Not I, Said the Vixen

by Bill S. Ballinger

  March turned suavely to the judge. “Will Your Honor please instruct the witness to answer only the questions put to him? He is taking advantage of the good nature of the jury.”

  The jury frowned thoughtfully, although it had not been aware that it was put upon.

  “Continue.” Judge Raleigh rubbed his temple with his hand.

  “Actually, all these criss-cross lines mean very little,” March pointed again to the drawing, “because you don’t know where Ivy Lorents was standing or where she held the gun.” He gave a weary gesture. “But we’ll go on. Now, you have testified, Dr. Edwards, that when you first saw the room it was poorly lighted—very dark. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “With only one small lamp?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have also advanced the theory that Arthea Simpson was shot first in the back right shoulder, that she turned around and was then shot twice from the front?”

  “Yes. That’s what I said.” Edwards was wary.

  “As it was very dark in the room when Arthea Simpson was shot in the shoulder, wasn’t it reasonable for Ivy Lorents to believe that this still unidentified stranger was coming toward her—unhurt?”

  “That calls for a conclusion,” Willard said, raising his voice.

  “Not as much as some the prosecution has assumed, Your Honor,” March addressed the judge. “Mr. Fuhrman and Dr. Edwards have set up a conclusion which I’m examining.”

  “Continue,” Raleigh ruled.

  “Please answer the question, Dr. Edwards.”

  “It’s possible…” The witness was reluctant.

  Temporarily March was satisfied. “Now, you heard Mr. Fletcher—Allen Fletcher—from the crime laboratory, testify that you sent over Arthea Simpson’s clothes for examination. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. I sent them from my office to his.”

  “Among the clothes sent to Mr. Fletcher was a knitted jacket. A sweater. Did you find that sweater yourself?”

  Edwards considered the question carefully. “No,” he replied, “it was sent down to me. It wasn’t on the body when it was moved downtown.”

  “Who did find it—first?”

  “It must’ve been discovered by one of the men from the lab—who were in the apartment taking photographs. When it came to my office, it was sent on to Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Thank you.” March turned on his heel and returned to the table for the defense. The palms of his hands were wet with sweat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The next morning, Willard’s first witness was Pauline Morrisey. I watched her seat herself with aplomb, and with the air of a woman who is secure in the feeling that she is making a good appearance. And there was little doubt that she was impressed with the importance of her testimony. As she began her testimony, I attempted to size up her character. Although she seemingly gave a straightforward story, I had a strong hunch that she was prejudiced. She concealed it well, and I had no reason to believe that the jury was aware of it. Mrs. Morrisey had refused to talk to me before the trial, and the report which Tim Nordeen gave me concerning her contained no background material which I could use to refute her good character as a witness and so cast doubt on her testimony.

  Under Willard’s examination, the Morrisey woman testified that she had first heard a shot about two-o-five in the morning. And she remained firm in her statement that a full minute elapsed between the first shot and the subsequent ones.

  Willard pressed his point. “Let me understand this correctly. After you heard the first shot, a period of a full sixty seconds went by before you heard the next shot. Is that right?”

  “Yes, indeed. After the first one, there was no sound for at least a minute, then two shots came—real close together.”

  “Please tell me how you can determine the amount of time which went by between the first and second shot?”

  The witness settled herself more comfortably in the chair. “Like this,” she explained to Willard. “I’d just walked into my living room with a late night snack, when I heard the first shot. It sounded like it came from right upstairs—apartment 3-A, that is. But I wasn’t sure. I put my food on the coffee table and started to sit down, then I heard the next two shots. My doing all that took some time—at least a minute.” There was a satisfied look on her face as she waited for Willard.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Then, after hearing the last two shots, what did you do?”

  She continued with her testimony about calling the police. Mrs. Morrisey’s statement was damaging—if Willard could show that a long enough lapse of time existed between the first and second shots for Ivy to have recognized Arthea Simpson. A full minute might have been sufficient for an identification to be made.

  When my turn came for cross-examination, I took up a position to the extreme left of the witness. This forced the Morrisey woman to watch me and also face the jury—with her head turned away from the wall clock to the right of Raleigh’s bench. I took it easy with my first questions.

