Son of the Endless Night, page 45
Tommie decided that this particular shrink just might be worth what they were paying him.
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The courtroom was high and narrow, with a vaulted, not a Hat, ceiling of yellowed plaster, from which hung on brass chains a single row of large white chamberpot lighting fixtures; these did an inadequate job, on short sunless winter afternoons or rainy summer days, of illuminating the corners of the oblong room, because all the wood was solid, dark oak: doors and window frames and tiered rows of benches with high backs, wainscoting on the four walls, the jury box, the judge's three-sided bench with its carved intaglios of leaves and the scales of justice. There were drapes at the windows, worn brown velvet that gave off a must like old gloves in the back of a drawer.
The focal point of the courtroom was a small square of unglazed, sand-colored marble. Like an Elizabethan stage it was nearly surrounded by seats for the jury, for spectators; even when empty it was fascinating to observe because it promised drama. Not the clever artifice of the (heater but the often excruciating drama of the boxing ring, the bear pit, the slow-moving tumbrel. To her surprise, after walking in and glancing around once, Edith felt very much at home here, in this courtroom in Chadbury, Vermont.
The selection of the jury began on the fourth day of June. It rained, not heavily, but consistently, all day. The courtroom, the largest available in the district courthouse, had big-bladed ceiling fans, but as the day wore on, the air began to feel humid and soggy. There were too many people inside, packed too closely together on the hard wooden benches in the room. Prospective jurors, 130 of them, took up most of the available space. Twenty-five places had been reserved for members of the press.
The prosecution had asked Judge Knox Winford that the prisoner be restrained in the courtroom because of his episodes of violent behavior. Winford had ruled against them but had requested additional security both in the courtroom and outside, because of numerous crank calls from self-appointed instruments of a vengeful God who proposed to kill Rich. He sat at the defense's table unmanacled, wearing a blue suit with a Yale blue-and-white striped tie. With him were Adam Kurland, Edith Leighton, Lindsay Potter, and the psychologist Maggie Renquist. For the next few days Lindsay and the psychologist would keep their eyes on all the prospective jurors as each was questioned, noting subtle reactions that might be grounds for dismissal by the defense.
At the prosecutor's table on the right side of the courtroom facing the bench, special prosecutor Thomas Horatio Harkrider presided over a team that included the voiceless Gary Cleves, who had a stack of yellow legal pads and a dozen sharp pencils with him; Jean Landetta, an associate of Tommie's who also was an experienced trial lawyer, and the two jury pickers.
Conor Devon sat uncomfortably on the defense's side of the courtroom in the second row behind the press, on the aisle so that he could leave freely to visit the men's room.
Judge Winford read from the bench the charge of first-degree murder to the prospective jurors; Richard Devon sat with his hands clasped on the table in front of him, his head slightly bowed throughout. Nearly all the men and women in the courtroom looked at him with observable emotions ranging from curiosity to uneasiness.
Edith Leighton rose to address her preliminary remarks to the prospective jurors.
"You have been informed," she said, "that a murder was committed.
"We do not deny it.
"A beautiful young girl, beloved of her parents, and many friends, was slain.
"Richard Devon, who perhaps loved her more than anyone, sits here stricken by grief, by guilt.
"Did Karyn Vale die by his hand?
"She did.
"Was the heart and soul of Richard Devon involved in the assault on the girl he wished to marry?
"We say it was not.
"The savagery that resulted in the death of this innocent victim came from a force of incalculable brutality and evil that has existed since the fall of the angels. A force that possessed him totally on the night of the murder, making him incapable of coherent thought and action— "
There was a commotion in the ranks of the prospective jurors. A stout young woman wearing a seedy trench coat and round steel-rimmed glasses stood up with a Bible in her hand and began to flog the air with a judgmental forefinger.
"I can't listen to any more of this!" she shouted, perspiration pouring down her face. "For the commandment sayeth, 'Thou shalt not kill!' " Her voice rose and fell hysterically. "If devils possess thee, then it is Jesus who shall cast out the devils! Give yourself to Jesus, Richard Devon, and thou shalt be saved!
Rich had risen from his seat at the defense's table; he was looking around at the woman. A tremor ran through him.
Knox Winford hammered with his gavel. The first day, and things already were going haywire. "Bailiffs!"
The young woman dropped her Bible and tore open her trench coat. She was naked underneath. She had singled out Rich and now she cried, "Hallelu-jah! We will go to Jesus together!" She tried to climb over the row of unexamined jurors in front of her to get to the defense's table. Various bailiffs, including a woman, intercepted her.
Lindsay said with a wry smile to Adam, "That's one challenge we won't have to use."
"Take me, Satan!" the woman exhorted, having forgotten all about Jesus. "Let Richard go!" Then she subsided suddenly, almost blissfully, panting and groaning in the Urip of the bailiffs.
"I think the poor thing just had her first orgasm," Maggie Renquist observed.
Rich sat down slowly, and for a few moments his face was thick with depression. Then, as Lindsay looked his way, his expression changed. His edged smile was like a signature of dark mirth to the outpouring of the erstwhile SALVATIONIST. Lindsay felt a bolt of horror twist her shoulders as Rich reached down and fondled an instant erection; she sensed that something had flown from him to the oblivious, deluded woman, a terrifying spirit eager to claim the sacrifice. She pressed a hand against her mouth and thought she was going to faint.
