A Handy Death

by Robert L. Fish

  “Mr. Dupaul, the defense mentioned baseball. Let’s touch on that a moment. You say you pitched in a baseball game within the past few days—a week ago last Thursday, to be exact. Where did this baseball game take place?”

  “At Attica Prison.”

  “What were you doing at Attica Prison? Were you visiting the prison?”

  “I was an inmate there.”

  Judge Waxler glanced quickly at the defense table, expecting—and prepared to sustain—an instant objection, but Ross was sitting back in his chair comfortably, apparently listening with mild interest at best, now filing a rough edge from one nail. Varick had paused momentarily, also expecting a prompt objection; when none was forthcoming he quickly took advantage of the lapse on his opponent’s part and hurried on.

  “Mr. Dupaul, how long were you an inmate at Attica Prison?”

  “Which time? The first time or the second time?”

  It was too much for Judge Waxler. He rapped his gavel to stop Varick for the moment and leaned over the bench, frowning down at Ross.

  “Mr. Ross,” he said. “Are you with us? Did you hear the question?”

  Ross looked up, as if surprised at being interrupted. “Yes, Your Honor. I heard the question.”

  “And you have no objection?”

  “No, Your Honor. After all,” Ross said sententiously, “we are all here to see justice done, and I’m sure my opponent would not ask questions that were not directed to that end.”

  Judge Waxler studied the calm figure at the defense bench. His eyes went to Steve Sadler, beside Ross, but Steve was also sitting back in a relaxed fashion.

  “Mr. Ross,” the judge said, “you’re too experienced a lawyer for me to suggest anything to you about handling the defense in a criminal case, but are you sure you heard the question?” A possible solution occurred to the judge. “Are you feeling well?”

  Ross smiled his appreciation.

  “I feel fine, Your Honor. Thank you.”

  Judge Waxler sighed. “You may continue, Mr. District Attorney.”

  Varick glanced toward Gorman; the Assistant District Attorney was no longer grinning. He was sure Ross had something up his sleeve, but he could not imagine what it was. All he knew was that Ross had opened the door on a good deal of testimony damaging to his client, and Gorman fully intended to take advantage of it. He nodded; Varick went back to work.

  “Mr. Dupaul, how long were you an inmate at Attica Prison the second time?”

  “Three years and ten months.”

  “What were you in for?”

  “Assault. I was in a fight.”

  “Now,” Varick said, amazed at not being stopped, “while that baseball game was in progress, was there an escape attempt made on the part of several prisoners?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were there any deaths as a result of this escape attempt?”

  “Yes, sir. Two prisoners and a guard.”

  “At the time of the escape attempt, was there not also a disturbance on the baseball field that brought many guards to the scene, and which could possibly have been arranged to enhance the escape attempt?”

  Steve Sadler leaned over, whispering to Ross. “I was beginning to be afraid he’d never get to it!”

  Ross smiled, “So was I—”

  Judge Waxler tapped his gavel. “Mr. Ross, are you listening to this testimony?”

  “I am, Your Honor.”

  Varick hurried on. “Would you answer the question, please?”

  “Yes, sir. There was a disturbance on the field at the time.”

  “And was that disturbance caused by the fact that you purposely pitched four balls in a row, walking the batter, and giving your fellow inmates watching the game an excuse to start the riot?”

  This time Judge Waxler’s gavel hit the bench loud and clear. He looked down at Ross.

  “Mr. Ross, normally I hesitate to suggest to able trial counsel what, tactically, is best for his client, but I have a responsibility to see that the accused gets a fair trial and is given effective assistance of counsel. Now, I’m going to ask you one last time—are you positive you have no objections to the questions being put to this witness?”

  Ross came to his feet.

  “Your Honor, I agree. I believe the last question of the prosecution was not proper. Objection.”

  “Well! About time!” Judge Waxler snapped. “Sustained!”

  Varick nodded gently in the direction of the jury, a glint of triumph in his eyes.

  “No more questions.”

