by Parnell Hall
Fitzpatrick leaned back in his chair, ran his hand through his curly white hair. “You know,” he said, “I have to admit, I liked it. The Harding case, I mean. Being in court. The whole thing. Not the sort of thing I want to do every day, but it sure was a kick.
“Oh course, that was a lot different. I was the original lawyer on the case, and then you came in. This case, it’s the other way around. Not that I mind playing second fiddle, but I’d still like to play something.”
“What do you mean?”
Fitzpatrick smiled. “I know why you’re here. I knew the minute you walked in the door. Hell, I knew before you came.” He shook his head. “Look, if you really needed help, it would be one thing. But I know you. I’ve seen you in court. You need my help like you need a hole in the head.
“Look, I’m not the greatest trial lawyer in the world. Hell, I’m not even a trial lawyer. In point of fact, I haven’t been back in court since our last case.
“And now you’re in here, asking me without actually asking me if I’d like to work with you again.
“If I could do something, yeah. But to be a prop. An ornament. That’s all I’d be, wouldn’t I? I mean, that’s the situation here. The girl’s got a credibility problem. You need some conservative old fart like me to sit next to her and lend an air of respectability.
“I mean, that’s all you really want me for, isn’t it?”
Steve grinned at Fitzpatrick. “Not at all.”
26.
DISTRICT ATTORNEY HARRY DIRKSON was nervous.
It wasn’t because the courtroom was jammed, with every available seat taken—Dirkson was a veteran campaigner, he’d played to packed houses before. And it wasn’t because the case was a political bombshell, what with the girl typing nude—though surely that was part of it. No, what made Dirkson nervous was one frail old man, sitting dead center on the aisle in the second row. A pale, emaciated elderly man who somehow radiated more power that anyone else in the courtroom. Milton Castleton would be watching his every move. It was enough to make even an experienced prosecutor like Harry Dirkson self-conscious.
Dirkson didn’t show it though. It was with every appearance of confidence and poise that he rose to make his opening argument. He strode into the middle of the courtroom, acknowledged the judge and the jurors, then stood there a moment, waiting until he was sure he had everyone’s attention.
“What is the oldest motivation in the world?” Dirkson said. He glanced around the courtroom, as if looking for an answer. “Is it greed?” He shook his head. “No. It’s not greed. It’s not lust, either. It’s not jealousy and it’s not even hatred. So what is it?” Dirkson glanced around one more time, as if the question were not rhetorical. Then he held up one finger. “Revenge. That is the primal motive. Revenge. Take the lowliest creature—if you strike at it, it will strike back. ‘The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on.’ Shakespeare was right. Revenge is the basic, instinctual motivation. You hurt me, I hurt you. Revenge.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that is the motive we expect to lay before you in this case.”
Dirkson paused, looked around again. He seemed to switch gears, dropping the ponderous, oratorical tone and swinging into his no-nonsense, hard-line-prosecutor mode. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we expect to prove that on the night of June twenty-eighth, the defendant, Kelly Clay Wilder, murdered the decedent, David Castleton, by shooting him in the heart with a loaded gun.
“And why did she do this, ladies and gentlemen of the jury? She did it for revenge. We expect to show that Kelly Clay Wilder’s brother, one Herbert Clay, was a bookkeeper with Castleton Industries. His immediate superior in the company was none other than David Castleton. We expect to show that Herbert Clay embezzled over one hundred thousand dollars from Castleton Industries and was subsequently arrested and sent to jail for that crime. We expect to show that because of this, and out of devotion for her brother, the defendant, Kelly Clay Wilder, developed a deep-seated resentment against Castleton Industries in general and against David Castleton in particular.
“There was no basis for this resentment. It was not rational. Castleton Industries was the victim, not her brother. He tried to steal from them, got caught, and went to jail. Surely, that could not be considered Castleton Industries’ fault. It is not rational. But we expect to show that the defendant, Kelly Clay Wilder, is not an entirely rational woman. In her somewhat warped opinion, her brother had been wronged, the one who wronged him was Castleton Industries, so she proceeded to exact her revenge.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, the manner in which she did so is so bizarre that it defies comprehension. When you hear it, you will say, ‘No, it cannot be,’ but I assure you, these things are facts and can be proven.
