SAMPLE THE STORY BY READING CHAPTER ONE

“Gentlemen of the jury, this man who calls himself Peter Abrinski raped a woman. 

“That is the simple fact I ask you to keep in mind. You have listened to the testimony. You have heard the police officers who made the arrest testify that they found Mrs. Anne Monroe—the victim of this vicious criminal—sobbing hysterically at the foot of her bed. At the foot of her marriage bed, ladies and gentlemen, the very bed to which she came as a bride ten years before!" 

The courtroom grew silent as David Kirwan paused to glance at the pretty housewife seated in the front row of the County Court. The eyes of the jurors were drawn magnetically to her and to her husband who sat beside her. To Kirwan she seemed to be bearing up bravely under this ordeal; he was certain she would look the same to the nine men and three women on the jury. 

It was a tactical error for the defense to have women jurors on a rape case, but defense counsel Myra Starling had not challenged them. To Assistant District Attorney David Kirwan the three women jurors were as good as money in the bank. He ought to speak to Myra about a mistake like that, he told himself. Trouble with Myra Star ling was, she thought everyone was a hell of a lot better person than he or she ever could be. 

The thought vanished before the urgency of the moment. 

"Ten years ago, Anne Monroe was a bride. Her marriage vows still trembled on her lips. She came to her husband shyly, wonderingly—in terrible contrast to the ruthless lust with which Peter Abrinski violated her body on that Monday morning last October." 

Kirwan let his voice rise to an accusing roar as he point ed his finger at the husky defendant, a young man in open shirt with blond hair combed slickly back off a low fore head. Again the jury followed his eyes. They'll be comparing his six-foot-two and her five-foot-one, he told himself. I'll make them see his hands on her housecoat, make them hear her frightened cry—alone and defenseless in her home—drag them to the very bed Abrinski had thrown her down on and attacked her. 

David Kirwan enjoyed the power he held when he prosecuted a criminal. To him the courtroom was a stage and the twelve jurymen his audience. With his dramatic ability he had easily climbed from the dreary procedures of Police Court to Special Sessions on a wave of convictions. After two years of unparalleled success he had become the trial man on the district attorney's staff. Now he was as signed the juicy plums, the attention-getters. He was on his way. 

Kirwan knew that this was his niche, his place in life this courtroom with its twelve jurors sitting on the edges of their chairs and staring at the ripped housecoat he had taken off the exhibit table and was holding up so they could see and almost feel the violent force needed to tear the heavy cloth into shreds. 

“This housecoat is marked Exhibit A. But you and I know it's more than just a courtroom exhibit. We know Anne Monroe wore it on that morning she saw her husband off to work and sent her two fine children off to school. 

"Look at it, ladies and gentlemen. Is it designed to appeal to the baser natures?” His fingers touched the worn gray flannel. “It is not intended to tempt, to tantalize. It is intended to be worn only for warmth on a chilly fall morning. The door to the backyard of that little suburban home opens and closes three times on a normal morning in the Monroe household. Once for John Monroe, the husband, on his way to work. Once for young Johnny, the scrub tackle on the local football team. Once for little Kathy in grade school. Cold air comes into the kitchen at those times. This housecoat is designed to prevent a hard working mother from catching a chill. 

"However, on the morning we're concerned with, the door opened a fourth time. It opened to Peter Abrinski." 

One of the women jurors was about to weep. Kirwan could see the tears shining in her eyes. He addressed him self to her, draping the torn housecoat, as if forgetting it, over the polished wood of the jury-box rail. The jurors stared down at it, morbidly fascinated. 

“Who is this man who finds himself at the Monroe back door on this cold October morning? He says he is a television repair man, that John Monroe told him to call to check their set. You people know a little more about him than that. You've seen his past record introduced into evidence. He's been arrested twice for molesting women." 

Myra Starling was on her feet, objecting strenuously. Judge Andrew Gould looked over his rimless glasses at defense counsel. “This is a proper matter for discussion in summation, Counselor," he said to Myra. "Continue, Mr. Kirwan." 

Kirwan gestured toward the jury with a graceful hand. "Let us forget the defendant's past criminal record as defense counsel asks. Let us concentrate instead on that autumn morning, reliving it as the two people most concerned in it relived it for you on the witness stand." 

Anne Monroe drew her gray flannel housecoat a little tighter about her. John was off to the plant, young Johnny was halfway to school by now, and little Kathy would be walking down Everet Avenue with Jill Baxter and Helen Nolan. Time to relax. She reached for a cigarette and scratched a match across the folder. It was then that the back-door buzzer sounded. 

