Chapter 10

The next morning, the third of the trial, opened with the defense witnesses, character-witnesses for the three killers and witnesses to the political iniquities of Silas Cumshaw.

Neither Goodham nor I bothered to cross-examine the former. I couldn’t see how any lawyer as shrewd as Sidney had shown himself to be would even dream of getting such an array of thugs, cutthroats, sluts and slatterns into court as character witnesses for anybody.

The latter, on the other hand, we went after unmercifully, revealing, under their enmity for Cumshaw, a small, hard core of bigoted xenophobia and selfish fear. Goodham did a beautiful job on that; he seemed able, at a glance, to divine exactly what each witness’s motivation was, and able to make him or her betray that motivation in its least admirable terms. Finally the defense rested, about a quarter-hour before noon.

I rose and addressed the court:

“Your Honor, while both the prosecution and the defense have done an admirable job in bringing out the essential facts of how my predecessor met his death, there are many features about this case which are far from clear to me. They will be even less clear to my government, which is composed of men who have never set foot on this planet. For this reason, I wish to call, or recall, certain witnesses to clarify these points.”

Sidney, who had begun shouting objections as soon as I had gotten to my feet, finally managed to get himself recognized by the court.

“This Solar League Ambassador, Your Honor, is simply trying to use the courts of the Planet of New Texas as a sounding-board for his imperialistic government’s propaganda...”

“You may reassure yourself, Mr. Sidney,” Judge Nelson said. “This court will not allow itself to be improperly used, or improperly swayed, by the Ambassador of the Solar League. This court is interested only in determining the facts regarding the case before it. You may call your witnesses, Mr. Ambassador.” He glanced at his watch. “Court will now recess for an hour and a half; can you have them here by 1330?”

I assured him I could after glancing across the room at Ranger Captain Nelson and catching his nod.

My first witness, that afternoon was Thrombley. After the formalities of getting his name and connection with the Solar League Embassy on the record, I asked him, “Mr. Thrombley, did you, on the morning of April 22, receive a call from the Hickock ranch for Mr. Cumshaw?”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Ambassador. The call was from Mr. Longfellow, Colonel Hickock’s butler. He asked if Mr. Cumshaw were available. It happened that Mr. Cumshaw was in the same room with me, and he came directly to the screen. Then Colonel Hickock appeared in the screen, and inquired if Mr. Cumshaw could come out to the ranch for the day; he said something about superdove shooting.”

“You heard Mr. Cumshaw tell Colonel Hickock that he would be out at the ranch at about 1030?” Thrombley said he had. “And, to your knowledge, did anybody else at the Embassy hear that?”

“Oh, no, sir; we were in the Ambassador’s private office, and the screen there is tap-proof.”

“And what other calls did you receive, prior to Mr. Cumshaw’s death?”

“About fifteen minutes after Mr. Cumshaw had left, the z’Srauff Ambassador called, about a personal matter. As he was most anxious to contact Mr. Cumshaw, I told him where he had gone.”

“Then, to your knowledge, outside of yourself, Colonel Hickock, and his butler, the z’Srauff Ambassador was the only person who could have known that Mr. Cumshaw’s car would be landing on Colonel Hickock’s drive at or about 1030. Is that correct?”

“Yes, plus anybody whom the z’Srauff Ambassador might have told.”

“Exactly!” I pounced. Then I turned and gave the three Bonney brothers a sweeping glance. “Plus anybody the z’Srauff Ambassador might have told ... That’s all. Your witness, Mr. Sidney.”

Sidney got up, started toward the witness stand, and then thought better of it.

“No questions,” he said.

The next witness was a Mr. James Finnegan; he was identified as cashier of the Crooked Creek National Bank. I asked him if Kettle-Belly Sam Bonney did business at his bank; he said yes.

“Anything unusual about Mayor Bonney’s account?” I asked.

“Well, it’s been unusually active lately. Ordinarily, he carries around two-three thousand pesos, but about the first of April, that took a big jump. Quite a big jump; two hundred and fifty thousand pesos, all in a lump.”

“When did Kettle-Belly Sam deposit this large sum?” I asked.

“He didn’t. The money came to us in a cashier’s check on the Ranchers’ Trust Company of New Austin with an anonymous letter asking that it be deposited to Mayor Bonney’s account. The letter was typed on a sheet of yellow paper in Basic English.”

“Do you have that letter now?” I asked.

“No, I don’t. After we’d recorded the new balance, Kettle-Belly came storming in, raising hell because we’d recorded it. He told me that if we ever got another deposit like that, we were to turn it over to him in cash. Then he wanted to see the letter, and when I gave it to him, he took it over to a telescreen booth, and drew the curtains. I got a little busy with some other matters, and the next time I looked, Kettle-Belly was gone and some girl was using the booth.”

