March walked to the witness stand while staring thoughtfully at the doctor. Edwards returned March’s stare from beneath bushy eyebrows. The attorney, however, was not regarding the medical examiner for effect. March was deep in thought. A question had suddenly appeared in his mind—one that he had not considered before. March asked quietly, “In determining the approximate time of death, based on the condition of the body when it is examined… the temperature at the time and place must be taken into consideration. Is that correct, Dr. Edwards?”
“That is correct.”
“Was there heat in the apartment when you first saw the body?”
“Yes. A thermostat, on the wall, had been set to seventy-two degrees.”
“The apartment was comfortably heated, then?” asked March.
“It was.”
March paused, considering his next question. Finally he asked, “What was the outdoor temperature at that time?”
Dr. Edwards hesitated, then replied, “I don’t know. It wasn’t important that I have that information. I didn’t need it for my purpose.”
“How was Arthea Simpson dressed?”
Willard, who had been fidgeting during March’s questions, addressed the judge. “I object to that question, at this time. It is outside the realm of the examination so far. I have another witness who’ll give that information later.”
“All right,” March agreed. “I’ll hold that question in abeyance.” March was content to let the question rest for the present, as he had found himself fishing for information—a dangerous procedure. He nodded dismissal to Dr. Edwards and returned to the defense table.
While Willard called his next witness, Officer Richard A. Apfel, to the stand, Bert Taylor quietly asked March, “What were you getting at?”
“I’m not sure,” March replied. “That’s the hell of it. Will you get on the phone and call the weather bureau… find out what the temperature was that time of morning on April seventeenth?” Taylor nodded and left the table, making his way to a telephone booth in the corridor, outside the courtroom. March turned his attention to Apfel.
Apfel had identified himself, and so far had testified that he had arrived at the Silver Sands at 2:17 in the morning. Outside the building he had been met by Pauline Morrisey who had called the police. “What did you ask Mrs. Morrisey?” Willard inquired.
“Why she had called us. She informed me that she had heard three revolver shots in the building.”
“When did she hear them?”
“Between five and ten minutes before I arrived.”
“What did you do next?”
“I proceeded at once to apartment 3-A, where Mrs. Morrisey said the shots had come from.” Apfel continued with his testimony that Ivy Lorents had opened the door to his knocking, and had appeared extremely nervous. He identified Ivy as being present in the courtroom. Apfel supplied additional information that he had discovered the body of Arthea Simpson, that Ivy denied knowing who the dead person was, and that he had then called the station and had waited until help came from homicide.
“All right,” Willard told the officer, “tell me how the defendant looked when she opened the door to your knocking.”
“She was wearing a robe… and it was tied around her waist. I could smell perfume… or something, and she had on some lipstick.”
“You’re very sure that she was wearing make-up?”
“Yes, sir. She was.”
March leaned over to Ivy. “You didn’t tell me you’d put on make-up,” he whispered. “Why? I thought you had taken a shower and were going to bed?”
Ivy replied tensely, in a low voice. “He’s exaggerating. I put on a little cologne and bath powder. I always do. About the lipstick… I… don’t remember. I may have put a little on… just out of habit… without thinking…” She paused, then whispered, “Why is it so important?”
“Because it might help Willard to prove that you were expecting someone!”
Willard was holding up a revolver, a .32 with an engraved barrel and a short pearl handle. “I offer this as state’s exhibit A,” he said, and turned back to Apfel. “Now this revolver, which you’ve identified as finding in the apartment, at the foot of the two steps from the hallway, wasn’t moved or touched?”
“No, sir. It remained where I first saw it until after the laboratory men arrived.”
“Did the defendant say that it was her gun?”
“Not in so many words,” Apfel replied. “When I asked her where the gun was… the one she had used… she said she didn’t know for sure. That she’d dropped it. Then I found the gun… there by the steps and asked, ‘Is this it?’ and she said it was.”
