Manslaughter/Chapter 10

TRANGELY enough, the days of her trial were among the happiest and the most interesting that Lydia had ever known. They had a continuity of interest that kept her calm and equable. Usually when she woke in the softest of beds and lifted her cheek from the smoothest of pillows she asked herself what she should do that day. Choice was open to her—innumerable choices—all unsatisfactory, because her own satisfaction was the only element to be considered.

But during her trial she did not ask this question. She had an occupation and an object for living, not so much to save herself as to humiliate O'Bannon. The steady, strong interest gave shape and pattern to her days, like the thread of a string of beads.

As soon as each session was over she and Wiley, on the lawn of the courthouse or at her house if she could detain him, or she and Albee or Bobby or Miss Bennett, as the case might be, would go over each point made by the prosecution's witnesses or brought out by Wiley's cross-examination of them. The district attorney seemed to be reserving no surprises. He had a strong, straight case with Drummond's ante-mortem statement, and a great many witnesses as to Lydia's speed. The bracelet had not been admitted in evidence so far, nor had Drummond's statement referred to it, and Wiley grew more confident that it would not be allowed. The defense had felt some anxiety over the exactitude with which the hour of the accident had been established, but as Lydia did not honestly know the hour at which she had left Eleanor's nor had Eleanor or any of her servants been subpœnaed, there did not seem any danger from this point after all.

Lydia, who was to be the first witness for the defense, had thought over every point, every implication of her own testimony, until she felt sure that "that man" would not be able to catch her wrong in a single item. She did not dread the moment—she longed for it. Wiley had advised her of the danger of remembering too much—a candid "I'm afraid I don't remember that" would often convince a jury better than a too exact memory.

"And," Wiley added soothingly, "don't be frightened if the district attorney tries to browbeat you. The court will protect you, and if I seem to let it go on it will be because I see it's prejudicing the jury in your favor."

Lydia's nostrils fluttered with a long indrawn breath.

"I don't think he will frighten me," she said.

But most of all, Wiley advised her as to her bearing. She must be gentle, feminine, appealing, as if she would not voluntarily injure a fly. No matter what happened, she mustn't set her jaw and tap her foot and flash back contemptuous answers.

Lydia moved her head, looking exactly as Wiley did not want her to look.

"I cannot be appealing," she said.

"Then the district attorney will win his case," said Wiley.

There was a pause, and then Lydia said in her good-little-girl manner:

"I'll do my best."

Everybody knew that her best would be good.

The People were to close their case that morning. A witness as to Lydia's speed just before the accident was on the stand. He testified that, following her as fast as his car would go—he had no speedometer—he had not been able to keep her in sight. His name was Yakob Ussolof, and he had great difficulty with the English language. His statements were, however, clear and damaging.

The jury was almost purely Anglo-Saxon, and as Wiley rose to cross-examine the very effort he made to get the name right—"Mr.—er—Mr.—U—Ussolof"—was an appeal to their Americanism.

"Mr. Ussolof, you have driven an automobile for some years?"

"Yare, yare," said Mr. Ussolof eagerly, "for ten years now."

"How long had you owned the car you were driving on March eleventh?"

"Since fall now."

"Ah, a new car. And what was its make?"

"Flivver."

The magic word worked its accustomed miracle. Everyone smiled, and Wiley, seeing before him a jury of flivver owners, went on:

"And do you mean to tell me, Mr. Ussolof, that in the speediest car built in America you could not keep a foreign-built car going at thirty miles an hour in sight? Oh, Mr. Ussolof, you don't do us justice. We build better cars than that!"

The jury smiled, the spectators laughed, the gavel fell for order, and Mr. Wiley sat down. He had told Lydia that a jury, like an audience, loves those who make them laugh, and he sat down with an air of success. But Lydia, watching them more closely, was not so sure. As O'Bannon rose she noted the extreme gravity of his manner, his look at the jury, which seemed to say, "A man's life—a woman's liberty at stake, and you allow a mountebank to make you laugh!" It was only a look, but Lydia saw that they regained their seriousness like a lot of schoolboys when the head master enters.

"Call Alma Wooley," said O'Bannon.

Alma Wooley, the last witness for the People, was the girl to whom Drummond had been engaged. A little figure in the deepest mourning mounted the stand, so pale that she looked as if a strong ray would shine clear through her, and though her eyes were dry, her voice had the liquid sound that comes with much crying. Many of the jury had known her when she worked in her father's shop. She testified that her name was Alma Wooley, her age nineteen, that she lived with her father.

"Miss Wooley," said O'Bannon, "you were sent for to go to the hospital on the eleventh of this March, were you not?"

An almost inaudible "Yes, sir," was the answer.

"You saw Drummond before he died?"

She bent her head.

"How long were you with him?"

She just breathed the answer, "About an hour."

Juror Number 6 spoke up and said that he could not hear. The judge in a loud roar—offered as an example—said, "You must speak louder. You must speak so that the last juror can hear you. No, don't look at me. Look at the jury."