Anne Monroe turned and looked through the glass door panels at the young man in the neat blue coverall who was standing there. A blond boy, big and husky. Nice looking from what she could see of his face. 

She got to her feet, trying to remember if it was laundry pickup day. Or the dry cleaners. 

Peter Abrinski smiled at her. He was big, all right, but she was not in the least alarmed because he had such a shy smile. 

She opened the door. 

“This the Monroe house?” he asked, without making a move to come in. 

“Why, yes, but,” 

"Your husband made a call for television service, ma'am. I'm from the service unit.” 

“Oh, I didn't know. John didn't say anything." 

He smiled again. “Husbands are always forgetting. I'm running into that all the time, ma'am. You want to check with the office, go right ahead." 

"No, no." 

The wives never bothered to check, Peter Abrinski had learned a long time ago. They agreed with him that their husbands forgot to tell them the most important things and they usually stepped aside for him to come in. Nice trusting people, these young suburban wives. Peter Abrinski always got a charge wondering what the women in the houses he marked for visiting would be wearing. The newlyweds wore thin wrappers, mostly, with lots of lace on them, over even thinner nightgowns. The ones who'd been married a few years often wore flannel or quilt affairs. Sometimes the woman was fully dressed and that made it more exciting because there would be stockings and maybe a girdle or panties to be forced off. 

He held the repair kit so she could see it as he stepped into the kitchen. He nodded. “Nice place, nice place." It always went over big, he'd discovered. 

She went ahead of him. The flannel housecoat clung to her rounded hips. Abrinski licked his lips and followed her into the shade-drawn living room. Her hand indicated the set but he smiled at her. 

"We make it a practice to let the set owners show how they turn on their sets, ma'am. Sometimes they're doing something wrong." 

The woman looked dubious, but bent to grip the dial. He smiled, staring into the gaping neckline of the house coat. No underwear, no nothing. The young man stepped closer and his hand went to the lapel of the housecoat. The worn flannel ripped to the explosive violence of his jerk. 

Anne Monroe tried to scream but his palm was across her mouth and his right arm was lifting her, carrying her, naked, to the bedroom... 

“—the State asks a verdict of guilty of first-degree rape, ladies and gentlemen. In your hands rests the safety of other wives, other mothers. I know each of you will do his and her duty as a citizen." 

There was subdued murmur of voices in the courtroom. Kirwan walked to his seat at the prosecutor's table. It had been a good closing, one of his better efforts. Moments like this made everything in his past seem worth while. Now he could forget the long weekends when his only companion had been a textbook. He could balance this triumph against the endless nights he had tossed back and forth on his lonely bed, wondering if he were a fool to pass up the blonde waitress at the drugstore or the sexy sorority girl just so he could crowd in a few more hours of study. 

He was an assistant district attorney now, a man with standing in the community. He was the fair-haired boy of the staff; the trial lawyer, the one who picked the jury and questioned the experts and cut defense witnesses to shreds whenever he could. It was his name that appeared in the newspapers. 

Pretending to be uninterested, Kirwan glanced at the press row. Jim Lee winked and made a circle of his thumb and forefinger, telling him the case was in the bag. Kirwan smiled back, knowing Lee would give him a first-rate write-up. Only last week the reporter had told him that he was in line for the next promotion on the District Attorney's staff. He could well be the next District Attorney; there was talk in certain quarters that Walter Hazard was going to retire. 

David Kirwan, District Attorney of Westchester County. He would like that. 

Judge Gould was shuffling his notes, preparing for his charge to the jury. A good man, this judge, thought Kirwan. He was speedy in his decisions, crisp in his explanations of the law. From the judge, he glanced toward Defense Counsel Myra Starling. 

Myra sat hunched forward slightly at defense table, her long brown hair curled into a bun behind her shapely head. She wore her legal clothes now, as he liked to call them: a charcoal-gray flannel suit with a box jacket fitted with brass buttons and a velvet collar. But even the dark flannel could not hide the round hips, the slim waist and full bosom. 

Myra's mind was as sharp as a newly honed knife. She knew her law. If she weren't a female and handicapped by the sentimentality of her sex, she would make as able a criminal lawyer as Emerson Johnson. She trusted people too much, though; she could never take them for what they really were but had to reshape them into what she thought they should be. 

This bum Abrinski, for instance. Everybody and his grandfather knew what the man was, but Myra had to go and fall into her trap of sentimentality. All during the trial she'd played on the defense of insanity. A compulsion, she called it. 

He could remember parts of her summation almost word for word ... 

