The Trial of Callista Blake

dless cold from a thousand chimneys, and saw, beyond a bleak acreage of city roofs, the apartment house that contained his bachelor burrow; further on, the Veterans Hos

s the long rise of land where, for something like three hundred years, the city had been h

architect's dream picture in the Egypto-lavatory style, a kind of streamlined cake of soap-optimistic in a time when Winchester's population of 80,000 was remaining constant while sub

w wrinkles yet; a thin flexible mouth suggesting kindness; in his square forehead the pucker of certain chronic dou

ays there's quit

more bailiff

e could shift at will from a glorified valet to a literate old man. "Maybe the rumor

ght. It's just the radio and papers-sensatio

e years on the bench, you know it isn't te

r had it so good. W

be and therefore was. "All persons having business before this honorable court draw near, give your attention, and you shall be heard!" Seating himself with a twinge of annoyance at pomp and circumstance, Mann observed a virgi

t. He had supposed the answers he arrived at then were still valid: The law is man-made, therefore imperfect: as its servant, my function is simply to interpret, trusting that time and natural process will permit the law to continue growing, not petrifying, as men gradually become a little wiser (if they do). And so on-respectable answers, unoriginal

spects for defense counsel Cecil Warner except in delaying actions, skirmishes, the unpredictable chances of courtroom drama, and the doctrine of re

s. Portraits of the dead woman showed a pretty face, but Ann Doherty had after all been a respectable suburban housewife, not a glamor girl. Catering to the perennial hunger for a scapegoat, most of the papers were writing of Callista Blake on a note of hate just inside libel-Crippled Teen-Age Intellectual, Prodigy Girl in the Monkshood Case. But

efore Doherty's wife was found dead-poisoned and drowned. If those letters arrived in evidence over the protest

had been like blundering into a private room where lovers clung together with locked loins and tortured faces; like being compelled to watch, afterward, when the woman was alone and wounded with loss. He had skimmed, his mind wincing aside, knowing it w

rtraits. Old Warner would object routinely and be overruled; the jury would then meet the unmitigated spectacle o

trict At

rly frontal baldness, Hunter could have been athlete, actor, singer. He was a near-professional with the Winchester Choral Society, having once gone splendidly through the baritone solo in the Brahms German Requiem when the guest artist turned up with laryngitis. Mann, himself a serious pianist, had heard that achievement, and remembered it at times when Hunter's co

War

e seamed ancient face was fat, the kindness obvious but not the strength. Mann wondered occasionally whether Warner had ever, like Darrow, faced all the implications of a certain pessimism that colored most of his opinions. A fracture imperfectly set had crip

tate of New Essex ag

onderous wrath against one cornered chipmunk with tinfoil helmet and paper sword. Foolish, he knew: the individual was not alone, and faced not the People roaring and multitudinous but

well as origin to the absurdities of medieval justice, in which truth could be determined by the beef of a hired cha

ju

rrying too much weight in the middle. "When we get started, gentlemen, I intend to bear down

crinkled flesh, blurred rims of the irises of Warner's melancholy brown eyes. Cecil War

n't imagine a plea-p

anger was rumbling too loudly. "We're here for acquittal. My

gravely, court

as witness (or accused?) he might find answers acceptable to himself as judge, jury, and appellate court. But under torment of insomnia the many selves of the mind may abandon the cong

dle-pad two egg-shaped boxers: tangled eyebrows for Cec

rescendo joining others in one uproar that expresses no more than the human need to make a noise under stress

long. As Warner escorted her to the defense section, Judge Mann saw she wore no make-up, though powder might have hidden the narrow scar that ran from her left e

Warner's arm, a

as ni

hiteness of skin made one think of marble, or heart disease. The medical report declared that apart from the unimportant deformity she was quite healthy. And the State's psychiatrist was prepared to testify, fol

d sympathy, dared the world to pity her,

the clerk your na

t might have sounded warm and pleasant

man in the ba

"Up there, my dear,

apper dignity, and resumed her level exami

e girl sat down, Warner on her other side where his bulk might partly shield her from the assault of eyes. She moved with grace, the deformity a nothing; the disturbing grace of a wild thing-a cat, a

ready, Mr. Hunter, w

eaked. Mr. Delehanty

e too congealed in acquired prejudices, old enough to have rubbed off some of the certainties the young must use i

bury it in the minute-book instead of the wastebasket. Never mind Mr. Delehanty's feelin

ived there till about a year ago. I don't think any of you come from Shanesville-very nice town, about three miles beyond the city line." Mann drew a lightning sketch of the Governor's mansion, and wrote: Nice town, but alas, T. J., wrong county! "Callista Blake is the daughter, by an earlier marriage, of Mrs. Herbert Chalmers of Shanesville. Callista's father, Kram

hin red-haired woman

e impulsive remark just made by a spectator was inadvertent, an accident. Disciplinary action will be necessary if anything like that happens again. All relevant statements will be made properly, at the proper time. Go ahead, M

Don't worry if you've read or heard of Mr. Warner. He's a very distinguished attorney. It'd be more sur

if the Old Man tossed his opponent verbal v

Sunday, the 16th of last August, Callista Blake, at her apartment at 21 Covent Street, Winchester, gave to Ann Doherty, who was about to leave that apartment after a short visit and return to her home in Shanesville, a drink of brandy containing the poison aconite. It charges that within the half-hour there

lurched sandy-eyed out of bed, prowled at the bookshelves, settled by the chilling fireplace with a volume of the Britannica and a sh

: Let them! But he must not start woolgathering. Plump Mr. Anson had folded his arms and declared that he was a pl

ve I can honestly

n the Winchester Courier or the

of let the wife do

y rumbled; Anson evi

the victim of a ro

r, neve

nson, my next question has been under a good deal of discussion in recent years. Like any good citiz

an say, if I was certain-sure about the guilt, I mean the first-degree thing, I wouldn't hesit

u would

r. Anson. "Seems-

for Wordsworth long ago, what about now? A tractor-trailer answered the thought, groaning through the street three stories below, a Cyclops in