by Parnell Hall
“Son of a bitch!” Dirkson snapped.
“Mr. Dirkson, that will do,” Judge Wallingsford said. “Mr. Winslow, your attitude is insolent and borders on contempt of court. You know perfectly well what’s going on here. Mr. Dirkson has objected to outrageous behavior which has no place in the courtroom. His objection will be sustained. And I hereby serve notice that if you-persist along these lines, I will find you in contempt of court.”
“Noted, Your Honor. But if we could please clarify this one point. I assume this applies only to the suggestion that our client take her clothes off, and not to anything else. Specifically, not to any remarks Mr. Fitzpatrick made conceding that the defendant did indeed type nude. Especially since those remarks were only replying to allegations made by District Attorney Harry Dirkson in his opening statement.”
“Certainly,” Judge Wallingsford said. “As offensive as those remarks might be, the door was certainly open for them and they may stand. But I would hope this will be the end of that particular issue.”
“So would I, Your Honor,” Steve said. “Then the only bone of contention here is the suggestion the defendant take her clothes off?”
“That’s right.”
“Fine,” Steve said. “Then if Mr. Fitzpatrick agrees, we will withdraw that suggestion, rendering the matter moot. Is that acceptable to you, Fitzpatrick?”
“Absolutely. Your Honor, I hereby withdraw that remark and tender my apologies to the court.”
“Very well,” Judge Wallingsford said. “Then, gentlemen, if we could proceed.”
“I trust Your Honor will explain the situation to the jury,” Steve said.
“Naturally,” Judge Wallingsford said.
“Will you explain to them that the defendant is not going to take her clothes off because District Attorney Harry Dirkson doesn’t want them to see that?”
Judge Wallingsford opened his mouth. His lip quivered. He attempted to fight back a smile but was unsuccessful. He chuckled, then shook his head angrily. “Damn it,” he said. “Mr. Dirkson, I apologize. There is nothing funny about this. It is a murder trial. Let’s try to get on with it.” He glared at Fitzpatrick. “And I warn you, any more theatrics will be considered contempt of court.”
With that he turned and stalked out of his chambers.
Dirkson glared at Winslow and Fitzpatrick, then turned and followed him.
In front of Judge Wallingsford, Fitzpatrick had looked positively contrite. But as they followed the judge and the D.A. out of chambers, Fitzpatrick nudged Steve Winslow in the ribs, leaned over and whispered, “Most fun I’ve had in years.”
28.
THE NEW YORK POST and the Daily News both had the headline, “TAKE HER CLOTHES OFF!” The New York Times had a small paragraph in section two.
Steve Winslow, Mark Taylor and Tracy Garvin read the papers the next morning in a small coffee shop near the courthouse.
“Not bad,” Taylor said.
“The coffee or the coverage?” Steve asked.
“The coverage, of course. The coffee sucks.”
Steve took a sip, grimaced. “No argument here. What do you think of the press?”
“Obnoxiously sexist,” Tracy said.
“No argument on that either. That’s what it is.”
“It may be sexist, but it sure is funny,” Taylor said.
“No it isn’t,” Tracy said. “Here’s a young woman on trial for murder, and everyone’s making fun of her.”
“That’s true,” Steve said.
“So what’s the point?”
“Overkill.”
“What?”
“The press knows she typed nude, the public knows she typed nude, the jurors know she typed nude. Everyone knows she typed nude. There’s nothing we can do about that. The only thing to do is overplay it until it becomes boring and everyone forgets about it.”
“Fat chance on that,” Taylor said.
“You know what I mean,” Steve said. “The fact is, if we sat on this and tried to fight it, it would titillate the jury and drag out through the whole trial. So we have a big splash now, get it out of our system and get on to other things.”
“Such as?” Taylor said.
Steve frowned. “That’s the problem. The prosecution has a case. We don’t.”
“Any more surprises planned?”
Steve shook his head. “Nope. That was it. From here on in it will depend on what Dirkson throws at us.” He jerked his thumb at the headlines. “I knew this was coming, so I had it in the bag.”
“How come Fitzpatrick did it and not you?” Tracy asked.
“That was the whole point,” Steve said. “Dirkson would expect this from me. It’s the sort of thing I’d pull. From Fitzpatrick he wouldn’t have a clue. Besides, coming from me it wouldn’t have meant anything. Typical Winslow trick—of course I’d say that. But respectable, dignified Fitzpatrick standing out there in his three-piece suit—well, from him it really made a splash.”
“I’ll say.”
“Well, eat up,” Steve said. “I wouldn’t want to be late for court. I can’t wait to see what Dirkson throws at us next.”
29.
FOR HIS FIRST WITNESS DIRKSON called Joyce Wilkens, David Castleton’s cleaning lady, who testified to coming to work at nine o’clock, letting herself in with a key as was her custom and finding him lying dead on the floor. She then called the police and waited for them to arrive.
Fitzpatrick held a whispered conference with Steve Winslow, then took her on cross-examination.
