The Accused Part 14

Cory answered vaguely, "Oh--around. Hey, that was something about Morlock's wife, wasn't it? Was Morlock in his cla.s.ses?"

"Are you crazy? Of course not. Say, what's on your mind? You didn't call up just to talk about Morlock's wife. With the record you've got you'd better get on in to cla.s.s."

Cory hung up. It had been silly to ask if Morlock was at cla.s.s. Certainly he would not be, but he had hoped for it against all common sense. If he knew where Morlock was for just a little while he could relax for that time at least. As it stood now, Morlock might be looking for him at this minute.

He spent Monday night in fear that became increasingly tinged with resentment. Here he was, broke and afraid, and Morlock remained free to find him and kill him as he had killed his wife. Why didn't the cops--? Cory suddenly grinned as the solution struck him. Of course, he thought. Morlock had fooled them with some lie about an accident. Once they knew the truth--and he would see that they did--they would have to arrest Morlock.

In the morning he called the Warfield Police Station and asked cautiously to speak with the chief.

"You know about what happened to Mrs. Morlock, don't you? She lived on Kosciusko Street. It was in the newspapers."

Chief Stewart asked impatiently, "Of course we do. Who is this? What's your name?"

Cory said, "It doesn't make any difference what my name is. I just wanted to tell you that Morlock killed his wife. If she went off a cliff it was because he pushed her off." He hesitated, wanting to make a stronger case against Morlock but wis.h.i.+ng at the same time to avoid possibly implicating himself.

"He found out that she was sleeping with some guy," he said finally, and hung up. He had only to wait until the noon news program now, and he could go back to Warfield. They would have to arrest Morlock now.

Chapter 15.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the evidence in this case and it now becomes your duty to weigh it, examine it, and determine if the accused is guilty, and, if he is guilty, in what degree. In the last two days the prosecution has brought before you witness after witness to testify against Alvin Morlock. Reviewing them briefly, we have proved that he was heavily in debt, largely as a result of his wife's extravagance. She gambled with his money and lost it. We know that he held an insurance policy on the life of his wife--a policy taken out only a handful of hours after his marriage. The sum of money was not large--but it would have relieved the pressure of his debts. Isn't it conceivable that it struck Morlock as a form of grim but poetic justice that she be made to repay the money she had lost? There was only one way that she could pay--with her life. The prosecution contends that Morlock exacted this payment.

Now consider the position of the accused. He was an instructor in a small college in a small town. His character, his reputation, were more important to him than would have been the case had he been a mechanic or a farmer. Louise Morlock left his house. She was arrested in a near-by city and only the merciful consideration of the officer who arrested her saved her from being charged with prost.i.tution. He must have lived in fear that it would happen again and that this time it could not be hushed up. There was literally only one way he could be certain that it could not happen again. If she were dead.

We can believe that she made life intolerable for her husband. You have heard what happened when he made a pathetic effort to entertain his best friend in his own home. She shamed him, humiliated him. If this were not enough, she betrayed him with one of his own students.

All these things the defense will repeat to you in reb.u.t.tal, and they are true. We do not deny them. But there is another side to the picture. The side that Louise Morlock would reveal if she were alive.

Through the testimony of Thomas Dodson and Atillio Palaggi we have demonstrated that Alvin Morlock had every opportunity to realize the fact that Louise Palaggi was a woman of little education, little refinement. He took the risk of marrying her for reasons that are still his own since he has not seen fit to take the stand. Perhaps he felt that he could shape her to his own desires. Perhaps he was lonely and sought to warm himself at the fire of marriage. Both of these purposes, I remind you, are selfish.

Let us say that his reasons were the most charitable that we can conceive, and the fact will remain that he took a risk and should have been prepared to pay the price should he lose--and we concede that he did lose. It was a bad marriage. But I remind you that it was a bad marriage for Louise as well as for the accused. She had only one recourse, one escape from it. She could drink, pa.s.s her days in drunkenness. Alvin Morlock had no recourse save one. He had to get rid of her. You cannot judge if he was justified in doing so. You can only judge whether or not, on the basis of the evidence you have heard, he did or did not kill her. And if he did, was it a murder of pa.s.sion, an involuntary act on the part of a man insane with fury, or a cold and calculated obliteration of what he considered an evil.