“Thank you, Officer Apfel.” Willard turned to March. “Your witness,” he said.
March glanced at a short list of notes in his hand, as he approached the waiting witness. “Mr. Apfel, you’ve testified that you knocked at the door of Ivy Lorents’ apartment ‘quite a few times, real hard.’ How long would you say you waited before she opened it?”
“Quite awhile.”
“That’s rather indefinite. Let’s try to make it more definite. Would you say you waited a minute?”
“At least.”
“All right. Did you wait two minutes?”
“Possibly three minutes.”
“So you waited three minutes? In your opinion, is three minutes too long for a frightened woman to walk the length of her apartment to answer a pounding at the door?”
“Objection!”
“I’ll strike it,” March agreed, but he’d gotten his point before the jury. “Now, officer, when you entered the apartment, did you have your own revolver in your hand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve already told the jury that Ivy Lorents appeared very nervous when she opened the door. Wouldn’t confronting an officer holding a drawn weapon increase her nervousness?”
“I don’t know…”
“And I object!” interrupted Willard. “That calls for a conclusion.”
March turned to Judge Raleigh. “I don’t think so,” he pointed out. “I’m merely trying to establish the emotional condition of the defendant when she answered the officer’s questions. If he can testify to what she said, then he should also testify as to how she said it.”
“All right,” Raleigh agreed. “Continue.”
March returned to Apfel. “With the gun in your hand, did Miss Lorents continue to be nervous?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And immediately upon entering the living room of her apartment you saw the body, and you knew it was dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you examine the body to make sure it was dead?”
“No, sir. Not really examine it. That was up to the M.E.”
“Then how did you know it was dead?”
Apfel shifted in the chair. “I walked over and took a look. It wasn’t breathing… and there was blood around it. I could tell…”
“Could you see the face?”
“No. It was lying face down.”
“Could you tell it was a woman?”
“No, sir.”
“What did you think it was?”
“Why… a man, I suppose.” Apfel swallowed. “A man.”
“In other words, it was hard to see? Why?” March was edging Apfel into a verbal corner.
“It was pretty dark. There was only one little light on in the room. I didn’t want to touch anything, so I didn’t touch any more lamps.”
“Would you say it was very dark in the room?” March pressed.
“Yes, sir. Very dark.”
“So when Ivy Lorents… most understandably nervous and upset… told you she didn’t know who the dead person was, it was reasonable to believe what she told you?”
“Yes… sir.”
March paused, mentally plotting his next maneuver. “Now, Officer Apfel, you have testified that when Miss Lorents opened the door to your knocking, she was wearing a robe, and you smelled something. P
erfume. Am I right?”
“You’re right.”
“And it smelled good?” Several of the men jurors smiled as March put the question.
“Yes, sir, it sure did.”
“Are you sure it was perfume?”
“It was perfume all right.”
“But couldn’t it have been bath powder… and bath cologne water? Or even scented soap?”
Apfel hesitated. “I don’t think so…”
“Are you an expert, Mr. Apfel?” When Apfel remained silent, March pressed his quiet attack. “Most men… when they smell a scent on a woman are inclined to call it perfume. The just don’t know the difference!” March glanced at the jury, where the women unconsciously nodded in agreement. “So, if a woman has just taken a bath… she might’ve used all or any one of these… nice smelling scents, isn’t that right?”
“Maybe…” Apfel began.
But Willard was on his feet protesting. “We’ve not established that the defendant had taken a bath!”
March twisted his face lugubriously. He faced Willard and replied in a chiding voice, “You mean the prosecution objects to the lady taking a bath?” Turning to Judge Raleigh, he added, “Your Honor, I think Mr. Willard is carrying his persecution too far.”
Raleigh concealed a smile. “Unfortunately, Mr. Willard is correct in his objection, although I do not necessarily agree to the lowering of social standards.”
The jury rustled with amusement.
