In an interview with Dennis Vail, Hollywood optician, this reporter learned that Ivy Lorents had purchased a pair of glasses from his company less than a year ago. According to Mr. Vail’s records, the glasses bought from him, by Ivy Lorents, were to replace a pair which she had broken.
A record kept by the eye specialist disclosed that the prescription ground for Ivy Lorents called for lens of 20/4 in the left eye, and a 20/5 in the right…
March and Taylor had read the story carefully. “Willard will call Vail to testify, and then he’ll probably recall Fletcher again,” March said. “But the point is, about this story, it can be interpreted two ways.”
“It bolsters the fact that Ivy couldn’t have identified the Simpson woman,” Taylor agreed.
“It bolsters it only if we can make the jury believe that Ivy fired from the steps, and unluckily was still able to hit Arthea Simpson.” March shook his head. “I thought about it while I was cross-examining Fletcher, and I decided not to use it for a defense then. Now that the facts are out in the open, we don’t have a choice, any longer.”
March pointed at the newspaper story. “Regardless of what Raleigh may instruct the jury, don’t tell me that one… or more of them… aren’t going to read that. Or hear about it.”
“Sure,” Taylor agreed, “but suppose Willard had dug up that information for himself? If he had presented it first, we’d still have to face it.”
“That’s not the same. The circumstances would be entirely different. The jury would’ve heard it from Willard, and I’d have answered it. As it is now, the jury knows about it, and everyone’s waiting to see what will happen!”
After Taylor had gone, Cyrus March sat at his desk for a long time—fighting the desire to have a drink. His nerves, stretched to tautness by the strain of the day, quivered for relief. The muscles in his jaws were clamped, and they ached as he fought against disaster. Finally, he arose and called down the hall to Taylor. “Bert! For Christ’s sake, let’s go for a walk! And keep me moving, past every lousy bar!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I could feel the swell of interest ripple across the courtroom as Robert Knox took the stand and was sworn in. Knox had not been seated with the other witnesses, and when he was called, he entered the courtroom from the hall. Willard had subpoenaed him for the prosecution, and it was apparent that Knox didn’t like it.
Willard began to carefully extract the information concerning the events of the evening preceding the shooting of Arthea Simpson. Knox testified that he and Ivy had been to the theater, then went to a late supper, and finally returned to her apartment at approximately one o’clock in the morning.
“When you arrived at the Silver Sands, did you go to the door of her apartment?” Willard asked.
“Yes. I went inside the building and to her door. But I didn’t go inside her apartment,” Knox replied. He carefully straightened the black tie against his white shirt.
“Did the defendant appear frightened, or uneasy… as if she might be afraid to go into her apartment?”
“No, sir.” As Knox replied, I made a note. Willard had given me an opening for cross-examination.
“Did Miss Lorents ask you to come inside her apartment?”
“She may have… I don’t remember.”
“Wouldn’t you have liked to have gone inside her apartment?” asked Willard. Although I could have objected to it, I preferred to have Knox answer the question.
“Ordinarily… yes, but I had to get up early the next morning. It was getting late.” Knox stared down his finely-bridged nose at the prosecutor.
I could see Willard pause. The witness was becoming balky. After a moment, the prosecutor reached a decision and continued. “Weren’t you engaged to marry Miss Lorents?”
“No, sir,” Knox told him firmly.
“Hadn’t you asked her to marry you?”
“Not exactly.”
Willard’s tone became curt. “You mean to tell this jury that you hadn’t discussed marriage with Ivy Lorents?”
“Certainly we discussed it.” Knox remained cold and unruffled. “But discussing marriage can cover a number of different… ah, points.…”
Raleigh leaned forward. “This court will not tolerate evasiveness,” he warned the witness.
Knox nodded silently. Willard continued, “In your discussion of marriage did you arrive at any decision as to when the marriage would take place?”
“Only vaguely. Until I had completed my studies, marriage was out of the question.”
