“Worried you’re gonna get a racially mixed jury, Judge?” one reporter asked. The newshounds tended to call Darrow “Judge,” even though he’d never been one; it was a way to kid and compliment him at the same time.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt we’ll have a racially mixed jury, and no misgivings about it, either. I would embrace that as an opportunity in establishing a bridge between white and brown and yellow.”
“I don’t think you can use the same tactics you usually use, Judge,” another reporter chimed in. “If the court tells a Hawaiian jury that shooting a man is against the law, and the jury thinks your clients did the shooting, well that’s all there is to it: they’ll find ’em guilty.”
“That’s the damned trouble with trials,” Darrow growled. “Everybody thinks about the law and nobody thinks about people! Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, that’s all for today….”
Darrow answered a few parting questions as the reporters and their photographers slowly withdrew, and he sent me a tiny glance that said “Stick around” as he went to the table down a ways from me, where Ruby, Mrs. Leisure, and Isabel were sitting. He joined them and began chatting amiably.
No doubt in anticipation of possible press pictures, Mrs. Darrow’s pleasantly stout frame was decked out in a sporty white-trimmed blue dress and hat, Mrs. Leisure attractively casual in belted beach pajamas—beige blouse and blue trousers—and blindingly blond Isabel a knockout in her white skirt with blue polka dots and a matching hat; her blouse was actually the nicely filled upper half of her white swimming suit. Isabel wasn’t speaking to me, but I intended to mend that fence—when I got around to it.
George Leisure wasn’t present—somebody had to prepare for the coming court case.
“Excuse me, suh.”
The voice was mellow, male, not quite a drawl, but nonetheless touched by Southern inflection.
I turned. Straw fedora in hand, his white linen suit immaculate, a pleasant-featured man in his thirties, his brown hair touched lightly with gray at the temples, sharp eyes under lazy lids behind wire-framed glasses, half- bowed to me. His manner was almost courtly.
“You are Nathan Hellah?”
“Yes,” I said, somewhat warily; despite the cordial, civilized bearing, this guy could after all be a reporter.
“Mr. Darrow requested ah speak with you. I’m Lt. Commander John E. Porter. I’ve been assigned by Admiral Stirlin’ to be at Mr. Darrow’s disposal. May ah sit down?”
Half-standing, I gestured to the chair Crabbe had vacated. “Of course, Doctor. C.D.’s mentioned you. You two seem to have hit it off.”
“Clarence is easy to like.” He placed his hat on the little table as he sat. “And it’s an honor bein’ associated with such a great man.”
“I notice you’re out of uniform, Doctor.”
“Since ah’m spendin’ so much time, bein’ Mr. Darrow’s personal physician, Admiral Stirlin’ decided it might not be wise.”
Might not be the best press relations, at that, Mr. Darrow being seen in the ongoing company of a naval officer.
“If we’re going to discuss the case, Doctor,” I said, “do you mind if I take notes?”
“Not at all.”
But before turning to a fresh page in my little notebook, I was first checking to see if a memory the doctor’s name had jogged was correct: yes. Here he was in my notes from the
“What’s your normal duty, Doctor?”
“I’m a gynecologist, Mr. Hellah, assigned to the care of dependent wives.”
“Gynecologist—isn’t that a doc that gets paid by women to look at what they won’t show just any ol’ man?”
“Quaintly but accurately put, yes.”
“So you were Thalia’s doctor, before the rape? For female problems?”
“Yes, suh, and general health concerns. And after the incident, Admiral Stirlin’ asked to look after Lt. Massie, as well, suh.”
This pleasant-looking professional man had tight, troubled eyes. It was the look of somebody who knew things he’d rather not.
“I attended Mrs. Massie the night of the incident, as well. I can give you the details if you like, suh.”
I noticed he never quite used the word “rape.”
“Please,” I said.
He didn’t have to consult his notes: “I found a double fracture of the lower jaw so severe her jaw had been displaced and her upper and lower jaws could not meet. Three molars on the right side of her jaw were in such proximity to the fracture, extraction was necessary. Both her upper and lower lips were swollen, discolored, and her nose was swollen. I also found small cuts and bruises about her body.”
“All of this supports Thalia’s story that she was beaten and raped, wouldn’t you say, Doctor?”
The raising of one eyebrow was barely perceptible; his gentle Southern-tinged voice was hardly audible above the rolling surf and beach noise.
“Mistah Hellah, that is the fact. However, it is also a fact that her clothes were not torn, nor was there any trace of semen on her dress or undah-garments. And my examination of her pelvic area indicated no abrasions or contusions. She had douched when she arrived home, which could be the reason there was no indication that she
