Anatomy of a Murder Read Online Free Page A

in the history of St. Michael’s parish. Parnell’s “Irish-ness” lay more in certain word patterns and in the subtle lilt and cadence of his speech than in any vaudevillian Erin go bragh Mr. Dooley talk. So Parnell McCarthy was an “Irisher,” as many Finns and Swedes might call him, and an Irishman he would proudly remain, to the despair of all visiting sociologists and bemoaners of hyphenated Americans. And all of the U.P. folk were fiercely American, as any rash doubter ruefully and swiftly found out—as all-American, say, as Rocco Purgatorio the Italian, who had once broken up a memorable Liberty Bond rally in the Chippewa High School by abruptly getting up and waving a tiny flag and singing fervently: “Eef you doan lak your Unka Semmy, den go backa to da lan’ w’ere you fromm—you—you son-a-beech … .”
    Of late years and largely because of his drinking Parnell had lost most of his clients and had become a sort of lawyers’ lawyer, grubbing a fitful sort of living in the exquisite drudgery of looking up land titles and interpreting abstracts for the other lawyers and some of the smaller mining companies. Our intimacy had dated from my first year as prosecutor and had begun with a typical Parnellian flourish. A perplexed young state trooper had phoned me the first thing one Monday morning.
    â€œMr. Prosecutor, we got a seedy old character over here booked on suspicion of drunk driving. Found him early this morning standing beside on old Maxwell wrapped around a tree, drunker’an a skunk. He insists upon seeing you—alone.”
    â€œWho’s the villain?” I inquired.
    â€œâ€˜Parnell Emmett Joseph McCarthy,’ he says. Claims some dame called Dolly Madison was driving the car.”
    â€œI’ll come over,” I said, wincing.
    â€œBut who’s this here Dolly Madison character?” the young trooper persisted. “I thought we knew all the old hookers around here.”
    â€œI’ll be right over,” I said. “It’s a little complicated to explain over the phone.”
    Parnell and I were finally alone over at the jail. “Let’s have it, Mr. McCarthy,” I said respectfully. “And please omit Dolly Madison.”

    Parnell finally focused his inflamed eyes on me. “All right, all right, young man,” he said with great dignity. “I’m drivin’ down this road, see, all nice as pie, see, mindin’ me own business, when all of a sudden it happen … .”
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked a little shrilly.
    â€œAs true as I’m settin’ here, young fella, I’m blinded by the lights of an approachin’ dragon,” he said, and forthwith fell asleep.
    After I had rallied sufficiently the officers and I conferred, following which certain arrangements were made whereby we promised to give Parnell the benefit of Dolly Madison if he in turn would promise to voluntarily give up driving. Parnell and I had shaken hands on it, and both promises had been solemnly kept. And that was how I first got to really know my old friend.
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    I remembered that it had been Parnell who had kept the lonely vigil with me on my last day as prosecutor on that blizzardy day before New Year’s nearly two years before. I had bravely determined to stick out that last day in my office if it killed me. Nobody would be able to say that Polly Biegler had cut and run when the going got tough. But no one had been much interested in saying anything; there were more alluring prospects afoot; one had resolutely to get ready, for one thing, to greet the festive new year in an appropriate state of alcoholic coma.
    The morning had passed without a single phone call or a caller except the postman, with a heart-warming New Year’s card from my insurance agent, which I dropped thoughtfully in the wastebasket, and who was followed shortly by an earnest bow-legged little Cornishman