This Day's Death Page 16

  “Yes—directly—but the foliage is so thick you can’t see it.”

  On the screen, Jim appears—almost defiantly—in a tan shirt.

  “Is that you walking the length of the path from a point forty feet away toward the grotto?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Mr. Travis was arrested in the grotto?”

  “Yes, sir—at least forty feet away from where I was arrested.”

  “You’ve disappeared from view, Mr. Girard; have you entered the grotto?”

  “Yes.”

  “But we can’t see you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “This is another sequence?”

  “Yes. It’s taken approximately twenty feet away, and again the camera is pointed directly at the grotto.”

  “Is that you moving along the path?”

  “Yes, sir.” Despite Alan’s insistence that they both appear in the film so that there would be no question about their visibility, Steve had finally been reticent and Jim had agreed Steve would appear only when absolutely necessary—and then with his back to the camera.

  “I notice that again you’ve disappeared—did you go straight ahead or did you enter the grotto?”

  “I entered it. If I had gone straight ahead, you would have seen me on the elevated slope beyond the grotto.”

  “But we can’t see the grotto even from this closer distance?”

  “No, sir—you can’t.”

  “Oh, by the way, why did you shoot this sequence from twenty feet away?”

  “Because that’s the distance the cop— . . .”

  “Do you mean Officer Daniels?”

  “Daniels, yes; that’s the distance he claims he stood and watched— . . . He claimed that distance in the arrest report, too.”

  They had anticipated an objection to reference to the arrest report since it was not in evidence—they would nevertheless call attention to it. But the district attorney did not interrupt.

  “This third sequence—at what distance was it taken?”

  “Fifteen feet away from the grotto, aimed directly again.”

  “Why fifteen feet?”

  “Because that’s the distance the— . . . Daniels claimed, in the preliminary hearing, he stood away.”

  “Correction, Mr. Girard, I believe earlier you said twenty feet— . . .”

  Jim answers the deliberately asked question: “First he said twenty, he changed it later to fifteen. He also said twenty in the arrest report.”

  Still no objection to reference to the arrest report.

  Alan: “Oh. . . . I notice you’re moving along the path. . . . Have you entered the grotto?”

  “Yes.”

  “The camera is pointed toward the grotto fifteen feet away, and yet we can’t see it, nor you, nor anything else for that matter—nothing but trees, Mr. Girard?” A pause. “But you are in the grotto, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, indeed; now I see you emerging; indeed you were there all along, completely out of our sight. . . . This fourth sequence was taken— . . .”

  “Five feet away from the grotto.”

  “Why five feet? Did the officer also— . . . ?”

  “We just anticipated he might be getting closer.”

  Jim saw Steve, Edmondson, and the district attorney smile. No reaction from Cory. None. Daniels stares at the screen as if for an urgent answer.

  Alan: “Is that you moving toward the camera?”

  “Yes—from a southerly direction this time.”

  “You’ve disappeared. Where?”

  “Into the grotto.”

  “This sequence—from five feet away, is it?”

  “Yes, sir—fifteen feet closer than Daniels first said, ten feet closer than what he changed the distance to later.”

  “And you’re still in the grotto?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now this new sequence—how far was the camera?”

  “As close as we could get it to the grotto without its being inside. The path angles sharply toward the entrance.”

  “I don’t see anything but trees.”

  “I’m in the grotto.”

  “You’re in the grotto during this entire sequence and the camera is as close as it could be located without its being within the grotto, and yet we still can’t see you, Mr. Girard?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well, indeed, you were in the grotto; now we see you emerging into the path— . . . The camera jerked— . . .”

  “I ran into it—the path is that narrow.”

  Still that smile on the district attorney’s face.

  Alan: “Now this sequence—how far?”

  “Again forty feet away from the grotto, at the beginning. This time the camera wasn’t stationary; the photographer moved along the length of the path to the grotto.”

  “Who is the gentleman with his back to the camera?”

  “Mr. Travis.”

  “Has Mr. Travis passed the grotto?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Tell us when.”

  “Now. He’s paused before it.”

  “I can still see him—did he enter it?”

  “No—he moved on—past the grotto, up the slope beyond it.”

  “I notice Mr. Travis stooped. Why?”

  “You have to, to get by. The branches are very low there.”

  “And who is that advancing toward the camera now?”

  “Myself.”

  “You were in the grotto throughout this entire sequence?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As the camera moved toward the grotto from forty feet away, where you were arrested, toward twenty feet . . . toward fifteen . . . toward five—and closer— . . . you were there all that time and we couldn’t see you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How far were you from Mr. Travis when you were arrested?”

  “We were at least forty feet apart,” Jim answers. “It’s forty feet from the fork to the grotto, and I had passed the fork.”

  Flipping the pages of the transcript of the preliminary hearing, Alan says casually: “Forty feet. . . . Oh, yes, and I believe Officer Daniels has testified under oath to that effect also. . . . Forty feet apart.”

  A bright square of light flickers on the screen, the green world evaporates.

  Jim returns to the witness chair.

  “Now, Mr. Girard,” Alan resumes, “when you were finally taken to the police station, were you then told why you had been arrested?”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “When were you told?”