The defense will plead with you that if he is guilty he is guilty only of the former. He did not know, they will tell you, that she would follow him to Abram's Rock on a given day and that therefore he could not have premeditated her death. I submit to you that Morlock planned her death over a period of time and that he waited as patiently as any tiger for the opportunity to spring. The law does not set a time limit on premeditation. A man does not have to plan his crime three months or four or two hours or two minutes in advance of its execution in order for premeditation to exist. The actual purpose of the law governing premeditation is to define intent. Did Morlock intend to kill his wife? I say that he did, and that the moment he waited for arrived on the morning of Sunday, May 20th, when she allowed herself to be tolled to the cliff from which she plunged to her death.

Alvin Morlock did not love his wife. If any love ever existed, he helped destroy it. Yet, when he ran to the filling station to report her fall and to seek help, he pretended to be pitifully broken up. He carried on the pretense with Doctor Sedge and with the medical examiner... and I remind you that he was startled when he learned that the medical examiner had been notified. Why startled, if Louise's fall were an accident? And so I say...

The Commonwealth of Ma.s.sachusetts vs. Alvin Morlock. From the summation of Prosecution Attorney Alfred Gurney.

After delivering his charge to the jury, Superior Court Justice Dunstan Cameron watched the jurors file from the room in solemn procession. He felt troubled. Before he rose from the bench to recess the court, he called to the bailiff. "Ask Mr. Liebman and Mr. Gurney to come to my chambers," he said.

When Liebman and Gurney arrived Judge Cameron was staring out the high window of his chambers. He turned at their entrance. "Gentlemen," he invited them, "find chairs. I won't take much of your time." He turned to Liebman. "Sam, I don't want you to misunderstand me. I am not criticizing your conduct of the defense, but I don't believe Morlock could have made a worse impression if he had tried. Wouldn't he consent to take the stand?"

Liebman shook his head. "I did my very d.a.m.nedest to persuade him," he said. "I practically told him it was his neck if he didn't get up there. I guess you noticed his expression--the jury did."

Judge Cameron nodded. "Lack of expression would be a better description. I don't believe he showed the slightest sign of emotion throughout the entire trial."

Liebman shrugged. "I told him, for G.o.d's sake to look as if he were sorry about something--anything. Judge, I was appointed to defend Morlock. He's indigent and couldn't afford counsel after the way his wife stripped him. In spite of that, I give you my word that I did everything that I could. I worked harder to try and make a case for him than I have since I was admitted--and you know how long that's been. It's almost impossible to defend a man who won't defend himself."

"I'm sure of that, Sam. You did your best. Still, I'm worried about a reversal if the jury comes in with the verdict I think they'll reach. He made a poor impression."

Liebman shook his head. "Morlock has already told me that he doesn't want to appeal the verdict, whatever it is. I'd like to tell you something else he said. This was after I'd told him that he was just asking for the chair if he didn't listen to my advice. He said, 'If I'm to be executed, I hope the judge will make it as soon as possible.' I've heard that sort of talk before but I always could see the martyr complex behind it. I think Morlock actually means it."

Gurney said, "If they bring in a guilty verdict, appeal is automatic."

Judge Cameron nodded. "That's true," he said, "but the Supreme Court would be prejudiced against him if he didn't actively seek the appeal. Couldn't you have produced a few more witnesses?"

Liebman shook his head. "I wanted to put her brother on the stand," he said. "Morlock wouldn't have it. Actually, he was probably right. If I had used her own brother to attack her character--particularly after the showing the old man made--it would have had a bad effect on the jury. In any case, the prosecution admitted to her poor character. The only defense was to establish Morlock's good character, and he is such a neutral sort of man that even that is difficult. And you, Gurney, made his trip to Providence with Dodson look like the orgy of the century."

