From a short distance her eyes, the two spots of rouge and her mouth, were like five meaningless objects in a small heart-shaped dish.
“Look where I am pointing.”
“Yes.”
“Where did you see him?”
“In the crib.”
“What were you doing in the crib?”
“I was hiding.”
“Who were you hiding from?”
“From him.”
“That man there?
Look where I am pointing.”
“Yes.”
“But he found you.”
“Yes.”
“Was anyone else there?”
“Tommy was.
He said—”
“Was he inside the crib or outside?”
“He was outside by the door.
He was watching.
He said he wouldn’t let—”
“Just a minute.
Did you ask him not to let anyone in?”
“Yes.”
“And he locked the door on the outside?”
“Yes.”
“But Goodwin came in.”
“Yes.”
“Did he have anything in his hand?”
“He had the pistol.”
“Did Tommy try to stop him?”
“Yes.
He said he—”
“Wait.
What did he do to Tommy?”
She gazed at him.
“He had the pistol in his hand.
What did he do then?”
“He shot him.”
The District Attorney stepped aside.
At once the girl’s gaze went to the back of the room and became fixed there.
The District Attorney returned, stepped into her line of vision.
She moved her head; he caught her gaze and held it and lifted the stained corn-cob before her eyes. The room sighed, a long hissing breath.
“Did you ever see this before?”
“Yes.”
The District Attorney turned away.
“Your Honor and gentlemen, you have listened to this horrible, this unbelievable, story which this young girl has told; you have seen the evidence and heard the doctor’s testimony: I shall no longer subject this ruined, defenseless child to the agony of—” he ceased; the heads turned as one and watched a man come stalking up the aisle toward the Bench.
He walked steadily, paced and followed by a slow gaping of the small white faces, a slow hissing of collars.
He had neat white hair and a clipped moustache like a bar of hammered silver against his dark skin.
His eyes were pouched a little.