by Parnell Hall
Steve grinned. “You just made my day. Nice work, Mark.”
Tracy handed the envelope back to Mark Taylor and frowned. “Yeah, good, but I don’t get it. You may be able to confuse the hell out of the witness, but isn’t that just what you said you didn’t want to do? Isn’t that gonna piss the jury off?”
“Depends how it’s done,” Steve said. “I gotta tread lightly and try to reverse the field.”
Tracy frowned. “I don’t know what that means. Tell me something. Was one of those pictures Jeremy Dawson?”
Steve grinned again. “That’s the second best thing I’ve heard all day.”
Tracy frowned and shook her head. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not. I mean, everything you’re doing—the pictures, the doctor—it’s not to prove a point. It’s to confuse the issue. It’s to try to throw up a smoke screen to keep the facts from getting out. Dammit, it’s the classic case you hear about. It’s the clever defense attorney using his legal education to help some criminal beat the rap.”
“I can’t think that way.”
“Why not?”
“I have a premise, a given, a bottom line. That bottom line is, Jeremy Dawson did not kill Jack Walsh. That’s the assumption on which I’m operating. The prosecution says he did, I say he didn’t.”
Steve paused, took a sip of coffee. “And let me tell you something. If you didn’t like the doctor and the photos, you are in for a rude shock.” Steve held up his finger. “Because I promise you, I am going to use every trick in the book to get Jeremy Dawson off.”
32.
WHEN COURT RECONVENED, DIRKSON STOOD up and said, “Call Joseph Bissel.”
In the back of the courtroom, Mark Taylor nudged Tracy Garvin. “This is it.”
“Huh?”
“Joe Bissel. That’s the derelict.”
Tracy Garvin watched with some interest as Joseph Bissel walked to the stand. The prosecution had certainly done everything in their power to clean him up for court. He’d had a shave and a haircut. He was dressed in an inexpensive, but clean and presentable suit.
He was also sober, which had to be a big victory for the prosecution. Tracy couldn’t help wondering exactly how they’d managed that. An occasional slight tremor now and then as he walked up the aisle with the court officer was the only real indication of what this man had once been. Otherwise, he seemed a perfectly ordinary, if somewhat pale and emaciated fifty-five-year-old man.
Joseph Bissel took the oath, seated himself on the witness stand.
Dirkson rose and approached him. “Your name is Joseph Bissel?”
The witness tugged at his shirt collar, snuffled slightly. His manner indicated nervousness, but not fear. His face was long and lean. His eyes, though slightly sunk in, were wide and trusting. The overall impression he made was good—a simple, honest man.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
Dirkson smiled. “And where do you live, Mr. Bissel?” he asked gently.
Joseph Bissel tugged at his shirt collar again. “I don’t live anywhere.”
“No?”
“No. I guess I’m what you’d call one of the homeless.”
“I see,” Dirkson said. He glanced at the jury, and there was sympathy in his look. Dirkson’s entire manner was different than it had been with any other witness. He was gentle, considerate, solicitous.
Kind.
This is a man who can be easily bruised, Dirkson’s manner seemed to say. And I am not going to be the one to do so.
“Tell me, Mr. Bissel. Where do you sleep?”
“When it’s warm, I sleep in the park. When it’s cold, I sleep in subway stations.”
“In subway stations?”
“Yes.”
“And were you sleeping in a subway station on February the 26th?”
“February the 26th?”
“Yes.”
The witness shook his head. “I know you’ve asked me this question before. As I’ve told you, I don’t know the date. I can only tell I was sleeping in the subway on the day of the fire.”
Dirkson nodded his approval, emphasizing the witness’s honesty and integrity. “Yes. The day of the fire. That’s the day we are interested in. You say you were sleeping in the subway on the day of the fire?”
“Yes, I was.”
“And what subway station was that?”
“The 66th Street Station.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because that’s where I usually stay. There and 28th Street.”
“On the Broadway line?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be sure you were at 66th and not 28th?”
“I happen to remember. I was at 28th Street first. But someone was there. Sleeping in my spot. I didn’t want to wake him. So I caught the train to 66th.”
“And what did you do there?”
“Went to my usual spot. No one was there, so I lay down and went to sleep.”
“And where is your usual spot?”
“North end of the uptown platform. There’s a dumpster there. A little alcove behind it. That’s where I sleep.”
“And you went there that day?”
“That’s right.”
“And what did you do?”
“Like I said. I went to the alcove on the platform. No one was there. So I lay down and went to sleep.”
“Did you wake up at any time that day?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Tell us about it. How did that happen?”
“There was someone moving around. I heard voices. And someone stepped on my foot.”
“That woke you up?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The witness snuffled. Frowned. “Danger. That’s why. People mean danger. Have to be alert. I got nothin’ to steal, but even so. Some people wish you harm. I sleep light. Someone there, I know.”
“So, in any event, you woke up?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What did you see?”
“First thing I saw was scary. Woke me up more.”
“Scary? And why was that?”
“’Cause it was strange. It was a kid with green hair.”
