The witness caught the last words as the court clerk finished swearing him in, “…the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
He glanced at the defendant, the jury, and the judge. Then his eyes drifted back to the fellow holding the Bible and gave him a firm look. “So help me God,” he repeated.
“Please be seated.”
“You may proceed,” the judge announced formally.
The paunchy district attorney approached the sworn man as he sat. Sliding aside the slouch hat and whipcord jacket that the centerpiece of his case had worn to court, he rested an elbow on the rail in front of the witness stand. Smugly casting his gaze at the twelve people populating the jury box while addressing the man, the lawyer said, “For the record, please state your name.”
“My name is Atticus Grimes.”
With a faint chuckle, the lawyer opined, “Atticus. That’s an unusual name.”
“Well, I don’t know ‘bout that. I was named after a preacher down home.”
“And where was that? Your home, I mean.”
“I was born and raised in Georgia.”
“And what brought you to our fair city?”
“The mill in my hometown closed its doors a little after the depression hit the country. I came here lookin’ for work.”
“And did you find employment, Mr. Grimes?”
“Naw. Ain’t none to be found hereabouts.”
“Is that why you were in Fagan’s Alley on the evening of November 24th of this year?”
“Objection, Your Honor! He’s leading the witness!” The other mouthpiece, the one representing the defendant, was on his hind legs, bellowing. Grimes had no interest in all the courtroom melodrama. But he knew it was part of the deal.
“Rephrase your question, Mr. Caldwell,” the judge advised the district attorney condescendingly.
“Thank you, Your Honor. I shall.” The prosecutor retreated to his table, then turned and asked, “Do you recall the night of November 24th, Mr. Grimes?”
“Yeah, it’s a day I’ll never forgit as long as I live. It was Thanksgivin’, but I didn’t have nothin’ to be thankful for.”
“And where were you at around ten o’clock that night?”
“I was in what I now know you folks call Fagan’s Alley.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was hunkered down under a cardboard box between two trash bins, stayin’ out of the cold and keepin’ the snow off me. Just tryin’ to sleep.” He sighed dejectedly for effect. “No money for a room. Didn’t know there was the Union Mission shelter here.”
“While you were there, did you have occasion to observe anyone else in the alley?”
“Yeah, but tweren’t no ‘occasion.’ Just a regular ol’ night.” The man testifying figured he’d play a little word game with the shyster. Snickers rose from a few of the jurors.
“Ahem,” the prosecutor flinched, clearing his throat. “I simply meant, Mr. Grimes, did you happen to come into contact with anyone else at that time?”
“I seen two men. They was arguin’ ‘bout somethin’. One feller took a swing at the other. Then he pulled a pistol and shot the second mug. This shooter wiped the gun with his coat, threw it down, and ran away. I reckon I was lucky he didn’t see me, or I’d be as dead as a doornail, too.”
“What happened next?”
“Well, after I was sure the killer was gone, I got up and went to the man who was shot. He was dead.”
“And then what did you do?”
“Nobody was around, so I picked up the gat. Shouldn’t have, I know, but I was cold and hungry. I figured to hock the thing to get some grub. Maybe a bed for the night.”
“And did you sell the gun?”
“Never got the chance. I hightailed it to the street and almost bumped into a copper who was running to the alley. Guess he heard the shot. He saw the rod I was holding and waylaid me with his billy club before I could say anything. Then he dragged me back to where the dead guy was. In no time at all, the place was lousy with cops. They arrested me and hauled me to a police station.”
“Were you ever able to explain the situation to the police?”
“Yeah. A detective finally came and got me. He took me to a room and questioned me. I explained what I seen and described the mug who did the shooting.”
The questioner smirked. With another self-satisfied glance at the jury, he asked, “At ten o’clock at night, how were you able to see the man well enough to describe him to the detective?”
“There was a light over a door going from the alley into the building there.” The witness motioned with his hands as if confirming where the illumination was located. Once more, it was solely for effect. “Yeah, it was over my left side. Pretty bright it was, too. The killer was facing the light the whole time.”
“Could you recognize the man if you saw him again?”
“Sure. Like I said, it was a night I’ll never forgit. Won’t ever forgit that face either.”
“Is that person in the courtroom today?”
“Yeah. That’s him right there,” he answered, pointing for emphasis.
“Your Honor, may the record reflect that Mr. Grimes has positively identified the defendant, Leo Biazza?” The prosecutor returned to his table with the words, “The witness is with you, counselor.”
The defense attorney spent the next hour trying to impeach the man who had condemned his client. He could not make any headway in his cross-examination efforts. His florid complexion darkened with each failure to get Atticus to vary from his damning testimony.
Grimes left the stand and disappeared into the city. His task had been fulfilled.
Meanwhile, the detective testified regarding the vicious competition between the dead man, Tommy “The Hump” Damato, and Biazza for the prostitution and the city’s soon-to-be defunct illicit booze rackets. Newly elected President Roosevelt had vowed to end prohibition, making such competition a thing of the past. Further, he explained how the dragnet the law had quickly set up after the incident had located Leo “hiding” in a nearby restaurant. Despite his denials, the grand jury charged Biazza with Damato’s murder.
Following the trial and a brief deliberation, the jury found the defendant guilty of murder and imposed a death sentence.
* * *
Around a month earlier, the “witness’s” client had contacted him in Detroit with a contract. The caller had two major rivals for the prostitution and bootlegging operations in his city. He wanted them eliminated. The mobster gave him leeway on how to do the job, so long as they were both out of his way.
The hired gun traveled to the city where the two were located. He surreptitiously shadowed the pair for several weeks, learning their routines. They were both creatures of habit, his favorite type of target.
Early on the day in question, he contacted Damato and, pretending to be a dissatisfied high-level member of his employer’s gang, arranged a meeting in the backstreet. He demanded the victim come alone, so there was no one to get word back to his boss concerning his betrayal. The end goal, he’d proposed, was to turn the entire operation of both rackets over to Tommy. Using the same ploy, he set a get-together with the second man, Biazza, in a private room of a restaurant nearby for an hour later. The killer reasoned that, if the two men were killed at any point within a short time of each other, the blame would fall on the man who’d employed him. Better one be murdered, and the other convicted of the crime.
Ahead of the alley rendezvous, the man changed into the well-worn clothes he’d bought in a Detroit secondhand store. The tattered outfit would give credence to his story of being a passing vagrant who had fallen on hard times.
He met Damato in Fagan’s Alley and shot him. After scuffing the snow to disguise exactly how many people had been in the area and then what he thought was an appropriate waiting time, he ran into the street and collided with the uniformed beat patrolman. As expected, he was taken into custody for the crime. Nonetheless, he was able to convince the city bull he had seen the murder and could identify the killer. He was held as a material witness until the trial.
* * *
Having shaved the beard and disposed of the cheaters he’d sported until his appearance in court, the supposed eyewitness to the killing settled into his sleeper compartment on a train bound for Michigan. As the locomotive jerked, then slowly pulled out of the station, he relaxed with copies of a couple of magazines that highlighted football The game was a passion of his, especially since behind-the-scenes rumors abounded concerning the Portsmouth Spartans being sold and moving to Detroit.
Laying the magazines down on his lap, he mused, they don’t understand that I am an expert liar. It’s my superpower. I’ll raise my hand if they wish and say whatever nonsense they want and expect me to relate. But the truth? No. Never. I’ll lie and lie and make them believe me, anyway. ©
