HISTORICAL FICTION By Michael G. Malaghan
“These local jigaboos will never convict one of their own,” spat Grace Fortescue. “The judge will order one retrial after another until poor Thalia can’t take it anymore and those animals will get off scot-free.”
Grace held court in the shade of the Moana Hotel’s giant banyan tree while ‘ukulele were strummed under the swaying palm trees. Tommy Massie and his Navy buddies, who were at the Ala Wai Inn on the night in question, drank whiskey. No sissy tourist drinks for them. Grace sipped a gin and tonic.
“The police and prosecutor will present evidence to dispute the coloreds’ timeline,” Massie offered.
“And the defense will once again note her memory lapse and attack the honor of your wife. Make her out to be a whore and a liar,” snapped Grace in a tone of voice that questioned his manhood. “We need a confession . . .” She looked each man in the eye, tipped her glass into her mouth and then added with a regal air that, by now, had irritated most of her social class in Hawai‘i, “. . . One way or another.”