  “I learned it from the bondsman when I was bailed.” (He told me: “It’s a serious offense—punishable with up to fifteen years in prison.” Fifteen years. I felt cold in the steamy night. Like waking to find a nightmare is real.)

  “Were you questioned at the station by either of the officers involved?”

  “Yes—by Daniels.”

  “The officer who did not arrest you, is that correct?”

  “That’s correct. He told a uniformed cop that he wanted to talk to me, and he led me to a room where we were alone.”

  “And what did he say to you and what did you say to him?”

  “He said, ‘That guy, he tried to approach you, didn’t he?’ I denied it.” (Conning me, he said, “Tell me about that guy. Steve? Steve Travis—is that his name? Tell me about him and you’ll be okay. He tried to approach you, didn’t he?” “You’re putting me on, man!—he didn’t try to approach me—but you— . . .?” He stopped me quickly:) “‘He didn’t try to put the make on you?’ he asked me. I denied that.” (“He didn’t offer to blow you?” he asked me. “Man, you are hung up, aren’t you?” I said, and his face was on fire.) “‘Then what was he doing stooped over before you?’ he asked me.” (“. . . —if he wasn’t giving you a head job?”—and there was excitement in his voice. “That really turns you on, doesn’t it?” I said. “I’ll see you go to jail!” he fired at me.) “I told h
im the only time I saw Steve stoop was when he went ahead along the path beyond the grotto—and that if he, Daniels, had gone through, he would have had to stoop that way too.” (Nothing happened. It would have—but it didn’t.)

  “That was the only indication you got from either of the two officers as to why you had been arrested?”

  “That’s all—just those questions—like he was trying to decide what to book me on.”

  No objection from Hall. Cory’s face is a fleshy mask.

  Alan abruptly: “Do you know what oral copulation is, Mr. Girard?”

  Jim: “Yes.”

  Alan: “On that date, at that time, at that place, were you orally copulated by the codefendant in this case?”

  “No, sir.”

  “On that date, at that time, at that place, did you orally copulate the codefendant in this case?”

  “No!” Jim answered angrily. “That’s not what Daniels charged, he charged Steve went down on me!” Though under the law both would be equally guilty, Jim felt deeply outraged by the second part of the question, as if merely its being asked committed him intimately to a world he had merely entered as wanderer. Why had Alan asked it? It was Steve who had been accused of going down on him. Cool it, he warns himself, realizing it was only a routine question, routinely, if perhaps clumsily, asked. The only bad note in the testimony so far. “No,” he repeats.

  Obviously to get the matter back on the firmest ground after stumbling on Jim’s angry reaction, Alan asks: “Mr. Girard, how far were you and Mr. Travis apart when you were arrested?”

  “Forty feet.”

  “Forty feet—as the officer agrees in his own testimony,” Alan finishes. “No further questions, your honor.”

  Edmondson: “No questions at this time, your honor.”

  Now the deputy district attorney—and he remained sitting, he didn’t stand as if to attack—would begin the cross-examination. He smiled at Jim. To let him understand there was no animosity? Did the man have a distaste for cases he knew should never come to trial? Perhaps he was already convinced the cop lied? But: Was it him Alan contacted about dismissing the matter? Did Alan try to get it dismissed? The two questions occurring suddenly are so disturbing that Jim wouldn’t risk answers at this point.

  “Mr. Girard,” Hall is asking softly, “I take it a professional photographer took these films?”

  “Yes.” Despite the smile that punctuated his question and the fact that he had made no objection during the defense interrogation—despite the seeming amicability—Jim couldn’t call him “sir”—he was still the enemy if only nominally.

  “And you hired him to make a motion picture which would depict the general area of your arrest?”

  “Yes.”

  Daniels is scribbling on a yellow sheet of paper.

  “Oh, by the way, the map—you drew it?” Hall asks.

  “Yes.”

  “You measured distances, et cetera?”

  “I did.”

  “And you gave the photographer of the films his instructions?”

  “Yes—following my attorney’s suggestions; that is, to aim directly at the grotto at all times, to take the sequences from various distances.”

  “Of course it was your intention to make a true, correct, and fair representation of the area?”

  “Yes.”

  “The films were shot in a light approximating that other afternoon’s?”

  “Yes.”

  Daniels hands Hall the yellow sheet on which he had scribbled. Hall glances at it, seems to disregard it, continues: “And the most important thing you were trying to show is the situation or visibility as it would appear to a police officer if he had observed what he claims?”

  “Right.”

  “By the way, when were the films taken?”

  There it was. “Last week.” Five days of rain.

  “That would be— . . . over half a year since the arrest occurred?”

  “Yes.” Months—and the awareness of the arrest had tainted every single crawling awake moment of them.

  “Were the films taken before or after the recent rain?”

  “After.”

  “I believe it rained about a week.”

  “It drizzled a few days.”

  “Thank you. A few days of . . . drizzle. And they were shot from the various distances mentioned by Officer Daniels—is that correct?”

  “That’s correct. The various distances.” Jim has a wayward feeling that the district attorney is on their side. Or conning? (Don’t let him, he’s the enemy!)

