by Parnell Hall
“Your client’s gonna have to tell one hell of a convincing story.”
Steve sighed. “She can’t.”
Taylor looked at him. “What?”
“She can’t tell her story. I can’t even put her on the stand.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
Taylor looked at him sideways. “Why? ’Cause she’s guilty?”
Steve shook his head. “No. ’Cause she’s innocent.”
Taylor stared at him. “What?”
“She’s innocent. That’s the problem. She didn’t do it. She’s innocent, and she doesn’t know shit. A man she never saw before was murdered in her apartment with her knife and with her apartment key in his pocket. She knows nothing about it. So what the hell can she say?”
“Just that.”
“Great. And who’s gonna believe it? Do you believe it?”
Taylor’s eyes shifted.
“There you are,” Steve said. “And the other thing is, she lied to the police in her statement.” Taylor raised his eyebrows. “Oh, not about Greely, not about the murder. But about other things, unimportant things, really, like where she was and what she was doing before she found the body. But it doesn’t matter, because all they have to do is catch her in one lie, any lie, about any small insignificant thing, and with the way the rest of the facts are in this case, she’s dead meat. And look at her. She’s young, naive in a lot of ways. You think she could stand up to cross-examination? You think Dirkson wouldn’t rip her apart?” He shook his head. “No. There’s no way I can put her on the stand.”
“So what can you do?”
“That’s the thing. If I don’t have something by the time the prosecution rests its case, the only thing I can think of is, I’m gonna have to go after Zambelli.”
Taylor looked up in alarm. “You’re not serious?”
“I have to do something.”
“You do something like that you’re gonna wind up dead.”
“I can’t think about that. I have to think about my client. If you don’t want me to go after Zambelli, come up with something else. What about Dutton’s wife? You get anything there?”
“I got about two hundred and fifty dollars in operatives’ fees confirming the fact that she was in Reno the whole day.”
“Great.”
Taylor’s beeper went on. He switched it off.
“Gotta call the office. Maybe we got something.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Taylor got up and went to the pay phone at the front of the shop. Steve sat and made patterns on the plate with his eggs.
Taylor was animated when he came back from the phone. “They got it,” he said. “Actually they got it late last night, but there’s a three-hour time difference so they didn’t call because it was after midnight back here. They called first thing this morning. I mean, it’s not even seven o’clock out there now, and-”
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Steve said impatiently. “What have they got?”
“We found the hospital where Sheila was born.”
“You’re kidding. Where?”
“A small town about a hundred miles north of L.A. Alice Baxter checked in under the name of Mary Brown. But it’s a positive I.D., right down to the little baby footprints.”
“And the father?”
“Listed as Sam Brown. We’re looking for him, of course.”
“All right. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Yeah finally,” Taylor said. “We would have had the location sooner but we had the date wrong.”
Steve looked at him. “We what?”
“We had the date wrong. You gave me November twelfth as Sheila’s birthday. She’s older than that. She was actually born on June fifth.”
Steve sat bolt upright in his chair. “Jesus Christ!”
“What?”
“Call them back,” Steve said excitedly. “Call your men back. Tell them to drop the investigation, dig a hole and crawl into it. Call everybody on the West Coast off.”
Taylor frowned. “What’s the big deal? You mean because Sheila’s birthday’s earlier she comes into her trust sooner, and-”
“No, damn it. Don’t you see? June fifth is five months after Alice Benton left New York. So she didn’t go off to California and meet someone. She went out there to have the baby.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is the father was someone from around here.”
“So?”
“Think about it. Suppose Sheila’s father were just a casual trifler for her mother’s affections. Suppose after Alice Baxter left town he forgot about her, never even thought about her again. And suppose about a month ago, he just happened to see something in the paper about Maxwell Baxter-there’s things about Baxter in the paper all the time.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So, suppose this particular article just happened to mention Sheila Benton, twenty-four-year-old daughter of Maxwell Baxter’s sister, Alice Baxter.”
Now it was Taylor’s turn to sit bolt upright in his seat. “You mean he’d figure he’d hit the jackpot and he’d go calling on his long-lost daughter?”
“You’re damn right he would. And then a lot of things could happen.” Steve looked worried. “If she weren’t happy to see him, he might even wind up with a knife in his back.”
