadows of the mountains were slowly stealing across the valley, but it would be several hours before they embraced the hotel. The heat was dry but intense.
Mason sat down and began to review the case dispassionately.
“You’re familiar with most of these facts, Witherspoon,” he said, “but I want Miss Street to get the picture, and I want to clarify my own perspective by following the case in a logical sequence of events; so I’ll run the risk of boring you by dwelling on facts you already know.”
“Go right ahead,” Witherspoon said. “Believe me, Mason, if you can satisfy me the man was innocent...”
“I’m not certain we can ever satisfy ourselves,” Mason said, “at least not from the data we have available at present. But we can at least look at it in the light of cold, dispassionate reason.”
Witherspoon tightened his lips. “In the absence of proof to the contrary, the verdict of the jury is binding.”
“In 1924,” Mason said, “Horace Legg Adams was in partnership with David Latwell. They had a little manufacturing business. They had perfected a mechanical improvement which gave promise of great potential value. Abruptly Latwell disappeared. Adams told his partner’s wife that Latwell had gone on a business trip to Reno, that she would doubtless hear from him in a few days. She didn’t hear from him. She checked the hotel records at Reno. She could get no trace of him.
“Adams told other stories. They didn’t all coincide. Mrs. Latwell said she was going to call the police. Adams, confronted with the threat of a police investigation, told an entirely different story, and told it for the first time. Mrs. Latwell called in the police. They investigated. Adams said that Latwell had confessed to him his marriage was unhappy, that he was in love with a young woman whose name didn’t enter into the case. She was referred to in the newspapers and in court as ‘Miss X.’ Adams said Latwell told him he was going to run away with this woman, asked him to stall his wife along by telling her he’d gone to Reno on a business trip, that Adams was to carry on the business as usual, hold Latwell’s share of the proceeds, give an allowance of two hundred dollars each month to Latwell’s wife, and wait until he heard from Latwell as to what to do with the rest. Latwell wanted to get completely away before his wife could stop him.
“At that time, Adams told a convincing story, but because of his early contradictory statements, police made a thorough investigation. They found Latwell’s body buried in the cellar of the manufacturing plant. There was a lot of circumstantial evidence indicating Adams was guilty. He was arrested. More circumstantial evidence piled up. Adams’ lawyer evidently became frightened. Apparently, he thought Adams wasn’t telling him the whole truth, and that, at the time of trial, he might be confronted with surprise testimony which would make the case even more desperate.
“The prosecution closed its case. It was an imposing array of circumstantial evidence. Adams took the stand. He didn’t make a good witness. He was trapped on cross-examination — perhaps because he didn’t clearly understand the questions, also perhaps because he was rattled. He evidently wasn’t a man who could talk glibly or think clearly in front of a crowded courtroom and the stony faces of twelve jurors. Adams’ lawyer put on a defense of insanity. He called Adams’ father, who testified to the usual things a family can dig up when they want to save a child from the death penalty. A fall in early childhood, a blow on the head, evidences of abnormality — principally that Horace Adams had a penchant as a youngster for torturing animals. He’d pull the wings off flies, impale them on pins, gleefully watch them squirm — in fact, that animal-torturing complex seemed to be the thing on which the defense harped.