  Ross said, “I have just one in redirect. Mr. Dupaul, during this baseball game we’re discussing, were there any independent witnesses as to what actually took place. I mean, anyone not connected with the prison, either as inmate or staff?”

  “There was somebody in the press box,” Dupaul said slowly, “but I didn’t pay any attention to who it was. It may have been a guard, but it might also have been someone not connected with the prison.”

  “Thank you. You may step down.”

  Billy Dupaul came down from the witness stand and walked a bit defiantly back to the defense table, sitting down next to Steve Sadler. His face was a mask. The buzzing in the courtroom resumed, to stop as Ross spoke.

  “I call my next witness, Jerry Coughlin.”

  Coughlin came into the courtroom glowering toward Ross, who was standing indolently between the defense table and the bench. Every line of the newspaperman’s wolfish face demonstrated his desire for revenge. Ross waited until Coughlin had been sworn in, and then moved closer.

  “What is you name?”

  “Jerome Coughlin.”

  “Known as Jerry Coughlin?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What is your business or occupation?”

  “I’m a newspaper reporter.”

  “Specializing in sports?”

  “Specializing in everything.”

  “All right,” Ross said. “Now, were you present at a baseball game held at Attica Prison a week ago last Thursday?”

  Coughlin leaned forward. He spoke with cold venom.

  “You can bet I was! And I saw Billy Dupaul—”

  “Just answer the questions, please,” Ross interrupted evenly. “I can have his honor instruct you to answer properly, if need be. With all your courtroom experience, you should know you cannot volunteer answers. Now, to continue: Are you acquainted with Mr. Charles Quirt?”

  Coughlin seemed surprised by the change in subject. “Only by name.”

  Ross raised his eyebrows.

  “You were never in the same room with him?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Try your memory on this,” Ross said. “A week ago Friday, you by-lined a story in the Daily Mirror which said I was defending Billy Dupaul. The information came from Mr. Charles Quirt—”

  Varick had been in a hasty conference with Gorman. Now he came to his feet, interrupting.

  “Objection! Your Honor, the People object to this line of questioning as being irrelevant and immaterial. We fail to see what Mr. Ross’s press coverage has to do with the indictment on which this trial is being held.”

  “Mr. Varick,” Judge Waxler said, leaning over, “it was the prosecution who opened the door to the presence of this witness, by bringing up the matter of the disturbance on the baseball field at Attica State Prison.”

  “Your Honor,” Varick objected, “it was the defense who brought up the baseball game at Attica—”

  “The prosecution has a remarkably short memory,” Judge Waxler said tartly. “Mr. Ross mentioned that Mr. Dupaul played baseball. The entire matter of Attica Prison and the disturbance there was raised by the prosecution. It was you who opened the door. I’m far from certain that it was either relevant or proper at the time, but you were the one who raised the issue, and Mr. Ross can certainly question a witness to the event.”

  “All right,” Varick said desperately, “we admit to having asked questions on the matter of Attica and the ga
me, but we didn’t open the door to discussions regarding issues unrelated to the matter, such as newspaper articles covering Mr. Ross’s law practice!”

  Judge Waxler considered Varick a moment, and then slowly shook his head.

  “We’ll see,” he said. “If I consider the testimony irrelevant or remote, I will entertain a motion to strike, but I have serious doubt that I will grant such a motion. Proceed Mr. Ross.”

  Coughlin cut in.

  “As far as that article, Counselor,” he said, his voice emphasizing the title with sarcasm, “sure I was in Quirt’s office, but so were other news reporters. I thought you meant alone.”

  “Were you ever in a room with him at any other time, alone or not?”

  “No.”

  Ross walked back to the defense table and opened the folder Mike had given him. On top lay an affidavit signed by the prison guard confessing to having been bribed by the convicts to make the call of four balls. Ross laid it aside; if Billy was ever bothered on that score he would need it. Right now he was after bigger fish. He found what he wanted, finally, not in Gunnerson’s folder, but in Steve Sadler’s, and walked back to the witness.

