(1969) The Seven Minutes Read online

Two were strangers to her, although one bore a name that she had often seen in print and had heard her uncle mention. She had been introduced to them both upon their entrance, but this was the first time she had seen either one in this house. One stranger, the one whose name she had known, was Luther Yerkes. She was fascinated by his weird physique and dress, and by his legend. She sensed, also, his importance to her uncle from the way Frank Griffith, usually brusque and authoritative and overwhelming, now showed deference to the industrialist. She tried to gauge the motives behind Griffith’s deference. Was it because Yerkes was one of Griffith Advertising’s major accounts ? Or was it because a man of such wealth and influence had come forward to assist a business friend in an hour of distress ?

  To Maggie, no Pollyanna, Luther Yerkes appeared a philanthropist with his money, but not the type who was also a philanthropist with his time. Yet she had heard him say, not ten minutes ago, that he was determined to do everything he could for Frank

  Griffith’s son and everything he could to prosecute the real criminal - namely, that polluted book.

  Seated beside Yerkes, speaking not at all but steadily making jottings in a black-covered notebook, was the one who had been introduced as Yerkes’ public-relations adviser. She hadn’t caught his first name - she thought it was Irving or Irvin or maybe Irwin -but she remembered that the last name was Blair. His hair looked like a rummage sale. His voice was a trombone. He was the other stranger, and she could not discern his exact role here.

  In the center was one she had seen before from time to time, the family attorney, Ralph Polk, who always came with a Homburg (in California!) and wore bow ties and starched collars and was restrained and archconservative.

  Then there was her Uncle Frank, usually a dynamo, now unnaturally quiet, steadily chewing the end of an unlighted cigar. Frank Griffith had cowed her from the first day of her arrival here. It was not merely his success. In the Russell family - her Aunt Ethel was a Russell, and was Maggie’s mother’s sister - it was known that Frank Griffith had been started on the road to success by his bride’s well-invested savings. Her own mother’s savings, Maggie had long ago guessed, had been largely squandered by her father, and what remained had been unsuccessfully invested, and when Maggie had been orphaned the Griffith family had had to contribute to the cost of her mother’s funeral. But Frank Griffith had used his wife’s money well, parlaying that, and his athlete’s fame as an Olympic hero, to rise and to establish the advertising agency that now had headquarters on Madison Avenue and growing branch offices in Chicago and Los Angeles. Although Maggie’s job was mainly to serve as her aunt’s social secretary and companion,she occasionally did some late-night typing at home for her uncle, and she knew that his agency had billings of over eighty million dollars a year, of which seven million dollars came from the Yerkes account.

  It was not this part of Frank Griffith that had cowed Maggie from the start. It was his Herculean energy and his incredible self-assurance (he could convince you that he was right even after you knew that he was wrong). In his personal gym, among the framed photographs and tropics attesting to his physical prowess, were sets of barbells, and to these he devoted himself religiously every morning. Then there was his golf and his tennis and his horses at the ranch near Victorville and his private Lear jet plane. And his constant movement: clubs and banquets and social dinners in Los Angeles, as well as constant commuting to Chicago, to New York, to London.

  It was enough to make any mere mortal, reflected Maggie, feel as small and inadequate as Toulouse-Lautrec. Physically, anyway.

  She watched him now, the freshly trimmed pompadour, the beefy florid yet firm face, the husky body in a lightweight charcoal

  flannel suit, the big hands with the gold signet ring dominating one. There he was, the stern, driving taskmaster in his business, the outgoing community-minded citizen in his city, Everyman’s vision of the perfect self-made success, perfect husband, perfect father.

  And there he was, humbled, restrained, brought down by an heir who had been aberrant and weak and had jeopardized not only himself but the entire family’s standing. Now Frank Griffith was all concern, and Maggie posed for herself some Socratic questions: Was his concern the result of a paternal confusion about what had gone wrong with an only son so well brought up ? Was his concern pragmatic and concentrated on what this scandal would do to his business and his position in the country ? Or was it, finally, a concern that was fatherly and protective over the fate of his heir?