“That’s very interesting, Mr. Finnegan. Was that the last of your unusual business with Mayor Bonney?”

“Oh, no. Then, about two weeks before Mr. Cumshaw was killed, Kettle-Belly came in and wanted 50,000 pesos, in a big hurry, in small bills. I gave it to him, and he grabbed at the money like a starved dog at a bone, and upset a bottle of red perma-ink, the sort we use to refill our bank seals. Three of the bills got splashed. I offered to exchange them, but he said, ‘Hell with it; I’m in a hurry, ‘ and went out. The next day, Switchblade Joe Bonney came in to make payment on a note we were holding on him. He used those three bills in the payment.

“Then, about a week ago, there was another cashier’s check came in for Kettle-Belly. This time, there was no letter; just one of our regular deposit-slips. No name of depositor. I held the check, and gave it to Kettle-Belly. I remember, when it came in, I said to one of the clerks, ‘Well, I wonder who’s going to get bumped off this time.’ And sure enough...”

Sidney’s yell of, “Objection!” was all his previous objections gathered into one.

“You say the letter accompanying the first deposit, the one in Basic English, was apparently taken away by Kettle-Belly Sam Bonney. If you saw another letter of the same sort, would you be able to say whether or not it might be like the one you mentioned?”

Sidney vociferating more objections; I was trying to get expert testimony without previous qualification...

“Not at all, Mr. Sidney,” Judge Nelson ruled. “Mr. Silk has merely asked if Mr. Finnegan could say whether one document bore any resemblance to another.”

I asked permission to have another witness sworn in while Finnegan was still on the stand, and called in a Mr. Boone, the cashier of the Packers’ and Brokers’ Trust Company of New Austin. He had with him a letter, typed on yellow paper, which he said had accompanied an anonymous deposit of two hundred thousand pesos. Mr. Finnegan said that it was exactly like the one he had received, in typing, grammar and wording, all but the name of the person to whose account the money was to be deposited.

“And whose account received this anonymous benefaction, Mr. Boone?” I asked.

“The account,” Boone replied, “of Mr. Clement Sidney.”

I was surprised that Judge Nelson didn’t break the handle of his gavel, after that. Finally, after a couple of threats to clear the court, order was restored. Mr. Sidney had no questions to ask this time, either.

The bailiff looked at the next slip of paper I gave him, frowned over it, and finally asked the court for assistance.

“I can’t pronounce this-here thing, at all,” he complained.

One of the judges finally got out a mouthful of growls and yaps, and gave it to the clerk of the court to copy into the record. The next witness was a z’Srauff, and in the New Texan garb he was wearing, he was something to open my eyes, even after years on the Hooligan Diplomats.

After he took the stand, the clerk of the court looked at him blankly for a moment. Then he turned to Judge Nelson.

“Your Honor, how am I gonna go about swearing him in?” he asked. “What does a z’Srauff swear by, that’s binding?”

The President Judge frowned for a moment. “Does anybody here know Basic well enough to translate the oath?” he asked.

“I think I can,” I offered. “I spent a great many years in our Consular Service, before I was sent here. We use Basic with a great many alien peoples.”

“Administer the oath, then,” Nelson told me.

“Put up right hand,” I told the z’Srauff. “Do you truly say, in front of Great One who made all worlds, who has knowledge of what is in the hearts of all persons, that what you will say here will be true, all true, and not anything that is not true, and will you so say again at time when all worlds end? Do you so truly say?”

“Yes. I so truly say.”

“Say your name.”

“Ppmegll Kkuvtmmecc Cicici.”

“What is your business?”

“I put things made of cloth into this world, and I take meat out of this world.”

“Where do you have your house?”

“Here in New Austin, over my house of business, on Coronado Street.”

“What people do you see in this place that you have made business with?”

Ppmegll Kkuvtmmecc Cicici pointed a three-fingered hand at the Bonney brothers.

“What business did you make with them?”

“I gave them for money a machine which goes on the ground and goes in the air very fast, to take persons and things about.”

“Is that the thing you gave them for money?” I asked, pointing at the exhibit air-car.

“Yes, but it was new then. It has been made broken by things from guns now.”

“What money did they give you for the machine?”

“One hundred pesos.”

That started another uproar. There wasn’t a soul in that courtroom who didn’t know that five thousand pesos would have been a give-away bargain price for that car.

“Mr. Ambassador,” one of the associate judges interrupted. “I used to be in the used-car business. Am I expected to believe that this ... this being ... sold that air-car for a hundred pesos?”

“Here’s a notarized copy of the bill of sale, from the office of the Vehicles Registration Bureau,” I said. “I introduce it as evidence.”

There was a disturbance at the back of the room, and then the z’Srauff Ambassador, Gglafrr Ddespttann Vuvuvu, came stalking down the aisle, followed by a couple of Rangers and two of his attachés. He came forward and addressed the court.