As the young woman was wrapped in her trench coat and hustled out of the courtroom, Adam got a good look at her dowdy behind and cellulite-loaded thighs. "Even Zarach' must have some standards," he said. But his stomach was jumping from all the excitement; he was concerned about the dismal impression the woman had made on the other veniremen, who now would be disposed to look upon the matter of demonic possession as a bizarre comedy indulged in by retardates and sexually repressed zealots. How the hell had fatso survived the initial screening of eligibles so she could wind up in court doing her act? He shook his head. Even skilled jury pickers could blow one occasionally.
Rich's head was bowed contemplatively. Lindsay looked as if she had been hit by a bad menstrual cramp; her lips were bloodless. Edith walked by them all, maintaining her composure. She looked at Rich and then at Maggie, who was still grinning. Edith rapped her knuckles on the table in front of the psychologist and said, "We must not be amused." Then she paced for another five minutes until Knox Winford had succeeded in restoring order in the courtroom. When the mood was more to her liking, Edith resumed.
"It is a formidable task that faces you as jurors. You will hear from Richard himself the terrible story of how he was made a prisoner in his own body, and of the perpetual nightmare he has endured since."
Tommie Harkrider sat up a little straighter at this assertion and almost smiled for a moment as Edith, aware of the movement, flicked her eyes to him. Then she said, addressing the courtroom again, "We will prove to you that Richard Devon is as much a helpless victim of a murderous act as was his beloved Karyn. You will hear testimony from others, similarly possessed but more fortunate than Richard, in that they were not compelled to commit despicable crimes against other human beings. You will be asked to view photographs of individuals possessed by demonic spirits undergoing the tortures of exorcism. It is not a pretty picture we will paint for you; but every word is truth. The truth of the deadly war between the light of God and the darkness of Satan, which is everywhere upon the earth at this very moment, and which must engage us all in the service of the light if mankind is to persevere."
Tommie Harkrider was as ramshackle as ever as he stepped nippingly around the small arena formed by the judge's bench and witness stand, the now-empty jury box, and the tables for prosecution and defense. The knot of his unfashionable black knit tie was askew, one shirt cuff was decidedly frayed, his suit shone at the elbows and the seat of the pants. But his voice was his image: it clothed him in the radiant robes of an angel, an angel of might, of thundering omniscience and truth. He was an old-fashioned orator with the gift of inspiring each member of a large audience to believe that he and he alone was being addressed, the confidant of Tommie Harkrider.
Tommie said, not too sorrowfully, "We have already had a demonstration of what disordered minds and emotions may lead one to do. The poor woman is to be pitied, not censured; but you must think now about the impulses that led her to commit this act of public lewdness. And think also of how much more the truly disturbed mind is capable of conceiving, plotting, carrying out, all in the name of truth, or justice. Or love. Or . . . revenge for unrequited love.
"The prosecution is prepared to refute with scientific, psychiatric testimony any so-called 'evidence' of demonic possession, a purely theological concept which we submit has no basis in observable fact. We will prove, rather, that Richard Devon, far from being 'possessed' "— Tommie made quibbling quotation marks in the air with his lingers— "by 'demonic influences,' whatever they are, is in actuality so stricken by guilt that he must repress that Huilt— must erase all thought of the murder from his conscious mind— by providing a surrogate to take the blame, a surrogate who does not in fact exist, and has never existed.
"Ladies and gentlemen, there will be only two points pertinent to the outcome of this trial. It may well be that nil murderers are deranged at the moment they commit their crime, an irrational and antisocial act. Perhaps they are figuratively 'possessed' by emotional demons of their own devise— jealousy, passion, hatred. The fact remains that if there is such a crime as murder, and the statutes of the great state of Vermont so affirm, then Richard Devon is either guilty or not guilty under those statutes. His state of mind, and his emotional condition at the time of the murder, are not relevant."
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After several more hours, during which the defense and the prosecution could not agree on the selection of the first juror, Winford adjourned the proceedings.
Conor came as close to Rich as he was allowed and said, "It's going to be okay, you'll see."
"You don't see," Rich replied, downcast, and was led away.
Conor, desperate for something to be hopeful about, said to Edith, "How do you think we did?"
"I've had better days," Edith replied tartly. "But we have far to go. And now for tea."
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It took them twelve days to impanel the jury.
Choosing a jury through the method of interrogation and challenge was almost unknown in England, where jurors ! are seated by lottery. And Queen's Counsels limit their activities to arguing cases prepared for them in full by j junior barristers. Edith had been grateful for Adam's un- ; selfish cooperation in assuming most of the pretrial workload, and was now benefiting from his experience at sizing up and questioning candidates for the panel.
