Tricks and Treats, page 7
“I was flattered, yes. But I did not return her affection—not in the way you mean.”
“And just what do I mean? I haven’t asked that question yet.”
“You’re implying an affair which didn’t exist.”
“All right, do you deny having had sexual relations with Maryann Ravelle?”
“Yes. I deny it. I certainly do deny it!”
“And can you prove you did not have an affair with her?”
“I object, your honor.”
“Objection sustained.”
“Do you deny having the opportunity for an affair?”
“I object.”
“Objection overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Dempsey.”
“How can I deny having the opportunity? Certainly. I drove her home many times. I can’t get witnesses to prove we went straight from the office to her home, or witnesses to say I stayed only a minute or two outside, or that I never went in, or that I didn’t meet her somewhere on the sly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dempsey. Let’s turn now to the gifts. Are you normally a generous person?”
“What do you mean by normally?”
‘‘Well…do you give things to all your employees…all your customers?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you give gifts to some of your customers?”
“Sometimes. Yes.”
“Give me some examples.”
“I can’t think of any special examples. Certainly, when I liked a person, I gave small gifts, like records or books or things like that.”
“But never television sets?”
“No, sir.”
“But you gave Maryann a color television set. Did you give her any other gifts?”
“Just for Christmas and her birthday. You know.”
“That’s all? You never gave her money?”
“Oh, money. Yes, I guess I did. Occasionally.”
“How much and how occasionally?”
“You know, ten dollars here, five there. Just to keep her going when things were tough.”
“And you expect this jury to believe there was nothing more than platonic friendship between you and the girl?”
“Just friendship.”
“Did you ever tell your wife about Maryann?”
“I object to this line of questioning, your honor. I don’t see that it’s relevant in view of the fact that the defendant’s wife has already testified to the fact that she did not know of her husband’s friendship for Maryann. District attorney is trying to prejudice the character of the defendant.”
“Your honor. Learned defense counsel is correct in that I am trying to show that the character of the defendant is indeed on trial here.”
“Objection overruled.”
“No. I never mentioned it to my wife.”
“But Maryann knew you were married?”
“Yes. She did.”
“You saw nothing wrong with this young girl establishing a relationship with you—a married man, but yet you want this court to believe this fictitious story of another man she’d supposedly known for four months? The defense has not produced one shred of evidence to prove the existence of another man. I submit, your honor, that there never was such a third party. I submit, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that the defendant has fabricated this story to cover his own sins, that he is the father of—”
“Mr. Whitaker! How long must I pound this gavel to get your attention? The jury will disregard the district attorney’s statements. Mr. Whitaker, you will kindly save your emotional outbursts for your summation to the jury.”
“Yes, your honor. I’m sorry. Now, Mr. Dempsey, if such a third party existed, and I emphasize the word ‘if,’ why do you think he would have killed Maryann? If he was so concerned about protecting his reputation?”
“I think she must have refused to have the abortion. That she told him so. And, in a fit of anger, he hit her, probably accidentally killing her.”
“That’s your guess?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Dempsey. You admit having a relationship with the girl. You expect us to believe in your virtue. You admit to giving her gifts. You expect us to believe you are merely a generous person, without motives. You were at the scene of the crime when the police arrived. You expect us to believe that you did not run, but called the police because it was your duty to do so. You expect us to believe that you were in her apartment only once before; yet so many witnesses saw you drive her from your store time and time again. You expect us to believe in the existence of another man, when no one, not one single witness has corroborated your testimony? You expect us to believe all this?”
“Yes. Because it’s true.”
“Then what happened to the five hundred dollars this lover supposedly gave her? The police didn’t find it. No bank accounts. No evidence of large purchases. Where is it? What did she do with it, Mr. Dempsey?”
“I don’t know.”
“No more questions, your honor.”
“Mr. Buchanan, do you wish to redirect at this time?”
“Your honor, I would prefer adjourning until the day after tomorrow, so that I might study all the testimony given.”
“Very well. Any objections from the district attorney?”
“No objection.”
“This court stands adjourned until ten o’clock on Thursday.”
“This court is now in session, the Honorable James R. Flanigan presiding.”
“The defendant is reminded that he is still under oath. Mr. Buchanan, you may proceed with your redirect.”
“Before I begin, your honor, may I ask the court’s permission to have my clerk come forward with an electrical extension and connect the power to the television set, State’s Exhibit Sixteen?”
“For what purpose, Mr. Buchanan?”
“The defendant has testified that the set was in need of repair. I wish to corroborate that testimony.”
“Does the district attorney have any objection?”
“None, your honor.”
“Proceed then.”
