“I’m Jackson Weyman. I was a witness in that other inquest, and now somebody’s subpoenaed me for this inquest. I’m a sick man.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Cuts in my face got infected,” Weyman explained. “I have no business to be out. I should be home in bed right now and—”
He was interrupted by a thin, austere woman who stood up at the other end of the courtroom and said, “The same is true in my case, your Honor. I’m Mrs. Stella Anderson. I also was a witness in that other case. I’ve been ordered to appear in this case and testify. I know absolutely nothing about this young man—”
“Perhaps you two know more than you think you do,” Scanlon said. “Since you’re here under subpoena, I’ll ask you to sit down and listen to at least a few of the witnesses. And, as far as you’re concerned, Mr. Weyman, on account of your physical condition, I’ll call you just as soon as I can. The first witness, however, will be Dr. James Wallace.”
Dr. Wallace arose and walked toward the witness chair. “But I demand that something be done about letting me go,” Weyman said, his words somewhat muffled by his bandages. “I have an infection which may be dangerous unless I keep absolutely quiet and—”
“You should have produced a physician’s certificate,” Scanlon said. “Since you’re here, simply sit down and compose yourself. I’ll finish with you in a very few minutes. I have only a few routine questions to ask of Dr. Wallace.
“Dr. Wallace, you’re a duly qualified and practicing physician and surgeon in this state and a resident physician and head of the interns at the Good Samaritan Hospital in this city. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you have been for more than a year?”