“The first thing Kelly Clay Wilder did in her plot for revenge was to attempt to insinuate her way into Castleton Industries. Now, the founder and head of Castleton Industries, Milton Castleton, is presently retired, but was still the active head of the company two years ago when Herbert Clay was found guilty of embezzlement. So he and David Castleton were the two men Kelly Clay Wilder would blame most for her brother’s imprisonment.
“Her first target was Milton Castleton. The defendant, Kelly Clay Wilder, learned that Milton Castleton was writing his memoirs and employing secretaries to type them. So she applied for the job.”
Dirkson paused and took a breath. “It turned out to be a peculiar job. Milton Castleton’s secretaries typed nude.” Dirkson paused and looked around. He did a good job of it. There was not a trace of amusement on his face. He looked as solemn as could be.
Dirkson nodded gravely. “That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. You heard me correctly. Nude. Naked.”
Dirkson turned and pointed at the defendant, just in case any of the jurors had missed the point. Not that any of them had. In point of fact, Dirkson noted with some satisfaction, they were all looking at her already.
“When Kelly Clay Wilder applied for the job, she learned that if she got it she would be required to sit naked at her word processor while she did her typing.”
“Did that dissuade her from taking the job? No, it did not. She took it. She came in to work every day. And she took off her clothes. And she walked around her office naked. And she sat at her typewriter naked. And she typed naked. From nine o’clock in the morning till five o’clock at night when she went home.”
Dirkson paused and looked over at Kelly Wilder. “Now, you might ask yourself, why would a young woman do such a thing? The answer is simple. Revenge. It was the first step in her campaign of revenge. And how did she enact that revenge? Simple. After a few weeks of parading around naked, she quit her job, hurled an accusation of sexual harassment against her employer, Milton Castleton, and finagled a settlement of fifty thousand dollars from him.”
Dirkson shook his head. “Fifty thousand dollars. Surely a fair price for walking around naked, don’t you think? Had any other woman done it, you would have to consider it extortion. But for the sister of Herbert Clay, it would be considered revenge.
“But the revenge wasn’t sweet enough. We expect to show that shortly after receiving her settlement, Kelly Clay Wilder began placing phone calls to Milton Castleton, implying that through her employment she had learned industrial secrets about Castleton Industries, which she would reveal unless Milton Castleton acceded to her wishes.
“And what did she want? What was it that she demanded?” Dirkson held up his finger. “Nothing less than a private meeting with Milton Castleton. One to one. Somewhere away from his apartment.”
Dirkson shook his head. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, there is little doubt what would have happened had he acceded to that request. But as it was, ill health prevented him from even considering such a proposal. Instead, and to his great regret, he sent his grandson in his place.
“What happened then, ladies and gentlemen? Well, the facts are all too clear, and we shall lay them out for you. We expect to show that at approximatel
y seven o’clock on the evening of June twenty-eighth, the decedent, David Castleton, met the defendant, Kelly Clay Wilder, at a singles bar on Third Avenue, that they left the bar almost immediately and took a taxi uptown to a small Italian restaurant and had a long and leisurely dinner. This fact will be attested to by both the waiter and the maître d’. Both knew David Castleton by sight—this was a favorite restaurant of his, he dined there often. And both the waiter and the maitre d’ will positively identify the defendant, Kelly Clay Wilder, as the young woman who dined with David Castleton that night.
“You will hear the testimony of the cab driver who picked up David Castleton and Kelly Clay Wilder outside the restaurant at approximately ten-twenty that evening. We will introduce his trip sheet, on which is recorded in his own handwriting the destination, which recorded not only the street, but also the actual address of David Castleton’s apartment. We shall show beyond a shadow of a doubt that the decedent, David Castleton, and the defendant, Kelly Clay Wilder, returned to David Castleton’s apartment at approximately ten-thirty on the night of the murder.”