March quickly addressed Apfel. The moment of comic relief, which he had carefully dramatized, was over; it was now necessary to put a complete halt to Willard’s premise that Ivy might have been expecting a visitor. “Mr. Apfel,” he began seriously, “you have also stated that Ivy Lorents was wearing lipstick. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are completely sure of that?”
“I am.”
March was now ready to spring the trap which he had been engineering. His body was tense, almost as if he planned to spring at the witness. “But Mr. Apfel, you have also testified that it was so dark in the apartment that you couldn’t tell the difference between the body of a man or a woman. So will you please explain to the jury how you could be… completely sure… that Ivy Lorents was wearing lipstick?”
Apfel stumbled for an answer. “Well… it… looked like it.”
March pounded the question. “But you can’t be sure. You say it looked like it. Did you ask her?”
“No!” Apfel shot back his reply.
“Every woman on this jury knows that under certain conditions of light, it is impossible to tell if a woman is wearing lipstick.” March stood straight and glared at Apfel. His voice was scathing. “Mr. Apfel… you aren’t sure of anything!”
Instantly, Willard rose to his feet objecting, but March waved Apfel away, and returned to the defense table.
Silencing Willard, Judge Raleigh rapped for attention. “This court will adjourn until two o’clock this afternoon,” he announced.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I was sitting downstairs in the dining room at the Claymore, having lunch, when Bert Taylor came in and joined me. Upstairs, Ivy was eating in her room with Lydia Gorham. For the rest of the trial, I planned for all of us to return to the hotel at lunch time; it was a private retreat for Ivy and she could get some rest if necessary. Of course, the newspapers now knew where Ivy was staying, but Vetter cooperated in keeping the reporters away from Ivy’s floor. If the newsmen wanted to ask any questions, I was available in the dining room.
Bert Taylor handed me a slip of paper. I read what he had written: “The temperature reported for 2:00 A.M., April seventeenth, was fifty-four degrees.” I put the paper in my pocket.
“What’re you trying to find out? I mean… the weather report?” Bert asked. He spread out his napkin and picked up the menu.
I was chewing a club sandwich, although I wasn’t hungry. I pushed back my plate and took a sip of coffee. My thoughts had been concerned with Ivy. Since our return from Big Sur, she had taken complete possession of me. Before that weekend, she had been friendly, but… uncommitted. Back again in Los Angeles, our intimacy of Big Sur had continued. The French have a saying that no woman ever makes love to a man just once. The implication being, I guess, that once the conquest is accepted, the barriers are down—and she accepts his desires as her own. Ivy regarded me as her possession.
Naturally, when we returned to the city, it became necessary to act again with discretion and propriety. Any hint of scandal between us would effect Ivy adversely. Logically, there was neither the time, place, nor opportunity for a recurrence of love-making. But somehow we managed to find the fleeting insecure privacy we needed. However, it was as if she had given me her body and in return, she demanded my entire capacity for thought, effort, and attention. I had thought about it, and as close as I could figure it out, she was like a child who runs up to a parent and says… “I love you!”… then presents a list of demands.
Yet, understandably enough, I was more completely in love with Ivy than I had been before.
Bert ordered his lunch, and I heard his voice repeating his question about the temperature. I told him, “The question about the temperature must’ve been in the back of my mind for some time. It was only when Dr. Edwards was testifying that I recognized it. From the police photos we know that Arthea Simpson was wearing a white shirt, or possibly a white blouse, and a pair of black slacks. It was early in the morning—and we now know that outdoors it was fifty-four degrees. Does that mean anything to you?”
Taylor looked at me, and nodded thoughtfully. “I think I see what you mean. Simpson should’ve been wearing a coat.”
“Of course. It was cold outdoors… if she had just come in, she’d have been half frozen without it.” I rubbed my forehead with my fingers, attempting to think it out. “Now, tell me, Bert, if she was wearing a coat… or a jacket… or a sweater… or whatever it was, what happened to it?”
