by Parnell Hall
Dirkson had walked to the prosecution table and picked up an envelope. He crossed back to the witness.
“I hand you an envelope and ask you if you have ever seen it before.”
“Yes, sir. That’s the envelope the defendant gave me. The one she said the letter came in.”
“How do you identify it?”
“By my initials, which I marked on it at the time.”
“I ask that the envelope be marked for identification as People’s Exhibit number four.”
“No objection.”
“So ordered.”
“Now then, Lieutenant. Did you make a search of the decedent’s apartment?”
“Yes, sir. I did.”
“Did you find anything that you considered significant?”
“Yes, sir. I found a Smith-Corona portable typewriter.”
Dirkson produced a typewriter from a bag on the prosecution table. “Is this the typewriter to which you now refer?”
“Yes, sir. It is.”
“I ask that the typewriter be marked for identification as People’s Exhibit—uh, what are we up to now?—number five.”
“No objection.”
“So ordered.”
Dirkson watched while the clerk marked the typewriter for identification. He looked over at the defense table. Winslow was still sitting calmly, with that maddening smile on his face. All right, damn him, Dirkson thought. Time to turn the tables on him. Let’s let him get angry. Let’s let him start objecting. Let’s wipe that smug smile off his face.
“Now then, Lieutenant,” Dirkson said. “Did you make any tests to determine whether the envelope, People’s Exhibit number four had been typed on the typewriter, People’s Exhibit number five?”
Farron was surprised by the question. Dirkson hadn’t intended to ask him that. It had been understood that the handwriting expert was going to give that testimony.
“I did,” Farron said.
“And had the envelope been typed on that machine?”
“It had.”
Judge Crandell frowned, and looked at Steve Winslow. Steve just sat smiling. He might not even have heard the question. Judge Crandell leaned forward.
“One moment here,” Crandall said. “Would the court reporter read back that last question and answer?”
The court reporter looked at the tape. “Question: ‘And had the envelope been typed on that machine?’ Answer: ‘It had.’”
Judge Crandell looked expectantly at Steve, who said nothing.
Crandell cleared his throat. “I do not wish to presume upon the responsibilities of the defense counsel, but in order to keep the record straight, I must point out that that last question clearly calls for a conclusion on the part of the witness for which no proper foundation has been laid. Lieutenant Farron is a police officer, but he has not been qualified as a handwriting expert.”
Steve smiled. “I think the point is well taken, Your Honor.”
Judge Crandell stared at him.
“In that case, Your Honor,” Dirkson said, “I ask that the witness be temporarily withdrawn so that Stanley Forrester, an eminent handwriting expert, can take the stand.”
“There’s no need for that,” Steve said casually. “I will stipulate that Mr. Forrester would testify that the envelope, People’s Exhibit number four, was typed on the typewriter, People’s Exhibit number five.”
Judge Crandell looked at him incredulously. “Mr. Winslow, how can you possibly make such a stipulation? The prosecution hasn’t even stated what it expects to prove by this witness.”
“Why else would they call him, Your Honor?” Steve said. “I think it’s perfectly clear to everyone that the envelope was typed on the machine. I’ll stipulate that it was.”
Judge Crandell was annoyed by his attitude. “Well, I don’t intend to have the matter disposed of in this manner. Mr. Forrester will take the stand.”
Lieutenant Farron stepped down from the stand, and Stanley Forrester was sworn in.
“Yes,” Forrester said. “There is no question. The envelope was typed on the machine, People’s Exhibit number five.”
“Cross-examine,” Dirkson said.
Steve yawned. “No questions.”
“I now ask that People’s Exhibits numbers three, four and five be received in evidence.”
“No objection.”
“So ordered. Now, Lieutenant Farron was on the stand for direct examination. Would Lieutenant Farron please return to the stand?”
Sheila Benton leaned over to Steve. “I need to talk to you,” she said between clenched teeth.
“Later.”
“No. Now.”
“Not in front of the jury.”
“Then ask for a recess.”
He saw the look on her face, and he didn’t want the jury to see it. Strategically, it was a bad time to request a recess, but he had no choice. He stood up.
“Your Honor,” he said. “Some of the recent testimony has covered matters of which the prosecution has been aware for some time, but which have come as a surprise to the defense. I find I need to confer with my client. If I could ask for a brief recess.”
Dirkson rose to his feet. “No objection, Your Honor. I’m sure counsel and his client have a lot to talk over.”
Judge Crandell, irritated by Dirkson’s manner, considered a rebuke, but thought better of it. “Very well,” he said. “Court stands in recess for half an hour.”
As court broke up, reporters surrounded a grinning Dirkson, while guards led Steve Winslow and Sheila Benton out a side door. They were marched down to a small visiting room and left alone.
Sheila watched the guard close the door. The second it was closed, she wheeled on Steve. “All right,” she asked angrily. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Trying to save your neck.”
“Yeah, sure. What the hell happened to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“This morning you were going great. You were terrific. You had ’em all on the run. This afternoon you’re a washout. What happened?”
