Breathe No More My Lady

mathematics. For one thing, the science of the mind is relatively new. In mathematics we can state positively two and two equal four. We can't be that positive about the mind, and that will be up to you to decide. However, it seems to me any man who can write a book while in court on trial for his life is far from emotionally unstable— under any circumstances!

“I say to you that from the moment Matt Anthony shouted, 'I'll kill you!,' at his wife he fully intended to murder her and carefully planned the murder. She was fishing, alone in the bay, as she did almost every day. That Matt Anthony had this underwater outfit she didn't know about. He deliberately and with intent to kill, swam out, killed her, tried to give it the appearance of an accident, returned to his guests and set up a false alibi. Francine Anthony's death wasn't an accident nor was it manslaughter. It was a cold-blooded planned murder by a man who thought his cheap mysteries put him above the law. Far from being blind with rage, or blacking out, Matt Anthony knew exactly what he was doing from the second he threatened his wife until he lied to his guests in order to establish an alibi.

“Francine Anthony is dead, her head crushed, and her killer must be punished. The law must be upheld, we do not live in a jungle. On the basis of the facts brought out in the testimony, I ask you to punish Matt Anthony for the killing of his wife by bringing in a verdict of first degree murder. Mr. Clair asked that you have compassion for Matt Anthony, I ask you to have compassion for a dead woman. Thank you.”

As Wagner sat down an old lady two seats away from me whispered loudly to a young woman sitting next to me, “What did he say? My hearing is poor on the left side and I got a stiff neck.”

“He said he thought Mr. Anthony killed his wife.”

“Well, I think so, too,” the old biddy grunted.

It was a quarter to twelve. The judge told the jury, “I know you have had a tiring morning. You may return to the jury room and rest for 15 minutes. At noon I shall start explaining the various points of law, the charges involved. It will take about an hour. I want to get this over before lunch, so you can immediately start your deliberations. Also, once I have finished my charge you will be locked up and the lunch will be on the court.” He gave them a yock-yock grin and like faithful citizens about to save two-bits, most of the jurors beamed their gratitude.

I was too restless for a smoke to listen to the finer points of law. I went outside and lit my pipe, waited for the court to recess so I could have lunch with Brown. But when I finished the pipe a half-hour later the judge was still charging the jury, so I had lunch alone, walked down to the inlet and as a nouveau yachtsman bulled with an owner of a work boat and found out I might easily have put in another four or five hundred bucks into my boat before I put it 'over' next summer. This character must have been looking for a listener and soon had me dizzy with all the things that can go wrong with a boat. When I finally begged off, saying I had to get back to the trial, he said, “I hope they give that murdering slob the works.”

A lot of people were talking and getting the sun in front of the courthouse. I saw Jackson holding up the building and talking to a pot-bellied man. I went over and Jackson introduced us; the man was a reporter. I asked Jackson how things looked and he said, “Shoo-in. Wagner was comical, with that highschool dramatic act, repeating 'I'll kill you!' over and over. But he's a clever man—made me lose my head and object while he was summing up.”

“What's wrong with that?” I asked.

“Looked bad in the jury's eyes, like I was trying to take over. If they don't bring in a not guilty verdict, I'll appeal the manslaughter verdict. Judge was wrong in allowing Matt's books into evidence—I can even ask for a new trial. Hope the jury comes in by five, I have a supper engagement in town. Excuse me, fellows, there's a man from Life I know.”

As Jackson walked away the reporter asked me, “Have you read any of this book Anthony is writing?”

“We have some chapters in the office but no one's looked at it.”

“This is one book I'd be willing to buy. Time I put on the feed-bag. Like a beer?”

I shook my head and walked around the short main street, stopping to buy a dainty shell necklace for Michele. At two I phoned her at school, said there was a good chance I'd be home that night. I walked main street again, bought a paper and leaned against the courthouse as I read. There was a big crowd milling around, afraid to go too far away in case the jury came in. At three-ten there was a whispered roar that the jury had reached a decision and we all started pushing our way in. Brown appeared from out of nowhere and I asked, “Like to drive back to New York with me?”

“Thanks, Norm. I'd like to.”

“Looks good for Matt. Jury was out only about two hours.”

“I hope so.”

We found seats in the rear of the court. Matt was brought in, looking very pale. An attendant told us to rise as the judge entered. The jury's speed must have caught him by surprise, his robe seemed a trifle cockeyed. The foreman was a thin, middle-aged man in tacky clothes. When asked if the jury had reached a decision he stood up and reading from a trembling slip of paper, his voice shrill with self-importance, said, “We have. We find the defendant, Matt Anthony, guilty of murder in the second degree.”

There was a terrible hush in the courtroom. I couldn't believe my ears. Jackson looked as if he'd been punched in the stomach. Matt's big frame began shaking, his eyes grew large. The little smile appeared on his lips, grew bigger— and then he threw back his head and laughed. It was a horrible laugh, unreal, insane, filling the courtroom. I don't know, it seemed to last forever, but I suppose it only took a brace of seconds. As the judge raised his gavel, Matt collapsed, pitching forward across the table with a great thud-sound. The courtroom was in an uproar as everybody jumped to their feet. I saw Jackson, Wagner, and an attendant bending over Matt. Somehow I heard Brown mumble, “Jesus, that means at least 20 years!”

The judge was pounding his gavel like an idiot and yelling for the court to be cleared. A deep voice, probably Jackson's, called for a doctor.

Several cops appeared and began plowing through the crowd and with everybody shouting and asking what had happened, I had a feeling I was in the midst of a riot. Somebody kept climbing up my back and I dug my elbow into a belly, heard a gasp. Brown was pushing toward the front and I followed. I couldn't see Matt but Jackson suddenly boomed, “Please, step back! Give him air. Air!” I had a brief glimpse of the jury members leaning out of their box, horrified, as if they had struck Matt down. An attendant cupped his hands and bellowed, “Silence!” In the immediate hush, before the talkers could gather steam again, the judge yelled, “I order this court cleared at once!”

The cops started pushing, but now we all turned and headed for the doors, quickly and almost orderly. Outside, everybody milled around, the crowd growing. I kept telling Brown, “I simply can't believe it,” over and over, as if it