Celebrity, p.61
Celebrity, page 61
“No sir. Not by my definition.” Dale explained that certain pressure from a finger was required to pull the trigger. In tests at his lab, he attached a wire to the trigger and then affixed little chunks of metal, like fishing weights to the wire. “If the gun goes off at the addition of less than one pound of these weights, it has what we consider a hair trigger.”
“How many fishing weights did you have to put on this gun to make it go off?”
“Two point four pounds,” said Torrey Dale.
“That’s not a hair trigger?”
“Not at all. It did look like somebody had tried to file down the hammer notch to make it fire quicker. And the gun was in excellent repair. The owner kept it in shipshape condition.” Later, on cross, Otto would draw from Dale the admission that enthusiasts of fast-draw contests often filed down their notches. But it didn’t make much of an impact.
“One last question, Mr. Dale,” said Sledge. “Would it be possible for this gun to accidentally discharge, to ‘go off by itself’ as people like to say?”
“I don’t think so. You could drop it fifty times and it wouldn’t fire. I know that because I did it. The only way it fires is to put your finger on the trigger and pull it hard.”
“A fella’s got to be intent on making it fire, right?”
“Yes sir. The recoil can knock you clean into the next block. You don’t do it routinely. Or accidentally.”
Nodding uncomfortably, the District Attorney quit. He assessed his presentation so far. He had given the jury a corpse, a fragile but unimpeached identification, and a murder weapon. All he lacked now was an eyewitness. He had one. Maybe. With his stomach knotting, the prosecutor announced the last name on his dance card.
“We call Kleber Cantrell, your honor.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
The City of Miracles needed one badly. For a time, the executive hierarchy had managed to put up a brave front, but by the eighth week of the trial, The Chosen’s ministry was near collapse. What few students who showed up for the fall semester were dismissed at Thanksgiving when there was no more money to pay the faculty. Cash flow was at crisis. Mail that once flooded into the Miracle Post Office at 10,000 pieces a week was now down to a trickle of a few hundred, and not many of these contained contributions.
A skeletal managerial staff ran the businesses, juggled invoices, issued press releases that bravely but falsely bragged of the Lord’s good work continuing unimpeded. After The Chosen’s arrest, it was decided to carry on with television and radio schedules by using old tapes. But miracles in rerun failed to capture a sustaining audience or its largesse. Only a few of the most loyal sisters, Crystal and Gentilla among them, remained. When trucks came to haul off much of the Miracle equipment, dismantling computers and taking away typewriters and desks, the women felt fear and panic.
For a time, Sister Crystal had been able to assuage her discomfort by making daily journeys downtown to the courthouse where she participated in the services of worship and support centered on the flatbed truck. Then Otto Leo decreed that the mobile church should be moved out of public sight. He convinced The Chosen that the passionate spectacles were attracting excessive coverage from the world press and were lending a primitive character to the cause. Though he disagreed and regretted losing the cheering section, T.J. acquiesced. The sisters were commanded to stay away.
At this, Sister Crystal made a private vow to help The Chosen, for whom she held boundless devotion. She descended to her place at the bottom of the pit and began to fast. She flung her body before the celebrated portrait of Jesus Christ. “Oh Lord, tell me how I can best help my sweet master,” she prayed.
Judge Mustardseed summoned both sides into his office. The potential appearance of Kleber Cantrell had already been thoroughly discussed, but the old jurist was nonetheless nervous and in unmapped territory. He demanded to know just what the District Attorney anticipated his star witness would say—or not say. He was not at all sure he would even permit the fellow into his courtroom.
“Has this witness indicated a willingness to testify?” asked the judge.
Sledge fuzzed his answer. “Well, Mr. Cantrell hasn’t said he won’t.”
“Can he talk?”
“I have reason to believe that he can,” replied the DA. “I submit, your honor, that it is vital for me to at least give it a try. It may be the only way the jury can learn exactly what happened on the night of May 9.”
Otto Leo jumped in emotionally. His client’s right to a fair and impartial hearing would be severely if not fatally jeopardized by the appearance of a witness with a freshly healed hole in his throat, toted into the box on a stretcher. Justice would be better served by taking testimony from Cantrell “in a hospital setting,” which, necessarily, would exclude jurors.