"You heard, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you heard Peter Abrinski testify that he didn't know what came over him when he saw that gaping housecoat. It was a force in side him, a wild ferocity taking over to make him forget he was a decent citizen, to make him forget all rules of honor and manhood. That force was too strong to fight. It usurped his mental facilities. For a little while he was a crazy man! 

"Anne Monroe was wearing only a single garment. She is a very attractive woman. Dressed only in a housecoat she might tempt more than a simple television mechanic. She was—intentionally or not, I do not say—she was her self the cause of the momentary derangement of the defendant!" 

There was more, always on the same theme. Peter Abrinski was insane when he tore the housecoat. He was not responsible for what he did because of that insanity. No right-thinking man would act as he had done. He went out of his head. For a little while in that house on Everet Avenue he was a madman. 

Judge Gould droned on. His charge took forty-five minutes. When it was finished, Kirwan rose to his feet. "I ask the Court to charge that if in the opinion of the jury the defendant was capable of knowing right from wrong, the defendant was not temporarily insane." 

Judge Gould nodded. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the question of criminal responsibility is based on a statute in the Penal law. That law says that a person is responsible for his crimes unless proof is submitted to show that he suffered from a mental defect sufficient to deprive him of the ability to know the nature and quality of the act committed, or from such a mental defect as not to know the act was wrong. 

“The defendant has taken the stand in this case. He has admitted that this is not the first time he has secured en trance to a private home for purposes of having a sexual relationship with the lady of the house. He states that a strong force compels him to these actions. This is not in sanity within the meaning of the statute." 

Myra Starling stood up. "Your Honor, at the moment of committing the crime, defendant was so overcome by the power of this mental compulsion that he could not have stopped himself from completing it. I ask you to charge that this is sufficient to show temporary insanity." 

The judge pursed his lips. The courtroom was very quiet. In his black linen jurist's gown, he was an imposing figure. His fine, intelligent head, iron-gray hair, and rimless pince-nez added to the dignity with which he gently shook his head. 

"I think not, Counsel. The force that compelled your client to the act he committed was not a lack of criminal responsibility within the meaning of the statute. What force it was, I leave to the finding of the jury." 

His eyes asked if there were any more requests to charge. David Kirwan sat down. Myra shook her head. 

The jury filed out to begin its deliberations. 

Over her briefcase which she was zipping, Myra looked up at the Assistant District Attorney and her full mouth tightened. She glanced down at the briefcase, unaware that a lock of brown hair had come loose and lay in a tiny curve against her smooth white forehead. 

“The man's a degenerate, Myra," said Kirwan as he rose and went to her. "For God's sake stop seeing lost little kittens in every bum you're asked to defend." 

She shook her head slowly, not looking up from the leather briefcase. "Insane. He was insane to do a thing like that. You know it. I know it. The law should be changed." 

“Look, he's a big, husky boy. Healthy as a bull. So his mind is a little twisted to dream up a racket like that to find a woman. Maybe it isn't even twisted. Maybe he figures the odds and tells himself most women will be so ashamed of what happened they won't make a squawk. 

Some of them might even enjoy what he did to them." 

"David!” 

Kirwan felt the rasp of anger. "Look, will you come out of that dream world you live in for a minute and face facts? Everybody isn't as good as you think they are. Some men and some women are vicious. There are men who wouldn't hesitate to rob or kill if they thought they could get away with it. There are some women who'd like nothing better than to have a handsome young guy like Abrinski come into their house and toss them on the sheets, if nobody found out about it.” 

They were moving down the center aisle of the court room, Kirwan leading her. Myra said fiercely, "I think you're disgusting. People aren't that way at all. You're so concerned with getting a conviction you'd say or do any thing to beat me." 

"And Judge Gould? What's his angle? Or haven't you figured that one out yet?” 

She shook her arm free of his. She was breathing harshly, her mouth quivered uncontrollably. Kirwan knew the signs. He put his hand on her elbow and helped her down the stone steps to the street. 

"Let's have no scene here, darling. Jim Lee is right be hind us with a couple of the Times and Tribune boys." 

Myra hissed, “Bad publicity for the bright little boy of the District Attorney's staff?” 

"Sure,” he admitted cheerfully. “Bad publicity for the girl genius of Morgan and Hartwell, too. Come on, forget Abrinski. Let's go over to the coffee shop. I'll buy you a java without any strings attached.” 

Myra was silent, but her back was rigid and her eyes bright as she let him propel her across Grand Street. She made Kirwan think of a mother tigress roused to battle by an attack on her young. 

In the booth, smoking with a furious restlessness, she said, “The fault is society's. Don't think I don't know that, Dave. I'm not blaming you. You're only the victim of a social setup." 