The prosecution and the defense each had twenty challenges. Potential jurors could also be dismissed without a challenge on grounds such as age. For Tommie Harkrider the process of interrogation and acceptance was more exacting, and excruciating, than it was for Edith and Adam. Under different circumstances Tommie would have welcomed jurors with deep religious convictions, for whom the act of killing was anathema. But the deeply religious also tended to believe in the existence of the devil; whether they also believed human beings could be possessed by him was another matter, but Tommie had no intention of handing counsel for the defense a built-in advantage. Catholics, even lapsed Catholics, were out, along with Bible Fundamentalists and Orthodox Jews. Middle-of-the-road Presbyterians and Congregationalists were okay, and Unitarians, better still. He knew he had no chance to get either an agnostic or an atheist by the defense, and didn't try very hard. He hesitated the longest over an accountant who was also a Christian Scientist; he finally dismissed her.
Tommie wasn't keen on dreamers, dropouts, or professional students. Artists were a difficult lot to judge. He took one who had owned his own gallery for twenty years, rejected one who sold his work out of a hand-decorated van at flea markets. His preference was for solid, older, well-educated or self-made individuals who had never smoked pot or dropped acid (he certainly didn't need someone harboring a secret mystical experience) and who would have the stamina to follow often-complicated lines of psychiatric reasoning and opinion while keeping a clear head. He preferred jurors with previous jury experience. He preferred women to men. Color didn't matter, but Haden County had very nearly an all-white population.
Edith's needs were simpler. She did not want a juror who had a female relative who had ever been in physical jeopardy, a mugging or rape victim. She sought a quality of open-mindedness, jurors with spirit who would not easily be bullied. Tommie could be a bit of a bully when it suited his tactics; so, she knew, could Zarach', which worried her more.
The first juror selected was Mary Adelaide Hotchkiss, age thirty-six, resident of Coldwater, mother of three. All boys. She was a Methodist and had taught Sunday school. She wasn't sure she accepted everything in the Bible as
historical fact, but appreciated the "moral lessons to be learned from the parables." She was civic-minded and a conservationist. She had served on juries before, but this was her first murder trial. She had a graceful neck and a nice smile, wore glasses to correct astigmatism. Tommie liked her because she had graduated summa cum laude in psychology from Temple University. Edith liked her because her hobby was whitewater kayaking. As the first juror named, Mary Adelaide became forelady.
The last juror whom the adversaries agreed upon was Walter Durrah, sixty-eight, of Glendinning. He neither smoked nor drank. He was a lifelong Republican and a former selectman. He did not like to be called Wally, or even Walt. He and his wife raised thoroughbred Irish setters. He had won a number of fly-fishing trophies. He read the Bible, which he considered "literature," but didn't go to church. Among other jobs he had worked for a year as an attendant at the state mental institution. He recalled the experience as "fascinating." Edith was suspicious of his attitude toward "mental defectives," as he called them; there was more than a hint of condescension, a deep-rooted belief that most of the incarcerated were fakers and malingerers. Walter Durrah had never been sick a day in his life, seldom knew fear, and thought that most people tended to "pamper themselves." But Edith was down to one challenge. Walter Durrah was borderline, a risk, but the next candidate might prove to be totally unacceptable. So she let the dog breeder pass, and the jury was complete. Both lawyers turned their attention to the main event.
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Shortly after dawn on the twenty-first of June, the summer solstice, nearly a thousand people were in front of the district courthouse and on the green hoping to be chosen by lot to attend the trial. There were thunderheads to the north, a smell of rain was in the air, but the sun rose higher and the rain passed Chadbury by, leaving the air sultry.
Conor Devon entered the courthouse by a rear door and took his seat early; a few minutes before ten Martin and Louise Vale were escorted into the courtroom by Tommie Harkrider. Martin Vale glanced at Conor; he realized who he was but didn't speak. He had been sailing on the weekend and was windburned, but still looked haggard. His wife wore a hat with a veil, maintaining an attitude of mourning. She kept fingering a pulse in her throat, trying to quell it. She stared straight ahead, at the flags of the nation and the state behind the bench.
The spectators who had won seats were let in as soon as the press had filled up the first row. At ten minutes after ten Knox Winford took his seat on the bench and nodded to the court clerk, who opened the proceedings.
"The people are ready, Your Honor," Tommie Harkrider said for Gary Cleves. Gary's voice had begun to come back, but he was able to communicate only in a ragged whisper. Gary, seated beside Tommie, nodded.
"The defense is ready, Your Honor," Adam Kurland said on behalf of Richard Devon, who wore the same blue suit he'd had on throughout the selection of the jury. He seemed a little dazed by the sunlight slanting down on him from a window above the juror's box, and Lindsay asked a bailiff to change the angle of the blinds.
Knox Winford cleared his throat and addressed himself to the jury. "Out of some four hundred candidates it has fallen to you, ladies and gentlemen, to return a verdict which may well have consequences reaching far beyond the confines of this courtroom. It is not only desirable but essential that you hold yourself aloof from all considerations of pity and sympathy, forget what prejudices you may now hold, maintain your good judgment no matter how long this trial continues, and base your verdict solely on what your common sense tells you is valid. The issue is simply stated: Is Richard Devon guilty as charged of murder in the first degree? The way to a resolution of that issue may lie through as-yet uncharted territory. My responsibility is to you, the members of the jury. Our standard at all times shall be clear reasoning."