Judge Cameron nodded. "I suppose you're right," he said slowly. "Under the circ.u.mstances it was almost imperative that Morlock take the stand himself--unless he actually wanted to be found guilty. He was aware of that?"

Liebman nodded. "As I said, I told him that it was his neck if he didn't."

Judge Cameron stood up. "Well, gentlemen, I guess that's all. Thank you for coming."

In the corridor Gurney said to Liebman, "What about lunch?"

"I guess so. Let's go to the Hof-Brau. I could use a drink before I eat. I'll tell the bailiff where we'll be."

When their drinks came Liebman lifted his in a mock salute to Gurney. "You murdered us," he said.

"I don't know," Gurney answered. "If I did, it wasn't your fault. How long do you think, Sam?"

Liebman glanced at his watch. "Two hours," he said. "If it goes three they'll bring in first-degree."

Their food was brought, but neither man ate with any interest. Liebman said, after a lengthy silence, "Your summation was solid, Alfred. What little popguns I had, you spiked."

Gurney shrugged. "Tell me about Morlock," he said. "What was his story about what happened up on that rock?"

Liebman put down his fork and lit a cigarette. "I went to see him the second day after he was arrested," he said. "I told him that I'd been appointed to the case and that I'd looked into it and that the first thing I'd do was ask for bail to be set pending a hearing by the Grand Jury."

Gurney looked interested. "Well?" he asked.

Liebman smiled ruefully. "He told me that he didn't want bail. Then I told him that he should have no secrets from his attorney and asked him what happened up on the rock. He said, 'She fell.'"

"That's all?" Gurney asked.

"That's all. I told him that if he had killed her, his best course was to plead guilty and that, under the circ.u.mstances, we might get the charge reduced to manslaughter. His answer?"

Gurney said, "She fell?"

"Correct. And that's all he would say. I pleaded with him to tell me what had happened. I threatened him with a first-degree murder verdict. I even drew him a picture of the chair. He actually took a small, academic interest in that. I tell you, Gurney, I've had clients who were scared numb so that they could only repeat over and over whatever lie they had committed themselves to. And I've had some who couldn't help me because they were in a state of shock. Morlock was neither scared nor in a state of shock. I got the impression sometimes that he was actually sorry for the trouble he was causing me." Liebman pushed his chair back and stood up. "I feel badly about this," he said. "Can you think of anything I didn't do that I could have done?"

Gurney signaled for the check. "I don't think so, Sam."

The courtroom was nearly empty when they returned to it. Only a handful of spectators, grimly determined to be present when the jury came in, clung to their seats. A few court attaches sat listlessly at the front of the room. Liebman thanked Gurney for the lunch and made his way back through the maze of corridors to the detention cells, where Morlock was being held during trial hours. He nodded to the custodian and said softly, "Alvin?"

Morlock sat up. "h.e.l.lo, Sam," he said.

Liebman said, "I don't want you to worry any more than you can help. Let's face it. They've been out almost two hours already. If they were going to find you not guilty they'd have done it by now. I want you to ask for the appeal if things turn out badly." Liebman argued in vain. After a few minutes he returned to the courtroom. When Gurney saw him, he raised an eyebrow. Liebman returned the gesture with raised shoulders and out-turned palms.

When Liebman had first visited Morlock in his cell two days after his arrest and two months before his trial, Morlock had already decided on the course he would take. He would die--he smiled wryly at the thought that it was quite possible that he would die before he would reveal the nature of that last quarrel. On the night of the day that Louise fell to her death, he had known animal panic and great fear that he might be found out. Later the fear became revulsion, shame that he might stand publicly accused of killing her, that before the world he would appear to have risked his life in such a sorry cause. He had killed her because she had trespa.s.sed on the most secret recesses of his being, trampling and scuffling with dirty feet, but he could not say this. It would be a.s.sumed that he had killed her, if they refused to believe his story of an accident, because she had spent his money, had gambled, had wh.o.r.ed. Stewart, the police chief, had indicated when he arrested Morlock that these were the stuff of suspicion. Well, let them. He would not, could not, ask for the pity and the mercy of a jury by telling them what Louise had been any more than he could tell them of her obscene remark about Marianna Cruz. The jury would never be able to understand how he felt about Marianna. He Was left no choice but to say that Louise fell, this and nothing more. He said it with the monotonous beat of a metronome and to the great exasperation of Sam Liebman.