  “You made no attempt to point the camera nor tilt it so it gave an incorrect picture of the area, is that correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Hall leans back, as if he’s through. Daniels whispers insistently to him. Hall glances again at the yellow paper the cop wrote on. Hall says abruptly—and this time there was no smile: as if he felt compelled to ask the question Daniels seemed to demand be asked—or as if no matter what his feelings in this case, that part of him that accepted his role as prosecutor exerted a sudden powerful force to win—he asks abruptly without smiling: “Mr. Girard, were you wearing undershorts the day of your arrest?”

  Jim frowns. “No, I wasn’t,” he answers. “I hardly ever— . . .”

  The chubby mask on the bench glanced at him.

  A negative reaction from Alan and Edmondson. Steve winced.

  “I’ll leave it at that for now, your honor,” Hall says softly.

  A RECESS.

  “How could Daniels have known you weren’t wearing shorts— . . . ?” Alan asks Jim.

  Jim answers. Alan’s serious look melts into a smile. A wider, confident smile.

  Excusing himself, Jim hurries to the telephone by the elevator. Taken. He waits impatiently. The man finishes. Jim dials his sister’s number. “Bueno?” Miss Lucía answers.

  “Miss Lucía, how is my mother?”

  “Oh, it’s the youngman. . . . She has a headache—all those tangled veins, of course; and she went back to bed after your sister took her to the doctor. But don’t worry,” she adds hastily, “it’s not the thing; she’s just tired from the traveling. Just a moment, youngman, here’s your sister.”

  “Mother isn’t well, is she?” Jim asks his sister.

  “The doctor said her ankle isn’t bad—but— . . . It’s just the long trip, she’s tired. . . . Will you come over for dinner?”

  “No,” he reacts instinctively, “I think I'd better stay away today.” Stay away. He remembers: The war that long December day. No—she’s just worn out from traveling, that’s all.

  “Jim? Hold on, Mother’s coming to the telephone; she heard it was you.”

  A long wait. Jim hears the sound of his mother’s cane. Tap. . . . Tap. Tap.

  “Yes, my Son?”

  “How are you, Mother?” His mind pleads, Please say you’re well!

  She sighs. “About the same. . . . When are we leaving, my Son?”

  “Why are you so anxious?—we just got here—aren’t you happy with Estela?”

  “Of course—she’s so good. It’s just that I don’t want to get sick here.”

  “You’re not going to get sick, Mother! Look, I have to go— . . .”

  He frowns at what confronts him on returning to the courtroom. Alan and Edmondson are speaking spiritedly, laughing, with the district attorney. Steve stands alone. Jim had noticed such scenes before—though, until today, not involving Alan nor Edmondson; had seen other lawyers at other hearings talking and joking with their antagonists, both sides clustered amicably like friends playing a game of pretended rivalry—the defendants, those whose lives were being altered, at a distance. Jim had heard those other attorneys referring to one judge or another as “the old man”—indulging—canonizing—his eccentricities.

  Aware of Jim’s stare, Alan leaves the two other attorneys. “It couldn’t be going any better,” he assures Jim. “We’re not even introducing the still photographs; the films have done it.
You’ve been an excellent witness, Jim. Excellent!”

  “Thanks,” Jim says, unable to keep a note of coolness out of his voice, resenting his attorney’s camaraderie with the district attorney.

  The court again in session, Jim sits on the witness chair.

  It was Edmondson’s turn. “Just one question: What determined the position on the path, at the designated distances from the grotto, where the camera was located?” This had been one of his “devil’s advocate” questions; now he was using it to their advantage. As before, Jim’s antagonism disappeared in admiration of Edmondson’s manner in action.

  “The camera was placed, at the various distances, in the only location where a man could possibly stand,” Jim answers. “The path is very narrow; so the location is tightly restricted.”

  “Thank you,” Edmondson said.

  Startling Jim, who had thought a judge did not intrude directly into an examination, Cory said, “I'm a bit confused, Mr. Girard, by the limitations on the placement of the camera. Was a tripod used?”

  “Yes— . . .” He could not bring himself to say “your honor.”

  Cory: “A tripod with adjustable legs?”

  “Yes.”

  Cory: “Then what was to preclude putting the tripod wherever you chose to put it, by adjusting the legs—regardless of the condition of the path? You seem to imply that there is only one place, at each distance, where the camera could be located.”

  “That’s correct.” Jim had expected—naïvely—that the honesty of the films would not be questioned. It hadn’t been, so far, even by Hall. It was Cory. Understanding the crucial question—which Edmondson had prepared him for that afternoon in Alan’s office—Jim answered it carefully: “To the left or easterly side the brush is so thick we would have gotten nothing but trees if we had located the camera off the path; to the right or westerly side the terrain is so steep, the camera would have slipped. We located the camera at the only place on the path where a man could stand—and at the approximate height of an average man.”

  The judge surrenders his weight to the protesting chair.

  Now Edmondson asks: “How wide is the path from a distance of twenty feet away from the alcove?”

  “About three feet.”

  “And at a distance of fifteen feet away?”

  “About two feet.”