Not I, Said the Vixen

by Bill S. Ballinger

  “I’m sure I haven’t,” March replied.

  “You must’ve thought something… to have said it.”

  “If you misunderstood me… I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not like this… with other men. Not really!” Ivy protested.

  “I know…” March replied, soothingly.

  “But you don’t!” Ivy was aggrieved. “You think I’m just saying it.”

  March recognized Ivy’s explanation as one of the eternal feminine gestures of equivocal diplomacy. A woman’s latest lover, March realized, was always her best lover. “I believe you!” he quickly assured her.

  “Well, if you don’t,” Ivy replied dogmatically, “You can just ask Robert Knox!”

  “I have no intention of asking him,” March told her. “Here… finish your coffee.”

  “For your information, Robert Knox hardly even put his arm around me.” Unpredictably, Ivy suddenly smiled again. “The most he ever did was to kiss me goodnight at the door.” She looked at March inquiringly. “Why did you take so long before you tried?” she asked. March shook his head. “But you do love me?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he told her earnestly.

  After a moment, she said, “I love you, too…” March looked up. Ivy was drinking the last of the coffee.

  “I’m glad!” March stood up. “We’d better get dressed. We have to start back to Los Angeles pretty soon.”

  “I’m sorry… if I got bitchy.” Ivy was contrite. “I don’t want to spoil anything “ She looked slowly around the room. “Can we come back here again someday?”

  “There’s no reason we can’t.”

  Ivy pushed the covers from the bed and stood beside it. She picked up her nightgown, holding it in front of her… a filmy, transparent concession to modesty. “See,” her eyes glinted with laughter, “you have me embarrassed…”

  March was unable to speak. Words were stretched too taut in his throat. His belly filled again with pain and desire. He wanted his eyes and senses to hold her in his mind forever. From a distance he heard her speaking “… the next time we come here, I’ll bring something warmer…” He shut his eyes. He didn’t want to think about “the next time”… “someday.” Someday was built on too many tomorrows. And tomorrow was a sword, sharp and dangerous, hanging over their heads.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The first of the week, following our return from Big Sur, we began the selection of a jury. For two days, Ivy sat at the defense table with me and Bert Taylor. At the table for the prosecution, Gerald Fuhrman, an assistant to Joe Willard, and two law clerks were checking off the names of veniremen as they were examined.

  In a California criminal case, the defense is permitted twenty peremptory challenges. So far I had exercised nine of them. As yet, the prosecution and I had agreed on only five jurors—two women and three men. Ivy leaned over the table to whisper to me. “What was wrong with Miss Wilson? Why did you excuse her?”

  “She’s unmarried, works as a bookkeeper, and doesn’t look too happy,” I told Ivy. “Usually I prefer a majority of women on my juries, but in your case I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “An unmarried woman may not be so good for us when Willard gets into the subject of sex. Also a person employed in a job which demands detailed attention—like bookkeeping—is usually pretty finicky.” Finally, I pointed out, “Miss Wilson had a rather depressing air… she looked sour on life. That attitude might hold over into her decisions later.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A smoke.” I turned to Taylor. “We’re going outside for a few minutes. Keep an eye on Willard while I’m gone. You know what we’re looking for.”

  In the corridor, I lit two cigarettes. Ivy’s attention was still on the selection of the jurymen. “What kind of people do you want on the jury?” she asked me, repeating her question.

  I tried to explain. “For you, I’d like to have an all male jury, because you’d impress them. Unfortunately, Joe Willard knows this, too, so he’s trying to get as many women as possible. That means, naturally, we’ll end up having both men and women.” I puffed on my cigarette. “They should be as broad-minded as possible, and successful in an interesting job. This usually makes them more flexible about changing their minds. Don’t worry. We’ll do our best. Now, if you’re ready, we’ll go back.”

  At the defense table, I watched while another prospective juror was taking the stand.

  “State your name, please,” Willard said.

  “Claude Piersall.”

  Willard completed his list of questions, nodded and turned to me. “Do you wish to examine Mr. Piersall?”

  I stood up and walked over to the witness stand where Piersall was seated. He appeared to be a man about forty. He was neatly dressed, and his face was friendly. Standing almost in front of him, I asked, conversationally, “Do you mind if I ask just a few more questions, Mr. Piersall?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You told Mr. Willard that you are a salesman. Will you tell me what you sell?”

  “I sell boats… pleasure crafts. Up to forty-eight and fifty feet.”

  “No yachts?” I pretended to be surprised.

  Piersall chuckled. “I would if I could,” he told me grinning, “but we don’t handle ’em.”

  “Then you work for a company?”

  “Yes, sir… Royal Marina, Inc.”

  “Do you sell many boats, yourself, Mr. Piersall?”

  “I guess I sell my share,” he replied modestly.

  Claude Piersall filled some of my requirements for a prospect juryman. As a salesman, he was outgoing and apparently good-natured. He seemed to be reasonably successful. Also, I noticed that Piersall had glanced at Ivy several times, in appreciation of her beauty. “Before you sold boats, what did you do?” I asked.

  “That’s a long story, Mr. March. I only came out to California five years ago. Before that, I lived in Chicago.”

