of his study, Dr. Satten feels secure in assigning him to a position among their ranks.
Moreover, the circumstances of the crime seem to him to fit exactly the concept of «murder
without apparent motive.» Obviously, three of the murders Smith committed were logically
motivated — Nancy, Kenyon, and their mother had to be killed because Mr. Clutter had been killed.
But it is Dr. Satten’s contention that only the first murder matters psychologically, and that when
Smith attacked Mr. Clutter he was under a mental eclipse; deep inside a schizophrenic darkness,
for it was not entirely a flesh-and-blood man he «suddenly discovered» himself destroying, but «a
key figure in some past traumatic configuration»: his father? the orphanage nuns who had derided
and beaten him? the hated Army sergeant? the parole officer who had ordered him to «stay out of
Kansas»? One of them, or all of them.
In his confession, Smith said, «I didn’t want to harm the man. I thought he was a very nice
gentleman. Soft-spoken. I thought so right up to the moment I cut his throat.» While talking to
Donald Cullivan, Smith said, «They [the Clutters] never hurt me. Like other people. Like people
have all my life. Maybe it’s just that the Clutters were the ones who had to pay for it.»
So it would appear that by independent paths, both the professional and the amateur analyst reached conclusions not dissimilar.
The aristocracy of Finney County had snubbed the trial. «It doesn’t do,» announced the wife of
one rich rancher, «to seem curious about that sort of thing.» Nevertheless, the trial’s last session
found a fair segment of the local Establishment seated alongside the plainer citizenry. Their
presence was a courteous gesture toward Judge Tate and Logan Green, esteemed members of
their own order. Also, a large contingent of out-of-town lawyers, many of whom had journeyed
great distances, filled several benches; specifically, they were on hand to hear Green’s final
address to the jury. Green, a suavely tough little septuagenarian, has an imposing reputation
among his peers, who admire his stage craft — a repertoire of actorish gifts that includes a sense
of timing acute as a night-club comedian’s. An expert criminal lawyer, his usual role is that of
defender, but in this instance the state had retained him as a special assistant to Duane West, for
it was felt that the young county attorney was too unseasoned to prosecute the case without
experienced support.
But like most star turns, Green was the last act on the program. Judge Tate’s level-headed
instructions to the jury preceded him, as did the county attorney’s summation: «Can there be a
single doubt in your minds regarding the guilt of these defendants? No! Regardless of who pulled
the trigger on Richard Eugene Hickock’s shotgun, both men are equally guilty. There is only one
way to assure that these men will never again roam the towns and cities of this land. We request
the maximum penalty — death. This request is made not in vengeance, but in all humbleness. …»
Then the pleas of the defense attorneys had to be heard. Fleming’s speech, described by one
journalist as «soft-sell,» amounted to a mild churchly sermon: «Man is not an animal. He has a
body, and he has a soul that lives forever. I don’t believe man has the right to destroy that house,
a temple, in which the soul dwells….» Harrison Smith, though he too appealed to the jurors’
presumed Christianity, took as his main theme the evils of capital punishment: «It is a relic of
human barbarism. The law tells us that the taking of human life is wrong, then goes ahead and
sets the example. Which is almost as wicked as the crime it punished. The state has no right to
inflict it. It isn’t effective. It doesn’t deter crime, but merely cheapens human life and gives rise to
more murders. All we ask is mercy. Surely life imprisonment is small mercy to ask. . . .» Not
everyone was attentive; one juror, as though poisoned by the numerous spring-fever yawns
weighting the air, sat with drugged eyes and jaws so utterly ajar bees could have buzzed in and
out.
Green woke them up. «Gentlemen,» he said, speaking without notes, «you have just heard two
energetic pleas for mercy in behalf of the defendants. It seems to me fortunate that these
admirable attorneys, Mr. Fleming and Mr. Smith, were not at the Clutter house that fateful night very fortunate for them that they were not present to plead mercy for the doomed family. Because
had they been there — well, come next morning we would have had more than four corpses to
count.»