In the first days of his confinement, he slept little. He had only to close his eyes, it seemed, and the vision of Marianna Cruz's body hurtling into the green depths of the forest would recur. He had not been there when she actually had fallen and he had never before pictured what it must have been like. The picture had been forced upon him when he saw Louise make the same terrible journey through s.p.a.ce; and it returned and returned. He had much time for his regressions and this time he did not have to apologize to himself for making them. In a cell there was little else to do. But there was another difference. He had lost the power to select, to pick and choose from a hundred memories, and the memory that kept returning was one he had avoided for nineteen years. It concerned his betrayal of Marianna.

He had been sixteen, nearly two years older than she, when it happened. She had been his constant companion for four years. If her English had improved, she had changed little otherwise. She remained a shy child with great eyes and an elfin quality that he could recognize even then. If her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were beginning to bud, she was unconscious of it. Through long a.s.sociation they could very nearly understand each other without the use of speech. Each school day he waited for her to pa.s.s his house. He would walk with her then and so much a habit was this that the schoolboys no longer jeered or made comments when they approached the schoolyard.

It happened that a cycle of teen-age faddism made scholastic ability fas.h.i.+onable. Morlock, who was an excellent student, won several prizes in quick succession and whereas this would have ordinarily gone unnoticed by the student body, the fas.h.i.+on dictated that he be given the same recognition as an outstanding athlete. Morlock, who had never been noticed by ninety per cent of his cla.s.smates, who had been invited to not more than two parties in his life, who did not resent being called a stick-in-the-mud, suddenly found himself being lionized. Football and basketball players sought him out, calling him admiringly, "The Professor." He reacted to it in the manner of a ham actor finding himself in a hit show. There was a girl, an early blooming Circe of a girl, in Morlock's cla.s.s. So pretty a girl that most of Morlock's cla.s.smates were in love with her, dreamed pillow-hugging dreams of rescuing her from all manner of terrible situations. Morlock had been content to admire her from a great distance, knowing that she was from another sphere and not reaching to it. When he suddenly became socially acceptable, she sought him out in the corridor.

"Alvin," she said, "we're all going over to Franklin's for hamburgers after school. Why don't you ever come with us?"

She said the words with the graceful condescension of the queen that she was, and Morlock immediately became her subject. Frantically estimating how much hamburgers would come to and if he would be expected to pay for hers--funny he couldn't remember her name now or what she looked like--he said as casually as he could, "I'm not doing anything. Sure--I'd like to."

Fascinated by her, he joined her group of admirers as soon as the last cla.s.s was finished. When they came to the gate of the schoolyard, Marianna Cruz was waiting for him in the placid certainty that he would walk home with her as he always did. The queen called, "Alvin, your friend is waiting for you. I guess you can't come after all."

They had laughed, then, at him and at drab little Marianna. Morlock, desperate to show his maleness, had said loudly, "Oh, go on home, you little Portagee, and quit hanging around me."

Marianna had turned, her shoulders straight, and walked away. Morlock wanted to run after her and comfort her as he had when the other children had called her that same name on Abram's Rock when she first moved to the neighborhood. But he could not forgo the company of the gold-and-white girl and her court. A day later he came to the defiant conclusion that Marianna was worth ten times as much as any one of them; but at that time, when he hurt her, he did not go to her. And everything else in his life had hinged on his betrayal of Marianna. If he was a second-rate teacher, it was because he had been a second-rate friend to her when she needed him. If his life was a succession of failures, it was because he had failed her when he was sixteen.

