From the living room, through a wide archway, was a dining room with more dark nondescript furnishings; I could catch a white glimpse of the kitchen, the next room over. The bedroom must have been off the dining room, to the right, because that’s the way the pretty bride in the wedding portrait—Thalia Massie—came in.
She wore black—black dress, black beaded necklace, black sideways turban—as if in stylish mourning for her normal life that had died late last summer. Blades of blondish-brown hair arced around the round smooth contours of her oval face; the faint outline of a scar touched her left cheek, near her mouth, trailing to the jawline. She looked quite a bit like Isabel, the same cupid’s-bow mouth, small well-formed nose and big blue eyes, but Thalia’s were what unkind people in the Midwest call cow’s eyes—wide-set and protuberant.
Still, the overall effect was a pretty girl, and with a nice shape, too—a little pudgy, perhaps. And her shoulders were stooped—she was rather tall, but it took you a while to realize it. Had she always had that uncertain gait? She almost shuffled in, as if in a perpetual state of embarrassment. Or shame.
And yet those clear eyes met us all directly, blinking only rarely, the result being a languid, remote expression.
Isabel rushed forward and took her cousin in her arms, gushing words of sympathy; but as they embraced, Thalia Massie looked blankly at me over Isabel’s shoulder. Thalia patted Isabel’s back as if her cousin were the one who needed comforting.
“I should have come sooner,” Isabel said.
Thalia twitched her a smile in response as Isabel took her cousin’s hand, and the two girls stood there side by side, Isabel looking like Thalia’s blonder sister.
Darrow stepped forward with a fatherly smile and clasped one of Thalia’s hands in both of his big paws; Isabel receded, giving Thalia center stage.
“My dear, I’m Clarence Darrow,” he said, as if there were any doubt, “and I’ve come here to help you and your family.”
“I’m very grateful.” Her smile seemed halfhearted; her voice low, throaty, but barely inflected. She was twenty-one—married at sixteen, according to what I’d read on the
Darrow introduced Leisure (“my distinguished co-counsel”) and me (“my investigator—he’s just returned from working with Colonel Lindbergh”), and Thalia granted us nods. Then Darrow led her to the couch under the Diamond Head painting. Isabel sat next to her, close to her, taking Thalia’s hand supportively.
Leisure drew the couch’s matching armchair around for Darrow, so that he was facing Thalia. I found a caneback wing chair—by the way, was a more uncomfortable chair ever invented?—and pulled it to one side of Darrow. Leisure preferred to stand; arms folded, he watched the unfolding scene through those all-seeing narrowed eyes of his.
Thalia drew her hand away from Isabel’s, doing so with a little smile, but her cousin’s hand-holding clearly made her uncomfortable. She folded her hands primly in her lap and looked at Darrow with the big languid eyes. There was weariness in her gaze, and distaste in her tone.
“I’m more than willing to talk to you, of course,” Thalia said. “I will do anything to help Tommie and Mother. But I hope it won’t be necessary to…dredge up all that other unpleasantness.”
Darrow sat forward in the chair; his smile, and tone, remained fatherly. “Would that I could spare you, child. But if we’re to defend—”
“This is a different case,” Thalia said, almost snippily. “Those rapists aren’t on trial and, for that matter, neither am I. This is about what Tommie and Mother and those sailors did.”
The smile turned regretful. “Unfortunately, dear, the two cannot be separated. What they did flowed out of what was done to you…. And without an understanding of what happened to you, a jury would view what your husband and mother did as, simply…murder.”
Her forehead furrowed in irritation, but the eyes remained wide. “Who’s better aware of that than I? But you were provided transcripts of what I said in court. Isn’t that enough?”
“No,” Darrow said firmly. “My staff and I need to hear these words from your own lips. We need to ask our own questions. There’s no stenographer, here, though Mr. Heller will take some notes.”
I took that prompt to get out my notepad and pencil.
“And,” Darrow continued, pointing at her gently, “you need to be prepared, young lady—because it’s very likely you’ll be taking the witness stand to tell your story yet again.”
Her sigh was a rasp from her chest, and she looked toward a side wall, away from Isabel, who was watching her with sympathy but also confusion. Finally Thalia turned her head back to Darrow.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I do want to help. Please ask your questions.”
But her face remained an oval mask, devoid of emotion, marked only by that white line of scar down her jaw.
Darrow leaned forward and patted her hand. “Thank you, dear. Now, I’ll try to make this as painless as possible. Let’s begin with the party. You didn’t want to be there, I understand?”
The cow eyes went half-hooded. “When these Navy men get together, they drink too much, and embarrass themselves, and their wives—though the
“The Ala Wai Inn, you mean?” I asked.
She glanced at me noncommittally. “That’s right. Loud music, frantic dancing, bootleg liquor…I found it in poor taste
“Did it that night?” I asked. “Get wild?”
She shrugged a little. “Not really. Just dreary. Boring.”