“Did you lead Ivy Lorents to believe that you would marry her?”
“She may have received that impression. I don’t know what she thought.”
Willard frowned in irritation. Again he faced the witness. “Had you discussed any forthcoming marriage with your parents… your family?”
“Probably. One naturally would, I suppose.”
“Was your family in favor of your marrying Ivy Lorents?”
“I don’t recall especially.”
Willard glared at Knox. “If you don’t give a reasonable response to my questions, I’ll subpoena your family to appear here and testify under oath to the questions I’m asking you!” Willard swallowed his anger. “Now, I’ll ask you again. Was your family in favor of your marrying Ivy Lorents?”
“I didn’t particularly discuss the subject at that time.”
“Because you sensed… knew your parents would object to your marriage.”
“I don’t know about Mr. Knox’s parents objecting,” I stood up, “but I certainly object to Mr. Willard’s question!” I sat down.
Willard’s lip curled in an attempt at a smile. “Amusing, Mr. March…” He turned back to Knox. “You didn’t press the subject, then?” Knox nodded. “If you didn’t press the subject, why didn’t you? You were in love with the defendant, and had given her the impression that you would marry her.”
“I didn’t want a scene. I didn’t force the issue, so to speak. I felt that after graduation, my family would be more receptive to the idea,” Knox replied with an air of boredom.
“Had your family met Ivy Lorents?”
“Yes, on occasion.”
“And you thought that they would give you permission to marry her after your graduation?”
“I didn’t need their permission,” Knox’s voice was cold, “although I should’ve liked their approval.”
“Without your family’s approval, certain inheritances which you expect might be withheld?”
“Possibly. I don’t know.”
“But if there was any scandal… any departure from your fiancée’s normal behavior… an unpleasant reputation…”
“That’s enough! And you know it!” I told Willard.
“I agree,” Raleigh ruled.
Willard shrugged. “All right, Mr. Knox. At one time you were tentatively planning to marry Ivy Lorents?”
“Possibly.”
“Are you still planning to marry her?”
“No.”
Willard glanced at the jury. Their faces told him that they had not missed his point. Turning back to Knox, he asked, “Did you ever meet the deceased woman… Arthea Simpson?”
“Yes. Several times.”
“Did you like her… as a person?”
“No.”
“Did you approve of her?”
“No.”
“Would you have objected to Arthea Simpson ever becoming a close, or an intimate friend, of your fiancée?” Willard clung terrier-like to his questioning.
Knox shifted his weight in the chair. He shot a cuff. “Yes.”
“You would have broken off your engagement, because of Arthea Simpson?”
Knox struggled for a reply. Finally, he simply said, “Yes.”
Triumphantly, Willard turned over the cross-examination to me.
While I had been listening to the last of Willard’s direct examination, I had sensed that Knox was wilting—his early aggressiveness had disappeared. It was almost as if the
man now was anxious to have his appearance over and completed. I began my questioning sympathetically, and after Knox had admitted to a slightly greater possibility of time elapsing before their return to Ivy’s apartment, we entered the important opening inadvertently left by Willard. “Now, Mr. Knox,” I said, glancing at my notes, “Mr. Willard asked you… I’ll quote: ‘Did the defendant (that’s Miss Lorents) appear frightened or uneasy… as if she might be afraid to go into the apartment?’ Do you remember that?” Knox nodded agreement. “And you replied, ‘No, sir.’” I folded the note and slipped it in my pocket. “You remember saying that, too?”
“I remember.”
“All right. Now that night, Miss Lorents did not appear frightened nor uneasy, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Had she any reason to be frightened or uneasy?”
“I don’t know…” Knox’s glance evaded mine.
“Did Miss Lorents ever tell you that she had been threatened by anonymous phone calls?” I had decided to take the plunge, and Willard was immediately on his feet.
“That question is not in keeping with the line established by testimony!” Willard appealed to Raleigh.