“Green hair?”
“Yes. And it wasn’t just that it was green. It was cut funny.” Joseph Bissel ran his hands along the side of his head. “You know. Like an Indian.”
“You mean a mohawk?”
“That’s right. Mohawk.”
“I see. That does sound scary,” Dirkson said. “So that terrified you, because you didn’t know what it was?”
Bissel shook his head. “No. I knew what it was. A teenager. They wear their hair like that. I knew. That’s why I was scared. Teenagers scare me.”
“I see,” Dirkson said. “Tell me. This teenager—the one with the green hair—was he alone?”
“No, sir.”
“There was someone with him?”
“Yes, sir. There was an old man.”
“And did you know the man?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And who was he?”
“Jack Walsh.”
“Jack Walsh? Then you knew Jack Walsh?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Where did you know him from?”
“From the subway. He was one of us. He used to sleep down there.”
“You’re sure it was Jack Walsh?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“No, but he spoke to me.”
“What did he say?”
“Just something like, It’s all right, Joe, go back to sleep.’”
“I see. And did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Go back to sleep?”
Joseph Bissel shook his head. “Not right away.”
“What did you do?”
“I watched them.”
“Jack Walsh and the kid with green hair?”
“That’s right.”
“And what did they do?”
“They were talking.”
“Could you hear what they were saying?”
“Some of it I could.”
Dirkson looked up at the judge. “Some of this may be hearsay, You Honor, but I believe what Jack Walsh said at the time would be part of the res gestae.”
“So far there’s been no objection, Counselor,” Judge Grimes said. “Why don’t you proceed, and we’ll argue this if and when there is one.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. And what did you hear Jack Walsh say?”
“I only got the gist of it.”
Dirkson smiled. “The gist is all we want. What was it?”
“Something about how the boy had done him a favor, and now Jack was gonna do one for him.”
“Was that all?”
“That’s all I remember. There was some talk about a pen.”
“A pen?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what it was?”
“No, I don’t.”
“All right. And what did you see them do?”
“Well, they sat down on the platform.” Joseph Bissel frowned. “Actually, I think I heard this after they sat down on the platform—what I just told you, I mean. If that matters.”
Dirkson smiled. “I don’t think it does, but thank you for pointing it out to us. And did you see them do anything else?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And what was that?”
“Well, he—Jack Walsh—he took some paper out of his pocket and started writing on it.”
“Do you know what he was writing?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Did you see how he was writing?”
“Yeah. He spread the paper flat on the platform, and was bent over writing on it.”
“And the boy with green hair?”
“He was watching him write.”
“I see,” Dirkson said. “And the man who was writing on the paper—this was Jack Walsh, whom you’ve known personally for some time?”
“That’s right.”
“And the other person—the boy with green hair—had you ever seen him before?”
“No, I had not.”
“Have you ever seen him again?”
“Yes, I have.”
“And do you know who he is?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Is he in this courtroom?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Could you point him out for us, please?”
“Yes, sir.”
Joseph Bissel raised his arm and pointed. “That’s him, right there.”
“Let the record show that the witness is pointing at the defendant, Jeremy Dawson. Now, I want to be certain about this,” Dirkson said. “You’re saying that the boy you saw on the subway platform, the boy with Jack Walsh, when Jack Walsh was writing on the paper—that boy was Jeremy Dawson, the defendant sitting right there?”
Joseph Bissel nodded. “That’s right. That’s him. In the subway station he had green hair. He don’t have green hair now, but that’s him all right.”
Dirkson nodded. “And this was the 66th Street Station, the Broadway line?”
“That’s right.”
“And this was on February 26th?”
Bissel shook his head. “That I don’t know. I just know it was the day of the fire.”
Dirkson nodded approvingly. “Thank you very much, Mr. Bissel.” Dirkson turned to Steve Winslow. His smile was smug and his eyes were hard. “Your witness.”
In the back of the courtroom, Tracy Garvin bit her lip. Steve had said it was going to be hard, but she hadn’t quite understood just how hard. And in light of the way Dirkson had handled the witness, Tracy didn’t really see anything that Steve could do.
Judge Grimes looked down at the defense table. “Mr. Winslow, do you care to cross-examine?”
Steve Winslow rose. “I do, Your Honor. But before I do so, I have a motion that had best be made outside the presence of the jury.”
Judge Grimes frowned. “Will this take long?”
Steve smiled. “The motion is brief, Your Honor. But I imagine the ensuing argument might be lengthy.”
Judge Grimes took a breath. “Very well. Bailiff, if you will escort the jurors to the jury room.”
After the jurors had been led out, Judge Grimes said, “Proceed, Mr. Winslow.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. At this time I would like to move that the testimony of the witness, Joseph Bissel, be stricken from the record, and the jurors be instructed to give it no weight.”
Judge Grimes blinked.
Dirkson lunged to his feet. “Oh, Your Honor—”
Judge Grimes held up his hand. “One moment, Mr. Dirkson. Mr. Winslow, I assume you have some grounds for making your motion?”
