Part 23 (1/2)

Joe looked at me and smiled broadly, while continuing to play the piano. ”You wouldn't be trying to tell me Jim Williams has finally told you one of his many alternate versions of how he shot Danny Hansford, would you?”

”Who said anything about Jim Williams?”

”Oh, that's right,” said Joe, ”we were speaking hypothetically, weren't we? Well, according to the law, this 'unnamed person' is under no obligation to divulge his secret information, which-if it's what I think think it is-is not all that secret anyway. Heh-heh. In fact, I was beginning to wonder how long it was going to take a certain writer from New York to find out something half of Savannah already knows.” it is-is not all that secret anyway. Heh-heh. In fact, I was beginning to wonder how long it was going to take a certain writer from New York to find out something half of Savannah already knows.”

As Joe spoke, a policeman and a policewoman approached and stood awkwardly by the side of the piano.

”Mr. Joe Odom?” the policeman said.

”That's me,” said Joe.

”We have orders to place you under arrest.”

”You do? What's the charge?” Joe went on playing the piano.

”Scofflaw,” said the policewoman. ”We're from Thunderbolt. You got six unpaid speedin' tickets and a U-turn violation.”

”Any bad-check charges?” Joe asked.

”No, just the speedin' tickets and the U-turn,” the woman said.

”Well, that's a relief.”

”We'll have to take you to Thunderbolt in the squad car,” the policeman said. ”Once we book you and relieve you of two hundred dollars for bond, why, you can be on your way.”

”Fair enough,” said Joe, ”but I'd be much obliged if you'd bear with me while I finish up a couple of things. I was just giving my friend here some legal advice. And ...” He leaned closer to the two officers and lowered his voice. ”See that old couple sitting by the ice machine? They've driven in from Swainsboro to celebrate their sixtieth wedding anniversary, and they've asked me to play a medley of their favorite songs. I'm about halfway through. I'll be done with both of these ch.o.r.es in about four or five minutes, if it's okay with you.” The policewoman murmured it would be fine, and the two of them took seats near the door. Joe sent the waiter over with c.o.kes and turned back to me.

”Now, about this not-so-secret secret information,” he said. ”I would tell this 'unnamed person,' in case he's interested, that in all of Jim Williams's versions of how he shot Danny Hansford, there are certain consistent points. The shooting happened in the course of an argument and on the spur of the moment. It was not a premeditated killing. The victim was an out-of-control, drunk, drug-addicted kid with a history of violence, and the defendant was a frightened, angry, nonviolent older man with no criminal record. That's a scenario for manslaughter maybe, but not first-degree murder. And in Georgia, a conviction for manslaughter usually carries a sentence of five to ten years with two years to serve. Jim's already served two years.”

”I suppose you could look at it that way,” I said, ”if you wanted to.”

”Anyhow, that's my answer to your question about the 'point of law.'”

”Thanks,” I said.

”And now, there is the small matter of my consultation fee-heh-heh. I'm thinking I'll waive it in exchange for a small favor. All you have to do is to follow a certain squad car out to Thunderbolt in a few minutes, then turn around and drive a certain attorney-scofflaw back to town.”

”It's a deal,” I said.

Joe finished his medley with a flourish. He went over to the bar and, while Mandy's head was turned, took $200 out of the cash register. On his way out the door, he stopped to pay his respects to the couple from Swainsboro. The woman wore a large pink corsage pinned above her heart.

”Oh, Joe,” she said, ”that was lovely. Thank you so much!”

Her husband stood and shook Joe's hand. ”It ain't but midnight, Joe. Why're you leavin' so early?”

Joe smoothed the lapels of his tuxedo and straightened his plaid bow tie. ”I've just been informed there's an official motorcade leaving for Thunderbolt, and I've been invited to ride in the lead car.”

”My word!” said the woman. ”That's a great honor.”

”Yes, ma'am,” said Joe. ”You could look at it that way, if you wanted to.”

Chapter 27.

LUCKY NUMBER.

Blanche Williams came into the dining room and took her seat at the dinner table for lunch. ”

The cat won't eat,” she said.

Jim Williams looked up from the Sotheby's auction catalog he had brought with him to the table. He looked at the cat, who was sitting motionless in the doorway. Then he returned his attention to the catalog.

Mrs. Williams unfolded her napkin and put it in her lap. ”It's the same as last time,” she said. ”The cat wouldn't eat then either. Or the time before that. It's happened every time we've come back from the courthouse to wait for the jury to make up its mind. She's refused to eat.”