  Maggie knew him well, but not intimately, and never had known him in crisis, so she could not know the answer for sure.

  And, finally, there was the one about whom she asked herself no questions.

  The heir.

  It was Jerry, the Griffith whom she knew the best and cared for the most, who held her attention now. He was seated on a ladder-back side chair, anxious and nervous, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Looking so pitifully young and lost. She knew the numbers, but numbers lied. Jerry was twenty-one, and she was twenty-four, but to her he was always ten years younger and she was ten years older. To her he was a boy and she was a woman. He was bright but shy and withdrawn. He was a maze of uncertainties and problems (like most of his contemporaries, she had always assumed). His mother was too devoted to her own illness and suffering, his father was too busy, his friends were too fickle, to provide him with the confidant he needed. Because Maggie was quiet, understanding, tolerant, sometimes wise, and always appreciative of his self-deprecating style and dry sense of humor, she had become his confidant and closest friend. Actually, not friend merely, but sort of mother-father and counselor and sounding board.

  She had thought that she knew Jerry inside out, better than anyone on earth knew him, yet she had been totally unprepared for his behavior last night. While she knew his problems, she still could not imagine his violently forcing himself upon a girl. It was not as if he were a freak or psychotic or unattractive to girls. He was five feet nine and on the skinny side - which made him seem smaller than he truly was when compared to the bronzed Brobdingnagian Southern California boys who were his college companions - but still he could be appealing.

  She continued to study him. His chestnut-brown hair was as neatly parted as ever. His pensive ascetic face now looked more sallow and consumptive than usual because anxiety had eaten into it. But he could be attractive, and he did date, usually doubledated, so it was not that. What evil spirit had possessed him to attack that nobody of a girl? It was the book, his father had bellowed last night. It was the book, the District Attorney had agreed last night. And Jerry had admitted, finally, the lewd fantasies that the book had provoked.

  It was difficult for her to believe that a book, any book, but especially this one, could be a Frankenstein creating such malevolence. But there was the fact of his having read the book and having admitted how it had overstimulated him, and only he could know the truth about that, and so she believed him. Furthermore, at some point in the night it had developed that because of the book’s influence upon him there might be more sympathy for Jerry and this would mitigate his punishment. For Maggie, this pushed all other possible motivations aside and suspended any disbelief. She was sorry for Jerry. Yet she was also sorry for the book that had betrayed them both.

  She stared at Jerry, and it was still impossible. Rapists looked like rapists, she had always believed from the newspaper accounts and grainy pictures. A rapist was supposed to look - what ? - mean, deprived, sick, warped. Yet Jerry still resembled Jerry, the same boy with whom she had enjoyed so many secret jokes and with whom she had read and discussed Alice in Wonderland and Hermann Hesse and Vivekananda. One night they had discussed Thoreau and nonconformity, and from memory Jerry had quoted, ‘ “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.” ‘ Yet, if not in their private talks, at least in his public behavior Jerry had never given indication of hearing a different drummer. Then what drummer had Jerry heard last night? A drummer named
J J Jadway, Jerry had said. That was the drummer.

  Poor Sheri whateverhername was, poor Sheri in the hospital. And poor Jerry, poor Jerry.

  This was a case without criminals. Only victims.

  She wondered what would happen to him, and then she realized she had wondered because she was hearing someone in the room speculate on that with a rhetorical question.

  It was Ralph Polk, the family lawyer, speaking. Maggie gave him her full attention.

  ‘Let me summarize the procedure once more,’ Polk was saying. ‘Last night, when we went to the station, Jerry was booked, and I arranged the bail. Now, despiteeverything that Jerry has said to this moment under circumstances of extreme emotion, he is still innocent until proved guilty. What I am trying to say is that the law still gives us options, choices, and I intend to take advantage of these choices and go through all the necessary steps, until we are certain that Jerry really wants to plead guilty.’

  ‘You are saying he can still plead not guilty?’ asked Frank Griffith.