“Miss Wilkens, you say you called the police?”
“That’s right.”
“How?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Where did you call them from? What phone did you use?”
“From there. The phone in the apartment.”
“So you handled the phone in the apartment?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Did you touch anything else in the apartment?”
“No.”
“While you waited for the police to arrive, where were you?”
“There.”
“In the apartment?”
“Yes.”
“And while you were waiting for them to arrive, are you sure you didn’t do anything? Start straightening up from force of habit?”
“No, I did not.”
Fitzpatrick nodded. “I see. Now, you say the body was that of David Castleton?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know?”
The witness stared at Fitzpatrick. “I saw him. I saw the body.”
“Yes, Miss Wilkens,” Fitzpatrick said. “But the point I’m making is, how did you know who the body was?”
“He’s the man I work for.”
“I see. Tell me, how long have you worked for David Castleton?”
“Oh, must be two years now.”
“How often did you work for him?”
“Once a week.”
“You came in once a week to clean for the past two years?”
“That’s right.”
“I see,” Fitzpatrick said. “And on that particular morning you arrived at nine o’clock and let yourself in with a key, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Was that unusual, or do you always do that?”
“I always do that.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I have to get in. By nine o’clock David Castleton has left for work.”
“I see. So you get there at nine o’clock. And what time do you go home?”
“Four o’clock.”
“Is David Castleton home then?”
“No.”
“Then how do you get paid?”
“He leaves money in the foyer for me.”
“I see. So when you’re finished, you take your money, lock up and go home, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“I see,” Fitzpatrick said. “Miss Wilkens, I ask you again, how did you know the body was that o
f David Castleton?”
“I told you. I recognized him.”
“How? According to your testimony, you’ve never seen him. You arrive after he leaves for work and leave before he gets home. When did you ever see him?”
“I saw him when he hired me.”
“When he hired you?”
“Yes.”
“That was two years ago?”
“That’s right.”
“Have you ever seen him since?”
The witness hesitated. “I think there was once when he was home sick.”
“You think?”
“No. I remember. There was a time he was home sick.”
“You saw him then?”
“Yes. I remember, he was sick in bed. He told me to skip his bedroom, he wasn’t feeling well, he just wanted to be left alone.”
“I see. So you left him alone?”
“That’s right.”
“And that’s the only occasion you can recall seeing him since he hired you?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
For his next witness, Dirkson called Walter Burke, a radio patrol officer who testified to responding to a report of a possible homicide at 190 East 74th Street.
“And what did you find?” Dirkson asked.
“I found the body of a white male, some twenty-five to thirty years of age, lying face down in a pool of blood. There was a gun lying next to the body.”
“What did you do?”
“Checked for signs of life.”
“Were there any?”
“There were none.”
“So what did you do?”
“Radioed for EMS and a Crime Scene Unit.”
“That’s all.”
The defense did not cross-examine.
Next up was Detective Oswald of the Crime Scene Unit. He testified to arriving at the apartment and photographing the deceased, and a series of eight-by-ten photographs was duly marked for identification, shown to the witness, and received into evidence.
Dirkson next called Harold Kessington, who proved to be the medical examiner. Dr. Kessington was a tall, thin man with no chin and a lot of Adam’s apple. He had a rather cheerful disposition for someone who dealt so often with death, and seemed quite comfortable on the witness stand.
“And what time did you arrive at the apartment, Doctor?” Dirkson asked.
“Approximately nine forty-five.”
“Can you be more precise?”
Kessington shook his head. “No. I can tell you it was after nine-forty, and I can tell you it was before nine-fifty—that I know for sure. But the exact minute I can’t give you. But it was approximately nine forty-five.”
“And what did you find?”
“I found the body of the decedent lying face down on the floor.”
“Did you examine him at the time?”
“Of course.”
“Was he alive?”
“He was dead.”
“And what examination did you make at that time?”
Dr. Kessington smiled. “Only a very preliminary one. I determined the man was dead, and determined he had been dead for some time.”
“How could you tell that?”
“The body had cooled considerably, and the blood on the floor had coagulated.”
“I see. Did those factors tell you the time of death?”
“Oh, absolutely not. I told you this was very preliminary.”
“Did you later determine the time of death?”
“Yes, of course.”
“When was that?”
“After the body had been removed to the morgue. When I did my autopsy.”
“When was that?”
“At ten-thirty that morning.”
“Which was approximately forty-five minutes after you initially saw the body?”
“That’s right.”
“And what did you determine in your autopsy?”
“The decedent met his death due to a bullet wound to the heart.”
“A bullet wound?”
“That is correct. The bullet had entered the body through the decedent’s chest and had penetrated the left ventricle.”
“That was the sole cause of death?”
“Yes, it was.”
“I see. And was the bullet still in the body when you performed your autopsy?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Did you remove that bullet from the body?”
“Yes, I did.”