Williams's sister, Dorothy Kingery, glanced at her watch. ”It's one-thirty,” she said. ”They've been at it three hours now. I guess they're having lunch. I wonder if they'll take a break or go right on deliberating while they eat.”

Williams looked up from his auction catalog. ”Listen to this,” he said. ”'When Catherine of Braganza, the Infanta of Portugal, arrived in England in 1662 to marry Charles II, she brought with her the largest dowry ever. Part of the dowry was the Port of Bombay in India ....'” He laughed. ”Now, that's the kind of princess I like!”

”This makes the third time she's done it,” Mrs. Williams said, ”-not touched her food.”

Dorothy Kingery regarded the sandwich on her plate. ”Sonny says he'll call from the courthouse as soon as there's word. I hope we can hear the telephone from in here.”

”I don't know how she knows,” Mrs. Williams mused softly. ”But she always knows.”

Jim Williams suddenly closed the auction catalog and stood up. ”I've got an idea!” he said. ”We'll eat lunch on the dishes from the Nanking Cargo. Just for good luck.”

He took several blue-and-white plates out of the breakfront cabinet and pa.s.sed them around the table. His mother and his sister transferred their sandwiches from their plain white plates to the blue-and-white plates. The blue-and-white plates had been part of a huge s.h.i.+pment of Chinese export porcelain that had been lost in the South China Sea in 1752 and salvaged in 1983. Williams had bought several dozen plates, cups, and bowls at a highly publicized Christie's auction, and they had arrived at Mercer House within the past few weeks.

”These plates have been sitting on the bottom of the ocean for two hundred and thirty years,” he said, ”but they're still brand-new. When they were found they were in their original packing crates. They're in mint condition. No one has ever eaten off them before. We're the first. Funny way to preserve dishes, isn't it?”

Mrs. Williams lifted her sandwich and looked at her plate.

”You can't fool a cat,” she said.

Two weeks earlier, on the first day of Williams's third trial, the outcome had seemed a foregone conclusion-so much so that the Savannah Morning News Savannah Morning News had announced in a weary headline, had announced in a weary headline, WILLIAMS FACES YET ANOTHER CONVICTION FOR MURDER. WILLIAMS FACES YET ANOTHER CONVICTION FOR MURDER. The jury of nine women and three men seemed predisposed to hand down a third conviction; all of them, having been subjected to six years of relentless publicity, admitted that they knew about the case and were aware that two prior juries had already found Williams guilty. The tension and suspense of the first two trials had given way to a feeling of grim inevitability. Television cameras were stationed outside the courthouse once again, but this time the spectator benches in the courtroom were only half full. Prentiss Crowe declared he would not even bother to read the news reports, it was all becoming such a bore. ”It's the same old story over and over,” he said, ”like reruns of The jury of nine women and three men seemed predisposed to hand down a third conviction; all of them, having been subjected to six years of relentless publicity, admitted that they knew about the case and were aware that two prior juries had already found Williams guilty. The tension and suspense of the first two trials had given way to a feeling of grim inevitability. Television cameras were stationed outside the courthouse once again, but this time the spectator benches in the courtroom were only half full. Prentiss Crowe declared he would not even bother to read the news reports, it was all becoming such a bore. ”It's the same old story over and over,” he said, ”like reruns of I Love Lucy.” I Love Lucy.”

The courthouse flack was among those who did attend. He sat slumped in his seat with one arm hooked over the back as if to keep himself from sliding off onto the floor. As usual, he was an oracle of courthouse wisdom and rumor. ”Jim Williams's guilt or innocence is no longer the issue,” he said. ”Spencer Lawton's incompetence is the issue. The question on everybody's mind is, How long will he keep s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up? I mean, this case is getting to be like a bad bullfight. Lawton's the matador who can't finish off the bull. Twice now, he's plunged the sword in, but the bull's still on his feet, and the fans are getting restless. Lawton looks ridiculous.”

The prosecution led off with its by-now familiar repertory company of witnesses-the police photographer, the officers who came to Mercer House the night of the shooting, the lab technicians. Each responded to Spencer Lawton's questions, then submitted to cross-examination by Sonny Seiler, and left the stand. Judge Oliver nodded sleepily on the bench. The courthouse flack yawned.

”What part did you play in the removal of the body from Mercer House?” Lawton asked Detective Joseph Jordan, as he had in each of the first two trials.

”I bagged the hands,” Jordan answered.

”Could you explain to the jury what you mean by bagging the hands and what the purpose for that would be?”