  ‘Absolutely. Let me explain. In a case like this there is a first arraignment. Thanks to the accommodation of our cooperative District Attorney, we were able to have that this morning. You saw what happened. The Deputy District Attorney read the charges against Jerry, and a date was set for the preliminary hearing. Now, the purpose of this next step, the preliminary hearing, is for the court to determine whether the prosecution has a sufficient case against the defendant to warrant bringing him to trial. Should we take this step, the District Attorney would present a portion of his evidence against Jerry through submission of certain facts, exhibits, witnesses, and so forth. I would have the right to question these witnesses if I decided to do so. Now, at this hearing, if the judge is satisfied with the prosecution’s evidence, he would order Jerry bound over for trial. Step three would be a second arraignment. Jerry would be asked whether he pleads guilty or not guilty. If he pleaded guilty, he would be sentenced several weeks later. If he pleaded not guilty, the case would be placed on the court’s calendar for trial. As you know, if he pleads guilty, his sentence can be anywhere from three years to life in prison, in a state prison. The judge has considerable leeway here. Under certain circumstances, the sentence might be a minimum one. Under others, let us say if the young lady, Miss Moore, sustained permanent injuries, the sentence, the penalty, might be the maximum. Now, then -‘

  ‘I won’t do it!’ Jerry Griffith shouted. ‘What good’s it all going to do ? I already said I did what I did to her!’

  Frank Griffith turned on his son angrily. ‘Be quiet, will you? Don’t interrupt.’

  Maggie had leaped to her feet, an instinctive need to come between them to protect Jerry, but then she saw Jerry looking breathlessly at his father, the others, and finally controlling himself.

  Polk half turned in his chair, and began to address himself to Jerry, but also seemed to include the frowning Luther Yerkes.

  ‘I was about to explain, and I shall now, why I had suggested we take advantage of every step that is open to us. I know the procedure is trying, Jerry, but there are reasons fordoingthis. I am your father’s attorney, and now I am your attorney, and I want to do the best I can for you. Allow me to elaborate on my strategy. First, as an attorney, I have been involved in too many cases not to know that a client in the period of stress immediately following a seemingly criminal act, behaving out of confusion and remorse, may confess to anything and insist he is guilty. After the cooling-off period, the client will frequently be less sure, or even come to realize he was not guilty. Then we have a chance -‘

  ‘I am guilty and I said I’m guilty,’ Jerry persisted.

  ‘Jerry, I’m warning you, if you don’t shut up -‘ Frank Griffith began.

  ‘It’s all right, Frank,’ said Polk patiently. ‘Let me try to make him understand.’ He spoke directly to Jerry now. ‘Yes, much of

  this may seem foolish to you, like playing out a losing game. Jerry, I’m not saying we are going to plead you not guilty and put you on trial. I was only trying to point out that the option exists and it is worth considering. The District Attorney doesn’t want a trial, either. He’s overloaded with work, and a trial would mean lost time for him and expense for the taxpayers. But we can play on this, make him believe we might welcome a trial, and it would put us in a better position to make a deal for a lighter sentence. Yes, I agree with you that, as things stand, a not-guilty plea not only would be dishonest but would be futile. A trial would be a wasted effort, and I wouldn’t put you through such an ordeal if you didn’t have a chance of winning. The truth is -and this is between us -I intend to plead you guilty at the second arraignment. Because my real reason for stretching this out, putting you through a hearing, is based on quite another strategy, one that developed out of a brief private conversation I had with District Attorney Duncan last night and one I had with Mr Yerkes this morning. And this - this is important.’

  Yerkes nodded. ‘This is for your benefit, Jerry. I suggest you listen.’

  ‘Let’s be frank,’ said Polk. ‘Behind closed doors, the District Attorney can have great influence upon the judge who will pass sentence after a guilty plea for rape. Now, District Attorney Duncan and Mr Yerkes are of one mind - that you were victimized by the salacity of The Seven Minutes. They feel the true criminal is the book, its influence on young impressionable readers. They are prosecuting that book under California state law. They feel that the public will be able to see that if such books were not available to young people like yourself, many acts of violence, such as this rape, might never be committed. In short, you were temporarily inflamed, incited, by that book. Now, we need time to let this sink into the public mind. If it does, it will create an atmosphere much more favorable to you, and we can have hopes that this would influence the judge to pass a more moderate sentence in your case. That is why I want you to suffer through the preliminary hearing and the secondary arraignment - to help us buy time.’