Judge Mustardseed chewed on the problem like it was sun-hardened tobacco. “Let’s sleep on it, boys,” he said. He looked at Calvin Sledge curiously. “You better get some shut-eye, boy,” he suggested. “You look plumb tuckered out.”
Waiting outside was Sandy Double, who pulled Sledge into a side corridor. “Kleber’s mother is waiting for you in your office,” he said. “Says it’s important.”
Sledge groaned. He had no time for VeeJee and her ruminations. “You talk to her, Sandy, okay? Tell her I’m busy. Tell her it doesn’t look like I’ll have time to call her.”
“I already done that. She still wants you.”
“Well, Lord. What could be on her mind?”
“She’s carrying a big cardboard box of papers. Says it’s stuff Kleber wrote that you haven’t read yet. Some old carbons. She seems all worked up. Says her conscience would hurt her forever if you didn’t have access to everything.”
Sledge moaned again and chewed a handful of antacid tablets. His stomach was in knots. “Take care of her, Sandy. Hold her hand. Buy her a sody pop.” He rushed out the courthouse door and jumped into his car before the press caught his scent. VeeJee reluctantly entrusted Sandy with her treasure but made him sign his name in triplicate on official stationery.
“Is there anything in particular you want me to read, ma’m?” asked Sandy.
VeeJee shook her head. “It’s all relevant,” she said. “Some words might be more relevant than others.”
That night Sledge collected Ceil Shannon from the motel where she was under police guard. The first few days of house arrest were so maddening that Ceil thought she would lose her mind. But now she had accommodated to life with a television set as her principal companion and cheeseburgers from the Dairy Queen next door and guarded telephone conversations to New York that she knew were being recorded. When Sledge barged in unannounced, Ceil was wearing blue jeans and a Fort Worth Stockyards tee shirt. She was braiding her hair because it killed an hour.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, worried. “Has something happened to Kleber?”
“Let’s go and see,” said Sledge.
Ceil jumped up excitedly to prepare her unmade face and find better clothes. Sledge grabbed her arm. “You look fine,” he said. “You don’t need war paint.”
They drove to a small private clinic on the outskirts of Denton where a forty-three-year-old patient registered as “Chester Teton” had been under care since early September. The young doctor who led them to Kleber’s room asked for Ceil Shannon’s autograph on the evening edition of the Star-Telegram. He was eager for gossip and inside news from the trial. He assured the prosecutor that no reporters or spies from Otto Leo’s camp had been around. He said the patient was doing fine, “eating like a lumberjack” and “responding” to therapy.
Sledge knew that. He had watched through a one-way mirror while nurses told Kleber to get out of bed, which he did, or roll over, which he did, or wash his face, which he did. Obviously Cantrell heard everything—and responded to commands. But every time Calvin Sledge had asked, “Will you help us out, son?” all he got back was a glassy stare cold as taxidermy.
Tonight Kleber was propped up in an elevated bed and looking without connection at a television set that hung from the ceiling. He was not allowed to watch news but was permitted unlimited rations of situation comedy. Beside his bed was an enormous pile of mail; each morning and afternoon a therapist plunged into the stack and read selections aloud. The hope was that somebody’s letter might strike a spark. Thus far the only reaction was to a letter from some old newspaperman in Houston named Clifford Casey. Kleber’s eyes had filled with tears.
The room was almost dark, save for the weak light of the television set. In the doorway, Ceil tensed. It took her several moments to compose herself. Then she went to Kleber and kissed his forehead. Sledge watched hawk-like for a reaction. Kleber was glad to see her, but he contained his emotions.
The prosecutor went directly to the point. “I’m going to call you in the morning, son,” he said. “There’s no gettin’ around it. I need you. I’m going to put you in the box and ask you simple, direct questions that can be answered ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ If you don’t cooperate, then I’ll ask you formally to write your answers down. And if you won’t do that for me—then I’ll rest my case. I imagine Otto Leo will move for an instructed verdict of acquittal—and I won’t be a’tall surprised if the judge gives it to him. Then we can all go fishin’ a spell, after which I expect to come back to work so renewed with vigor and purpose that it won’t take two shakes to prosecute Miss Shannon here. And I will, son. I’m going to send somebody to jail.”
