According to the papers, the temperature was a record setter.
All heads turned to Roscoe and he didn’t meet an eye, following the guards, Minta and Ma already waiting for him inside, as the tall doors parted. Roscoe walked an endless path lined with more women dressed in black, the sweetness covering up a mass body odor so strong he placed a silk handkerchief over his mouth, everyone silent, wooden benches creaking as the women strained to get a good look at Roscoe C. Arbuckle.
He felt a trickle of wetness on his neck and at first thought he was sweating, but then he felt more pock on his cheek and suit coat, like the first drops from a rainstorm, and he craned his neck away from the path and looked up into the sea of faces up in the court balcony and the old women with eyeglasses and fur hats and prune faces who looked sour and distant. A few more bits on his face. The old women spat on him and whispered, murmured, sounding like the summer buzzing of insects high in the trees.
The policemen called out for them to stop.
The judge, Sylvain Lazarus, entered the room in his long black robe and quickly took control, and hit the gavel over and over until the women stopped the noise and took their seats, and he launched into a big speech about how the women were in a court of law, not a Broadway spectacle, and if they came for entertainment or to make comment they might quickly find themselves tossed out on their ear.
“Are we understood?” asked the judge.
Roscoe took a seat beside Frank Dominguez and his young attorneys, Brennan and Cohen. Minta and Ma at the table. Minty sat beside Roscoe and reached under the heavy wooden table and squeezed his fingers.
Roscoe took a breath. It felt like the first breath in a while, as he used the silk hankie to remove sweat from his brow and spit from his cheeks and lapel. Judge Lazarus said something about the court not trying the film star but in a larger sense the community was trying itself.
Roscoe wanted a drink.
His heart would not stop jackhammering in his chest and he was afraid to turn around and look back at all the hate-filled faces staring at him. He felt the stares, their eyes on his back, the heat of it all burning so badly that he shifted in the chair. Minty’s hand squeezed his even tighter.
The court called Al Semnacher.
The big doors parted and the man passed Roscoe, taking the stand beside the bench. He was sworn in and faced Milton U’Ren from the district attorney’s office, and Roscoe tried to remember where he’d met Semnacher before the party but failed.
Roscoe wanted a smoke.
He looked down at the nicotine-stained fingers of his free hand.
Semnacher was a small-eyed man, even in those big horn-rimmed glasses, with a thick head of graying black hair and thick, furry eyebrows.
Roscoe looked to Dominguez and Dominguez gave a polite nod, a confident smile, and soon got to his feet, replacing U’Ren before the bench.
“Did you see Mr. Arbuckle under the influence of liquor there at any time?” Dominguez asked.
“No, not under the influence of liquor.”
“His conduct was perfectly proper the whole time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that of a gentleman?”
“Absolutely.”
“Did he show any marked difference in his treatment of any one of the ladies there at all?”
“No, sir. He was the entertainer of the party.”
“In other words, he treated all the ladies who were present the same way he did Miss Rappe, isn’t that true?”
“Yes, sir.”
U’Ren was on his feet spitting out objections, his weaseled face red and pinched and sweating. Words were exchanged, and he returned to his chair, only to return minutes later before Semnacher. Roscoe watched but didn’t whisper over to Dominguez or shake his head or show any bit of emotion. He’d just let it all play out, let the fellas tussle on their own.
“Did Mr. Arbuckle say he had mistreated Miss Rappe?” U’Ren asked.
“No, sir.”
U’Ren gave a little laugh. A crooked little smile.
“He didn’t make the remark that he’d placed a piece of ice in Miss Rappe’s person?”
Roscoe held his breath, watching the smile on the lips of that bastard, knowing where it was all headed. He clenched his jaw, his right hand trembling.
“I don’t recall.”
“You don’t recall if he made the statement or where he placed the ice?” U’Ren asked.
“I never said ‘in.’ ”
“What did you tell the detectives, sir? I remind you that you are under oath.”
“On.”
“Where was the ice placed?”
Semnacher looked right at Dominguez, only catching Roscoe’s eye, and then back at U’Ren, shifting in his seat, uncrossing his right leg and then crossing it again. Come on, you bastard.
“On her vagina.”
Roscoe let out all his breath.
“Would you please repeat the exact word told to you by Mr. Arbuckle? Or would you prefer me reading your statement to Detective Reagan?”
“It’s not proper.”
“Sir?”
“I said it’s not proper.”
“It’s completely proper in the context of the proceedings.”
Semnacher glanced over at Judge Lazarus, who nodded with his chin.
“He said he placed it on her snatch.”
Women gasped. One squealed with horror. Roscoe turned in his chair to see the words repeated into an old woman’s tin horn. The old woman’s eyes grew large and she began to choke.
“But you don’t consider the placement of a piece of ice on a nude young woman improper?” U’Ren asked.
Dominguez stood and objected. Roscoe dropped his face into his waiting fingers and rubbed his eyes and forehead.
“He was trying to revive her,” Semnacher said.
“Would the court please instruct Mr. Semnacher to only answer the question?” U’Ren said. “He is not here to speak on Mr. Arbuckle’s intentions.”
Through his loose fingers, Roscoe watched U’Ren turn to the courtroom. He leaned a skinny arm against the witness stand, looking as loose and disjointed as a scarecrow. He peered up into the ladies hanging over the balcony railing and for a second gave a little grin. A confident batter at the plate.
“At what time did you hear Mrs. Delmont screaming for Mr. Arbuckle to open the door to room 1219?”
“I didn’t hear her scream.”
“Mr. Semnacher?”
“I don’t recall her screaming.”
“Surely you heard her banging on the door with the heel of her shoe?”
“That’s not what I recall.”
“Are you having memory problems, sir?”
“The mind is a funny thing.”
“Some minds are funnier than others.”
U’Ren paced back and forth in front of Judge Lazarus. Judge Lazarus followed the little lawyer with his eyes, never moving his big jaw from his hand. U’Ren walked back to the prosecutor’s table and exchanged whispers with the district attorney, Judge Brady. Judge Brady stood and walked to the railing, leaned over, and whispered something to the Delmont woman.
Maude Delmont, dressed all in black, nodded her head and wiped her nose with a handkerchief. Roscoe looked to Dominguez and Dominguez raised his eyebrows, hands resting on his large stomach waiting to see what was about to be sprung.
“Is it not true that you left the party with Miss Rappe’s undergarments? Her brassiere, bloomers, and garters?”
“I fished a waistcoat from the trash bin.”
“For what purpose?”
“I planned on joshing her later about her condition.”
“Did you not tell Mrs. Delmont, the very person who accompanied you to the Arbuckle suite, that you needed the clothing to wash your machine? Which was it?”
Women laughed. Lazarus stopped the court and spoke for a while, and U’Ren asked the question again. Al Semnacher leaned forward from the witness stand and cleared his throat, speaking loud enough for the ladies in the balcony.
“Maude Delmont is a known liar,” he said.
MAUDE DELMONT GASPED, closed her eyes, and pretended to faint. Kate Eisenhart caught her and hoisted her into her big lap, tapping Maude’s hand over and over and calling her name. Women craned their necks and whispered, and policewoman Kate Eisenhart told the lot of them to get back as she picked up Maude Delmont, threw her over a shoulder, and walked her from the courtroom like a big-game prize. As she walked, Maude opened one eye and looked back at Semnacher on the stand.