Chapter 6 – Papers
That night, I walked over to Jane’s right after dinner with all of my notebooks. Amy hadn’t arrived yet, so I played with Jane’s cat, Tempest, while we talked. Jane was a little upset, because Mrs. Rock’s trial had just started and the local news outlets were rehashing the story of Sally’s murder.
“Those damned Free Press writers make me furious!” she said angrily as she poured milk into a big saucepan to make cocoa. “All they’re writing about is Sally and Roger and the marijuana, as if it’s a given that Sally was a drug dealer, too. That’s wrong, and they know it!”
She was stirring sugar and cocoa together with a fast, angry motion, and spilling it onto the counter. I was sitting at the kitchen table, with Tempest on my lap. As I laid out my pencils on the table, Tempest was reaching out with a paw and flicking them onto the floor, one by one.
“She’ll have them all, you know,” Jane said with a laugh. She was momentarily lifted out of her gloom by the antics of her cute little cat, which was a good thing, I figured.
“It’s okay,” I said, “I brought extra.” The cat was staring expectantly into my face, waiting for the next toy to be pulled out of my bag of notebooks and supplies.
We heard footsteps on the outside stairs, and Jane called out to Amy to come on in. She stirred the cocoa in the pan as she watched me put another pencil on the table and Tempest joyously snatch it away. Jane laughed again and said, “You’re just a pushover for a pretty girl, aren’t you, Denny?” just as Amy walked in.
I blushed, of course, as the prettiest girl in Essex walked in, but I covered my embarrassment with a cough and fumbled in my bag.
We all greeted each other and went through the usual routine of cocoa in the big mugs Jane had on hand. A little splash of brandy went in mine, a bigger splash in Amy’s, and a full shot in Jane’s.
Amy had watched the local news on TV before coming over, so she started in on the trial, which dampened Jane’s mood again, but we needed to talk about it.
“I didn’t watch it,” Jane said. “I should have, but I was so upset by the story in the Free Press today that I couldn’t bring myself to turn it on. Anyway, I was there most of the afternoon, waiting to see when I might be called to testify.”
“Well,” Amy said, “they talked about the trial opening this morning, and about the jury, and about the prosecutor’s opening statement. They didn’t say much more than that. But Channel Three spent a lot more time talking about Roger Warren and the drugs than about the trial.”
“Of course they did,” Jane said, shaking her head in disgust, “They want to paint the most favorable picture they can for the defense.”
“Oh, they said that the defense chose to wait and not make an opening statement. Does that make sense?”
Jane nodded. “Yes, they do that sometimes. They’ll wait until the prosecution has rested before making their opening statement. They probably figure that, since they can’t really dispute any of the facts, they’ll wait their turn and try to work on the jury’s sympathies.”
“I don’t really get it,” I said, “How can they defend her when all the facts are lined up against her? She confessed and laid out exactly how she did it.”
“Like I said, by working on the jury’s sympathies. It would be nice to believe that juries only listen to the facts, but it’s not true. Sometimes they vote completely against the facts, because an attorney makes his client so sympathetic. You might say that convincing a jury is not a science, based on facts, but an art, based on feelings.”
Amy and I, and the other kids, had been told that we would not be called to testify unless the defense insisted. Our written statements would be introduced as evidence. Jane, however, would certainly be called.
“I’ll probably be there all day tomorrow,” she said, “and maybe longer.”
“What was it,” Amy asked, “they did to the jury? I can’t remember the word.”
“They sequestered the jury. That means they’ll be put in hotel rooms, apart from each other, and they won’t be allowed to leave, or read a newspaper, or listen to the radio, or anything. They won’t get any information except what they hear in the courtroom.”
“Wow,” Amy said, “I’m glad I don’t have to do that.”
“That’ll be good for us, won’t it?” I asked, “I mean, for the prosecution?”
“Absolutely,” Jane said, “The way all the news outlets are lining up in support of Mrs. Rock and against Sally, it’s vital. They’re doing everything they can to make Sally a villain. The defense attorney will do the same thing, but at least the jurors won’t see or hear what the papers and the TV stations are saying.”
“My Dad says the real villains are alcohol and narcotics, and that Mrs. Rock and Sally are both victims.”
“Well, I get his point, obviously, but that doesn’t change the fact that Sally’s dead, and Mrs. Rock killed her. Rock may be a victim, but she’s still a murderer.”
We needed to change the mood, so Jane put some records on while Amy and I set up. Amy was using the kitchen table; it was more comfortable for her to be sitting up straight in front of the typewriter. I was happy to work at the coffee table.
I handed Amy the work I had ready for her – four short essays of three to five pages, plus my lists of quotes and citations. She would start on those while I finished the next long term paper. California surf music filled the room as I sat down at the coffee table, having recovered a couple of pencils from Tempest, and started writing.
These sessions were a lot of fun, and very different from studying by myself at home or at the library. I was used to being quiet and studious for long periods of time, but Amy wasn’t. She could type pretty fast, and accurately, but she seemed to require frequent bursts of chatter, which was okay. Jane was happy to oblige with the chatter, as she was just reading and listening to music, and I was able to block most of it out and concentrate on my writing. Of course, they talked about boys, mostly. Even though Jane was about five years older than Amy, they had some common experiences to share. Occasionally they would embarrass me with too much detail, but it seemed that my reactions, which I thought were imperceptible, were obvious to them, so they would grin and change the subject.