“Your Honor,” I pointed out, “Mr. Willard opened up this line when he asked regarding the defendant’s actions of that night. He, himself, inquired if she appeared frightened or uneasy.”
“I think I agree with you, Mr. March,” the court replied.
Knox had been listening to the argument; seated silently, he kept his gaze focused at some point on the floor. I could only guess at his emotions. Had Ivy told him about the phone calls? Did he really remember? I could only guess. I repeated the question.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Knox nodded “Yes,” he said, “she told me that someone… had called her…”
I moved slightly, and I could see Ivy staring intently, breath held; then as if sensing my glance, she relaxed, and a slight smile touched the corners of her lips. “Miss Lorents told you that she did not know who called?”
“She said she didn’t know.”
“But the person threatened her?”
“Yes.”
“And this person called a number of times?”
Abruptly, Robert Knox’s gaze found my face. The anguish in his eyes surprised me. My god! I thought, doesn’t he remember?… Is he making this up to help Ivy? I shoved the idea aside and ventured one additional question. “So, with the anonymous phone calls, which threatened her bodily harm, the defendant had reason to be frightened… even if she didn’t show it?”
Knox nodded. Finally, he said, “Yes, sir.” He swallowed, then added, “She was very frightened.”
He is still in love with Ivy! I knew it, suddenly. Knox’s coldness, his disregard, were merely to cover up his own emotions—torn by his obligations both to his calling and his family. I felt a sudden sympathy for him.
“Did you arrange to hire my services in behalf of Miss Lorents in her time of trouble?” I asked him gently.
“Yes, sir.” Knox straightened his shoulders.
“And you arranged that she would also have financial help?”
“Yes, sir.” Knox smiled at me. The smile was lingering on his lips when I dismissed him from the stand.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Joe Willard called the optician, Dennis Vail, to give his testimony to the jury. Since the appearance of the newspaper story by Jack Barker, March had been expecting Vail to be called. Vail, a precise, dry man, answered Willard’s questions in a matter-of-fact manner, and added few new facts to those already known. From his records, Vail gave the dates of Ivy’s visits to his shop, the prescription specified for the lens, and the price paid. Under direct examination by Willard, Vail testified that the formula for the lenses indicated the person wearing them as being extremely nearsighted. He also stated that Ivy Lorents put on the glasses and wore them from his shop.
March made no effort to cross-examine the optician. There was little that the attorney could do to alter Vail’s testimony, and March preferred not to belabor the facts.
In quick succession, Willard ordered back to the witness stand, for re-direct examination, Officer Apfel, Detective Ringow, and Dr. Edwards, of the M.E.’s office. Each testified that Ivy Lorents had not been wearing glasses the night of the shooting.
On cross-examination of these last three witnesses, March drew the admission that they did not know if the defendant had been wearing glasses before their arrival at her apartment.
Willard then recalled Allen Fletcher, the gun and ballistics expert. With the testimony regarding Ivy Lorents’ glasses in the record, the D.A. proceeded to question the probability of the defendant, with four-twenty vision, placing three shots within a foot square area at a distance of thirty feet. The witness testified that the odds were exceedingly great.
March had also anticipated the reappearance of Fletcher, and seemingly paid only slight attention to the expert’s testimony. The attorney had decided not to cross-examine Fletcher again, believing that it was better to leave the memory of the first cross-examination with the jury. In his summation, March would refer to it… and the published newspaper odds… at length. Meanwhile, however, March was aware of new activity at the prosecution table.
Gerald Fuhrman, Willard’s assistant, glanced repeatedly at the clock, and twice sent a clerk to the corridor outside the courtroom. Each time, the clerk returned alone, and spoke hurriedly, under his breath, to Fuhrman. March sensed that the prosecution was expecting a new witness. And it also seemed apparent that Willard placed importance on the witness’ appearance. After a third trip to the hall, the clerk returned accompanied by a portly, well-dressed man, with gray hair and a trim white mustache. Fuhrman rose politely to shake hands with the newcomer, while Willard drew his examination of Fletcher to a conclusion.