  However, I could immediately sense her hostility by the briefness of her answers. After getting the information that she had never met Ivy, and knew her only by sight, I worked around to the important questions. “You have testified, Mrs. Morrisey, that at least sixty seconds elapsed between hearing the first and second shots?”

  “That’s right.” I could see her lips tighten in determination not to change her testimony.

  “Did you arrive at this estimate of time by remembering that you placed some dishes on the coffee table, and started to sit down?”

  “That’s what I told Mr. Willard, isn’t it?”

  “I just wanted to be sure,” I didn’t show my irritation. “Did you sit down?”

  “No.”

  “How far down did you sit?”

  “I don’t really think I can say.”

  “Although you do remember starting to sit?”

  “Certainly I remember starting to sit.”

  “Isn’t it unusual that you can remember starting to sit, but you can’t remember finishing?”

  “I didn’t say that! I just said I started to take my seat, that’s all!” she snapped at me.

  “Well, let’s try to narrow it down. Your seat, I mean.” I could hear the laughter behind me in the courtroom. Her antagonism didn’t bother me. Rather, it was playing into my line of questioning. I don’t like to make a fool of a witness if there’s any other course. With Pauline Morrisey, I had no choice. I waited for Pauline’s angry and embarrassed flush to go away, then I asked again, “You weren’t completely seated?”

  “I said I wasn’t!”

  “Were you halfway seated?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Perhaps only a quarter seated?”

  “I’ve already told you, I don’t know.”

  “Or even less? A tenth perhaps?” When she tossed her head and refused to reply, I didn’t press the question further. Instead, I held out my hands and suggested, “Now suppose I have a plate in each hand. Let’s also imagine that here is a coffee table, and beside it is a chair or a couch. Please watch me.” I lowered my hands to the approximate height of a coffee table, placed the imaginary two dishes on it, and started to sit down—then stopped. As I straightened up, I concealed a quick glance at my wrist watch. “Tell me, is that what you did?”

  “I guess so.” Pauline was wary.

  “You guess so? Didn’t you just testify that you placed the dishes on a coffee table and started to sit down?”

  “Yes.”

  “But now you only guess you did?”

  “Yes, I did, but not the way you did it!”

  “Oh?” I pretended surprise. “How else is it possible to do it?”

  “What I mean is… well, I took a great deal longer to do it.”

  “Mrs. Morrisey, I think you’ll have to agree that when I went through the pantomime of placing the dishes and sitting down, I didn’t hurry—and neither did I slow down. I tried to demonstrate in a rea
sonably normal manner. Didn’t it look natural?”

  She hesitated, then agreed. “I suppose… as good as any.”

  “How long did it take me to do it? To place the dishes and sit down?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you saw me.” Again she refused to reply, so I told her. “I timed it. It took exactly four seconds!”

  Her temper flamed. “I don’t care how long it took you!”

  “Don’t you believe me?” I smiled broadly, which only infuriated her more. “Do you want me to time it again?” I asked politely.

  “I don’t care what you do!”

  “But the jury cares. The difference between four seconds and sixty seconds is very important.” I stressed the point by pausing and looking at the jury. Then I continued, “However, you still insist it took you sixty seconds to do what I did in four seconds?”

  “Yes.” She was growing more visibly upset.

  “It took you fifteen times as long?” I was incredulous.

  “Yes! Yes! How many times do I have to say it?” Pauline Morrisey was stretching both her patience and her judgment—which was what I wanted.

  “Just as many times as it’s necessary to demonstrate that you are telling the truth,” I told her calmly.

  “I object, Your Honor!” Willard interrupted. “There is no evidence that the witness is not telling the truth. And her statements must be accepted as such.”

  “I’m not doubting the integrity of the witness, Your Honor,” I said, “but I do doubt the accuracy of her judgment regarding the passage of time. On direct examination, Mr. Willard, himself, brought up the question of time. The human element in determining how much time has elapsed is open to many fallacies. I submit that I am merely trying to find out if such a fallacy exists in Mrs. Morrisey’s statements.”

  Raleigh overruled Willard. “Continue, Mr. March.”

  I turned back to Pauline Morrisey who was now fidgeting uneasily on the stand. “Mrs. Morrisey, you have stated that sixty seconds passed between hearing the first and second shots. Now I want you to continue to watch the jury, and keep your eyes away from either your wrist watch or the clock on the wall. When I tell you to start, you think about it, and when you believe sixty seconds have passed, you tell me.” I stared at her, then took my time looking at the clock above the judge. “Now!” I directed suddenly.

