De Marigny’s American friend Ceretta, as well as other guests at the party, testified to the events of the murder evening, including Freddie burning himself; these witnesses included teenage Betty Roberts, blond hair brushing the shoulders of her green-and-white-striped dress, her pretty smile and shapely figure making a hit with the press table.
Captain Sears was a predictably strong witness, and even Adderley’s best shots couldn’t budge him: he had seen Christie at midnight in downtown Nassau that night and that was that.
Len Keeler beat the dead horse that was the fingerprint issue.
Neither side called me as a witness; the defense didn’t need me, and the prosecution didn’t want me.
Adderley’s last stand-and the only really bad moment the defense suffered, presenting its case-was a devious effort to make Freddie’s pal the Marquis de Visdelou seem a liar.
The dapperly dressed Georges de Visdelou, so nervous he was shaking, had testified that at three in the morning he had, at Freddie’s request, fetched his cat. But Adderley confronted him with the following from his own signed statement: “I did not see de Marigny from eleven p.m. until ten a.m. the next morning.”
The Marquis responded to the forceful Adderley, “Perhaps I was confused when I said that…I am French, and very emotional….”
Over the lunch break I had helped Higgs and Callender pore over the original de Visdelou statement; it was in longhand, and we passed the pages around over lunch at the Rozelda Hotel.
“Here it is!” I said. “That Adderley is one sneaky son of a bitch….”
In court, Callender went over the statement with de Visdelou, demonstrating that the witness had indeed not seen de Marigny-they had spoken through the door!
“The statement makes this clear?” the Chief Justice asked.
“Yes, my lord,” Callender said, and handed the papers to the Chief Justice.
“Mr. Adderley,” the Chief Justice said sternly, his round face bunched as tight as a fist, “you gave me, and the jury, reason to believe that Mr. de Visdelou’s signed statement contradicted his courtroom testimony.”
Adderley rose; he cleared his throat. His usual self-confidence seemed to elude him. “My lord, I was only attempting to show that the witness did not
The Chief Justice was red with fury. “I don’t appreciate such a fine distinction when a man’s life is at stake! Mr. Adderley, do not try my patience again.”
The final witness of note was Nancy de Marigny.
Looking pale and a little weak, in a white hat and black dress trimmed in white, the dead man’s daughter marched bravely to the witness box and supported her husband by way of her testimony. Her calm broke only once: her chin trembled and tears flowed as she told of Barker and Melchen’s coming to the New England funeral to deliver their horror story of how her husband supposedly murdered her father. De Marigny, in his cage, dabbed his eyes with a hanky; women in the gallery wept openly.
“Mrs. de Marigny,” Higgs asked her, “has your husband ever asked you for money?”
“No. Never.”
“Did your husband at any time ever express any hatred toward your father?”
“No. Never.”
When Nancy stepped down from the witness box, Higgs announced, “The defense rests, my lord!”
Higgs kept his closing remarks short; Hallinan, unwisely, gave the prosecution’s closing. Adderley, even embarrassed, would have done better. The Chief Justice’s summation to the jury was a virtual instruction for acquittal, and in particular was critical of Barker and Melchen.
After court recessed, Erle Gardner found me again, clapped me on the back and said, “Stay in touch, son!”
“Where are you going? The jury’s still out!”
“Like hell it is. I’m catching a plane back to the States this evening.”
Gardner was right. In less than two hours, the verdict came in: not guilty.
Cheers rocked the courtroom. The Chief Justice said to de Marigny, “You are discharged,” and Higgs hugged Callender, saying “We’ve won!” as both their wigs flew off; nearby, de Marigny was embracing his wife, and they were sharing a storybook kiss as Adderley and Hallinan stalked sullenly out.
But the foreman of the jury had been saying something, just after the verdict, making some recommendation that got all but drowned out by the cheers. And now, as de Marigny was carried out into the street on the shoulders of a good-natured multiracial mob, to the tune of “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” I wondered if what I thought I’d heard could be true.
If so, this wasn’t as happy an ending as de Marigny and his fair-weather fan club thought….
24
The reception for the de Marignys at Shangri La that evening-actually, night, because it didn’t get under way until after nine p.m.-was both less formal than Di’s previous party and smaller, but far more festive and intimate. Many of the dozen or so guests had been in court today, and none had taken time to change from the clothes they’d worn there. The refreshments were limited to sandwiches, brandy and coffee, and a few bottles of champagne, liberated from our absent host’s wine cellar. Di’s cook was here, and one helper, but the blond servant boys had the night off. We were roughing it.
The little group was gathered in the circular living room where Axel Wenner-Gren’s oil-painting visage oversaw his collection of Inca artifacts. Present were the Marquis de Visdelou and his blond cupcake Betty Roberts; Freddie Ceretta and the attractive RAF wives; Godfrey Higgs and his glowing spouse; Professor Leonard Keeler; Lady Diane, of course, our hostess; Freddie and Nancy; and myself. Also a handful of other friends of de Marigny’s, who I didn’t know.
In addition-making a brief if surprising appearance-was the man we were toasting, now.
Standing embarrassed, Curtis Thompson-chauffeur’s cap in hand, having driven his boss and Mrs. de Marigny to the Hog Island launch, and then been invited along by the ebullient Freddie-was the man of the moment, if not the hour.
Freddie lifted his champagne glass high, his other arm around his black driver, who was grinning shyly.
“Here’s to my best and dearest friend!” he said. “Curtis stood by me despite the best efforts of our Attorney General and his Miami hoodlums!”
“Hear hear,” Higgs said, raising his glass.
Everyone joined in (though I imagined Wenner-Gren himself just might not have relished the idea of a colored guest in his living room) and de Marigny shook Curtis’ hand. Then he embraced him.
“There’s no way I can repay you for the beating you took,” de Marigny said, his eyes moist.
“Mist’ Heller, he did his part, too,” Curtis said.
“I know he did.” De Marigny saluted me with his glass, and I smiled and nodded.
“Boss, excuse me now. Kitchen staff, dey may need my help….”
And he was gone.
Was it my imagination, or did Di seem relieved to see him go?
What the hell-she looked lovely tonight, the only one who’d taken time to dress, in a shoulderless pink satin blouse under which the tiny tips of her cantaloupe breasts were apparent, and a short black skirt trimmed in black with matching black gloves.
She latched on to my arm. “You really pulled it off, Heller.”
“Freddie’s win? I think Higgs and Callender had a little to do with that.”
I noticed the mulatto Callender had either not been invited or had chosen not to attend.
Her blood-red bruised lips formed a wicked smile. “Can you stay for a few days? I’m supposed to fly to Mexico City to meet with Axel tomorrow, but I could postpone if-”
“I don’t think you should. I think this’ll be my last night in Nassau.”
Those sky-blue eyes, so elaborately framed by long brown lashes, looked genuinely sorrowful; she touched