"Sure, sure," he said, watching the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the dacron blouse. 

She glanced at him. "You think I'm silly, I know. I honestly do believe that Abrinski was momentarily insane on that October morning. The question is not so much his guilt or innocence, but the guilt or innocence of the social forces that drove him into the Monroe house.. 

"Where did he come from, Dave? Who were his mother and father? What were they like? He was peddling news papers at ten; he had to quit school to do that. His father was a habitual drunkard who beat his mother regularly." 

Kirwan stared at her. "Did that bum sell you all that tripe?" 

Her cheeks flushed. “He told me something of himself, yes." 

"And you believed it. You wanted to believe it. You wanted to see your crackpot theories proven." 

"David, I absolutely refuse” 

She tried to rise but his hand clamped down on her wrist. He leaned closer. "You'll sit here and listen to me, Myra darling, for the good of your ego. No girl I mean to make my wife is ever again going to put a defendant on the stand in a case like that! Now you sit still and open your ears. 

"Abrinski was valedictorian of his high school class. If you don't believe me, do what I did. Look up the records. Find out what's written about him in black and white. You see the rings under my eyes? I didn't get those from cavorting around on a dance floor these past few weeks. I've been studying my case against Peter Abrinski until the wee dark hours. I know the man, I tell you. Inside and out. He was a brilliant boy. Everything came easy to him. Honor marks. Athletics. Did you know he was an all city on the football team? Too easy. 

"His father is district manager for a big chemical concern. His mother is a member of the P.T.A. He has three sisters and a younger brother. His family owns two cars. He is not a downtrodden, paper-peddling member of the oppressed classes. This is one time you can't blame society, but the indiv—” 

Myra interrupted him. “Poor David. I never noticed those rings. You have been working late, haven't you?" 

"I always work late on my cases,” he growled. "But to get back to " 

"How much sleep do you average, David?”

“Lately, not enough. Now listen—“

Her hand found his and squeezed. The tenderness in her face bothered him and he shifted uncomfortably. 

"Look, Myra. Honey, for your own good—” 

“David, isn't it strange how little we know about the people we think we know so well? I've always seen you as a young, ambitious man climbing up the ladder of success, using each man you convicted as a rung on that ladder." 

"Oh my God," he murmured. 

She smiled, "I can't help it, David. It's the way I am. I thought you were the legal profession's man-in-the-gray flannel-suit. A sort of Grand Street version of the Madison Avenue ad man. Now I'm not so sure. In a sense you're dedicated, aren't you?” 

"I'm dedicated to getting ahead, yes. I'd be a fool not to be. And I'm dedicated to you, too. I've asked you to marry me. We both decided it's best to wait a little." 

“Until you're District Attorney, you mean.” 

"We can afford a lot more, then. I can give you things if we wait, that I can't give you now." 

"I don't want those things. All I want is you." 

A court clerk came pushing through the crowd to lean over their table. “The jury's about to bring in its verdict, Mr. Kirwan.” 

“So soon?” 

He was surprised. It should take longer than this. They must have agreed on their very first ballot. He didn't know whether to be pleased or sorry. He helped Myra from the booth bench and felt her press against him momentarily. Her eyes were feverishly bright as she looked at him. 

"I never knew, David. I really never knew."

"Knew what?” 

“How really intense, how devoted you are to the things you believe in. If you weren't, you'd never have those rings under your eyes." 

"I'm a crusader," he said, and was surprised to see she took him seriously. 

The jury brought in a verdict of guilty of first-degree rape. Within five minutes after the jury foreman had spoken, Dave Kirwan was escorting Myra toward the sleek white Chrysler convertible he had ruptured his bank account to buy. 

As soon as he was settled behind the wheel, he found Myra sitting so close they touched from knee to shoulder. 

There was a languid look about her as she turned and hugged his arm. 

"I'm your girl, David. I can be affectionate if I like." Her eyes seemed molten in her oval face. 

He put his arm around her and was about to kiss her, but she shook her head. "Not out in public like this, darling." 

"It's almost dark.” 

She laughed. “There's too much light and you know it. Drive, young man." 

Kirwan grinned and moved the car out of the court house parking lot and into the late afternoon traffic on Central Park Avenue. A ground mist was crawling eerily along the road. Kirwan leaned forward, to turn on his yellow fog-beam and let it slice through the gathering darkness. 

Ten minutes after the yellow lights split the fog, Kirwan saw a man come staggering out of the white mist toward him, weaving his way along the edge of the road. There was a revolver in his hand and a wild, desperate glare in his eyes. 

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