“Edwards said it was about seventy-two degrees in the apartment. She must’ve taken it off.”
“Exactly. Now, if she took it off… what happened to it?”
“She could’ve hung it up? In a closet?”
“Possibly. But if she’d stopped in at Ivy’s apartment unexpectedly, and Ivy wasn’t in the living room when she let herself in, wouldn’t it be more logical… just to take it off and toss it down somewhere?”
“Perhaps…” Bert chewed slowly. “It couldn’t have been a coat. The pictures taken by the crime lab don’t show a coat anywhere in that living room.”
“I’ve gone over those photographs so many times I can draw them from memory. There isn’t a coat in the living room. So she was wearing something smaller. Probably a sweater,” I told him.
“And there’s no indication of a sweater, either,” Taylor agreed after a moment. “What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know,” I told him honestly. “It may or may not be important, but it bothers me.”
“You can ask Ivy if she saw it.”
“I intend to.”
“Or you can question the witnesses about it,” Taylor added.
“I may try,” I told him. “It’s dangerous because I don’t know what kind of an answer to expect. And if it does mean something, I don’t have any idea, yet, what significance it has.”
After that, we discussed our strategy for the afternoon session, and then I went out into the lobby to talk to the reporters.
There were a good many strange faces among the reporters, from out-of-town papers, whom I had never seen before. However, I did recognize the reporter from the Register who had given me the rough time before—Jack Barker. Barker didn’t seem to have much to say, although he kept eying me alertly, and he wore a rather peculiar air—almost of superiority. He asked me several inconsequential questions about Ivy continuing to live at the Claymore. To keep him guessing, I told him that there was a possibility that she might leave it. He seemed interested in the idea that she might
move back to her own apartment. I didn’t disillusion him.
In addition to the two Los Angeles newspapers, correspondents from the neighboring vicinities and the news services were also present to cover the trial.
Now, I believed—and still believe—that most of the reporters from Los Angeles, as well as the other cities, had assumed their assignments with the impression that Ivy Lorents was probably guilty. It was the basis of the prejudice against Ivy, deeply ingrained and subtly concealed, that I had to fight against. The public, and women in particular, were outraged at the insinuations of a too intimate relationship with Arthea Simpson.
This subject, of course, made sensational copy for the newspapers. Naturally the reporters were eager to discuss it, and when a reporter from the Hollywood Public-Times asked me for my opinion regarding the prevalence of the practice in Hollywood, I brought out a prepared statement which I had written with the help of Doc Hoffman.
I read it aloud, while they took notes: “Although many authorities believe that female homosexuality is more prevalent than the parallel practice between men, the relationship is, however, more adroitly concealed by the female inverts and less often brought to light. Consequently, when it is displayed in public, women—in general—denounce Lesbianism with greater vehemence, perhaps as a gesture to conceal their own ambivalence on the subject.”
One of the reporters interrupted me. “Aren’t you rather agreeing that Ivy Lorents might’ve been involved with Arthea Simpson?”
“Not at all,” I objected. “I’m not saying anything about Arthea Simpson. That’s up to Willard. But if Arthea Simpson falls into the category—the stigma is on the Simpson woman. Not Ivy Lorents.” I paused and said pointedly, “Unless you’re a bigot, who implies guilt by association.”
The reporter fell silent, and I continued my statement from the prepared paper: “Men, on the other hand, repelled by homosexuality in their own sex, are often confused and abashed by its presence in the opposite sex. This may be a result of their wide-spread refusal to accept the idea that it’s possible for women to maintain a sex life free from, and independent of, men. It may also be men’s reluctance to give up their illusions concerning females which have been instilled in them since birth, by women. Their feelings concerning female inversion are less rigid, but none the less strongly influenced by the reactions of their wives, women relatives, and friends.”
Not I, Said the Vixen Page 12