Dirkson spread his arms. “What happened next is up to you to infer. This is a case of circumstantial evidence. Most murder cases are. What that means is that there is no eyewitness to the crime. No one saw Kelly Clay Wilder actually shoot David Castleton. This is not unusual. Murderers don’t usually shoot their victims when someone is watching. Therefore, most murder cases must be proved by circumstantial evidence.”
Dirkson smiled and shook his head. “Well, I doubt if the circumstances have ever been more overwhelming than they are in this case. As I already started, we will show that David Castleton and Kelly Clay Wilder returned to his apartment at ten-thirty on the evening of the murder. We will show by the testimony of the medical examiner that David Castleton met his death sometime between the hours of eleven and twelve o’clock that night. We will show that he died of a single bullet fired into his heart. We will show that the murder gun, the gun that fired the fatal bullet, was left behind, next to the body.”
Dirkson paused, raised his finger. “Again, not an unusual circumstance. Most murderers leave the gun. No one wants to be caught with the murder weapon in their possession.”
Dirkson smiled. “However, in this instance, leaving the murder weapon there was a big mistake. See, Kelly Clay Wilder must have figured that it was what we refer to as a cold piece—that is, that it was an illegal, unregistered gun that could never be traced. Unfortunately for her, this is not the case. We will be able to show that the murder weapon was indeed duly licensed and registered. And who was the gun purchased by, licensed and registered to? None other than the defendant’s brother, Herbert Clay.”
Dirkson shrugged his shoulders, spread his hands wide. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I don’t want to insult your intelligence by pointing out what all these facts mean. It is very simple. We have a young woman hell-bent on revenge. So obsessed with the idea of revenge, that she was willing to run around naked in order to extort money from Milton Castleton, head of Castleton Industries, and subsequently set up an assignation and murder his grandson, David Castleton.
“We shall prove all these things beyond a reasonable doubt, and we shall expect a verdict of guilty at your hands.”
Dirkson bowed to the jury and sat down. As he did, a low murmur broke out in the courtroom.
Judge Wallingsford silenced it with his gavel.
Dirkson grinned. He couldn’t have drawn a better judge for this case. Wallingsford was an older judge, stern, severe, and quick with the gavel. He would brook no nonsense in his courtroom. Moreover, his judicial impartiality notwithstanding, Wallingsford’s cold, disapproving appearance implied a high moral tone, which would only serve to point up the defendant’s improprieties. All in all, Dirkson could not have done better.
Judge Wallingsford glanced over at the defense table, where Kelly Clay Wilder sat flanked by Steve Winslow, dressed as usual in corduroy jacket and jeans, and Harold Fitzpatrick, as usual the model of propriety in his three-piece suit. “Does the defense wish to make an opening statement?”
Fitzpatrick stood up. “The defense does, Your Honor.”
Dirkson smiled again. No surprise that Fitzpatrick would be handling the opening statement. That’s what he’d been hired for. To match Dirkson’s high moral tone and try to clothe the defendant in a cloak of respectability. In Dirkson’s mind, it was a hollow tactic, and one that wasn’t particularly going to work. So he was pleased to see the defense trying it.
Fitzpatrick walked out into the middle of the courtroom. Indeed, he looked just as solemn as Dirkson had, a frown of disapproval on his brow. Dirkson knew what would come next would be a weighty, ponderous argument.
Fitzpatrick did indeed begin slowly and ponderously. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said. “I just heard District Attorney Harry Dirkson’s opening statement, and I have to tell you it is the most unusual opening argument I have ever heard.” His disapproving frown gave way to one of puzzlement. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard the word naked used so often. I wasn’t counting, so I can’t tell you exactly how many times Harry Dirkson used the word naked, but I do know this— he used the word naked more times than he used the word murder.” Fitzpatrick shook his head. “Well, that’s mighty strange. From the opening argument, it would seem this defendant was charged not with the crime of murder, but with the crime of being naked.”
Fitzpatrick held up his hands. “Well, I would just like to set the record straight on this point. We do not wish to contest the allegation that the defendant typed naked. She did. There is no question about it. She typed naked. Stark naked. Nude. Boffo. In the buff.”
