Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady Страница 20

“Yes.”

“I now show you a copy of The Third Degree for January of last year. I show you an article on page 3 titled, 'The .45 Typewriter' by Matt Anthony. Did you write this article, Mr. Anthony?”

“I did.”

“This is not fiction; this is an article, a piece of non-fiction, is it not, Mr. Anthony?”

“Well, yes. It's a puff, sort of an inside bit.”

“What does that mean?”

“It's the sort of piece that would only be understood by other writers, mystery story writers.”

Wagner handed it to the court clerk to be marked as an exhibit for the State. The clerk handed it up to the judge. The judge glanced at it—and he must have been a hell of a fast reader—then gave it to Jackson. Clair sat down and read it carefully. Matt watched him with an absolute bored expression and the whole courtroom moved restlessly. It was almost noon. Jackson sure took his time. Finally he got to his feet and boomed—jarring everybody—“I object, your Honor, on the grounds this has no relation to fact. Mr. Anthony has already stated this is inside information, written for a select group. This could easily have been written as a joke, a bit of sarcasm or mere boasting before other professional writers.”

The judge asked Matt, “Is this Mystery Writers something like a trade union, Mr. Anthony?”

“I wish it were. Perhaps you might call it that, loosely, in the same sense that one might call the American Medical Association a union.”

“Is this... eh... paper tee official organ of the organisation?”

“I believe so.”

“Objection overruled.”

Jackson barked, “Exception!” and handed the paper to the stenographer for marking. Then Wagner took the mimeographed sheets and told the jury, “Ladies and gentlemen, I will now read from State's Exhibit 'C' an article written by the defendant and titled, “The .45 Typewriter.' Quote: 'In no other writing medium have I found so much technical background data necessary as in the field of the mystery novel. With or without due modesty I can safely say I know more about poisons, knife wounds and ballistics than the average police official, and know more ways to commit murder than any killer. Indeed, I can qualify as an expert in any criminal endeavor.' Unquote. Did you write that, Mr. Anthony?”

“I did.”

“And do you know more ways to commit murder than any killer, Mr. Anthony?”

“probably—and so does any professor of criminology in a college.” Wagner went to his table, picked up a paperback book, glanced at some notes, then asked that Death in Spades by Matt Anthony be entered into evidence. Jackson went through the routine of objecting that the book was immaterial and the judge overruled him. Jackson thumbed through the book, said, “Your Honor, it is impossible for me to read this, study it, in a short time.”

“Do you wish time to read these books, Mr. Clair?” the judge asked.

“Your Honor, that would delay the trial for a number of days, add to the cost of the defense and my client has very little money. I do not wish to delay this trial.” Jackson handed the book back to be marked.

Holding the book up before Matt, Wagner asked, “Did you write this book, Mr. Anthony?”

“I did.”

“Do you know that in these 152 pages there are nine brutal beatings, six murders, four fornications and a rape?”

Matt said calmly, “I never counted them, but I will take your word for it.”

Wagner picked up another book. “Mr. Anthony, do you write under the pen name of Daisy Action?”

“I have used that name. I use quite a few names.”

Wagner had the gaudy-covered paperback titled, The Corpse in Her Life by Daisy Action put into evidence over Jackson's objections and said, “I will read from page 97. Quote: 'Please, please, she moaned as Ad Hardy staggered toward her, bloody hands out.

“'You lying little bitch, playing me for a patsy!' he said, the words tumbling from his mouth like a harsh explosion.

“'Please, Ad... please. I know what you want... take me.' She backed against the wall, eyes closed, her words almost a moan of pleasure.

“One bloody claw of a hand suddenly ripped her silk blouse down the front: her firm breasts stood out. Cursing, Ad began slapping her breasts until she collapsed, screaming with pain. Did you write that, Mr. Anthony?”

Jackson shouted, “Your Honor, I object to this form of questioning. Mr. Wagner is being deliberately sensational, influencing the jury. The defendant has said he authored the book, to keep asking him over and over if he wrote it serves no purpose.”

“I'm merely showing some of Mr. Anthony's thoughts, the things that 'cook' in his mind,” Wagner answered.

The judge told Wagner not to drag out the evidence.

Wagner next introduced into evidence five more novels, asked, “Mr. Anthony, do you know that in these five books there are exactly 22 killings, including the murder of two children?”

