“We will concede everything this witness has to say,” he said gravely. “We will stipulate that she is the mother of Joseph Kahahawai, that she saw him that morning when he left—anything….”
Kelley was on his feet. “There are two mothers in this courtroom, Your Honor. One is a defendant, but the other has no defense—her son is dead. We think both these women should be allowed to testify.”
“Withdrawn,” Darrow said, softly; he smiled with sympathy at Mrs. Kahahawai and removed himself from her path, taking his place.
Her voice was low, difficult to hear, but no one in the courtroom missed a word. She wept into her handkerchief almost continuously during her testimony; many of the spectators—even the white wealthy women whose sympathy was with the defendants—wept along with her.
“Yes, that was his shirt,” she said, as Kelley somberly showed her the bloody clothing. “And those, his socks. And his dungarees…yes. Yes. I just washed them, and sewed the buttons on.”
“Was Joe in good health that morning when he left you?”
“Yes.”
“When did you see him again?”
“Saturday. At…at the undertaker’s.”
“That was the body of your son Joseph?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kahahawai. No further questions.”
Darrow’s voice was barely audible: “No questions, Your Honor.”
Sobs echoed in the courtroom as Kelley, in an almost courtly fashion, led her down from the stand.
Darrow leaned over to me, his stringy locks tumbling carelessly, and whispered: “I guess we had that coming. The sympathy can’t be all on one side.”
He looked very old to me at that moment; tired and old.
Kelley looked fresh as a daisy. He was prancing toward the prosecution table, talking as he went: “The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”
The court recessed for lunch, and as usual, Darrow, Leisure, his clients, and I went over to the Alexander Young. C.D., accompanied by Ruby, passed up luncheon for a nap in his room, while the rest of us took the elevator to the roof garden restaurant. No one expected our clients to make a break for it, and we had arranged for the grand old man of the department, Chang Apana, to have the honor of being the nominal police guard.
Because of Chang’s presence, conversation was kept superficial and nothing related to the case was discussed. Leisure’s wife joined us, as usual, and the couple talked amongst themselves. Neither Tommie nor Mrs. Fortescue said much of anything, having finally fallen into a morose understanding of the gravity of their situation.
But Jones and Lord, smoking, laughing, were a cheerful pair of imbeciles. Curly-haired Lord didn’t say much, but square-headed Jones was a cocky, chatty son of a bitch.
“You see the shape on that girl reporter from New York?” he asked me.
“It got my attention,” I admitted, nibbling at my bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwich.
“I think she likes me.” He was cutting his minute steak eagerly. “She’s always wanting to talk to me.”
“You don’t think being a defendant in a murder trial could have something to do with it?”
“She’s got four of us to choose from, don’t she? And it’s me she flashes her peepers at, ain’t it?”
“Good point.”
“Did you see that little Chinese girl over by the wall, on the left? She’s a doll. And there’s some good-looking American girls in that courtroom, believe you me.”
This bastard was a bigger lecher than I was.
I looked at him with a tiny smile. “You mind a little advice, Deacon?”
“Not at all, Nate.”
“I saw you ogling those gals. Smiling at them. I don’t think smiles are all that appropriate in a situation like the one you’re in.”
He shrugged, spearing a chunk of O’Brien potato. “I don’t see the harm. Don’t I want people to know I’m a nice guy?”
Chang Apana, seated next to me picking at a small bowl of chow chow, said quietly, so only I would hear, “Owner of face cannot always see nose.”
After recess, Darrow led our contingent down the aisle, court resumed, and America’s most famous trial lawyer, in a wrinkled, baggy double-breasted white linen jacket, rose and addressed the bench.
“I waive my opening statement, Your Honor,” Darrow said, a rasp underlining the deceptive casualness of his drawl.
A ripple of disappointment rolled over the gallery at being denied their first extended sampling of the Darrow courtroom oratory.
“…And call my first witness, Lt. Thomas Massie.”
The disappointment disappeared in a rush of excitement as Tommie popped to his feet, jack-in-the-box style, and strode quickly to the stand, where he almost shouted his oath to tell the truth.