Steve smiled. “Are you telling me you’re dissatisfied with the way I’m handling your case?”
She stared at him. “Dissatisfied? No. Of course not. Why should I be dissatisfied? You run around court bowing and smiling like a fucking moron. You don’t know when to object. The judge has to run your case for you. And then, when the prosecution puts on an important witness who ties me right in with the murder, you don’t even cross-examine. Years from now, after I’m convicted of this crime, people will say ‘Sheila Benton? I remember her. She was the girl with the asshole lawyer.’”
“Finished?”
“I’m just getting started! Who the hell do you think you are, Perry fucking Mason?”
Steve’s eyes faltered. It was an accurate shot. He looked at her and smiled. “No,” he said. “There’s a difference.”
“What?”
“Perry Mason knew what he was doing.”
Sheila stared at him. “Are you telling me you don’t?”
He nodded. “That’s right. I don’t. At least, not in the way you mean. You see, the thing about Perry Mason was he didn’t just try to get his client acquitted. He always tried to find the guilty party, to prove who actually did it. And the hard thing to realize is, that’s not the way it works.” Steve smiled and shook his head. “No one is going to break down on the witness stand and confess to this crime. That’s the thing you gotta understand. In all probability, we will never find out who really killed Robert Greely, or why. Now, that may be hard to take, but that’s how it is. So when I tell you I don’t know what I’m doing, what I mean is, I don’t have any ultimate goal, any secret plan. I don’t know who did it, and I don’t expect to be able to find out who did it. All I can do is try to blunt the testimony of the prosecution’s witnesses, and try to put your case in the best possible light. And in doing that, win over the jurors. ’Cause that’s what it’s gonna come down to—whether or not the jurors l
ike us. That’s really it. It’s a popularity contest. Or a beauty contest. We score some points on the talent competition, and they crown you Miss Innocent Defendant. You see what I mean?”
“Yes,” Sheila said. “I see what you mean. And I’m telling you, how you’re going about it stinks.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you think that letter was important?”
“It’s damned important. It gives the prosecution the link they need to establish your motive. It’s the most damaging evidence the prosecution’s put on so far.”
“And so you just sit calmly and watch them do it?”
“Look. The envelope was typed on that machine. That’s a fact. Nothing I can do is going to alter that fact.”
“You could at least try. Or did you take one look at that handwriting expert and realize he was too much for you?”
“I couldn’t have shaken his testimony, if that’s what you mean. All I would have accomplished would have been to make the jury think we felt the point was important.” Steve took a deep breath, and let it out again. “Look. This is a case in which all the facts are against you. There’s no getting away from them. I can’t even put you on the stand to deny them, because you’ve told so many lies to the police that you can’t stand up to cross-examination. So all I can do is sit back and punch holes in the prosecution’s case. But I’ve got to do it selectively. When the prosecution introduces evidence that is incontestable, I have to pass it off as if it weren’t important. It does you more harm than good to have me make a big stink about something and lose. Our only chance is to treat the damaging facts as if they weren’t particularly important.”
“I don’t agree with you.”
“Then get another lawyer.”
“I can’t get another lawyer. You know that perfectly well.”
“Ask your uncle to hire you a lawyer. I’ll step out of the case.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Why should you do that? That’s what my uncle’s been trying to get you to do all along.”
“That’s what he wanted me to do. But if you’re convicted, I don’t want it on my conscience that you wanted another lawyer.”
Sheila frowned. She looked down, thought that over. She looked up at him again.
“Tell me. Do you really think what you’re doing will work?”
Steve had been controlling himself for some time. Now he finally snapped. “How the hell should I know?” he said in exasperation. “I’ve never been in a fucking courtroom before.”
They stood there, looking at each other.
43.
HARRY DIRKSON WANTED HIS HEADLINE. That was the thing he thought about during the thirty-minute recess. For Harry Dirkson was no babe in the woods. He was a veteran trial lawyer, and he knew all the ropes. And one thing he knew was, the common belief that cases aren’t tried in the papers was bullshit. Sure, jurors were instructed not to read the papers, but many of them did. And even those who didn’t couldn’t walk down the street without seeing the newspaper headlines, at least the ones in the Post and the Daily News.
So Dirkson wanted his headline. And the thing was, when the day started, he’d thought he had it. “BLACKMAIL NOTE TIED TO GREELY.” That was the headline. It had to be. A dramatic and damning bit of evidence that had caught the defense as well as the public by surprise. It was a natural.
Except for one thing. Reginald Steele. Goddamn Reginald Steele and his fingerprint evidence. Steele had made a hell of an impression on the stand. Too smug. Too assured. And that point Winslow had brought up, about how the knife must have been held. Steele hadn’t handled that well at all.
It didn’t bother Dirkson that Winslow’s point had been quite valid, that it was almost inconceivable that the girl could have stabbed him holding the knife that way. Dirkson was sure she was guilty, so things like that were annoyances, rather than anything to worry about or think about. The only real difference it made, as far as Dirkson was concerned, was whether he would get his newspaper headline.
