SW01 - The Baxter Trust

by Parnell Hall

  He needed to get a laugh.

  “Now, Mrs. Rosenthal,” he said. “You say you saw John Dutton call on the defendant on several occasions?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mostly at night?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were able to hear what was going on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because the walls of the apartment are so thin, I think you said?”

  “That’s right. Paper-thin.”

  “Tell me, did this disturb you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, did the things you heard ever keep you up at night?”

  Dirkson started to rise, but thought better of it. If the defense was asking for this, let them.

  “I’ll say they did,” Mrs. Rosenthal said.

  “Did they disturb your sleep?”

  “They most certainly did. I mean, how’s a body to get to sleep with that sort of thing going on? And until such hours of the night, too.”

  “I see. So this must have been quite annoying to you.”

  “It certainly was.”

  “Tell me, did you ever speak to the defendant about it?”

  “No.”

  “No? Why not, if it was such a disturbance?”

  “Well, it’s not the sort of thing polite people discuss.”

  “Maybe not. But there are ways of handling everything. Surely you could have just complained about the noise?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well ...”

  “Tell me, do you ever speak to the defendant?”

  “Well, no, I guess not.”

  “You’re next-door neighbors.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t speak to her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I hate to say this, but you’re asking for it. She’s just not the sort of person I would want to talk to. I mean, a young woman like that, fooling around with a married man.”

  “Oh? That’s how you felt about her?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Then you knew John Dutton was married?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “District Attorney Harry Dirkson told me so.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Steve said with a smile. “But that was after the murder, wasn’t it? You said the reason you didn’t want to talk to her was because you knew she was fooling around with a married man, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you must have known John Dutton was married then?”

  “Well ...”

  “Did you?”

  “Well, yes, I did.”

  “I see. And how did you know he was married?”

  Mrs. Rosenthal’s eyes shifted, and Steve knew he’d hit something. “Well ...”

  “Yes?”

  “Well,” Mrs. Rosenthal said. “You have to understand, this was quite an annoyance to me. And, of course, with all this going on next to me I wanted to be sure everything was all right. I mean, if there was going to be a young man in my building all the time, I wanted to know who he was.”

  “That’s most understandable. So what did you do?”

  “Well, I saw them getting into his car one day. One of those little sports cars, you know?”

  “Yes. And?”

  “Well,” Mrs. Rosenthal said grudgingly. “I wrote down the license number.”

  “I see.” Steve was now grinning just as broadly as Dirkson had. “And then what did you do?”

  “Well ... I have a cousin who works at motor vehicles.”

  “I see. So you asked your cousin to look up the license number?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you found the car was registered to John Dutton?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then you checked with the marriage bureau and found out that John Dutton was married?”

  Mrs. Rosenthal glared at him.

  “Did you?”

  “Yes, I did,” she said angrily.

  “All because you wanted to know who this man was in case you ran into him in the hallway sometime?”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that?” Mrs. Rosenthal said testily. “Good gracious, I would think if you had someone in your building all the time you’d want to know who he was.”

  “I’m sure I would,” Steve said. He stole a look at the jury, just as Dirkson had done. “I don’t know if I’d go to such lengths to find out, but I’m sure I’d like to know.”

  Steve stood, smiling at the witness. Mrs. Rosenthal sat, glaring back.

  “Now then,” Steve said. “You say you’ve seen John Dutton enter the defendant’s apartment on many occasions. Tell me, did you ever see the decedent, Robert Greely, entering the defendant’s apartment?”

  “No I did not.”

  “Or leaving her apartment?”

  “No.”

  “Not even on the day of the murder?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You have never seen the decedent, Robert Greely, at all?”

  That’s right.

  “And you have never seen him entering or leaving Sheila Benton’s apartment?”

  “That’s right.

  “But he must have done so, since he was found murdered there, mustn’t he?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Well then, can you tell me why it is that you have never seen the decedent, Robert Greely, entering or leaving Sheila Benton’s apartment?”

  “Because I mind my own business,” Mrs. Rosenthal snapped.

  There was a roar of laughter. It wasn’t as big as the one Dirkson had gotten, but it was the best Steve could have hoped for under the circumstances. He grinned broadly.

  “No further questions.”

  46.

  “DID YOUR MOTHER EVER TALK about your father?”

  “What?”

  Steve Winslow and Sheila Benton were sitting face-to-face in the attorney-client conference room off the court. Court had recessed for lunch right after Steve’s cross-examination of Mrs. Rosenthal. Steve was choosing to skip his lunch and was making Sheila skip hers.

  The reason, of course, was that he was obsessed with his new theory—the theory that Greely was really Sheila’s father. Not that, if Greely were, Steve really suspected Sheila might have killed him. On reflection, he had realized that that idea had just been a flash of paranoia. Even if Greely were Sheila’s father, and even if he had been in a position to upset the trust, that would have posed no threat to Sheila, and she would have had no reason to want him out of the way.