Thus admonished, Miss Wooley raised her faint, liquid voice and testified that she had been present while Drummond was making his statement.

"Tell the jury, what took place."

"I said"

Her voice sank out of hearing. Wiley sprang up.

"Your Honor, I must protest. I cannot hear the witness. It is impossible for me to protect my client's interests if I cannot hear."

The stenographer was directed to read his notes aloud, and he read rapidly and without the least expression:

"Question: 'Tell the jury what took place.' Answer: 'I said, "Oh, Jack, darling, what did they do to you?" And he said, "It was her, dear. She got me after all."'"

Wiley was on his feet again, protesting in a voice that drowned all other sounds. A bitter argument between the lawyers took place. They argued with each other, they went and breathed their arguments into the ear of the judge. In the end Miss Wooley's testimony was not allowed to contain anything in reference to any previous meeting between Drummond and Lydia, but was limited to a bare confirmation of the details of Drummond's own statement. Technically the defense had won its point, but the emotional impression the girl had left was not easily effaced, nor the suspicion that the defense had something to conceal. Wiley did not cross-examine, knowing that the sooner the pathetic little figure left the stand the better. But he managed to convey that it was his sympathy with the sufferer that made him waive cross-examination.

The People's case rested.

Lydia was called. As she rose and walked behind the jury box toward the waiting Bible she realized exactly why it was that O'Bannon had put Alma on the stand the last of all his witnesses. It was to counteract with tragedy any appeal that youth and wealth and beauty might make to the emotions of the jury. Such a trick, it seemed to her, deserved a counter trick, and reconciled her to falsehood, even as she was swearing that her testimony would be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help her God.

Surely it was persecution for the law to stoop to such methods. She felt as hard as steel. Women do not get fair play, she thought. Here she was, wanting to fight like a tigress, and her only chance of winning was to appear as gentle and innocuous as the dove. She testified that her name was Lydia Janetta Thorne, her age twenty-four, her residence New York.

"Miss Thorne," said Wiley, very businesslike in manner, "for how many years have you driven a car?"

"For eight years."

"As often as three or four times a week?"

"Much oftener—constantly—every day."

"Have you ever been arrested for speeding?"

"Only once—about seven years ago in New Jersey."

"Were you fined or imprisoned?"

"No, the case was dismissed."

"Have you ever, before March eleventh, had an accident in which you injured yourself or anyone else?"

"No."

"Now tell the jury as nearly as you can remember just what took place from the time you left your house on the morning of March eleventh until the accident that afternoon."

Lydia turned to the jury—not dovelike, but with a modified beam of candid friendliness that was very winning. She described her day. She had left her house about half past eleven and had run down to Miss Bellington's, a distance of thirty miles, in an hour and a half. She had expected to spend the afternoon there, but finding that her friend had an engagement she had left earlier than she expected. No, she had no motive whatsoever for getting to town quickly. On the contrary, she had extra time on her hands. No, she had not noticed the hour at which she left Miss Bellington's, but it was soon after luncheon; about twenty-five minutes before three, she should imagine.

Was she conscious of driving fast at any time?

Yes, just after leaving Miss Bellington's. There was a good piece of road and no traffic. She had run very fast—probably thirty-five miles an hour.

Did she call that fast?

Yes, she did. She achieved a very-good-little-girl manner as she said this.

For how long had she maintained this high rate of speed?

She was afraid she couldn't remember exactly, but for two or three miles. On approaching the village of Wide Plains she had slowed down to her regular rate of twenty-five miles an hour—slower as she actually entered the village. She could not say how long Drummond had been following her—she had not noticed him. She had seen him as she was entering the village—saw him reflected in her mirror. It was difficult to judge distances exactly from such a reflection. She had not been noticing him just at the moment of the accident. Yes, her decision to take the right-hand turn had been a sudden one. She had felt the impact. She believed that the policeman ran into her. She was on her own side of the road and turning to the right.

Why did she take the right-hand road, which was longer than the left?

Because it was more agreeable, and as she was in no hurry to get home she did not mind the extra distance.

After the accident she had remained and rendered every assistance in her power, going to the hospital and remaining there until the preliminary report of Drummond's condition. She had left her address and telephone number, so that the hospital could telephone her when the X-ray examination was finished.

Her friends drew a sigh of relief when her direct testimony was over. It was true, she was not an appealing figure like Alma Wooley; but she was clear, audible, direct, and her straight glance under her dark level brows was convincingly honest.

As she finished her direct testimony she looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. The important moment had come. She heard Wiley's smooth voice saying "Your witness" as if he were making the People a magnificent present. As she became aware that O'Bannon was standing up, looking at her, she raised her eyes as far as the top button of his waistcoat, and then slowly lifting both head and eyes together she stared him straight in the face.

He held her eyes for several seconds, trying, she thought, in the silence to take possession of her mind as he had taken possession of the jury's.

"Not so easy, my friend," she said to herself, and just as she said it she heard his voice saying coolly, "Look at the jury, please, not at me."