“Jack, will you connect that extension please? Thank you. Now, Bill, you claimed that Maryann had called you to repair the television set and that when you arrived, one of the first things you noticed was that the sound was playing, but there was no picture. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you now leave the stand and turn on the switch of the TV set?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine. That’s it. Is it on? I see nothing but a dark screen, no picture at all, no lines, nothing, the same as if the set were turned off. Am I correct, Bill?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nevertheless, I do hear people talking on what I think is the Channel 7 A.M. New York show. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is. It’s tuned to Channel 7.”
“May I ask your honor for permission for this witness to step down temporarily, so that I may recall Sergeant Capilan of the Wickham police department to the stand?”
“Very well. Sergeant Capilan will take the stand, please.”
“Now, Sergeant. I ask you to recall the scene of the death. When you arrived, was this television playing or not?”
“It was not playing, sir.”
“And did you or anyone else, during the entire time this set has been in the custody of the police department, tum this set on to test it?”
“No, sir. We did not. We merely dusted it for fingerprints.”
“And, of course, as you’ve already sworn to, you found the prints of both the defendant and the victim on it…and no other prints?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“And the set has been in your custody all this time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And once more, did anyone, to your knowledge, turn this set on at any time since the crime?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Will the defendant please resume the stand?… Now, Bill, I would like to ask you more about this television set. You said you made this set?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“I’m going to ask you, Bill, with the court’s permission, to see if you can’t repair that set for us right here and now.”
“Your honor. I object to this display of showmanship by the defense counsel!”
“Do you have a purpose, Mr. Buchanan?”
“Yes, your honor. My client’s guilt or innocence may very well depend on this exhibit, and I don’t want him denied that chance.”
“Very well. Proceed.”
“Bill, would you then take your tool caddy, State’s Exhibit Twenty-Four, and proceed to repair the set, if you can?”
“This shouldn’t take too long.”
“I call your attention, your honor, for the record, to the fact that the defendant is now turning the set over, loosening some screws, sliding the component tray out and checking the wire circuitry beneath. Have you spotted the trouble, Bill?”
“Just as I thought. Looks like a loose connection. Just a moment while this soldering iron gets hot…there, now we should have a picture. Yes, there it is.”
“I was right, your honor. It is the AM. New York show, in living color. Thank you, Bill. You may turn the set off and take the stand. Now, Bill, that cabinet, the outside wood, where did that come from?”
“That was an old Magnavox portable. I took the old works out of that set and put the new works inside this box. It was lightweight and cut just right for the controls you see there.”
“You mean the tuning knob, the volume, tone, et cetera?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And tell me, Bill, is there any indication whatsoever…any marking on the cabinet or on the controls to indicate whether this is a black and white set or a color set?”
“No, sir, there is not.”
“And tell me, did you, at any time during your testimony, or did I, in any of my questioning, indicate whether this was a color set?”
* * *
“No, sir, we did not.”
“And exactly why did neither you nor I mention that this was a color set?”
“Because we knew that the only one else who could possibly know it would be Maryann’s lover.”
“And did we know who her lover was?”
“Yes, sir. We knew. But we couldn’t prove it.”
“And how did we know?”
“Because Maryann told me who her lover was.”
“Then you lied when you were asked if you knew?”
“Yes, sir, I lied.”
“And you were willing to commit perjury?”
“Yes, sir. He was too powerful. Who’d have believed me? But I knew sooner or later he’d have to say something, ask something which would give us the proof.”
“He could have guessed it was color. Most sets are today.”
“Yes, but only he could have known about the exact time he first met Maryann…four months before. I was careful not to mention that either.”
“No more questions. Your witness, Mr. Whitaker.”
But the district attorney was weeping.
Violation
William F. Nolan
“POLICE STORY”
The currently popular TV drama Police Story is a mosaic which presents a generally realistic picture of America’s big city cops and, by extension, of the society which gives them sanction. Since “Violation” speaks in the future tense, we cannot judge its realism; but it has an inexorable logic about it which suggests it is an only too accurate reflection of both future police work and the society which gives it legitimacy. William F. Nolan is a novelist, short-story writer, dramatist, biographer, and literary critic who first won notice in the science-fiction field. Currently he is in great demand as a movie and TV scenarist. His Dashiell Hammett, A Casebook (McNally & Loftin, 1969), was awarded a special Edgar by MWA and provides seminal scholarship to any student of the author of The Maltese Falcon and The Thin Man. - J.G.
It is 2 A.M. and he waits. In the cool morning stillness of a side street, under the screen of trees, the rider waits quietly. At ease upon the wide leather seat of his cycle, gloved fingers resting idly on the bars, goggles up, eyes palely reflecting the leaf-filtered glow of the moon.
Helmeted. Uniformed. Waiting.