Dirkson took a small plastic bag from the prosecution table, had it marked for identification, and handed it to the witness. “Doctor, I hand you a plastic bag marked People’s Exhibit Two, and ask you if you recognize it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What do you recognize it to be?”
“This is a plastic bag containing the bullet that I removed from the body of the decedent. I scratched the initial K for Kessington, on the base of the bullet. You can see the scratches right here.”
“Thank you, Doctor. This is the bullet that you extracted from the body, the bullet that was the sole cause of death of the decedent, David Castleton?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Steve Winslow said.
Judge Wallingsford frowned. “Objection? Very well. Let’s have a sidebar.”
Fitzpatrick flashed Steve Winslow a glance of inquiry. Steve shook his head slightly, indicating let’s not discuss it here, and motioned toward the sidebar. Fitzpatrick got up, and he and Steve Winslow walked over to meet Judge Wallingsford, who had come down from his bench.
Dirkson bustled up, looking miffed. “What are you objecting to?” he demanded.
“The question is leading and suggestive,” Steve said. “And assumes facts not in evidence.”
“What?” Dirkson said, incredulously.
Judge Wallingsford held up his hand. “One moment,” he said. “Let me handle this. Mr. Winslow, I have to agree with the district attorney. The question might technically be considered leading, but all the facts he summarized were already testified to by the witness. So the objection is hardly valid.”
“I beg Your Honor’s pardon,” Steve said, “but the question is leading and suggestive, and some of the points summarized are not in evidence.”
“Nonsense,” Dirkson said. “He already identified that bullet as being the one he extracted from the body, and he already testified that it was the sole cause of death.”
“No problem there,” Steve said. “But you also referred to the decedent, David Castleton.”
“Of course,” Dirkson said.
Steve shook his head. “That’s what’s leading and suggestive and assuming facts not in evidence. To date, we have had no testimony that the body is indeed David Castleton.”
Dirkson stared at him. “But that’s absurd.”
“Not at all.”
“And we have testimony.” Dirkson said. “The testimony of the maid who found the body.”
“Who admitted on cross-examination that she comes to work after he’s left for the office and leaves before he gets home in the afternoon. A witness who saw him once two years ago when he hired her. Who saw a facedown corpse on the living-room floor. I do not consider such testimony sufficient to make a positive identification.”
Judge Wallingsford. “Are you questioning the matter of identity, Mr. Winslow?”
“No, Your Honor. I’m merely asking for orderly proof. So far, there’s been no conclusive proof that the body was that of David Castleton, and I object to the prosecutor leading the witness by stating the fact that it was.”
Judge Wallingsford took a breath. “Mr. Winslow. You are perhaps within your rights, but don’t you think you’re being a little over technical?”
“Perhaps, Your Honor. But if I’m going to err at all, I’m going to err on the side of the defendant. I stand on my objection.”
“In which case, the objection will be sustained. Gentlemen, this is a rather minor matter. Mr. Dirkson, do you think you could save us some t
rouble by rephrasing your question?”
“Very well,” Dirkson said shortly. He glared at Steve Winslow and stomped off.
As Steve sat back down, Kelly Wilder grabbed his arm. “What was that all about?”
“Not important,” Steve said.
“Yes, but—”
“Shhh.”
Judge Wallingsford had returned to the bench. “Mr. Dirkson, would you please rephrase your question?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Dirkson said. “Doctor, referring to the bullet, People’s Exhibit Two, is that the bullet that you removed from the body during your autopsy, the bullet that you referred to as the sole cause of death of the decedent?”
“That’s right.”
Steve Winslow grinned as he watched the faces of the jurors during that question and answer. Of course the jurors couldn’t hear what was going on during the sidebar, so Steve knew, human nature being what it was, the jurors were all listening to how the question was rephrased to try to figure out just what the objection had been. From the puzzled frowns on their faces, he was sure none of them could tell the slightest difference.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Dirkson said. “Tell me this. Did you determine the time of death?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And what time was that?”
“To the best I could determine, the decedent met his death some time between the hours of eleven o’clock and twelve midnight on the night of June twenty-eighth.”
“And your autopsy was performed on the morning of June twenty-ninth?”
“That is correct.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Your witness.”
Fitzpatrick flashed a glance of inquiry at Steve Winslow. Steve leaned across Kelly Wilder and whispered, “Take him on the time element.”
Fitzpatrick nodded. He stood up and approached the witness. “Between eleven o’clock and midnight, Doctor?”
“That’s right.”
“How did you arrive at that figure?”
“Primarily from the body temperature.”
“Could you elaborate on that, Doctor?” Fitzpatrick smiled. “In as nontechnical terms as possible?”
Doctor Kessington smiled back. “Certainly. As you know, a person’s normal body temperature is ninety-eight point six degrees Fahrenheit. When a person dies, the body begins to cool and the temperature begins to drop. Since the rate of cooling is a constant, approximately one and a half degrees Fahrenheit per hour, by taking the body temperature of the corpse it is possible to determine when the person died.”