What’s that prick doing here? Sala mumbled.
We could do a hell of a lot worse, I said. We’re damn lucky anybody’s here.
It was almost an hour before they called our case. The boss cop was the first to speak and his testimony was delivered in Spanish. Sala, who understood parts of what he was saying, kept muttering: That lying bastard. . . claims we threatened to tear the place up. . . attacked the manager. . . ran out on our bill. . . hit a cop. . . Christ Jesus!. . . started a fight when we got to headquarters. . . God, this is too much! We’re done for!
When the boss cop had finished, Yeamon asked for a translation of the testimony, but the judge ignored him.
The manager testified next, sweating and gesturing with excitement, his voice rising to an hysterical pitch as he swung his arms and shook his fists and pointed at us as if we had killed his entire family.
We understood nothing of what he said, but it was obvious that things were going against us. When it finally came our turn to speak, Yeamon got up and demanded a translation of all the testimony against us.
You heard it, said the judge in perfect English.
Yeamon explained that none of us spoke Spanish well enough to understand what had been said. These people spoke English before, he said, pointing at the cop and the manager. Why can’t they speak it now?
The judge smiled contemptuously. You forget where you are, he said. What right do you have to come here and cause trouble, and then tell us to speak your language?
I could see that Yeamon was losing his temper and I motioned to Sanderson to do something. Just then I heard Yeamon say he would expect fairer treatment under Batista.
A dead silence fell on the courtroom. The judge stared at Yeamon, his eyes bright with anger. I could almost feel the axe descending.
Sanderson called from the back of the room: Your Honor, could I have a word?
The judge looked up. Who are you?
My name is Sanderson. I’m with Adelante.
A man I had never seen stepped quickly up to the judge and whispered in his ear. The judge nodded, then looked back at Sanderson. Go ahead, he said.
Sanderson’s voice seemed out of place after the wild denunciations of the cop and the manager. These men are American journalists, he said. Mr. Kemp is with the New York Times, Mr. Yeamon represents the American Travel Writers’ Association, and Mr. Sala works for Life magazine. He paused, and I wondered just how much good this kind of thing was going to do. Our earlier identification as Yankee journalists had been disastrous.
Perhaps I’m wrong, Sanderson continued, but I think this testimony has been a little confusing, and I’d hate to see it result in any unnecessary embarrassment. He glanced at the boss cop, then back to the judge.
Jesus, Yeamon whispered. I hope he knows what he’s doing.
I nodded, watching the judge’s face. Sanderson’s last comment had been delivered in a tone of definite warning, and it crossed my mind that he might be drunk. For all I knew, he had come straight from some party where he’d been drinking steadily since early afternoon.
Well, Mr. Sanderson, said the judge in an even voice. What do you suggest?
Sanderson smiled politely. I think it might be wise to continue this hearing when the atmosphere is a little less strained.
The same man who had spoken to the judge earlier was back at the bench. There was a quick exchange of words, then the judge spoke to Sanderson.
You have a point, he said, but these men have behaved in an arrogant way — they have no respect for our laws.
Sanderson’s face darkened. Well, Your Honor, if the case is going to be tried tonight, I’ll have to ask for a recess until I can contact Adolfo Quinones. He nodded. I’ll have to wake him up, of course, get Senor Quinones out of bed, but I don’t feel qualified to act any further as an attorney.