45
Steve Winslow went up the front steps of the courthouse, just as he had every morning since the trial had begun. Only today there was a difference. Every other day he had gone up the steps alone and unnoticed. Today he was besieged by reporters.
That should have been gratifying for a young attorney conducting his first trial. It should have been but it wasn’t. Because Steve knew why the reporters were there, and it wasn’t because of his brilliant courtroom technique. It was because of the role he had forced himself to play to try to take the heat off his client and focus the attention of the jury on himself. It was because of the image he had created, the image that was reflected in the newspaper cartoon.
It was because they saw him as a clown.
And if there were any doubt in his mind that that was what they thought, their questions dispelled it.
“How about a statement, Mr. Winslow?”
“Is it true Maxwell Baxter tried to fire you?”
“Is it true you’ve never been in court before?”
“Is it true you drive a cab?”
Steve pushed by them without comment and entered the courthouse. He was later than usual due to his meeting with Mark Taylor, and when he entered the courtroom he discovered Sheila Benton was already there and was looking around anxiously for him. As their eyes met, it seemed to him he could see the relief washing over her face, as if she were a drowning person who had just grabbed a life preserver. He slid in next to her at the table.
“Where the hell have you been?” she asked.
“Working.”
“Working on what?”
“Tell you later.”
Judge Crandell entered, called court to order, and Maxwell Baxter resumed his place on the stand.
After the fireworks of the day before, there was an aura of expectancy among the spectators, particularly when they saw Maxwell Baxter on the stand. But Dirkson disappointed them. Today was not his day for surprises, today was his day for crisp efficiency, and point by point he methodically laid out the facts that would show that Sheila Benton had had the opportunity to commit the crime.
“Mr. Baxter,” he began. “Going back to the day of the murder, your niece called on you that morning, did she not?”
“Yes.”
“Why did she call on you?”
“I’m her uncle.”
“I daresay you are. The point is, she wanted to borrow some money, did she not?”
“Uh, yes, she did.”
“One hundred dollars?”
“Yes.”
“And you gave it to her?”
“Yes, I did.”
“In cash?”
“Yes.”
“And what time did your niece leave?”
“I have no recollection.”
“Well, let’s get at it another way. Was there anyone else in your apartment when your niece arrived that morning?”
“Yes. My brother Teddy, and his son, Phillip.”
“Who left first?”
“My brother and his son.”
“And Sheila remained behind?”
“Yes.”
“How long after your brother left did Sheila leave?”
“I tell you I can’t remember.”
“More than fifteen minutes?”
“It might have been.”
“More than half an hour?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Surely you remember generally. Did she stay to lunch? Did you offer her coffee or tea? Did you sit and chat?”
“I tell you I-”
“Or,” Dirkson said, boring in, “did she leave as soon as you gave her the money?”
“Sir,” Max said angrily, “I consider that remark-”
Dirkson raised his voice. “Did she take the money and leave, yes or no?”
Baxter glared at him and took a breath. “Yes, she did.”
“Then she couldn’t have been in your apartment more than fifteen minutes after your brother left, could she?”
“I suppose not,” Max said grudgingly.
“No further questions,” Dirkson said.
With that, the focus of the crowd shifted to Steve Winslow, in the hope of more fireworks, a hope that was dashed when he declined to cross-examine.
Dirkson’s announcement that Theodore Baxter would be his next witness raised further expectations-another Baxter, another man of wealth and power-expectations that were immediately shattered by Teddy Baxter’s entrance. His appearance labeled him for what he was: a poor relation.
His testimony was routine too, as Dirkson tried to pin down the time element.
“No sir,” Teddy Baxter said. “I don’t remember what time it was when we left.”
“Perhaps I can refresh your memory. Your son, Phillip, had to catch a bus, did he not?”
“Yes he did.”
“The eleven forty-five to Boston out of Port Authority?”
“Yes.”
“And did he catch that bus?”
Steve knew the answer to the question was inadmissible-Teddy hadn’t seen Phillip actually catch the bus, so his answer had to be a conclusion based on hearsay-but he also knew from Mark Taylor’s investigation that Phillip had caught the bus, so he didn’t bother to object.
“Yes, he did,” Teddy Baxter said.
“No further questions,” Dirkson said.
Steve didn’t bother to cross-examine.