“I've never counted them. I don't write with an adding machine, Mr. Wagner.”

“Do you wish me to itemize them, Mr. Anthony?”

“If it gives you any pleasure, go right ahead.”

Wagner turned to the judge, who ordered Mart's answer stricken from the record. Jackson half-stood, as if ready to jump into a fight. When the judge warned Matt about being sarcastic, Matt told him, “I'm not being sarcastic, your Honor. Mr. Wagner has cited me as a criminal expert. As a D.A. he is also undoubtedly an expert on crime, or should be. I merely thought, as one expert to another, he wished to compare notes.”

This was also ordered out of the record. Jackson sat down, shaking his head. He started to make a note, then loudly snapped the pencil between his fingers. The judge glanced at him but didn't say anything.

Picking up another book, Wagner went through the routine of placing it in evidence, then read: “'Well honey, I tried my best to make something out of you, but once a lousy whore always a lousy whore. You could of made us both a pile of folding money, but... this is good-bye. I'll never again put time in a dumb slut.'

“As Martin picked up his hat, she slid off the dirty cot, looking thin and child-like as the sunlight painted her nude body. She stared at him with sad eyes. As he reached the door of the shack, with a motion as fast as a striking snake, she pulled a 38 from under the stained pillow, fired.

Martin tumbled to the floor, holding his left knee. Through his torn and bloody pants, part of a bone stuck out: a gruesome white monument to nothing. She walked over, a delicate sway to her thin hips, took deliberate aim and shot his other knee-cap away. Then she drawled in a tiny voice, 'Ya see, Marty, you ain't never going to leave me. Not even crawl away from me. A hill gal only loves one man. Didn't ya know that, darling?” Unquote. Mr. Anthony, can children buy this book?”

Jackson was on his feet before Matt could answer. “Your Honor, I object to that last line, about children. And I move for a mistrial on the grounds the prosecutor has influenced the jury by this cheap—”

“I didn't write these books, your rare genius did!” Wagner shouted.

The judge banged away with his gavel and in the silence that followed Jackson said, “Your Honor, the defense is willing to concede Mr. Anthony wrote hardboiled crime novels, which by their very nature deal with the seamy side of life, have to be realistic. However, Mr. Anthony did not invent or start this... eh... this school of writing. There are hundreds of such books on sale this minute, and over the years thousands of these books have been written. Therefore, I move for a mistrial on the grounds that by taking passages out of context the prosecutor has not only influenced the jury, but also deliberately misled them with the implication Matt Anthony is responsible for the literary tastes of our country. Obviously the defendant, as a self-employed writer, must write for an established market—he does not create that market.”

The judge quickly denied the motion but ordered Wagner's question about whether children could buy the book stricken from the record. Glancing at the wall clock he asked Wagner, “How many more books do you plan to offer as evidence?”

Wagner eyed the pile of novels on his table, then turned toward the judge. “I should like to read from two more, your Honor.”

“I think you've made your point, Mr. Wagner. You may enter one more book into evidence. Only one. Continue.”

Wagner picked over the books, held up The Last Supper. While Clair was booming his usual objections and being overruled, all I could think was: Would selecting the book help our sales?

Facing the jury Wagner said, “I will now read from page 19. Quote: 'Walking across the bridge they stopped to stare at the brightly lit skyscraper windows—jeweled lace against the dark night. Placing his hands on her shoulders, Walt said, “How lonely it is here. A perfect place for a murder.” Helen moved out from under his hands. He held her shoulders once more. “Must you always avoid me?”

“'She stared up at him boldly. “You want me but what have you to offer in return? You know what I want of you, but you are a weakling.

“'Walt said gently, “You shouldn't push me so hard.”

“'She laughed, the very coolness of her voice infuriating him. “Do what you do so well—talk. You don't frighten me.”

“'Walt said softly, “I never wanted to frighten you. But we all have the will to murder—it is only the opportunity we lack. I have the desire—and this is the opportunity!” His powerful hands raised her to the bridge railing. Helen made only one movement—she kicked him savagely in the groin. His lean face frozen with horror and surprise, Walt did a drunken dance for a moment, then collapsed, both hands urgently pressing what he had always been so proud of. Her cute face showing no emotion, Helen stooped, carefully removed his hands from the apex of his legs, kicked him in the groin again. Watching him groveling in helpless pain, Helen drew back her shapely leg to kick the bloody spot again, then hurriedly walked away. She knew Walt was right, we all have the will to murder.'”