  But Uncle Max would have. That was the theory Steve was working on now. Sheila’s living father could have been a real threat to Uncle Max. He could have upset the trust and contested the will and raised bloody hell with Uncle Max’s little empire. And suppose Uncle Max had sent those letters, and then lured Greely up to Sheila’s apartment on the pretext of meeting his long-lost daughter and then killed him? It would have been a perfect frame-up. There would be nothing to connect Uncle Max to the murder at all. And Sheila would take the rap.

  Steve had no idea why Max would want to frame his niece, but it wasn’t inconceivable. Max was her trustee. Her trust was worth millions. Max supposedly had millions of his own, but what if they were tied up in speculative investments of all types? What if Max sometimes had need for ready cash? He wouldn’t be the first trustee who’d dipped into a trust for his own purposes. And then with Greely on the scene, contesting the trust, contesting the will and demanding an audit, Max could have found himself in quite a spot. A spot where killing Greely and framing Sheila would actually have been killing two birds with one stone.

  So Steve was desperate for information.

  “Did your mother ever talk about your father?” he repeated.

  “Why? What are you getting at?”

  “I don’t know. Did she?”
<
br />   “Not that I know of. I was very young when she died, you know.”

  “I know. I want you to remember back. I want you to tell me everything you can remember before your mother died.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to understand. You just have to tell me.”

  Sheila’s jaw set. “Oh no you don’t, mister. That’s the way my uncle treats me. That’s why I wouldn’t let him hire a lawyer for me. Now if you want something out of me you tell me why, and none of this you-wouldn’t-understand-little-girl shit.”

  “Sorry,” Steve said. “I’m a little pushed for time, and I’m getting edgy. The thing is, I don’t understand either. And I need to understand. So I need some facts. And if they don’t seem to make much sense, that’s because I’m groping in the dark, and I don’t know what does make sense. But I’m trying to sort it out, you see?

  “So here’s the thing—if you didn’t kill Greely, then someone else did. And they killed him in your apartment with your knife. And there’s gotta be a reason. And the only way that makes sense at all is if you tie it in with a twenty-million-dollar trust fund.”

  Sheila threw up her arms. “But how? Tie it in how?”

  He shook his head. “I know. That’s the problem. I’ve thoroughly gone over the provisions of the trust, and aside from that stupid licentious-behavior clause that’s causing all the trouble, there’s nothing in it that could possible affect any of the parties mentioned in it. I mean, it isn’t even as if you were convicted of this crime, Phillip would come into forty million dollars instead of twenty. If you lose your trust, no one gains except a bunch of unnamed charities.”

  Sheila’s eyes widened. “Wait a minute! How do you know they’re unnamed?”

  Steve looked at her. “I read the trust. They’re not named.”

  “They’re not named in the trust,” she said excitedly. “But what if, somehow, someone knew that a particular charity stood to benefit?”

  He waved it away. “You’re grasping at straws. That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” she said indignantly. “Why? Because I thought of it? Because you didn’t? What’s ridiculous about it?”

  “What difference would it make if a charity benefits?”

  “You don’t think there are people who have siphoned money out of charities?”

  “And how the hell would they know?”

  “Through Uncle Max, of course.” Sheila was becoming more and more animated as she built on the idea. “Can’t you see it? You’ve met him. Can’t you see him at some ritzy social club joking over a brandy with old cronies about how if I’m not a good girl, some of their organizations stand to make a few million?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Damn it, I’m serious. It’s my neck here. The least you could do is consider it.”

  “Fine,” Steve said, his voice rising. “Noted. I hereby promise to investigate the possibility that the United Way, acting on inside information that they stood to benefit from the trust, conspired to have a blackmailer killed in your apartment. All right? You satisfied?”

  Sheila recoiled from the intensity of his outburst. “Jesus Christ!”

  He grimaced, rubbed his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just don’t have time to go off on a tangent right now. I don’t think you’re stupid, and I will look into this, okay? But right now I need you to answer some questions. All right?”

  She looked at him for a moment. “You still haven’t told me why.”

  “I was trying to, when—” he broke off. “Never mind. All right. Look. If no one named in the trust stands to benefit from the crime, we have to look for someone not named in the trust. As far as I can see, the only one who answers that description is your father.”

  “My father. But my father’s dead.”

  “How do you know?”

  Sheila stared at him. “Are you telling me my father isn’t dead?”

  “No, I’m not.” He had no intention of burdening her with any of the details of Mark Taylor’s investigation. “I’m doing what you’re doing. I’m grasping at straws. I’m saying ‘what if?’ I’m considering any possibility, however remote, that anyone could benefit from your trust. So I asked about your father.”

  She frowned. “I see.”

  “And you told me you knew nothing.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Your mother never spoke of him?”

  “I was four when she died.”

  “Yeah. All right. What about your grandfather? Can you remember him at all?”

  “Why?”