Ceil felt a tremor of fear but she held it inside. She did not want Kleber to see her weakness.
“It’s shitty as hell, I agree,” continued the DA. “And, Kleber boy, don’t think you’re off the hook. Judge Mustardseed is ornery and he won’t take much guff off anybody. I wouldn’t be surprised if he held you in contempt of court. That’s worth six months in county jail. He could—if he wanted to—bring you out six months down the line, ask you if you’ve changed your mind, and if you’re still playing clam, he’ll send you back to the slammer for further contemplation. He can do that until 1999 if he wants—and I would heartily concur.”
Ceil Shannon regarded the DA with naked contempt. “That’s absolutely vile,” she said. “Kleber didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah,” agreed Sledge. “Life is unfair. Oh, I forgot one thing. If your boy friend here decides to help us out tomorrow, I’ll seriously consider dropping the charges against you.”
“I can’t wait to tell my lawyer this good news,” she said, frankly astonished by the squeeze play. “And the press, too.”
“As you like,” said Sledge. “Negotiation is a necessary part of the pursuit of justice.” He left them alone and promised that no one would look or listen. He said Ceil could spend the night with her lover. “You probably won’t believe me,” said the prosecutor, “but there are no bugs in this room tonight. I’m going to give you two some private time together. I’m not a romantic, but I’m not a total chickenshit, either.”
The room was stifling but when Ceil tried to open a window, she discovered it was locked. And barred. That was what their lives had become. Two fiercely independent people were caged by lunatic tides. She poured ice water on a washrag and dabbed his brow. “I wish we could believe Sledge,” she said. “I wish we could have this night together.”
Kleber pantomimed the need for pad and paper. She found them in her purse. He scribbled hurriedly. “This is our first conjugal visit.”
Ceil tried to laugh and whispered, “You’re supposed to be sick.”
“I am,” wrote Kleber. “I’m sick of this whole mess.… Scared, too. Sorry I got you into this blind corner.”
“You do what you think is right,” said Ceil.
“Turn on the television set,” wrote Kleber. She did so, found Johnny Carson joking. Kleber motioned for her to sit on his left side, blocking the mirror that hung on his wall. If there was a pair of spy eyes on the other side, all they could see would be a tall woman’s broad back. “Now turn on the music,” he wrote, gesturing at a bedside stereo cassette player. Ceil found a Vivaldi tape. “Now the air conditioner.” He pointed at a large floor fan that lurked in a corner. It rattled noisily into life, sending waves of thick, humid air against the lovers.
“Is it safe now to talk?” whispered Ceil.
“It should be,” wrote Kleber. “We’ve got comedy, music, and hot air as protection. There may be a metaphor lurking somewhere.”
“How do you feel?”
“There’s that word again,” wrote Kleber. “Feel.”
“Listen, love, don’t worry about me. Don’t let my situation affect whatever you decide to do. I’m a big girl. I’ve known all along what the risks entailed. I’ve never been so fully alive as during the last six months. I wouldn’t plea-bargain one minute of it to save my neck.”
“I care about two people,” wrote Kleber. “You … and Mack. I can’t let them destroy him twice.”
“Add another person to your list.”
“Who?”
“Numero Uno.”
“I have a plan,” wrote Kleber.
“I love you,” said Ceil.
“Then get in bed, dammit,” wrote Kleber.
She tore all of the papers into tiny pieces and burned them in his Jell-O dish. Then she slipped under the covers and held her battered lover the rest of the night. At one point Kleber curled into the curve of Ceil’s warm body. She felt him tremble and she heard dry sobs burst from his throat. There was nothing she could do but hold him and caress him and whisper that she would always be there. They floated after that on the indefinite sea of semiconsciousness. Just before day, Ceil thought she heard Kleber say, clearly, out loud, “Dammit, why me?” And, a few moments after that, “I love you, babe.” She bolted awake but when she looked at Kleber in the soft new morning light his eyes were firmly closed. Obviously she was dreaming.