“Certainly, Your Honor. It appears that the entire testimony of the witness, Bissel, is for the purpose of establishing that my client and the decedent were seen together at the scene of the crime.” Steve Winslow shot a glance at Dirkson. “Though I note the prosecutor has not made any attempt to show that the time they were seen there was even remotely near the time of the murder.”
“That’s no grounds for such a motion,” Dirkson put in. “If the witness doesn’t know the exact time of the events he was describing, that’s a matter to be brought out on cross-examination. But that in no way should affect the admissibility of the evidence, or preclude what I brought out on direct examination.”
Judge Grimes nodded. “I think Mr. Dirkson is essentially correct, Mr. Winslow.”
Steve Winslow bowed. “Yes, Your Honor. I apologize. That was a side issue, which I shouldn’t have even brought up. Mr. Dirkson jumped in before I could get to my argument.
“My objection is this: the testimony of Joseph Bissel is for the purpose of implicating my client in the crime.”
Judge Grimes smiled dryly. “That is the purpose of a murder trial.”
“Yes, Your Honor. But a murder trial must be conducted according to the rules of evidence. And Mr. Dirkson has not yet shown the corpus delicti. And it is an elemental rule of law that the corpus delicti must be proven before any evidence can be introduced for the purpose of linking the defendant with the commission of the crime.”
Dirkson was on his feet again. “Your Honor, Your Honor, this is utterly absurd. The corpus delicti is proven. We have showed evidence that the decedent died as a result of a gunshot wound to the head. Now I admit that Counsel also had grounds to argue that the decedent died from burning, but he didn’t do that. The medical examiner testified that death was due to the gunshot wound to the head, and could not have been from burning. Mr. Winslow could have cross-examined him on those points, but he chose not to do so. Therefore, the only testimony in evidence is to the fact that the decedent died from the gunshot wound. Since that testimony is uncontested, there is no grounds for Mr. Winslow to be raising the point at this time.”
Judge Grimes nodded. “I think that is essentially correct, Mr. Winslow.”
Steve smiled. “I think so too, Your Honor. But I’m afraid you and Mr. Dirkson misunderstand the point of my objection. My client has been accused of the crime of murdering Jack Walsh. So far, all the prosecution has shown is that the decedent died as the result of a gunshot wound to the head. Which I readily concede. What the prosecution has not shown—which is the reason the corpus delicti has not been proven—is that the man who died of a gunshot wound to the head is, indeed, Jack Walsh. The prosecution certainly can’t introduce any evidence tending to link my client to the murder of Jack Walsh, unless they first show that Jack Walsh is, indeed, dead.”
“Your Honor, Your Honor, there is evidence,” Dirkson protested. “The testimony of Officer Oliver, of the Crime Scene Unit, who examined the credit card of Jack Walsh.”
“Which doesn’t identify the body, Your Honor. From the testimony now in court, for all we know
the decedent could be some derelict who happened to have stolen Jack Walsh’s wallet.”
“That’s utter nonsense, Your Honor,” Dirkson said. ‘That’s the wildest fantasy. You can’t prove that.”
“I don’t have to,” Steve said. “I don’t have to prove Jack Walsh is alive. You have to prove him dead.”
“I’ve proved him dead, Your Honor.”
“You’ve proved someone dead,” Steve said.
Dirkson took a breath. “Now, look here.”
Judge Grimes banged the gavel. “Gentlemen, that’s enough. I’ve heard enough to understand Mr. Winslow’s contention. Mr. Winslow, I must confess at first I thought your motion entirely without merit. But on reflection, I see that this is a matter that requires some consideration.”
Judge Grimes turned to the prosecutor. “Mr. Dirkson. In light of Mr. Winslow’s objection, I must ask you, do you have any evidence whatsoever that the body of the decedent was that of Jack Walsh?”
Dirkson took a breath, ‘Your Honor has seen the photographs.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Then you understand why I have not brought anyone forward to positively identify the body.”
“I understand that. It still does not obviate you of the necessity.”
Dirkson ran his hand over his head. ‘I understand.”
“What about fingerprints?” Judge Grimes said. “Were you able to get fingerprints from the deceased?”
Dirkson grimaced and shook his head. “No, Your Honor. The hands were too badly burned.”
“What about the teeth? Have you attempted to match dental records?”
“We have, Your Honor. And there we have some corroboration, though it is inconclusive.”
Judge Grimes’s eyes narrowed. “Why is it inconclusive?”
Dirkson held up his hands. “No, no, Your Honor. There is no inconsistency. The fact is, the records match absolutely. They’re just not of that much help. The dental record of Jack Walsh shows that he wore dentures. He had no teeth. The burned body found in the subway station also had no teeth. So the dental records are absolutely consistent. Unfortunately, that’s not as conclusive as if the man had some teeth on which work had been done, so we’d be able to show several points of similarity. As it is, we have only one point of similarity, the lack of teeth. However, in the face of the preponderance of the other evidence in the case, I would think that should be sufficient.”