In the breathing dark the cycle metal cools; the motor is silent, power contained.
The faint stirrings of a still-sleeping city reach him at his vigil. But he is not concerned with these; he mentally dismisses them. He is only concerned with the broad river of smooth concrete facing him through the trees-and the great winking red eye suspended icicle-like above it.
He waits.
And tenses to a sound upon the river. An engine sound, mosquito-dim with distance, rising to a hum. A rushing sound under the stars. The rider’s hands contract like the claws of a bird. He rises slowly on the bucket seat, right foot poised near the starter. A coiled spring.
Waiting.
Twin pencil beams of light move toward him, toward the street on which he waits hidden. Closer.
The hum builds in volume; the lights are very close now, flaring chalk-whiteness along the concrete boulevard.
The rider’s goggles are down and he is ready to move out, move onto the river. Another second, perhaps two...
But no. The vehicle slows, makes a full stop. A service vehicle with two men inside, laughing, joking. The rider listens to them, mouth set, eyes hard. The vehicle begins to move once more. The sound is eaten by the night.
There is no violation.
Now…the relaxing, the easing back. The ebb tide of tension receding. Gone. The rider quiet again under the moon.
Waiting.
The red eye winking at the empty boulevard.
“How much farther, Dave?” asks the girl.
‘‘Ten miles maybe. Once we hit Westwood it’s a quick run to my place. Relax. You’re nervous.”
“We should have stayed on the mainway. Used the grid. I don’t like surface streets. A grid would have taken us in.”
The man smiles, looping an arm around her.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of so long as you’re careful,” he said. “I used to drive surface streets all the time when I was a boy. Lots of people did.”
The girl swallows, touches at her hair nervously. “But they don’t anymore. People use the grids. I didn’t even know cars still came equipped for manual driving.”
“They don’t. I had this set up by a mechanic I know. He does jobs like this for road buffs. It’s still legal, driving your own car—it’s just that most people have lost the habit.”
The girl peers out the window into the silent street, shakes her head. “It’s not…natural. Look out there. Nobody! Not another car for miles. I feel as if we’re…trespassing.”
The man is annoyed. “That’s damn nonsense. I have friends who do this all the time. Just relax and enjoy it. And don’t talk like an idiot.”
“I want out,” says the girl. “I’ll take a walkway back to the grid.”
“The hell you will,” flares the man. “You’re with me tonight. We’re going to my place.”
She resists, strikes at his face. The man grapples to subdue her and does not see the blinking light. The car passes under it swiftly.
“No!” says the man. “I went through that light! You made me miss the stop. I’ve broken one of the surface laws.” He says this numbly.
“So what does that mean?” the girl asks. “What could happen?”
“Never mind. Nothing will happen. Never mind about what could happen.”
The girl peers out into the darkness. “I still want to leave this car.”
“Just shut up,” says the man.
And keeps driving.
Something in the sound tells the rider that this one will not stop, that it will continue to move along the river of concrete despite the blinking eye.
He smiles in the darkness, lips stretched back, silently. Poised there on the cycle, with the hum steady and rising on the river, he feels the power within him about to be released.
The car is almost upon the light, moving swiftly; there is·no hint of slackened speed.
The rider watches intently. Man and a girl inside. Struggling.
Fighting with one another.
The car passes under the light.
Violation.
Now!
He spurs the cycle to metal life; the motor crackles, roars, explodes the black machine into motion, and the rider is away, rolling in muted thunder along the street. Around the corner, swaying, onto the long, moon-painted river of the boulevard.
The rider feels the wind in his face, feels the throb and power-pulse of the metal thing he rides, feels the smooth concrete rushing backward under his wheels.
Ahead: the firefly glow of tail beams.
And now his cycle voice cries out after them, a siren moan through the still spaces of the hive-city. A voice that rises and falls in spirals of sound. And his cycle eyes, mounted left and right, blink crimson, red as blood in their wake.
The car will stop. The man will see him, hear him. The eyes and the voice will reach the violator.
And he will stop.
“Good Lord!” the man says coldly. “We picked up a rider at that light.”
“You picked him up, I didn’t,” says the girl. “It’s your problem.”
“But I’ve never been stopped on a surface street,” the man says, a note of desperation in his voice. “In all these years, never once!”
The girl glares at him. “Dave, you make me sick. Look at you, shaking like a pup. You’re a damned poor excuse for a man.”
He does not react to these words. He speaks in a numbed monotone. “I can talk my way out. I know I can. He’ll listen to me. I have my rights as a citizen of the city—”
“He’s catching up fast. You’d better pull over.”
“I’ll do the talking. You just keep quiet. I’ll handle this.”
The rider sees that the car is slowing, braking, pulling to the curb.