I had just gotten one of the term papers finished when Amy had done the four essays and the lists. We decided we would both review the essays for errors, and then call it a night. We would have quite a bit more time the next day, and she would have a long paper to type while I got caught up on my writing. Amy had finished reading and was looking back and forth between the “works cited” page of the term paper and her citations list.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said, “I’m going to take this list and make up a code for these citations. Letters and numbers, or something. Then I’ll type another copy for you, and when you’ve finished a paper, just write the codes down instead of writing out the citations, and I’ll type the page for you. It’ll save time.”
Jane and I looked at each other and smiled, both of us understanding immediately what a great idea it was.
“Well done, Amy,” Jane said.
“It’s a great idea,” I said.
So we called it a night and planned to be back at ten o’clock the next morning. Jane had planned to be working, but now she would probably be in court all day. She had told us both where her spare key was hidden in the stairwell, so we said goodnight and headed home.
I actually stopped at the library early the next day and got another term paper finished before I headed up the street to the shopping center. I thought about stopping at the Bake Shop first, but I was carrying a lot of shit, so I just went straight to Jane’s and let myself in. I was pretty sure Amy would stop and get something anyway.
Tempest was happy to see me; I was her new best friend, it seemed. She helped me get my stuff organized, in her own special way. Cats can be very well organized, in their way; it’s just a different way. When I had laid out my notebooks on the coffee table, I unpacked the small grocery bag I had brought. Using some of my advance payments, I had bought a half gallon of milk and a box of Hershey’s cocoa for Jane, since she was helping us out so much.
Amy came in a few minutes later, while I was stirring a batch of cocoa, and, sure enough, she had brought a bag of doughnuts.
“Good morning, kid. How you doing? Got a couple of butter crunches for you.”
“That’s great, Amy. Thank you!”
She was wearing a light jacket, which she took off and hung on the back of a chair. She looked amazing. I think she was adopting some of Jane’s California look, because she was wearing a pair of Levi’s and a casual blouse. It was still fairly unusual to see girls wearing pants in 1965 (never in school, of course) and the look was great for her. Her gorgeous red hair was tied in a ponytail, and she looked perfect, except for the little frown on her face.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
“Yeah, yeah. Just a little irritated.”
I had to pay attention to the cocoa for a minute while she grabbed a couple of plates from one of the cupboards to put the doughnuts on. I poured the hot cocoa into mugs for us. We both glanced at the bottle of brandy on the counter, and we both laughed.
“Maybe later,” she said.
We sat and sipped, and she told me what she was irritated about.
“It’s that J.C. Bouchard. I can’t stand him. I stopped at the shop, obviously, to grab some doughnuts, and the bartenders were there, like every Tuesday. I don’t mind the other guys; Smitty is as nice a man as I know, and Stefan is okay; he’ll flirt a little bit, but always with a laugh. But J.C. just stares at me, and I hate that look in his eyes; it creeps me out!”
She shuddered from head to toe, as if she were freezing, and wrapped her hands around her mug.
I didn’t know what to think about that, or what to say. It was obvious that men were attracted to Amy, just as I was, but I couldn’t really relate my adolescent desires and fantasies to what seemed like pure evil in an older man like J.C.
“Does he say anything to you?”
“No, he just looks me up and down. It’s not a big deal, as long as I’m in the shop, but I wouldn’t want to meet him alone anywhere.” I must have looked pretty concerned, because she began to reassure me. “Like I said, Denny, it’s not a big deal. A lot of older men flirt with me at the shop; it’s just what men do.”
She spread her hands and gave me a soft smile. I wasn’t totally reassured, but the smile was delightful.
We were there to get some work done, so we set up and got started. She showed me the lists she had typed, with her codes written beside each citation. It was a great system. The source citations, as well as the quotes, were organized roughly by subject matter, and she had typed a code number beside each one. All I had to do, when I had finished a paper, was write down the codes for the “works cited” page, and she would type it up.
Amy now had two complete term papers to type, while I worked on the next one. I had a few that I had started, and I was able to finish two of them by the time Amy had the first two typed. We took a break then for more cocoa, this time with a splash of brandy, and the rest of the doughnuts, and we talked about the rest of our schedule. She wanted to get the next two typed before we stopped for the day, and I would review the ones she had finished, then see what I could get done while she typed.
By the time she finished, I had the eight remaining papers outlined, with theses written for each one. All I had to do was lay on the bullshit. I got a little writing done before she finished, then we both sat down on the couch to review them. By that time, we were both really tired, and the words were kind of swimming on the pages, but we really wanted to have these four term papers done and ready for Amy to deliver the next day, so we persevered.
When we had finished reviewing, and were satisfied, we quickly washed the dirty dishes, put down some food for Tempest, and went over our schedule.
“I’ll make the phone calls tonight,” she said, waving the four paper-clipped term papers in the air before slipping them into her bag, “and arrange to deliver them. I’m working at the shop until three, and I’m hoping I can get these to the kids after that.”
“Great. I’ll talk to Jane tonight, and make sure tomorrow night is okay.”
“Yeah. It probably can’t be a late one tomorrow – I’m going to be beat – but as long as we can make some progress, we should be able to really plow through them on Thursday.”
“Sounds great. Thanks, Amy.”
She slipped her bag over her left shoulder, held up her right hand, rubbing her thumb and fingers together in the universal sign for cash money, and gave me a big smile as she headed out the door.