That was the problem. Dirkson thought he had it. He thought the evidence about the typewriter was enough. But in the back of his mind was a horrible image he couldn’t get rid of. And it was this: a photograph of a hand holding a kitchen knife, with the headline above it, “LIKE A SWORD?”
Dirkson stewed about it the whole recess. And in the end, what he decided was, he couldn’t take the chance. The evidence of the handwriting expert was good, but not good enough. Not with the way the defense had sluffed over it, and paid no attention to it. It hadn’t been built up enough.
Dirkson had to be sure. So he would do it. He would shoot his wad. He would use the evidence he’d planned to hold for the next day, for tomorrow’s headline. He would use it today. Which meant rethinking his plan. Timing it. Ending with it, a grand finale.
When court reconvened, Lieutenant Farron resumed the stand.
“Now, Lieutenant,” judge Crandell said. “You are still under oath. The district attorney was questioning you on direct examination.”
Dirkson rose, approached the witness stand. “Just a few more questions, Lieutenant. Now, you have testified that the defendant gave you this letter, People’s Exhibit number three?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did she make any statement to you at the time concerning the letter?”
“Yes, sir. She said she thought it was a blackmail letter. I asked her if she was a likely target for blackmail, and she told me she wasn’t because she had no money of her own and she had never done anything that anyone could blackmail her for.”
“I see. And it was due to this statement on the part of the defendant that you decided that the matter didn’t warrant investigation?”
Steve rose. “Your Honor, I object. We are here to try a woman for murder, not to whitewash the police department’s sloppy investigative techniques.”
Dirkson was furious. “Your Honor, that’s not an objection. That’s a gratuitous attack on the police department.”
Steve equaled his tone. “And your question was a gratuitous defense of a police blunder.”
Judge Crandell banged the gavel. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Could we have some semblance of order here? Now, as far as the so-called objection goes, one point at least is well taken. We are supposedly conducting an investigation into a murder. Could we attempt to confine ourselves to that?”
Dirkson smiled. “Very well, Your Honor. I withdraw the question, and I have no further questions of the witness.”
Lieutenant Farron was surprised. He had expected Dirkson to question him at some length, and he had no way of knowing of Dirkson’s change in strategy.
“No questions,” Steve said.
Dirkson smiled. He had been afraid Winslow might cross-examine Lieutenant Farron at some length, which might have spoiled his timing. But now he had all the time he needed for what he wanted to do. By not cross-examining, Winslow was playing right into his hands.
It had been understood by Dirkson’s trial assistants that he would next call the cab driver to establish the time Sheila Benton returned to her apartment, so they were caught flat-footed when he instead called Sergeant Stams, and there was some delay getting him into the courtroom. The Sergeant was produced, however, and he took the stand.
“Sergeant Stams,” Dirkson said, “on the afternoon of June seventh did you receive a telephone call?”
“I did.”
“From whom?”
“From the defendant, Sheila Benton.”
“How did you know it was the defendant?”
“I recognized her voice. Lieutenant Farron and I had talked with her the day before.”
“I see. And what time did you receive the call?”
“At one thirty-five.”
“And what did the defendant say?”
“She said that a man had been murdered in her apartment.”
“And did you subsequently go to that apartment?”
“I did.”
“What did you find?”
“The body of a man.”
“The man who has subsequently been identified as Robert Greely?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you make a search of the victim’s clothing?”
“I did.”
“And what did you find?”
“A key.”
“A key?”
“Yes.”
“I hand you a key and ask you if this is the key you removed from the body?”
Sergeant Stams took the key and looked it over. “Yes, sir. That’s the key.”
“I ask that this key be marked for identification as People’s Exhibit number six.”
“No objection.”
“So ordered.”
“Now then, Sergeant, did you make any attempt to locate the lock that this key fitted?”
“I did.”
“And what did you find?”
“The key was to the front door of the defendant’s apartment.”
There was an audible reaction from the spectators in the courtroom. And from Sheila Benton. She gasped, and her face contorted.
And the attention of the jurors shifted from the witness and focused on her.
Steve Winslow kept his composure and betrayed no emotion. But he’d been hit with two body blows. First, hearing the devastating information about the key. And second, seeing the focus of the jurors’ attention shift to the defendant. It was a sign he could read clear as day.
A sign they’d made up their minds.
It was a delicious moment for Dirkson, and he did his best to prolong it. “Excuse me, Sergeant. Let me be sure I understand this. You say the key fit the door to Sheila Benton’s apartment?”
Judge Crandell looked expectantly at Steve. The question had already been asked and answered, and Dirkson was clearly milking the situation. But Steve was silent. He knew better than to make a fuss at this point.
“That’s right,” Sergeant Stams said.
“It would open the door to her apartment?”
“That’s right.”
“You tested it yourself?”
“I did.”
“And the key opened the door?”
“It did.”
“The door to Sheila Benton’s apartment?”
“That’s right.”