  Jerry sat up and shook his head, and kept shaking it. ‘Mr Polk -Mr Polk, I don’t care about the sentence or what happens to me. I don’t care any more.’

  Polk smiled sympathetically. ‘I understand, Jerry. You’ve been through a good deal, and I would expect that to be your mood at the moment.’ He turned to Frank Griffith. ‘Which brings up another point, Frank. Considering Jerry’s condition, I would recommend - oh, we can let Jerry help us decide about this, but I would recommend that we add one more aspect to the case, to mitigate any future sentence. I would like to claim that this criminal act was totally opposed to your son’s nature. Therefore, I would like to offer as a defense that Jerry was not legally sane when

  he allegedly committed the crime. This will require the services of a top psychiatrist - one like Dr Roger Trimble.’

  ‘We’ll do anything if it’ll help my son,’ said Frank Griffith. ‘Do you think you can get Dr Trimble to see him?’

  ‘Dr Trimble is a friend of mine and of Mr Yerkes’. I think -‘

  ‘No!’ It was Jerry, and this time he was on his feet, trembling. ‘Maybe I’ll do the other things, but I won’t let any head-shrinker -‘

  Griffith stood up, towering over his son.

  Seeing this, Maggie felt herself recoil. But then, to her surprise, Griffith’s tone was conciliatory for the first time.

  ‘Jerry, we’re here to help you in every way humanly possible,’ said Frank Griffith. ‘I’m determined to take advantage of anything that can improve your position.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Father, but I can’t -‘

  ‘Ralph Polk knows the law. If he says your seeing a psychiatrist can help you with the judge…’

  Polk had also come to his feet. ‘It can, Jerry,’ he said quickly. ‘The judge will take into consideration the fact that you’ve never before been involved in any crime whatsoever. So he’ll assign a probation officer to look into your background, obtain whatever information he can about you from your family, friends, teachers. When the probation officer reports that Dr Trimble
is treating you - an analyst of his reputation - that could cut a great many corners and influence recommendations of the probation officer.’

  Jerry was shaking his head once more. ‘Mr Polk, no -I can’t -I don’t want any psychoanalyst. No matter what you think, I’m not crazy. It was just a - a temporary thing. Even the District Attorney said so last night. He agreed it was that book, that’s all.’

  Polk shrugged. ‘Of course, nobody can force you to see an analyst, Jerry. But I think it would be a smart move.’

  Frank Griffith stepped forward and placed an arm around his son while addressing Polk. ‘Don’t worry, Ralph. I feel sure Jerry can be made to realize what’s best for him. You go ahead and contact Dr Trimble and make any arrangements you can. Now, Jerry, I think you’ve taken about enough. Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down a while? Take one of those sedatives, and rest. We can handle what’s left to be done without putting you through any more.’

  Jerry stared up at his father, suddenly broke away, and without another word to anyone he went hastily out of the room and toward the staircase.

  Maggie’s eyes followed him. As the men in the room began to settle down in their places again and light their cigarettes and cigars, Maggie started to drift toward the hallway. Once out of their sight, she went as fast as she could up the stairs.

  She caught Jerry on the second-floor landing.

  ‘Jerry -‘

  He waited, tried to smile, failed.

  ‘ - I’m sorry they had to put you through that’

  He remained silent.

  ‘I’m sure they were only trying to be helpful in their way,’ she said.

  Jerry’s hands worked nervously at his sweater. ‘I don’t care about anyone being helpful. I did something wrong, crazy, and I deserve to be punished, so let them punish me. But I don’t want to go through extra torture besides. I don’t want to go in any courtrooms - this morning was enough, the last time-and have lawyers and judges picking my brains in front of the whole world, and I don’t want any psychiatrists picking the rest of my brains. I just want them all to leave me alonei’