Kelley moved in close to Tommie. “Do you remember Mrs. Fortescue telling a reporter that you and she ‘bungled the job’?”
“Certainly not.”
“Did Joseph Kahahawai seem frightened?”
“Yes.”
“Did he plead for mercy?”
“No.”
“Did he put up a fight?”
“No.”
Kelley began to pace slowly up and down in front of the jury box. “Later, did Mrs. Fortescue or Jones or Lord, did any of them tell you how you behaved, or what you did, after the shot was fired?”
“Mrs. Fortescue said I just stood there and wouldn’t talk. She took me into the kitchen and tried to get me to take a drink, but I wouldn’t.”
“What did Jones say about what you’d done?”
“He wasn’t very complimentary.”
“Really?” Kelley’s tone was boldly arch. “Why? Because you only shot Kahahawai once?”
“No. He said I acted like a damn fool.”
Kelley feigned shock. “An enlisted man spoke to
“Yes—and I resented it.”
Kelley sighed. Paced. Then he turned back to Tommie and said, “Did any of your fellow conspirators tell you why they took you along on the ride to Koko Head?”
“Yes…Mrs. Fortescue said she wanted me to get some fresh air.”
Kelley rolled his eyes and waved dismissively at Tommie. “This witness is excused.”
Tommie stepped off the stand and walked with head high over to the defense table, where Darrow smiled at him and nodded as if he’d done a wonderful job. Some of it had been pretty good, but the little-boy business about resenting his enlisted-man accomplice’s remark, and the lame notion that he’d been along on the corpse-disposal run to get some “fresh air,” were not shining moments.
In fact, Darrow would need to follow up with something remarkable to make the jury forget those lapses.
“The defense calls Thalia Massie,” Darrow said.
16
When the courtroom doors opened, Thalia Massie stood framed there as flashbulbs popped in the corridor, the packed gallery turning its collective head toward the surprisingly tall, astonishingly young-looking woman in the black crepe suit. Judge Davis didn’t bother banging his gavel to silence the stirring, the whispering; he allowed it to run its course as Thalia moved down the aisle in an awkward slouch, her slightly pudgy, pale, pretty face framed by fawn-colored hair, her protuberant blue-gray eyes cast downward, advancing in the uncertain manner that witnesses had reported of her as she walked along John Ena Road one night last September.
Her husband met her as she moved between the defense and prosecution tables; she paused as Tommie took and squeezed her hand. A murmur of approval rose from the mostly female, predominantly white spectators; I caught Admiral Stirling (seated with a woman I assumed to be his wife) casting his approving gaze on the noble couple as they exchanged brief, brave smiles.
But even smiling, Thalia had an oddly glazed, expressionless look, the vaguely wistful cast of someone mildly drugged.
She approached the stand stoopingly and was fumbling toward the chair when the judge reminded her there was an oath to take. She straightened momentarily, raising her hand, swearing to tell the truth, then settled down into the seat, knees together, hands in her lap, shoulders slouched, a posture at once prim and reminiscent of a naughty little girl sent to sit in the corner.
Darrow, his demeanor at its most grandfatherly, approached the witness stand and leaned against one arm. He pleasantly, calmly elicited from her the mandatory points of identification: her name, Thalia Fortescue Massie; her age, 21; age at the time of her marriage, 16, to Lt. Massie on Thanksgiving Day, 1927; they had no children; she would say they were happy, yes.
Thalia’s voice was a low, drawling near-monotone, nearly as expressionless as her face; but she was not emotionless: she twisted a handkerchief nervously in her hands as she answered.
“Do you remember going with your husband to the Ala Wai Inn on a certain night last September?”
“Yes. We went to a dance.”
“Did you have anything to drink?”
“Half of a highball. I don’t much care for liquor.”
“When did you leave the dance?”
“About eleven-thirty-five at night.”
“And where were you going?”
“I planned to walk around the corner and back.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I was tired and bored.”