Dirkson called the cab driver who’d taken Sheila back to her apartment. He testified that he’d picked up Sheila Benton at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third Street at five minutes after one and dropped her off in front of her apartment at one-twenty. He made a good impression on the jury, as Steve had known he would. Handsome and cocky, he so obviously considered himself a stud that his identification of Sheila Benton was unshakable. There was no way anyone was going to believe he could have missed her.
Steve could have challenged him on the time element, however. Five after one, and one-twenty were bound to be approximations-the guy’s trip sheet wouldn’t be accurate to the minute, and he would have a hard time maintaining that it was. But Steve saw no point in it. The prosecution could maintain that Sheila had killed him earlier and then dashed out to Fifth Avenue to build up an alibi by taking the cab back, or they could claim she killed him as soon as she got home and just before she called the police. A few minutes either way wouldn’t make any difference.
Steve didn’t bother to cross-examine.
The next witness, Stella Rosenthal, was more interesting just because she was a character. Middle-aged, lean, angular, with thick spectacles perched on a long pointed nose, she was a living caricature of a snoop.
Mrs. Rosenthal testified that she lived in the apartment next to Sheila Benton.
“That’s right,” she said, in a snippy, clipped voice. “Right next door.”
“And what is the relation of the front doors of the two apartments? That is, can you see Sheila Benton’s front door from your front door?”
“No way you could miss it. The doors are catty-corner to each other.”
“Catty-corner? By that do you mean at right angles?”
“By that I mean catty-corner. Don’t you know what catty-corner is?”
“Well, I-”
“I mean like this,” Mrs. Rosenthal said, touching her left elbow with the fingers of her right hand, and forming a right angle.
“That’s fine, Mrs. Rosenthal,” Dirkson said, with a smile to the jury, “but your arms are not in evidence here.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What I mean is, the court reporter cannot record the manner in which you are holding your arms. So for the record, we need to state that you are holding one arm at right angles to the other arm.”
“That’s right. Catty-corner.”
Dirkson smiled at the jury, and got several answering smiles. Dirkson was playing this witness just right. He was inviting them to share his amusement with her. By doing so he was extending to them a most welcome invitation-the invitation to feel superior.
“Yes. Catty-corner,” Dirkson said. “So if your door were open just a crack, it would be possible to see who went in and out of Sheila Benton’s apartment?”
“Well, I suppose it would. But I wouldn’t want to have you think I spend all my time peeking out the crack in my door.”
Dirkson stole a look at the jury, and noted with satisfaction that to the best if his judgment, every single one of them was convinced that that was exactly how Mrs. Rosenthal spent her time.
“Of course not,” Dirkson said. “All I’m getting at is on the few occasions when your door was open you would be in a position to notice who came and went.”
“Well, of course.”
“So let me ask you. Did Sheila Benton have any frequent visitors?”
“She had one.”
“And who was that?”
“A young man,” Mrs. Rosenthal said. Her tone made it sound as if she had said, “A child molester.”
“And would you recognize this man if you saw him again?”
“You know I would. You showed me his picture, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did,” Dirkson said. “But the jury doesn’t know that. So if you could just tell them. Would you recognize the man?”
“Yes, I would. I recognized his picture, didn’t I?”
“Yes you did. And can you tell me the name of the man whose picture you identified?”
“Yes, I can. His name is John Dutton.”
“I see. This John Dutton called on the defendant on several occasions?”
“That’s right.”
“Did he ever call on her at night?”
“Of course. That’s when he called on her.”
“And on those occasions when he called on her, could you hear what was going on in the apartment next door?”
“Well…”
“Well? Could you?”
“Well, the walls are paper-thin.”
“So you could hear?”
“Well, yes.”
“And could you tell us, please, just what you heard going on in Sheila Benton’s apartment on those occasions when John Dutton called on her?”
Mrs. Rosenthal’s lips clamped together in a straight line. She drew herself up indignantly. “I most certainly could not,” she snapped.
There was a roar of laughter. Dirkson turned and let the jury and the spectators see his broad grin. He waited until the laughter had subsided then announced smugly, “No further questions.”
Steve Winslow got to his feet. There was not much he could do about her testimony. The damage had been done. But he stil
l had a job to do. His job was to win back as much ground as possible with the jury, ground that he had lost through Dirkson’s performance with Mrs. Rosenthal. And basically, there was only one way to do that.
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.”