  “How about this occasion?” Ross asked, and handed over a photograph. “For your information, Mr. Coughlin, this is a glossy enlargement of a picture that appeared in the New York Daily News on July 21, 1964. It shows Billy Dupaul signing the contract with the Mets, with Charles Quirt behind him. You are here, to one side. Isn’t that you?”

  Coughlin took the picture and studied it. “I remember. So I was wrong. So what?”

  “So nothing,” Ross said, “for the time being. Put it that I was testing your credibility. Now, Mr. Coughlin, what newspaper were you working for when you covered that contract signing?”

  “I wasn’t working for any. I wasn’t covering it. A guy I knew was going over to cover it and I went along.”

  “You mean you were free-loading, is that it?”

  Coughlin glared at him. “So what’s wrong with getting a few sandwiches and a couple of drinks on the cuff? You never done it?”

  “On occasion,” Ross admitted. His voice was tinged sympathetic. “You were broke?”

  “Flat broke, if it makes you happy!”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Ross said, and changed the subject. “Tell me, Mr. Coughlin, didn’t you tell me once that you had seen Billy Dupaul pitch baseball many times?”

  “That’s right,” Coughlin said, agreeably.

  Ross looked a bit puzzled. “But it couldn’t have been with the Mets, could it? Because Billy was signed during season and never pitched a regular game for them. Where did you see him pitch?”

  Coughlin hesitated. Then he said, “Up at Attica.”

  “That’s strange,” Ross said, and then thought of something. “You were an inmate there?”

  “Never!”

  “Then it really is strange,” Ross said, “because Warden Chalmers tells us that the game you attended was the only one you had ever requested permission to cover. So where did you see all these games?”

  Judge Waxler interrupted, peering coldly at the man in the witness box. “I should like to warn the witness,” he said, “that he is under oath. And I do not look on perjury kindly. You have already perjured yourself in saying you saw the defendant many times at Attica. One more example and you will be bound over as soon as you finish testifying. Now, answer the questions and answer them honestly. You may proceed, Mr. Ross.”

  Ross nodded and returned to Coughlin. “So, where did you see Billy pitch ‘many times’?”

  Coughlin looked as if he were going to be stubborn about it. His skinny hands wrapped up in each other; they looked like a bundle of twine. “All right,” he said at last, “so I saw the kid pitch up in Glens Falls. What’s your point?”

  “At the time you were a reporter on the Glens Falls Herald, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right. Is that a crime, too?”

  Judge Waxler’s gavel descended. “Mr. Coughlin, I shall not warn you again!”

  Ross continued, unperturbed. “How many years were you a reporter on the Glens Falls paper?”

  “Twenty-five years,” Coughlin said sullenly.

  “You were retired from the paper?”

  “That’s right.”

  “On a pension?”

  Coughlin scowled. “That’s my business.”

  Ross said. “It might be ours. I have an affidavit here signed by the then-publisher, James Kimberly, stating that you retired May 14, 1964, on a pension amounting to sixty percent of your top salary. So how broke could you have been a mere two months later?”

  Varick came to his feet, his voice weary.

  “Really, Your Honor, the prosecution fails to see—”

  “Overruled,” Judge Waxler said, before Varick could continue. He was watching the pale witness with narrowed eyes, a look of speculation in them. “Proceed, Mr. Ross, but try to connect fairly soon.”

  “I intend to, Your Honor,” Ross said, and turned back to the witness. “Mr. Coughlin, let me put it that my last question was rhetorical. Let’s move on. While you were living and working in Glens Falls—the year 1942, to be exact—were you engaged to marry?”

  Coughlin’s face was gray. His eyes came up, dark holes in his gaunt face.

  “Is that another rhetorical question?”

  “No,” Ross said quietly.

  “In that case the answer is, no.”

  “Do you know a Mrs. Gendreau?”

  Coughlin frowned at the change in direction. “Sure. She was my landlady at that time.”