Her eyes, as she turned them in the desired direction, had a flash in them.

"Miss Thorne, at what hour did you leave Miss Bellington's?"

"I have no way of fixing it precisely—about 2:35."

"You are quite sure it was not later?"

"I cannot be sure within four or five minutes."

"What is the distance from Miss Bellington's to the scene of the accident?"

"About fifteen miles, I should think."

"Your calculation is that as the accident took place at 3:12 and you left at twenty-five minutes to three you drove fifteen miles in thirty-seven minutes—that is to say, at the rate of twenty-four miles an hour. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"And you never ran faster than thirty-five miles an hour?"

"Never."

"Don't look at me. Look at the jury, please."

She found it hard to be dovelike under this repeated admonition. "As if," she thought, "I couldn't keep my eyes off him, whereas, of course, it's human nature to look at the person who's speaking to you."

"You say," he went on, "that you had expected to stay longer at Miss Bellington's than you actually did."

"Yes."

"And what made you change your plans?"

"I found she had an engagement."

"Did she mention it on your arrival?"

"No."

"When did she mention it?"

"After luncheon."

"Was she called to the telephone during your visit?"

"No."

"Are you sure of that?"

There was a pause. The gates of Lydia's memory had suddenly opened. The telephone call, which had made no impression at the time because she had not taken in that it was from O'Bannon, suddenly came back to her. She tried hastily to see its bearing on her case, but he gave her no time.

"Answer my question, please. Will you swear there was no telephone call to your knowledge?"

"No, I cannot."

"In fact there was a telephone call?"

"Yes."

"It was during that telephone call that the engagement was made?"

"I cannot say—I do not know."

"How long did you stay after that telephone?"

"I left at once."

"You put on your hat?"

"Yes."

"And your veil?"

"Yes."

"And a coat?"

"Yes."

It was impossible to be dovelike under this interrogation. The jury were allowing themselves to smile.

"Had your car been left standing at the door?"

"No." She felt that her jaw was beginning to set, and she kept her foot quiet only with an effort.

"You had to wait while it was sent for?"

"Yes."

"In other words, Miss Thorne, you must have waited not less than five minutes after the telephone call came?"

"Probably not."

"Answer yes or no, please."

"No." She flung it at him.

"Then if that telephone came at thirteen minutes before three you must have left not earlier than eight minutes to three, and the accident took place at 3:12, you ran the distance—it is actually thirteen miles and a half—in twenty minutes; that is, at the rate of forty miles an hour."

Wiley protested that there was nothing in evidence to show that the telephone call had been made at thirteen minutes before three, and O'Bannon replied that with the consent of the court he would put the records of the telephone company in evidence to prove the exact hour. This point settled, a pause followed. Lydia half rose, supposing the ordeal over, but O'Bannon stopped her.

"One moment," he said. "You say you have not been arrested for exceeding the speed law for several years. Have you ever been stopped by a policeman?"

Wiley was up in protest at once.

"I object, Your Honor, on the ground of irrelevancy."

The judge said to O'Bannon, "What is the purpose of the question?"

"Credibility, Your Honor. I wish to show that the defendant is not a competent witness as to her own speed."

The judge locked his fingers together, with his elbows on the arms of his chair, and took a ruminative half spin.

"The fact that she was once stopped by the police will not determine that. She might have been violating some other ordinance."

"I will show, if Your Honor permits it, that it was for speeding that she was stopped."

Eventually the question was admitted; and Lydia, testifying more and more reluctantly, more and more aware that the impression she was making was bad, was forced to testify that in the autumn Drummond himself had stopped her. Asked what he had said to her, she answered scornfully that she didn't remember.

"Did he say: 'What do you think this is—a race track?'"

"I don't remember."

"Did he warn you that if you continued to drive so fast he would arrest you?"

"No."

If hate could kill, the district attorney would have been struck down by her glance.

"You don't remember any of the conversation that took place between you?"

"No."

"And you cannot explain why a traffic officer stopped you and let you go without even a warning?"

"No."

"Would it refresh your memory, Miss Thorne, to look at this bracelet which I hold in my hand?"

"I protest, Your Honor!" shouted Wiley, but a second too late. Lydia had seen the bracelet and shrunk from it—with a quick gesture of repugnance.

The line of inquiry was not permitted, the bracelet was not put in evidence, the question was ordered stricken from the records; but the total effect of her testimony was to leave in the minds of the jurors the impression that she was perfectly capable of the conduct which the prosecution attributed to her. Wiley detained her a few moments for redirect examination in the hope of regaining the dove, but in vain.

Miss Bennett was put on the stand to testify to Lydia's habitual prudence as a driver; Governor Albee testified to her excellent record; half a dozen other friends were persuasive, but could not undo the harm she had done her own case.

The district attorney put the telephone-company records in evidence, showing that only one call had been made to the Bellington house between two and three o'clock March eleventh, and that it had been made at thirteen minutes before three.