fingerprints will come out, too. And I’ll look like an honest prosecutor who mistook a witness for a murderer and a murderer for a witness.
Publicity? Fred Van Lear’s perfectly right; this case is going to be page one all the way. All my way. I won’t settle for D.A. I’ll be governor myself. And I certainly will sign no reprieve for Jim Latson.
Ralph Guild was talking. “I am afraid.”
“Afraid? You, a Czech, afraid? Think what they’ll do to you if you go back home. Just think of that.”
“I’m afraid of this man here.” Guild gingerly touched the photograph of Jim Latson. “He was here with you when you came before. Such men!”
“For every one we have here, there are six in Czechoslovakia. And you’ll be free, man. Tomorrow morning! Free to go to the hospital, to see your wife, to look at your son!”
Ralph Guild stared at him. “How do I know you are not another? You were with him!”
Dave Corday knew he had won. He only had to say one word more and he was through. “If I am, Guild, you can’t be worse off than you are: in jail, booked for murder, with me about to try you. Can you?”
Ralph Guild reached for the pen, and slowly signed.
Dave Corday pressed the buzzer.
Peter Poldear himself came up. “Through, Dave?”
“He’s confessed, Pete. Send for the press.”
Chapter 16
THE COUNTY JAIL was a mess. It had never been meant to accommodate a full-scale news break; but now more than forty newsmen—daily papers, wire-services, radio and TV reporters, plus a few people from the weekly magazines—were all storming in to see Ralph Guild.
Peter Poldear, the sheriff, wasn’t having any. Jim Latson, jumping out of the patrolman-driven car, counted at least two dozen of his men thrown around the jail; and that many more turnkeys were on duty in their clumsy blue uniforms and old-fashioned looking badges.
They saw Jim Latson, and stormed him; the yells of “Chief” were reminiscent of newsreel sound tracks from the old Mussolini days. He saw two of his big motor cops heading for him and shook his head at them.
Policy was at stake. That ass, Poldear, had damn near alienated the entire local, state, and national press. He raised a hand for silence, and said, “Boys, give me five minutes. I just got the flash. In fact, I got it after you did; Wade Cohen and I were both in the Oak Bar, and his call came in first. But I was soberer.”
It got a laugh, it got a couple of minutes before the Fourth Estate pulled the jail down. He kept a grin on his face; but when he got inside, he was going to skin Peter Poldear and throw the hide out to the reporters. It would make a story—that idiot Poldear had acted stupider than Dave Corday.
He said, “I’m going in and get some order. As soon as I get inside, I’ll see Sheriff Poldear and arrange to have the big visitors’ room set open for you.” He raised a hand and pointing at the bigger of the motor cops, yelled, “Come here, break center for me.” He smiled back at the reporters. “Let me in, and you’ll have your story in five minutes. We’ll bring Guild up there, and you can talk to him.”
The big officer—Sid Harrison, his name was, six years on the force, two and a half on a motorcycle—started over.
Carl Glidden of the Trib said, “Is it true Guild confessed?”
Jim Latson raised his voice so he wouldn’t be giving Glidden an exclusive. “All I know is that I got a phone call to that effect. More to come, as it says on the teletype.”
Patrolman Harrison came through the crowd, Jim got out his wallet, thumbed some bills out. “Sid, get coffee and a load of sandwiches for the press, and have them set up in the visitors’ room upstairs.”
Not a reporter there—all men at this hour—really wanted coffee and sandwiches. Not a man there but could afford to buy his own easily. But Latson knew his working press—suckers for a free load, any time, any hour. They let him go into the jail, and waited, quietly for
Publicity? Fred Van Lear’s perfectly right; this case is going to be page one all the way. All my way. I won’t settle for D.A. I’ll be governor myself. And I certainly will sign no reprieve for Jim Latson.
Ralph Guild was talking. “I am afraid.”
“Afraid? You, a Czech, afraid? Think what they’ll do to you if you go back home. Just think of that.”
“I’m afraid of this man here.” Guild gingerly touched the photograph of Jim Latson. “He was here with you when you came before. Such men!”
“For every one we have here, there are six in Czechoslovakia. And you’ll be free, man. Tomorrow morning! Free to go to the hospital, to see your wife, to look at your son!”
Ralph Guild stared at him. “How do I know you are not another? You were with him!”
Dave Corday knew he had won. He only had to say one word more and he was through. “If I am, Guild, you can’t be worse off than you are: in jail, booked for murder, with me about to try you. Can you?”
Ralph Guild reached for the pen, and slowly signed.
Dave Corday pressed the buzzer.
Peter Poldear himself came up. “Through, Dave?”
“He’s confessed, Pete. Send for the press.”
Chapter 16
THE COUNTY JAIL was a mess. It had never been meant to accommodate a full-scale news break; but now more than forty newsmen—daily papers, wire-services, radio and TV reporters, plus a few people from the weekly magazines—were all storming in to see Ralph Guild.
Peter Poldear, the sheriff, wasn’t having any. Jim Latson, jumping out of the patrolman-driven car, counted at least two dozen of his men thrown around the jail; and that many more turnkeys were on duty in their clumsy blue uniforms and old-fashioned looking badges.
They saw Jim Latson, and stormed him; the yells of “Chief” were reminiscent of newsreel sound tracks from the old Mussolini days. He saw two of his big motor cops heading for him and shook his head at them.
Policy was at stake. That ass, Poldear, had damn near alienated the entire local, state, and national press. He raised a hand for silence, and said, “Boys, give me five minutes. I just got the flash. In fact, I got it after you did; Wade Cohen and I were both in the Oak Bar, and his call came in first. But I was soberer.”
It got a laugh, it got a couple of minutes before the Fourth Estate pulled the jail down. He kept a grin on his face; but when he got inside, he was going to skin Peter Poldear and throw the hide out to the reporters. It would make a story—that idiot Poldear had acted stupider than Dave Corday.
He said, “I’m going in and get some order. As soon as I get inside, I’ll see Sheriff Poldear and arrange to have the big visitors’ room set open for you.” He raised a hand and pointing at the bigger of the motor cops, yelled, “Come here, break center for me.” He smiled back at the reporters. “Let me in, and you’ll have your story in five minutes. We’ll bring Guild up there, and you can talk to him.”
The big officer—Sid Harrison, his name was, six years on the force, two and a half on a motorcycle—started over.
Carl Glidden of the Trib said, “Is it true Guild confessed?”
Jim Latson raised his voice so he wouldn’t be giving Glidden an exclusive. “All I know is that I got a phone call to that effect. More to come, as it says on the teletype.”
Patrolman Harrison came through the crowd, Jim got out his wallet, thumbed some bills out. “Sid, get coffee and a load of sandwiches for the press, and have them set up in the visitors’ room upstairs.”
Not a reporter there—all men at this hour—really wanted coffee and sandwiches. Not a man there but could afford to buy his own easily. But Latson knew his working press—suckers for a free load, any time, any hour. They let him go into the jail, and waited, quietly for
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