  Varick came to his feet, shaking his head. “Your Honor, how far astray is Defense Counsel going to be allowed to take us? Now we’re involved in the love affairs of a reporter eight or nine years ago. Really, Your Honor …” He allowed his voice to trail away.

  Judge Waxler looked at Ross. “Mr. Ross?”

  “Your Honor,” Ross said, “I will connect up at this moment. I have an affidavit from this Mrs. Gendreau, as well as from Mr. Kimberly, stating that the witness was engaged to be married to a Miss Mary Emerich, the defendant’s mother. I intend to prove that this is an important fact in this trial.”

  There was a stirring in the courtroom and a sharp gasp from the defense table. Billy Dupaul unconsciously started to rise, but Steve Sadler clamped a thin but strong hand on his knee. Billy subsided, his face white. Ross turned from the judge to face the witness, purposely keeping his back to his client.

  “Well, Mr. Coughlin?”

  Coughlin’s color was that of damp ashes: he looked faint. “It—it wasn’t anything official.”

  “Still, what happened to that engagement?”

  “She changed her mind, that’s all.”

  “Oh. Still,” Ross went on, bending toward the witness a bit, while Judge Waxler watched closely, “in later years romance didn’t evade you so cruelly, did it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean …”

  “I mean that you were later married, were you not?”

  Coughlin swallowed. He looked around, seeking some place to escape, and then came back to stare at Ross as if partially hypnotized. “I—I—”

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Coughlin? Is there anything wrong with being married?”

  “No. I—”

  “Could you tell us the name of the lucky lady?” Ross went on, boring in.

  “Her name—?”

  “Was it a woman named Grace Melisi?”

  Coughlin merely stared at him.

  “I have here,” Ross said, moving to the defense table and picking up a paper, “a certified copy of a marriage certificate dated February 6, 1952, in Albany, New York, which states that on that day Jerome Coughlin married Grace Melisi.”

  Varick jumped up again. His attitude was that of a long-suffering man who feels he must try once more to make people understand a relatively simple problem.

  “Your Honor,” he said, “in all fairness, the court stated before that it would entertain
a motion to strike if the testimony became irrelevant or remote. Your Honor, I have never heard testimony quite so remote, quite so unrelated to the case under consideration. The People, Your Honor, therefore do object, and do move to strike.”

  Judge Waxler frowned. He looked down from the bench.

  “Mr. Ross,” he said, “I must admit there is much justification in what the District Attorney has said. I have allowed you extra latitude, since I felt the defendant was not getting fully effective assistance of counsel earlier in this trial. However, we are certainly far afield from the indictment. You said you were about to connect this up, but if so, when?”

  “Very soon, Your Honor. It is true that we’ve gone all around the barn to get where we are, but it was necessary. If you will bear with me a very short time, we shall soon be there.”

  “Make it soon,” Judge Waxler said warningly. “You may proceed.”

  Ross turned to Coughlin. “Were you married to Grace Melisi?”

  Coughlin’s voice was almost inaudible. “Yes.”

  “Were you living with her on July 20,1964?”

  “Yes.”

  “At 562 West Twenty-eighth Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what was the necessity of taking an additional apartment, in her name alone, at 453 West Sixtieth Street, the same apartment building where Raymond Neeley lived? Especially when you were—as you put it—so broke?”

  There was an excited buzzing from the audience. Judge Waxler banged his gavel once; the noise instantly subsided. The spectators were as interested in the drama before them as the participants.

  Ross leaned forward. “Well, Mr. Coughlin?”

  Coughlin looked around like a trapped animal. “She—she was leaving me for Ray Neeley.”

  “So instead of moving in with him, she rented another apartment next door to him? Very moral, but a bit hard to believe.”

  Coughlin gave a cry, a wounded bleat. “Damn it! She was leaving me!”

  “I believe you,” Ross said in the quiet of the courtroom. “And that’s when you decided to get rid of Raymond Neeley, wasn’t it?”

  There was an instant buzz again, as quickly cut off. Coughlin shook his head.

  “No …”

  “You loved Grace Melisi, didn’t you?”