That was the unbidden memory that came to Morlock in the cell where he was confined. Marianna never came back to school. He never saw her again. A week later he approached the school to see his cla.s.smates gathered in a gossiping little knot inside the gate. One of them said, "Wasn't that awful about the little Portagee girl, Alvin?"

Morlock had been briefly dazed. "What about her?" he asked. "What happened?"

They told him, in fragments and phrases.

"She's dead!"

"She fell off of Abram's Rock."

"Her father went out looking for her when she didn't come home to supper."

"The police were out there. They said she must have slipped."

"My father says it's dangerous up there and they ought to put a fence up or keep kids off it."

Morlock had turned away from them, not ashamed of the tears in his eyes. If he had not hurt her, if he had been a faithful friend, he would have been with her and he wouldn't have let her get too near the edge. Maybe she had fallen on purpose. Maybe it had been an accident. n.o.body would ever know, but Alvin Morlock knew this--Marianna would not have died if he had been with her.

They had an elaborate funeral for Marianna. The entire school went and Morlock was pushed and shoved close to the front of the procession. "He was her friend," they whispered busily. "Let him be up front." So they made way for him so that he could be more ashamed.

The fad for scholars.h.i.+p pa.s.sed and Morlock returned to the obscurity that he was never to leave until he went on trial for his life. Until the time he was arrested for murder he had never once permitted himself to remember the events leading up to Marianna's death. The first time that he did remember it, he combined two memories: the happy time of the pact they had made on Abram's Rock, and the terrible time he had deserted her. The recollection of the manner in which a body twisted and turned as it fell through the air acted as a trigger to his guilty thoughts. He no longer wished to live. He was overwhelmed by remorse that even extended to Louise. After all, he told himself, if he had not married her she would still be alive.

When Sam Liebman visited him and suggested that if he pleaded guilty he might be found guilty only of manslaughter, Morlock had already decided that he would do nothing, say nothing to mitigate his guilt. If he stood trial and was found guilty, he would accept it.

Chapter 16.

Sam Liebman sat beside Alfred Gurney, waiting for the jury to return. "Three and a half hours," he said, glancing at the old-fas.h.i.+oned clock on the wall.

Gurney smiled. "You've waited for juries before, Sam," he said. "Stop fretting. Change the subject. How is Morlock taking it?"

"I went back there again a few minutes ago. He was half asleep. You did a job on him--and me."

"I had all the witnesses," Gurney said.

"Sure you did. Where did you get that Stewart?"

"Stewart, the Chief of Police? He's a wonder, isn't he? He had F.B.I. training and it stuck. He'll trip on his own cleverness some day. Still, he made quite a witness--Hold it, Sam."

"What is it?"

"Here they come. They just talked with the bailiff through the door."

A court attendant went scurrying for Judge Cameron while the spectators who had been strolling the grounds, smoking in the corridors, patiently waiting, rustled into the courtroom. When order was called and the jury filed in, a custodian brought Morlock in from the detention cell. He glanced almost blankly at the faces of the jurors. They stared straight ahead, their expressions indicating their awareness of the gravity of their verdict, whatever it was.

When the courtroom was still, Judge Cameron asked, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict in the case now before you?"

The foreman said, "We have."

"How find you?"

"We find the defendant, Alvin Morlock, guilty of murder in the first degree."

Judge Cameron hesitated, then asked, "Do you have any recommendations?"

"We do not."

Judge Cameron turned to face Morlock. He said quietly, "Alvin Morlock, you have been found guilty of murder in the first degree by a jury of your peers. Since there has been no recommendation that mercy be shown you, in accordance with the laws of the Commonwealth of Ma.s.sachusetts I now must pa.s.s the sentence of death by electrocution on you. On the 15th day of October, the warden of the penitentiary in which you are confined will see that the terms of this sentence are carried out. And may G.o.d have mercy on your soul."

In the two months that Morlock served on death row in Charlestown, he had three visitors. They were Sam Liebman, Thomas Dodson, and Dominick Palaggi. Liebman visited him twice, uneasy with the thought that Morlock was deliberately destroying himself and that he did not deserve to die.