Fitzpatrick paused and glanced around the courtroom. Everyone, including Harry Dirkson, was staring at him incredulously. Dirkson’s mouth was actually open.
Fitzpatrick held his hands wide and looked around. He was smiling, and he looked not so much an attorney than a vaudeville hoofer about to take off on a buck-and-wing. “You all got that?” he said. “I know Harry Dirkson did his best to hammer it in, but I want to make sure there’s no mistake. The defendant typed naked. Absolutely naked.” He held up one finger. “And what’s more, when she was naked, she didn’t have any clothes on.”
Fitzpatrick smiled, glanced around again. “Everybody got that? I want to make sure everybody got that. I want to be very clear on this point.” Fitzpatrick wheeled around, pointed his finger at Kelly Clay Wilder. “I’m going to ask the defendant to stand up and take her clothes off. Miss Wilder, would you please stand up—”
“Objection!” Dirkson thundered. He lunged to his feet. “Your Honor, I—”
Judge Wallingsford’s gavel cut him off. Simultaneously, a roar erupted in the courtroom, as the spectators, who had been stunned by what Fitzpatrick had said, all began talking at once. Judge Wallingsford banged the gavel furiously, shouted for order, but it was several seconds before the courtroom quieted down.
“That will do,” Judge Wallingsford said. His face was iron and his eyes were blazing. “Let the spectators be warned. Another such outburst, and I will clear this courtroom.” He shifted his eyes to glare down at Fitzpatrick. “Attorneys, I will see you in my chambers. Now.”
With that he got up and stalked from the courtroom.
27.
JUDGE WALLINGSFORD WAS CONTROLLING HIMSELF with a great effort. “Mr. Fitzpatrick,” he said. “I must say I would not have expected this sort of behavior from so conservative and respected a member of the bar.”
Fitzpatrick played it well—polite and deferential, but still cool and unperturbed. “I beg your pardon, Your Honor,” he said, “but to what do you refer?”
Judge Wallingsford nearly gagged. “What?” he sputtered. “To what do I refer? You just stood up in my courtroom and asked the woman you are defending to take her clothes off.”
“Oh, that,” Fitzpatrick said.
Judge Wallingsford took a breath. “Mr. Fitzpatrick,
are you trying to infuriate me?”
“Not at all, Your Honor. But I don’t see what the commotion is all about. District Attorney Harry Dirkson is the one who brought up the matter of the defendant being nude. He mentioned it several times. He took great pains to emphasize the point.”
“Which he has every right to do,” Judge Wallingsford snapped. “And you have every right to emphasize the points you wish to emphasize in your opening argument. But you went beyond that. You asked the defendant to stand up and take her clothes off.”
“Only to make a point, Your Honor.”
“You’re not supposed to be making points. At least, not in that manner. You’re supposed to be stating what you intend to prove. This is a courtroom, not a sideshow. I won’t put up with such theatrics.”
Dirkson, who had been fuming on the sidelines, could control himself no longer. “It’s not him, Your Honor,” he said irritably. He pointed to Steve Winslow. “He put him up to it. It’s a typical Steve Winslow stunt. This whole thing is pure Winslow.”
Judge Wallingsford turned to Steve Winslow. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”
“I resent Mr. Dirkson’s remarks, Your Honor,” Steve said. “Fitzpatrick and I are co-counsel, and naturally we have conferred on strategy. I find the phrase ‘put him up to it’ offensive, and I’m sure Mr. Fitzpatrick does too.”
Judge Wallingsford frowned. “That is not the point. I must say, I find your attitude irritating at best. At worst, it borders on contempt of court. I hope I make myself clear. I do not intend to put up with this sort of nonsense in my courtroom.”
“Begging Your Honor’s pardon,” Steve said, “but I don’t think you ever ruled on the objection.”
“What?”
“Mr. Dirkson’s objection. Mr. Fitzpatrick was making his opening statement, Dirkson objected, you cut him off and ordered us in here. You never ruled on the objection. In fact, I don’t believe Mr. Dirkson ever finished making it. So I’m not clear what the grounds for his objection are.”