I notice the courtroom is crowded; the Bostonians are curious about the "Vandeweghe Jezebel" as Zane is called in one newspaper column. All the reputed past exploits of Zane Vandeweghe Otis have been related to reporters by "close friends" and "acquaintances" and made the pages of the paper. I read them at breakfast—everyone in the hotel restaurant is talking about "the Murder" deciding she is guilty and wondering how money will be able exonerate her. Will the judge be bought or threatened? Will her lawyers be able to persuade the judge with convoluted arguments, with sophistry, that the charges against her are ridiculous? Will the prosecutor call any of her past lovers as witnesses against her, tell how she had affairs. No wonder her husband avoided intimate relations—at least it's rumored he wouldn't put his "diddler" into the swamp between her legs. I had no appetite.
When I walk up to the courtroom, a half-completed painting of a gloriously nude Zane as Leda with a roughly-sketched swan paddling between her spread thighs is on an easel outside the courtroom marked as sold but still displayed for all to see. The artist well-captured Zane's beautiful face and bare breasts—the expression of sexual ecstasy as the swan supposedly thrusts into her body, his head, languid on the end of his long neck. A passerby stops-places a hand on one of the painted breasts and making a crude grasping motion. He licks his lips lasciviously. Laughter ensues among the gawkers. Another man sells a sheet of newsprint for a penny. I buy one—curious if it's another article-and after glancing at it, ball it up and hurl it at him. Astonished, he jerks his head back. "Bastard," I snarl. He retreats while I pass. It was a crude cartoon showing Zane in a bed spreading her legs and extending her arms to welcome her husband while other men and a swan are poking their heads out from under the side of the bed. She is saying that she missed him, identifying him as Morty—and has been so lonely—the character says. People share the cartoon—passing it amongst themselves-and laughing.
Henry Vandeweghe isn't in the courtroom. The Otis family is also absent. "A husband would stand by his wife if she were innocent," I hear a woman say to another. Zane sits alone with her two lawyers—one on each side. Her face is serene like a Madonna. I go to her table up front and she is glad to see me. Zane reaches out a small gloved hand. "Oh, Adam, they aren't here. Is anyone here?"
I know who she means by "they" but I want her to know she isn't completely abandoned. "I'm here," I say hoping it is some comfort. Her lawyers look at me disapprovingly. I sit close behind them in case I have something to add to the proceedings.
We stand. The judge enters and we sit back down. Zane turns to look at me again and offers a wan smile. The clerk reads the facts of the case. The hotel's desk clerk of that night, Randall Sanford, is questioned by the prosecutor and eagerly answers. He again says exactly what he stated in the first newspaper article—I think he memorized it—probably read it every night—showed it to his wife who tut-tuts about the sins of the wealthy. And then she more than likely asks—is Zane Otis really as beautiful as they say. The man tries to think of a way out of saying that Zane Otis is every man's nocturnal fantasy come to life, that dreaming about her leaves a stain on the sheets, so he probably says—"Look at her picture and decide for yourself." Nevertheless, the man knows how beautiful Zane is—can still see her perfect face and sinuous body and imagines it's she beneath him as he grunts on top of his wife in their bed.
The only other thing the clerk adds is that people in nearby rooms came out, crowding the hall and stairwell. They wanted to look in the room and one patron fainted when told that a man had been killed—shot.
The bellhop is questioned and corroborates what the clerk said—Mrs. Otis was arrogant and behaved as if she hadn't done anything wrong. Did she seem upset? the bellhop is asked. He sits for a moment and then says that her lips were quivering and her hand shook putting the gun in her bag—she was pale. "Is this the gun?" A mall derringer is held up. "I suppose," the bellhop says. "I don't really know." He looks at Zane as if he is sorry for all he has said. I see her nod slightly—she forgives him. The young man smiles as if he's in love with the beautiful woman.
So far, neither of Zane's lawyers have said anything—questioned no one. I stand and begging the judge's indulgence. I ask if I can question the witness—the bellhop. The young man looks at the judge. The judge considers and asks my name and what relation I am to Mrs. Otis. "Adam Cartwright. I am a past acquaintance of Mrs. Otis." I hear a woman giggle and say to someone near her, "She might shoot him as well." I don't turn to look.
Zane's lawyers do turn to look at me. I stand holding my hat. Zane turns to me as well. Her face is like the sun shining on those below. Zane is above it all.
"All right, Mr. Cartwright. Since this is an inquest, family and close friends may ask questions. It is, after all, an inquest—not a trial." He examines the faces in the room. "Go ahead, Mr. Cartwright—ask-but I will end it at any time I see fit."
I thank him, place my hat on my seat and walk to the front of the room where the bellhop sits in a straight-backed chair beside the judge's desk.
"Did you and the desk clerk stay long in Mr. Curtis' room?"
"No, sir. We saw the body and then followed Mrs. Otis downstairs. I went for the police."
"Then you didn't examine the room, look in the closet, under the bed or into the bathing room to see if anyone was hiding."
"No, sir."
"Could someone have been hiding undetected in the room?"
"I guess so."
"Is there a back entrance to the Hotel Fairmont?"
"There's one from the alley."
"Is it kept locked?"
"After ten at night. It's left open during the day for laundry and groceries—you know, supplies to be delivered. Employees use that door too to come to work. We aren't to enter from the front entrance."
The prosecutor stands and says that I am asking ridiculous questions. Zane's lawyers say nothing. The judge says that he will allow it. I continue.
"Can someone get to the upper floors—the rooms—by that entrance?"
"Well, yes. It also leads to a stairwell. It's what's used for room service deliveries. Matter of fact, when I brought you clean towels the other night, I used that stairwell."
There's a buzz behind me—people are talking. The judge pounds his gavel and asks for quiet. I look at Zane's table. One lawyer covers his mouth with his hand and the other is looking through papers. Zane is watching me, looking at me as if I'm her savior. I may be.
"Are you staying at the Fairmont Hotel?" the judge asks me.
"Yes, your honor."
"Have you spoken to this young man about the case? Tipped him to answer questions in a certain way?"
"No. I gave him two bits when he brought me clean towels. Other than that, I've had no conversation with him." I wait.
"Continue," the judge says.