Wagner shut the book. “Mr. Anthony, in the last ten years have you written any other kind of book except what your counsel has termed 'hardboiled crime books'?”

“No.”

“That is all.”

As Jackson got to his feet the judge looked at the clock. It was after one; he said the court would recess for lunch. Jackson stepped toward the bench, said loudly, “If your Honor pleases, I have but a few questions. I would then request the court adjourn until Monday. As this is Friday and since I expected the State's cross-examination to last longer, the defense's last two witnesses, doctors, are not in court.”

The judge motioned both lawyers to the bench. There was a whispered conference—except once—Jackson's deep voice boomed ”... to have them travel back and forth to Riverside... fees are very high and the defendant is broke....” There was more low talk with all of them turning to look at the wall clock—as if doubting it was still there.

Matt sat hunched over in the witness chair, staring out at the courtroom, studying us. Once he stood up and waved his arms around like a pitcher loosening his muscles. He was a frightfully big man.

The lawyers returned to their tables and the judge told the jury, “The court realizes it is well past your lunchtime. However, since Mr. Clair says he has only a few more questions to ask the defendant, we will continue. When Mr. Clair is finished the court will adjourn until ten o'clock, Monday morning.” The jury looked rather relieved.

Jackson stepped forward, giving Matt his best man-to-man grin, as he asked, “Mr. Anthony, have you ever written any type story except mysteries?”

“Oh, yes. I have written slick love stories, and what is known as quality yarns. In fact when I first started I had a story on O'Brien's honor roll. This was an anneal anthology of the best short stories of the year.”

Jackson nodded. “Then, as a professional writer, do you consider yourself capable of turning out any type of fiction?”

“Yes.”

“Then why is it, Mr. Anthony, that in the last 10 years you have confined your writing to crime stories?”

“They sell.”

“Can you give us a rough idea of how many people read your books?”

“Oh, on the average, taking in both hardcover and paperback sales, I would say about 300,000 people buy a copy of each book, which means the book is probably read by at least a million people.”

“How many books have you written during the last decade?”

“I turn out about three a year.”

“Roughly, then, some 30 million people hare read your novels—almost one-sixth of our entire population.”

Matt smiled. “Not quite that many. The same person may keep buying each new book as it's published.”

“In your opinion, as a professional writer, would romantic... eh... sweet, love stories sell as well as hardboiled action?”

“Indeed, no. There's little, if any, chance of a paperback reprint of the sugary love yarn.”

“Then you turned to crime stories solely because they sell well?”

“Yes.”

“If next year you found love stories selling better than crime novels, would you then write love novels?”

“Certainly. I write for a living, therefore I must always aim at the best paying market.”

“That's all.”

The judge glanced at Wagner who said, “No further questions, your Honor.” After the usual warning to the jury not to discuss the case, court was dismissed for the day. I waited outside until Brown came by, asked, “Where do you want to eat?”

“At the moment all I want is a drink. Let's drive to some place outside town. Wagner crucified Matt.”

“You think it was that bad?” I asked, as we went down the steps.

“The worst part was the fact it was true—Matt did write all that terrible trash. I told you Wagner was a clever fellow.”

“Actually, what did he prove, that Matt writes tripe? This is a courtroom, not a critics' group. I still don't see any proof of murder.”

“I think he influenced the jury, at least shocked them. But the legal aspect aside, Wagner stripped Matt naked in public, exposed him as a pitiful... literary pimp. Clair was a fool to place Matt on the stand. And he didn't fight back enough—I thought he was on the right track when he started talking about Matt not inventing the sex and violence books. But he didn't go far enough, he should have shown that so-called literary tastes boil down to the publishers trying for the fast buck.”

“Oh, hell, Hank, that's pure bunk. I'm not trying to gild the publishing industry, God knows, but you're putting the cart before the horse. Books go in cycles, fads, and right now the public is demanding the fast-paced story that reflects the tensions of our time. If you see a dirty face in a mirror— don't call the mirror dirty.”

“That's more bunk, Norm. Big business under the slogan it's good for business always gives the public an inferior product. And that goes for publishing, of course. Don't you know they can make a nylon stocking that will wear for years? That they could seal the lubrication of an auto so that one would never need a change of oil? But think what that would do to the stocking industry, or the oil business!”