  “I told you. I’m grasping at straws. Please?”

  Sheila thought a moment. “I can’t remember much. I just remember him as a kindly old man. Funny, isn’t it? How a child’s take on things is so limited.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Seeing Gramps as kindly. But as a child, that was the only side of him I ever saw.”

  “And he wasn’t?”

  She looked at him. “You read the trust.”

  “Yes, yes, having to wait till thirty-five and that clause and all that. But you said that was the only side of him you ever saw. What was the other side? I mean back then, when you were a kid.”

  “All I meant was the impressions you get when you’re young. Seeing him as kindly, and then later realizing what a tyrant he really was.”

  “How? Give me an example. Tell me how you got this wrong impression.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It was just, he always treated my mother and me so kindly that I never really noticed how he treated Uncle Max and Uncle Teddy. Until later, I mean.”

  “And how did he treat them?”

  “With an iron hand. He surrounded them, stifled them. At the time I thought it was kindness. Now I realize it was domination.”

  “Give me an example.”

  She thought a moment. “All right. Grandpa had a summer house in Vermont.” She chuckled. “A summer house. Hell, it was a mansion—a huge building with a circular drive on this beautiful hillside in Vermont. It was gorgeous. My mother and I used to live there with him. I think I told you that, right?

  “Well, anyway, when Uncle Teddy married, Gramps bought him a house on the property adjoining ours. See? At the time I thought that was nice. I say at the time. Actually it happened before I was born. Phillip’s a year older than I am, you know.”

  “Yes, yes. Go on.”

  “All right. I was just trying to say, when I said ‘at the time’ I just meant when I was young. Right? When I thought about it. Back then. And I figured Gramps was just being nice. Now I realize he was just making sure Teddy would be right there where he could keep an eye on him.”

  “Yeah. I see. Teddy was wild in those days, wasn’t he?”

  “I suppose so. I never realized it at the time. At least not until he went to jail. But I think Uncle Teddy and his wife had to get married. I think that was one of the reasons Gramps was so down on him.”

  “What was Teddy’s wife like?”

  “I don’t know. She died when Phillip was born.”

  “So Uncle Teddy brought up Phillip alone?”

  “Yes. Gramps wouldn’t even hire a nurse or governess to help out. Teddy had to cart Phillip around with him everywhere he went. It was a nuisance, but that’s what Gramps wanted. I think he felt the responsibility of raising Phillip would force Uncle Teddy to settle down.”

  “Apparently it didn’t work.”

  “Apparently not. Uncle Teddy went to jail. My mother died. Gramps died a year later. That left Uncle Max to bring up me and Phillip.”

  “What was he like?”

  Sheila looked at him. “What do you think?”

  47.

  WHEN COURT RECONVENED THAT AFTERNOON, Dirkson stood up and said, “Call John Dutton.”

  Sheila Benton twisted convulsively in her chair. “No!” she said.

  Steve Winslow put his hand on her arm. “Easy.”

  She grabbed his arm. “No, they
can’t do that.”

  “They can do that. He’s not your husband, he’s just your boyfriend. They can make him testify.”

  “But—”

  “Shhh. There’s nothing we can do. Just take it easy. It’s all right. If he loves you as much as you think he does, he’s not going to hurt you.”

  “Just what do you mean by that?”

  “Shhh.”

  Heads turned as John Dutton walked to the stand. This was going to be delicious. The lover. The married man. The party to the late-night assignations testified to by Mrs. Rosenthal. And the thing was, he looked the part, too. Lean, tall, tanned, blond, and with that pretty-boy profile, John Dutton looked as if he might have just stepped off the screen of one of those beach-party movies. His entrance drew excited whispers from the crowd. This was going to be great.

  “Your name?” Dirkson said.

  “John Dutton “

  “Occupation?”

  “Stockbroker.”

  “Mr. Dutton, are you acquainted with the defendant, Sheila Benton?”

  “I am.”

  “You are what might colloquially be called her boyfriend?”

  John Dutton gave Dirkson what could only be considered a condescending smile. “I’m in love with her, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It will do. Mr. Dutton, are you married?”

  “Yes, I am. I am in the process of getting a divorce. When it is completed, I intend to marry Sheila.”

  Dirkson smiled and nodded. “Thank you very much. Let me ask you this—did you know the decedent, Robert Greely?”

  John Dutton appeared to wilt on the witness stand. Sheila let out a small gasp and grabbed Steve’s arm. A murmur ran through the courtroom.

  Dirkson raised his voice. “Did you hear the question, Mr. Dutton? I’ll repeat it. Did you know the decedent, Robert Greely?”

  Dutton wet his lips. “I had met him, yes.”

  There was a reaction from everyone in the courtroom except Dirkson, who obviously had expected the answer.

  “Under what circumstances, Mr. Dutton?”

  “At a card game.”

  “Did you meet him on more than one occasion?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “When was the first time you met him?”