  “And what did you do in Chicago?”

  “I worked for the Dearborn Safe and Lock Company.” I waited for him to continue, and he added, “I sold office safes… strong boxes… supplies like that.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Yes, sir. All right. But Mrs. Piersall didn’t have too good health. She couldn’t stand the cold weather. So we moved out here.”

  “I understand…” I told Piersall sympathetically, while I tried to review my impressions. It seemed to me that a man selling boats works with an entirely different type of customer than a man selling office safes. Boat buyers are purchasing fun, enjoyment, and perhaps a hobby. A man who buys a safe is purchasing protection and security. It was odd, I thought, that a salesman such as Piersall would swing from one extreme of merchandise to another. Yet, I supposed, there needn’t be undue significance attached to it.

  Furthermore, I had already used up ten of my challenges, and we still had a long way to go in selecting the balance of the jurors. I turned my attention to Piersall again. “You told Mr. Willard that you still hold no opinion regarding what you have read?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And you are willing to listen to the entire case… to all the evidence… until it is finally turned over to you to make a decision?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I concealed my uncertainty. Obviously, here was a man who met nearly all my standards. For some reason, instinctively perhaps, I hesitated. Yet, as the examination of the panel continued, I might be forced to accept a less desirable juror later. I turned to the Clerk of the Court. “The defense accepts Mr. Piersall,” I announced.

  Then I went back to my seat.

  Another prospect was called, and Willard starting examining anew.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It was a sweltering day in June, and to nearly all, it would be a day of frayed nerves and uncomfortable sweating.

  Inside the courthouse, in Room 19, Section A, of the County Superior Court, the mechanics of justice were being conducted under comfortable an
d controlled circumstances.

  The Clerk of the Court chanted his ritual and remained standing, while the judge took the bench. After a moment, the Clerk seated himself and the courtroom spectators followed his example.

  Judge Raleigh looked around the room. “It will be understood, to start, that there will be no interruptions in this court from either the public or the press. If they occur, I shall have the room cleared.” Turning toward the press seats, he continued, “If photographs are to be taken, you will do so either before the court convenes, or after it is adjourned.” He nodded to the Clerk.

  The Clerk stood and read. “The People of the State of California versus Ivy Lorents, charging that the defendant, said Ivy Lorents, did with forethought and intent to kill, shoot and strike dead one Arthea Simpson, on the day of April the seventeenth last, of this present year, in the city of Los Angeles, county of Los Angeles, state of California.” The Clerk resumed his place at a small square table to the left of the judge’s bench.

  “Are you gentlemen ready?” Judge Raleigh inquired. “Then the case for the state will open.”

  Willard walked toward the jury box and began in an unassuming tone, almost as if apologizing for their attention. “I am now beginning to make what is called the opening statement for the prosecution,” he said. “This is a customary and formal procedure in which the District Attorney points out to you, the jury, what he will attempt to prove.”

  He moved carefully a few steps nearer the center of the jury box, and for a moment his hands brushed the lapels of the dark blue suit he was wearing. “First, we must prove opportunity… that the defendant was at the scene of the crime when it took place: Secondly, that the defendant had the means… the method by which the crime was committed… such as the gun, or whatever other weapon might be used. And last, of course, motive… the reason why the crime was executed.”

  Willard paused, standing drably before the attentive jurors. He picked up his theme again. “Motive. As we go along you must carefully watch and recognize the evidence of motive, because motive is also closely tied to premeditation…” Willard left the last word hanging in mid-air for emphasis.

  Willard unclasped his hands and started to return to his seat. Then, as if another unplanned thought had entered his mind, he paused and faced the jury again. It was an effective demonstration, and he used it often. “Before I forget. In the case of murder, the crime is usually a secret one. It is accomplished in private. Seldom is there an eyewitness to the crime. Consequently, the testimony may be based on circumstances instead of direct accounts. Either direct evidence—or circumstantial evidence may be introduced in this court, under the laws of the state.”

  Ivy had been following Willard’s words with fascination. She appeared tense and nervous; March, seemingly, was entirely at ease and unimpressed. March scrawled a brief message on his pad, and edged it in front of Ivy. The note read: “Relax. Don’t show you are nervous.” Ivy forced a tentative smile to her lips.

  When Willard had concluded his presentation, he returned to the table for the prosecution. The judge looked at the defense counsel and asked, “Mr. March?”

  March rose slowly to his feet, paused, then started to reseat himself. Seeming to abruptly change his mind, he again stood up and walked deliberately toward the jury in a blaze of color—his silk suit a golden tan, a cobalt blue vest and matching tie, a cream colored shirt pinpointing him. March’s affection for bright colors had been highly publicized, but his multi-hued combinations were not entirely a personal idiosyncrasy. He believed that a defense attorney should keep the attention of the jury away from the defendant. Too often, the jury after days of personal inspection of a defendant would build personal dislikes and prejudices in its mind… and these would be reflected in its decision. By focusing this attention on himself, March relieved his client from much of the jurymen’s personal scrutiny.