March leaned over to speak to Taylor. “Have you any idea who he is?” he asked, glancing in the direction of the gray-haired stranger.
“No,” Taylor told him.
“We’ll soon find out.” Grimly, March sat back in his chair. When he refused the cross-examination of Fletcher, Willard called the new witness to the stand.
“My name is Benjamin J. Curtis,” he said, after seating himself.
“What is your occupation, Mr. Curtis?” asked Willard.
“I am a vice-president of the Bank of Southern California, the Hollywood branch.”
Willard established that Curtis had known Arthea Simpson personally—as a large depositor in his bank, and was also familiar with her account.
“Do you also have a record of anyone who cashed or endorsed checks drawn against Miss Simpson’s account?”
“Yes, sir. We use a Recordopix, which takes a copy of both sides of the checks.” Willard walked to the state’s table, where a small slide projector had been set up.
The prosecutor projected the large image of a check on a screen, at an angle visible to the jury. “Can you identify this check?” Willard asked Curtis.
The banker nodded. “It is a personal check, written by Arthea Simpson, on August twelfth, last, to the amount of three hundred and fifty dollars, payable to Ivy Lorents.”
Willard flicked a button on the machine, and beside the image of the face of the check, there appeared a section of the back, with a handwritten signature of endorsement. “What is the name of the person who endorsed the check?” asked Willard.
“The name is Ivy Lorents,” the witness replied, staring at the screen, then looking at Ivy who ignored his glance.
Methodically, Willard introduced five other checks, over March’s continuing objections, for the amounts of $200.00, $475.00, $650.00, and $1,000.00. The checks, all signed by Arthea Simpson and payable to Ivy Lorents, had been issued at approximately two-month intervals over a period of one year. The total of the checks was $2,675.00.
By the time the last check had been introduced, and the total amount established, it was late in the afternoon, and Raleigh adjourned the court until the following mo
rning. Silent, wordless, Ivy returned to her hotel. March remained seated in the emptying courtroom for some time.
Curtis’ testimony had struck a damaging blow at March’s defense. He staggered under the effect of it. The surprise of the checks forced March to assess Ivy’s story anew. Having placed his belief in her story, March could not forsake this faith without forfeiting his love for her. For Cyrus March, the warm smile on the moist lips of Ivy Lorents had replaced the cool smile on the marble lips of justice.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It was after six when I knocked on the door of Ivy’s room at the Claymore. The liquor inside me burned hotly. I’d had it! I could feel the fumes scorching my brain and inflaming my mind, but I no longer gave a damn! I intended to tell Ivy that I was resigning from the case, and—like it or not—she could find herself another lawyer. I’d had enough of her lies and evasions.
And yet I was fighting a lonesome voice from deep down in the roots of my guts which told me that a person can’t stop loving as quickly as this. It kept repeating that I’d be sorry, but I patted the partly filled bottle in my pocket for reassurance—and then the door was opened. Lydia Gorham stood there, and I could see her flinch when she received the full benefit of my whisky bouquet. She stared at me for a long time, then she dropped her shoulders and said very quietly, “Ivy is lying down.”
I stepped inside the door, pushing past Lydia. “I want to talk to her.”
“Not now…” Lydia’s face tightened. “Talk to her later.”
Lydia’s opposition simply fanned my anger higher. “Get out,” I told her. “I’ve things to say to… my client—now!”
“No. Not like this.”
I grabbed Lydia by the arm and shoved her out the door, then slammed it, and the door locked. Turning, I walked through the empty living room to the bedroom. Inside, Ivy was lying on the bed—her face still and frozen, her eyes wide with fright. She had taken off her clothes, or at least most of them, and was wearing a light gown wrapped around her. When I came through the doorway she didn’t move, and for some reason this made me angrier. I hauled the whisky bottle out of my pocket and slammed it down on the dresser. “Say something!” I ordered her.
Not I, Said the Vixen Page 17