As a boy in his native Kentucky, Green was called Pinky, a nickname he owed to his freckled
coloring; now, as he strutted before the jury, the stress of his assignment warmed his face and
splotched it with patches of pink. «I have no intention of engaging in theological debate. But I
anticipated that defense counsel would use the Holy Bible as an argument against the death
penalty. You have heard the Bible quoted. But I can read, too.» He slapped open a copy of the
Old Testament. «And here are a few things the Good Book has to say on the subject. In Exodus
Twenty, Verse Thirteen, we have one of the Ten Commandments: Thou shalt not kill.’ This refers
to unlawful killing. Of course it does, because in the next chapter, Verse Twelve, the penalty for
disobedience of that Commandment reads: ‘He that smiteth a man, so that he die, shall be surely
put to death.’ Now, Mr. Fleming would have you believe that all this was changed by the coming
of Christ. Not so. For Christ says, ‘Think not that I am come to destroy the law, or the prophets: I
am not come to destroy, but to fulfill.’ And finally — » Green fumbled, and seemed to accidentally
shut the Bible, whereupon the visiting legal dignitaries grinned and nudged each other, for this
was a venerable court-room ploy — the lawyer who while reading from the Scriptures pretends to
lose his place, and then remarks, as Green now did, «Never mind. I think I can quote from
memory. Genesis Nine, Verse Six: ‘Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be
shed.’
«But,» Green went on, «I see nothing to be gained by arguing the Bible. Our state provides that the punishment for murder in the first degree shall be imprisonment for life or death by hanging. That
is the law. You, gentlemen, are here to enforce it. And if ever there was a case in which the
maximum penalty was justified, this is it. These were strange, ferocious murders. Four of your
fellow citizens were slaughtered like hogs in a pen. And for what reason? Not out of vengeance or
hatred. But for money. Money. It was the cold and calculated weighing of so many ounces of
silver against so many ounces of blood. And how
cheaply those lives were bought! For forty dollars’ worth of loot! Ten dollars a life!» He whirled,
and pointed a finger that moved back and forth between Hickock and Smith. «They went armed
with a shotgun and a dagger. They went to rob and kill — » His voice trembled, toppled,
disappeared, as though strangled by the intensity of his own loathing for the debonair, gumchewing defendants. Turning again to the jury, he hoarsely asked, «What are you going to do?
What are you going to do with these men that bind a man hand and foot and cut his throat and
blow out his brains? Give them the minimum penalty? Yes, and that’s only one of four counts.
What about Kenyon Clutter, a young boy with his whole life before him, tied helplessly in sight of
his father’s death struggle. Or young Nancy Clutter, hearing the gunshots and knowing her time
was next. Nancy, begging for her life: ‘Don’t. Oh, please don’t. Please. Please.’ What agony!
What unspeakable torture! And there remains the mother, bound and gagged and having to listen
as her husband, her beloved children died one by one. Listen until at last the killers, these
defendants before you, entered her room, focused a flashlight in her eyes, and let the blast of a
shotgun end the existence of an entire household.»
Pausing, Green gingerly touched a boil on the back of his neck, a mature inflammation that
seemed, like its angry wearer, about to burst. -«So, gentlemen, what are you going to do? Give
them the minimum? Send them back to the penitentiary, and take the chance of their escaping or
being paroled? The next time they go slaughtering it may be your family. I say to you,» he
solemnly said, staring at the panel in a manner that encompassed and challenged them all,
«some of our enormous crimes only happen because once upon a time a pack of chicken-hearted
jurors refused to do their duty. Now, gentlemen, I leave it to you and your consciences.»
He sat down. West whispered to him, «That was masterly, sir. «But a few of Green’s auditors were
less enthusiastic; and after the jury retired to discuss the verdict, one of them, a young reporter
from Oklahoma, exchanged sharp words with another newsman, Richard Parr of the Kansas City
Star. To the Oklahoman, Green’s address had seemed «rabble-rousing, brutal.»
«He was just telling the truth,» Parr said. «The truth can be brutal. To coin a phrase.»
«But he didn’t have to hit that hard. It’s unfair.»
«What’s unfair?»
«The whole trial. These guys don’t stand a chance.»
«Fat chance they gave Nancy Clutter.»
«Perry Smith. My God. He’s had such a rotten life — «
Parr said, «Many a man can match sob stories with that little bastard. Me included. Maybe I drink
too much, but I sure as hell never killed four people in cold blood.»
«Yeah, and how about hanging the bastard? That’s pretty goddam cold-blooded too.»
The Reverend Post, overhearing the conversation, joined in. «Well,» he said, passing around a
snapshot reproduction of Perry Smith’s portrait of Jesus, «any man who could paint this picture
can’t be