Kelley turned toward the judge with a patently placating smile. “Your Honor, as a police officer, Detective Harbottle has been called to the scene of many crimes, many accidents. His opinion as to the state of mind of —”
Darrow raised his eyes and his voice. “The detective hasn’t been called as an expert in human behavior, Your Honor.”
Judge Davis, his expression blank as the Sphinx, said, “Sustained.”
“Detective Harbottle,” Kelley said, leaning on the witness chair, “did Lt. Massie speak to you, after you arrested him and the others along the roadside?”
“In a roundabout way, yes, sir.”
“What do you mean, ‘in a roundabout way,’ Detective?”
“Well, Patrolman Bond came over to me and said, ‘Good work, kid,’ you know, congratulating me on the arrest. But Lt. Massie, who was sitting in back of the radio patrol car, thought the comment was meant for him—”
With weary patience Darrow called out, “The witness doesn’t know what Lt. Massie was thinking, Your Honor.”
“The comment about what Lt. Massie was thinking will be stricken,” the judge informed the court stenographer.
Kelley said, “What did Lt. Massie say?”
Harbottle shrugged. “He said, ‘Thank you,’ and raised his hands like this…” Harbottle lifted his clasped hands and shook them in the end-of-the-game gesture of victory common to boxers and other athletes.
Kelley smiled nastily at the jury. “Thank you, Detective. That will be all. Your witness.”
Darrow didn’t rise as he smiled up at the detective. “When my associate Mr. Heller spoke with you, on Thursday last, didn’t you describe Lt. Massie’s demeanor as follows: ‘Very stern, sitting straight up, just staring straight ahead, never saying a word.’ Do you recall that?”
“I do,” Harbottle admitted.
“What was Mrs. Fortescue doing at that time?”
“Sitting on a rock alongside the road.”
“What was her demeanor?”
Kelley rose and arched an eyebrow. “I hope counsel isn’t asking this witness for expert testimony on human behavior.”
Darrow’s smile was grandfatherly. “I’ll rephrase—was she talkative? Was she smiling and chatty and gay?”
“She was staring straight ahead,” Harbottle said. “In a kind of daze. Silent as the rock she was sitting on.”
Darrow nodded sagely. “No further questions.”
With the exception of such occasional skirmishes, Darrow continued to pay little apparent heed to Kelley and his case; he mostly declined cross-examining Kelley’s witnesses, allowing Leisure to ask a few questions now and then. Darrow had never denied the crime; cross-examining would only prolong such prosecution theatrics as waving before the jury the bloody garments found in a wet bundle in the rental Buick.
The latter display, however, in conjunction with the testimony of one of the patrolmen who found them, elicited tears from Mrs. Kahahawai, sending Darrow to his feet.
“With all due respect to this fine lady,” Darrow said, “I must request that she be removed from the courtroom on the grounds that her emotion might sway the jury.”
The judge shook his head, no. “She has a right to be present, Mr. Darrow.”
Kelley’s parade of witnesses continued: the garage clerk who rented Tommie the Buick; the hardware store counterman who sold a revolver to Mrs. Fortescue and an automatic to Jones; the neighbor who heard “an explosion” coming from Mrs. Fortescue’s house at 9:00 A.M. January 8; Detective Bills, in whose expert opinion the coil of rope around the dead man’s body came from the submarine base; County Coroner Dr. Faus, who established that the path of the bullet through Kahahawai’s heart had been diagonal, at an angle indicating the victim was lunging defensively forward when he was shot; Inspector McIntosh, who reported that Jones “acted drunk” when apprehended at the Fortescue bungalow, but “seemed quite sober” when questioned at the station house; other cops who, searching the bungalow, found Mrs. Fortescue’s purse with Kahahawai’s picture tucked inside, Tommie’s automatic under a sofa cushion, Kahahawai’s cap, two pearl buttons in the bathroom from Kahahawai’s undershorts, and a spare box of .32 shells wrapped up in the fake summons (these Jones had kept stuffed under his shirt!).
The fake summons, of course, made for effective courtroom reading by Kelley.
“‘Life is a mysterious and exciting affair,’” the prosecutor said, reading from the document itself, “‘and anything can be a thrill if you know how to look for it and what to do with opportunity when it comes.’”
A lot of people thought of Darrow as a great showman, but I have to admit, Prosecutor John C. Kelley could have taught Barnum and Bailey a trick or two: he displayed a huge full-color anatomical chart of a male torso with the bullet path in red; he exhibited glossy photos of bloodstains in the bungalow; he passed out bloody towels, bloody clothes to the jury for them to personally handle; and the bloody sheet; and the rope, and a glittering array of bullets and cartridge shells.
Through all this, Darrow slumped in his chair and doodled and played with his pencil, occasionally objecting, almost never cross-examining. Mrs. Fortescue remained aloof, impassive, but Tommie began biting his nails.
Kelley’s last witness was inevitable: Esther Kahahawai, Joe’s mother, coming back to haunt Darrow for his objection to her presence.
As the dark, thin, frail gray-haired woman in the Mother Hubbard approached the stand, Darrow arose and raised his hands gently, blocking the way, turning to the judge.