  He stopped hesitantly, and placed his hand lightly on top of the wood paneling enclosing the jury box. The heads of the jury turned to watch. Finally, as if arousing himself from a deep reflection, he said, “I beg your pardon. It must appear to you that I can’t make up my mind—which is exactly the truth. It doesn’t seem to me that Mr. Willard has said anything of enough importance to bother to answer.” He looked at the jury’s faces, and smiled patiently. “You understand that it isn’t necessary for me to say anything? I’m not forced to reply?” March stared at the jury, waiting—compelling a few of them to nod their heads. It was important to get the jury to agree with the defense, early.

  March shrugged, and glanced deliberately toward Willard. Slowly, he returned his attention to the jury box. “However, I’ve changed my mind.” He sighed deeply, then continued. “Mr. Willard made some statements which I believe should be cleared up. Now first, as you all know, the burden of proof lies on his shoulders, and I can assure you this is not a pleasant burden to bear. Because proof is something he is going to have to reach for—time and again. Consequently, he is very anxious to talk about circumstantial evidence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Willard has to talk about it, to try to impress you with it… as he has very little else to talk about. You will all, I know, scrutinize such supposed evidence very carefully, and reserve your own good judgment regarding it.

  “While Mr. Willard was speaking, I must admit that I wasn’t paying much attention to what he said, as I knew—inevitably—that he would start discussing such words as opportunity, method, motive…” March negligently waved away the words. “You see, what he is attempting to do is to set up a straw dummy, and then knock it down. Having beaten the dummy as hard as he can, he will then say, ‘Look! Look what I’ve done! I’ve proved everything I set out to prove.’ But you realize that isn’t necessary, because there are certain things which we readily admit happened. Using Mr. Willard’s words of ‘opportunity and method’… there is no doubt where and how the unfortunate accident took place. The only issue is why it happened.”

  The jury was quiet, their eyes riveted on the face of Cyrus March. “Now, in the state of California, there are several justifiable reasons under which a person may be killed. If one or more of these reasons prevail, then it is not murder.” March paused for emphasis before continuing earnestly. “Let’s look at these reasons.”

  “We’ll start with what is called crime prevention. I’ll try to explain this because it might sound a little complicated. What it means is—killing to prevent a heinous crime before it actually happens. For instance, if a man makes it clear to a woman that he intends to rape her, or is attempting to rape her, and she kills him before he can complete his act, then that would be crime prevention.

  “Next, you all know about self-defense… which means killing to save your own life.

  “Last, we come to defense of property. Everyone has the legal right to defend his, or her, property. It is doubtful that killing is justified to defend a ten-cent paperweight, or even a fifty-dollar hat, but certainly if a woman discovers a burglar in her house at night, and she has no way of knowing what he has taken—or will take—then she has the right to defend her property. And if she shoots at the burglar and kills him, it is not murder!”

  Willard rose to his feet and addressed the judge. “Your Honor,” he interrupted March, “I feel that Mr. March is intruding on the prerogative of the court to instruct the jury at the end of the trial.”

  Cyrus March turned to Judge Raleigh. “I believe that the court is fully able to protect its own prerogatives, Your Honor.”

  Raleigh’s expression was noncommittal. “There is some truth in both of your statements, gentlemen. I will, however, ask Mr. March to conclude this particular trend of his statement.”

  March nodded politely.

  Willard rose and announced, “The state will call Dr. Paul Edwards to the stand.”

  The tall, thin physician walked to the witness stand and stopped. The Clerk stood up and swore him in.

  The D.A. stationed himself a few feet away, facing the witness. “
You will give us your name and occupation, please.”

  “I am Paul Edwards, a duly licensed physician and surgeon.”

  “Are you presently employed?”

  “I am… both in private practice, and as a medical examiner for the coroner of the county of Los Angeles.”

  “How long have you practiced medicine, Dr. Edwards?”

  “Thirty-two years.”

  “Have you had special training in conducting medical autopsies?”

  Before Edwards could reply, March spoke lazily from the defense table, without rising. “The defense stipulates to the fact that Dr. Edwards is an expert witness.” March did not care to prolong the questioning to establish the doctor’s qualifications as it would only lend greater authority to what Edwards would eventually say.

  Willard gave a brief nod to March, then continued to question the doctor. Edwards stated that on April seventeenth, at approximately 2:45 in the morning, he had arrived at apartment 3-A in the Silver Sands. Upon arrival, he had found the body of a woman already dead, later identified as Arthea Simpson. The body was lying face down, feet toward the window, head toward the center of the room.

  The autopsy, according to Dr. Edwards, had revealed the cause of death was a .32 caliber bullet lodged in the left ventricle of the heart, although two other bullets were also present in the body: one entering from the rear into the right shoulder, the other lodged from the front in the chest cavity. The woman had been dead less than an hour when first he had examined her body.

  Willard turned to the judge. “I wish to excuse the witness at this time, but reserve the right to recall him again, later.”

  The judge nodded, but March stood up and interrupted. “If it please the court, I would like to put several questions to the witness before he is excused.”

  “You have the right to cross-examine later,” Willard spoke up.

  “I also have the right to cross-examine now,” March replied.

  “Proceed, Mr. March,” the judge instructed.