Fink rubbed his temples and said, “Yes sir. Could the witness please be sworn?”
The elderly woman at the desk suddenly came to life. She sprang to her feet and yelled at Hardy, who was less than fifteen feet away. “Raise your right hand!”
Hardy did this, and was sworn to tell the truth. She returned to her seat, and to her nap.
“Now, Mr. Fink, you may proceed,” Harry said with a nasty little smile, very pleased that he’d caught Fink with his pants down. He relaxed in his massive seat, and listened intently to the rapid question and answer routine that followed.
Hardy spoke in a chatty voice, eager to help, full of little details. He described the scene of the suicide, the position of the body, the condition of the car. There were photographs, if his honor would like to see them. His honor declined. They were completely irrelevant. Hardy produced a typed transcript of the 911 call made by Mark, and offered to play the recording if his honor would like to hear it. No, his honor said.
Then Hardy explained with great joy the capture of young Mark in the woods near the scene, and of their ensuing conversations in his car, at the Sway trailer, en route to the hospital, and over dinner in the cafeteria. He described his gut feeling that young Mark was not telling the complete truth. The kid’s story was flimsy, and through skillful interrogation with just the right touch of subtlety, he, Hardy, was able to poke all sorts of holes in it.
The lies were pathetic. The kid said he and his brother stumbled upon the car and the dead body; that they did not hear any gunshots; that they were just a couple of kids playing in the woods, minding their own business, and somehow they found this body. Of course, none of Mark’s story was true, and Hardy was quick to catch on.
With great detail, Hardy described the condition of Mark’s face, the swollen eye and puffy lip, the blood around the mouth. Kid said he’d been in a fight at school. Another sad little lie.
After thirty minutes, Harry grew restless and Fink took the hint. Reggie had no cross-examination, and when Hardy stepped down and left the room there was no doubt that Mark Sway was a liar who’d tried to deceive the cops. Things would get worse.
When his honor had asked Reggie if she had any questions for Sergeant Hardy, she simply said, “I’ve had no time to prepare for this witness.”
McThune was called as the next witness. He gave his oath to tell the truth and sat in the witness chair. Reggie slowly reached into her briefcase and withdrew a cassette tape. She held it casually in her hand, and when McThune glanced at her she tapped it softly on her legal pad. He closed his eyes.
She carefully placed the tape on the pad, and began tracing its edges with her pen.
Fink was quick, to the point, and by now fairly adept at avoiding even vaguely routine questions. It was a new experience for him, this efficient use of words, and the more he did it the more he liked it.
McThune was as dry as cornmeal. He explained the fingerprints they found all over the car, and on the gun and the bottle, and on the rear bumper. He speculated about the kids and the garden hose, and showed Harry the Virginia Slims cigarette butts found under the tree. He also showed Harry the suicide note left behind by Clifford, and again gave his thoughts about the additional words added by a different pen. He showed Harry the Bic pen found in the car, and said there was no doubt Mr. Clifford had used this pen to scrawl these words. He talked about the speck of blood found on Clifford’s hand. It wasn’t Clifford’s blood, but was of the same type as Mark Sway’s, who just happened to have a busted lip and a couple of wounds from the affair.
“You think Mr. Clifford struck the child at some point during all this?” Harry asked.
“I think so, Your Honor.”
McThune’s thoughts and opinions and speculations were objectionable, but Reggie kept quiet. She’d been through many of these hearings with Harry, and she knew he would hear it all and decide what to believe. Objecting would do no good.
Harry asked how the FBI obtained a fingerprint from the child to match those found in the car. McThune took a deep breath, and told about the Sprite can at the hospital, but was quick to point out that they were not investigating the child as a suspect when this happened, just as a witness, and so therefore they felt it was okay to lift the print. Harry didn’t like this at all, but said nothing. McThune emphasized that if the child had been an actual suspect, they would never have dreamed of stealing a print. Never.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Harry said with enough sarcasm to make McThune blush.
Fink walked him through the events of Tuesday, the day after the suicide, when young Mark hired a lawyer. They tried desperately to talk with him, then to his lawyer, and things just deteriorated.
McThune behaved himself and stuck to the facts. He left the room in a quick dash for the door, and he left behind the undeniable fact that young Mark was quite a liar.
From time to time, Harry watched Mark during the testimony of Hardy and McThune. The kid was impassive, hard to read, preoccupied with an invisible spot somewhere on the floor. He sat low in his seat and ignored Reggie for the most part. His eyes were wet, but he was not crying. He looked tired and sad, and occasionally glanced at the witness when his lies were emphasized.
Harry had watched Reggie many times under these circumstances, and she usually sat very close to her young clients and whispered to them as the hearings progressed. She would pat them, squeeze their arms, give reassurances, lecture them if necessary. Normally, she was in constant motion, protecting her clients from the harsh reality of a legal system run by adults. But not today. She glanced at her client occasionally as if waiting for a signal, but he ignored her.
“Call your next witness,” Harry said to Fink, who was resting on his elbows, trying not to stand. He looked at Ord for help, then at his honor.
“Well, Your Honor, this may sound a bit strange, but I’d like to testify next.”
Harry ripped off his reading glasses and glared at Fink. “You’re confused, Mr. Fink. You’re the lawyer, not a witness.”
“I know that, sir, but I’m also the petitioner, and, I know this may be a bit out of order, but I think my testimony could be important.”
“Thomas Fink, petitioner, lawyer, witness. You wanna play bailiff, Mr. Fink? Maybe take down a bit of stenography? Perhaps wear my robe for a while? This is not a courtroom, Mr. Fink, it’s a theater. Why don’t you just choose any role you like?”
Fink stared blankly at the bench without making eye contact with his honor. “I can explain, sir,” he said meekly.
“You don’t have to explain, Mr. Fink. I’m not blind. You boys have rushed in here half-ass prepared. Mr. Foltrigg should be here, but he’s not, and now you need him. You figured you could throw together a petition, bring in some FBI brass, hook in Mr. Ord here, and I’d be so impressed I’d just roll over and do anything you asked. Can I tell you something, Mr. Fink?”
Fink nodded.
“I’m not impressed. I’ve seen better work at high school mock trial competitions. Half the first-year law students at Memphis State could kick your butt, and the other half could kick Mr. Foltrigg’s.”
Fink was not agreeing, but he kept nodding for some reason. Ord slid his chair a few inches away from Fink’s.
“What about it, Ms. Love?” Harry asked.
“Your Honor, our rules of procedure and ethics are quite clear. An attorney trying a case cannot participate in the same trial as a witness. It’s simple.” She sounded bored and frustrated, as if everyone should know this.
“Mr. Fink?”
Fink was regaining himself. “Your Honor, I would like to tell the court, under oath, certain facts regarding Mr. Clifford’s actions prior to the suicide. I apologize for this request, but under the circumstances it cannot be helped.”