Lucien approached Malcolm Vince as if he were staring at a loaded gun. He picked around the edges for a few minutes. According to Baggy, a good trial lawyer never asks a question unless he knows the answer, especially with a witness as dangerous as Malcolm Vince. Lucien was a good lawyer, and he had no idea what Malcolm might blurt out.
He admitted he had no affection for Lydia, that he couldn't wait to get through with the divorce, that the last few years with her had not been pleasant, and so on. Typical divorce chatter. He remembered hearing of the Kassellaw murder the next morning. He'd been out the night before and returned home very late. Lucien scored a very weak point by proving that Lydia was indeed alone that night, as she had testified.
But it mattered little. The jurors and the rest of us were still struggling with the enormity of Lydia's sins.
After a long recess, Lucien rose slowly and addressed the Court. 'Your Honor, the defense has no other witnesses. However, my client wishes to testify. I want it stated clearly in the record that he will testify against my advice.'
'Duly noted,' Loopus said.
'A very stupid mistake. Unbelievable,' Baggy whispered loud enough for half the courtroom to hear.
Danny Padgitt jumped up and strutted to the witness stand. His attempt at smiling came across as nothing but a smirk. His attempt at confidence came across as cockiness. He was sworn to tell the truth, but no one expected to hear it.
'Why do you insist on testifying?' was Lucien's first question, and the courtroom was still and silent.
'Because I want these good people to hear what really happened,' he answered, looking at the jurors.
'Then tell them,' Lucien said, waving his hand at the jury.
His version of events was wonderfully creative because there was no one to rebut him. Lydia was gone, Rhoda was dead. He began by saying that he had spent a few hours with his girlfriend, Lydia Vince, who lived less than half a mile from Rhoda Kassellaw. He knew exactly where Rhoda lived because he had visited her on several occasions. She wanted a serious romance but he'd been too occupied with Lydia. Yes, he and Rhoda had had intimate relations on two occasions. They'd met at the clubs at the state line and spent many hours drinking and dancing. She was hot and loose and known to sleep around.
As insult was added to injury, Ginger lowered her head and covered her ears. It was not missed by the jury.
He didn't believe Lydia's husband's garbage about her homosexual tendencies; the woman enjoyed the intimacy of men. Malcolm was lying so he could win custody of their child.
Padgitt was not a bad witness, but then he was testifying for his life. Every answer was quick, there were too many fake smiles toward the jury box, his narrative was clean and neat and fit too nicely together. I listened to him and watched the jurors and I didn't see much sympathy. Fargarson, the crippled boy, appeared just as skeptical as he had with every other witness. Mr. John Deere still sat with his arms wrapped across his chest, frowning. Miss Callie had no use for Padgitt, but then she would probably send him to prison for the adultery as quickly as for the murder.
Lucien kept it brief. His client had plenty of rope with which to hang himself, no sense making it easier for the State. When Lucien sat down he glared at the elder Padgitts as if he truly hated them. Then he braced himself for what was about to come.
Cross-examining such a guilty criminal is a prosecutor's dream. Ernie deliberately walked to the exhibit table and lifted Danny's bloody shirt. 'Exhibit number eight,' he said to the court reporter, holding it up for the jury to see again.
'Where'd you buy this shirt, Mr. Padgitt?'
Danny froze, uncertain as to whether he should deny it was his, or admit ownership, or try and recall where he bought the damned thing.
'You didn't steal it, did you?' Ernie roared at him.
'I did not.'
'Then answer my question, and please try to remember you're under oath. Where did you buy this shirt?' As Ernie talked he held the shirt in front of him with his fingertips, as if the blood was still wet and might spot his suit.
'Over in Tupelo, I think. I really don't remember. It's just a shirt.'
'How long have you owned it?'
Another pause. How many men can remember when they bought a particular shirt?
'A year or so, maybe. I don't keep notes on clothes.'
'Neither do I,' Ernie said. 'When you were in bed with Lydia that night, had you removed this shirt?'
A very cautious, 'Yes.'
'Where was it while the two of you were, uh, having relations?'
'On the floor, I guess.'
Now that it was firmly established that the shirt was his, Ernie was free to slaughter the witness. He pulled out the report from the state crime lab, read it to Danny, and asked him how his own blood came to be stained on the shirt. This led to a discussion about his driving abilities, his tendency to speed, the type of vehicle, and the fact that he was legally drunk when he flipped his truck. With Ernie pounding away, I doubt if a case of driving under the influence had ever sounded so deadly. Not surprisingly, Danny had a thin skin and began to bristle at Ernie's pointed and sardonic questioning.
On to Rhoda's bloodstains. If he was in bed with Lydia, with the shirt on the floor, how in the world did Rhoda's blood find its way from her bedroom to Lydia's, a half mile away?
It was a conspiracy, Danny said, advancing a new theory and digging a hole he would never get out of. Too much time alone in a jail cell can be dangerous for a guilty criminal. Well, he tried to explain, someone either stained his shirt with Rhoda's blood, a theory that lightened up the crowd considerably, or, it was more likely that some mysterious person who examined the shirt was simply lying, all in an effort to convict him. Ernie had a field day with both scenarios, but he landed his heaviest blows with a series of brutal questions about why Danny, who certainly had the money to hire the best lawyers around, didn't hire his own expert to come to court and explain the tainted blood exams to the jury.
Perhaps no expert was found because no expert could reach the ridiculous conclusions Padgitt wanted.
Same for the semen. If Danny had been producing it over at Lydia's, how could it arrive at Rhoda's? No problem—it was part of a broad conspiracy to nail him for the crime. The lab reports were fabricated; the police work was faulty. Ernie hammered him until we were all exhausted.
At twelve-thirty, Lucien stood and suggested a break for lunch. 'I'm not done!' Ernie yelled across the courtroom. He wanted to finish the annihilation before Lucien could get his hands on his client and try to rehabilitate him, a task that seemed impossible. Padgitt was on the ropes, battered and gasping for air, and Ernie was not going to a neutral corner.
'Continue,' Judge Loopus said, and Ernie suddenly shouted at Padgitt, 'What did you do with the knife?'
The question startled everyone, especially the witness, who jerked backward and quickly said, 'I, uh,—' then went silent.
'You what! Come on, Mr. Padgitt; tell us what you did with the knife, the murder weapon.'
Danny shook his head fiercely and looked too scared to speak. 'What knife?' he managed to say. He could not have looked guiltier if the knife had dropped out of his pocket onto the floor.