Fights broke out in the spectator line on this morning of freezing rain and bone-chilling winds. Police closed the north end of town and tried to discipline an estimated 10,000 people who clamored to attend the trial. Monumental traffic jams. Helicopters buzzed dangerously low, bearing television cameramen; the winds imperiled their course. A photographer with a long-lens camera fell off the roof of a three-story building and broke his leg. The news posse galloped to take a new picture. A delegation of Mack Crawford fan clubs arrived in three chartered buses. Someone at the head of the line was reportedly asking—and got—$1,000 for a priority number guaranteed to gain admission to the court spectator section.
Judge Mustardseed arrived in a mood as gloomy as the December norther. Someone asked for his autograph and he threatened to have her arrested for blocking public access. On his way to the bench, he lectured the audience. If anybody felt like sneezing, best it be done right now. Any intrusion down the line would result in severest judicial displeasure. Hizzoner limped to his chair. The storm had bedeviled his bones. Everybody in the chamber past fifty sympathized with arthritic joints.
Sledge promised the bench there would be no unnecessary theatrics but it was clear the drama could not play otherwise. Kleber had been delivered to the courthouse in a borrowed Brink’s truck, whisked wheelchair and all up a back flight of stairs guarded by a dozen men with drawn pistols. He waited now in an anteroom. He was wearing an ill-fitting salmon-colored leisure suit that Sledge told Darlene to buy at J. C. Penney’s. He was thirty pounds underweight and looked like a poor relation come to town for a funeral. He needed a haircut and his skin was gray but he otherwise resembled a whole and rational human person. Since nobody had seen the Prince of Power in almost three months, when he had been arrested at the lake house, his anticipated appearance contained exceptional suspense.
Sledge called out the name loud and clear. Everyone strained to see the bailiff’s door. Then damned if Kleber Cantrell didn’t stroll casually into the courtroom all by himself. He had disdained wheelchair or stretcher. The heart of Calvin Sledge commenced to pound with happiness. Somehow he knew that the rest of the way up Pike’s Peak wouldn’t even make him breathe hard. Ceil Shannon must have sweet-talked him during the night. A splash of honey had worked when a bath of vinegar failed. Hooray for wimmenfolk!
Judge Mustardseed explained to the jurors that this witness had suffered a gunshot wound in the throat, but he left the who, where, and why unelaborated. The old magistrate examined Kleber like a rancher eyeing a dubious cow pony. He did everything but peer at his teeth. Then he explained what the State of Texas proposed. If Kleber chose to testify, then immunity would be granted by the District Attorney’s office against any further prosecution in this matter, specifically the charge of slipping out of Harris Hospital to thwart justice.
“You understand what I’m talkin’ about, young man?” asked the judge.
Kleber blinked his eyes and slowly nodded.
“Can you answer me out loud, son?”
Kleber shook his head.
Judge Mustardseed directed his court reporter to designate for the record that the witness was responding by head movements. A pad and several sharpened pencils were placed on the witness-box railing. If he wished to amplify an answer by writing, then so be it.
Otto Leo jumped up with a list of prepared objections as long as the greediest kid’s Christmas wants. The judge said hold-your-horses. “Let’s just see where this thing goes,” he said. “You can always object down the line.”
“Is your name Kleber Cantrell?” began Sledge.
Nod.
“Do you hear what I am saying to you?”
Nod.
“Are you able to answer orally? In your own voice?”
Shake.
“What is your occupation?”
Kleber raised his eyebrows and looked amused.
“Use the tablet if you like,” said Sledge.
No response.
“Are you a writer?”
Nod.
“Can you write out your answers for this court?”
Kleber hesitated and made no movement of his head. Judge Mustardseed asked if that was a yes or a no. Predictably, Otto bounced to the top of his tasseled crocodile shoes. “Objection, please. Objection! I’ve never seen anything quite like this in thirty years at the bar. The District Attorney is putting on some dog and pony show. I must strenuously object to this inflammatory and prejudicial spectacle.”