  Silence gripped the courtroom; after the passage of several seconds, I noticed the lips of Pauline Morrisey moving slightly and silently. “Just a moment, Mrs. Morrisey!” I interrupted, “you are counting to yourself, which is unfair to everyone waiting for your reply. Obviously, you didn’t count to yourself the night you heard the shot. Please start again!” I again glanced at the clock, this time with satisfaction. I had the witness fighting her own nerves.

  Again silence descended on the room, and all eyes were riveted on Pauline Morrisey. I watched her carefully, but made no effort to distract her. It seemed to me that time was standing still as the jury waited and the second hand moved around the wall clock. Sixty seconds, as it is counted off, is a long time… and in relation to my demonstration with the dishes, it became more obvious that distortion had taken place in the witness’ statement. Finally, Pauline Morrisey said, “It’s a minute!”

  “It is exactly forty-one seconds,” I corrected. She bit her lips and turned her face away from the jury. “Now in view of the fact that you have misjudged a minute by nearly thirty-three and a third percent, and the fact that you have seen me perform in four seconds what you claim it took you a minute to do, perhaps you’d like to change your statements regarding the time between shots?”

  “No!” She remained stubborn.

  I turned to the jury, wearing an expression of a reasonable man, and shrugged. “That’s all,” I told Pauline Morrisey.

  I returned to the defense table, and Ivy leaned forward for a huddled conference. “She hates me, doesn’t she?” she asked.

  “Let’s say she was determined.”

  Ivy thought a moment. “I wonder why?”

  “About the way she feels?” I wondered too, although perhaps I had a partial explanation. “In nearly all cases,” I told Ivy, “the witnesses choose sides—no one, on either side, is entirely unbiased. Pauline Morrisey just happens to be more prejudiced than most.”

  “You had her… falling all over herself,” Ivy said, pleased with the memory of Pauline’s discomfort.

  Meanwhile, Lieutenant Earl Overland, detective of the Los Angeles Police Department, had been duly sworn in and was offering his testimony.

  “You questioned Ivy Lorents, after she had been arrested? That is… after the body of the dead woman had finally been identified as Arthea Simpson?” Willard asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did the defendant admit that she knew it was Arthea Simpson?”

  “No, sir,” Overland told Willard, “she denied it.” I noticed that Overland had a heavy, unimaginative face. As Willard continued his examination he mentioned the fact that a key to Ivy’s apartment had been found on the body of the Simpson woman.

  Willard offered the key as an exhibit for the state, and continued, “How do you know it was a key to Ivy Lorents’ apartment?”

  “I tried it, and it opened the front door,” Overland told him.

  On cross-examination, I approached Overland, and started to slug it out right away. “You have just told the jury that Ivy Lorents said to you that she did not know who the dead woman was. Is that correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I want to get this straight, so I’ll repeat it again. Ivy Lorents denied that she knew it was Arthea Simpson?”

  “Yes, sir. Absolutely denied it.”

  “And then you told her it was Arthea Simpson?”

  “Yes, sir. I told her, and then she said she hardly knew the dead woman.”

  “All right.” I dropped the strong-arm, and asked casually, “You evidently don’t need to refresh your memory.”

  “No, sir. I remember okay.” Overland was another immovable witness.

  I held up a sheet of paper. “This is a transcript of the examination conducted by you and Detective Ringow in which Ringow asked the questions. But you’ve been giving the answers here as though you did the questioning!”

  “Like I said… each of us asked…” Overland growled at me. Now we were both sore.

  “That’s not good enough! You not only didn’t ask about how Arthea Simpson might’ve gotten in the apartment, but you didn’t ask or infer any question about the key. Tell us the facts now!”

  “We hadn’t identified what the key was for, yet!”

  “But having found it, and discovered it would open the door to Ivy Lorents’ front door, you didn’t ask her later, either? Is that right?”

  “I didn’t ask her.”

  “And it’s a regular key?” I kept at him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But it could be a pass key?”

  “No, sir…”

  “How can you be so sure? You’ve been wrong twice so far during your testimony…”

  “I object!” Willard stated. “He’s attempting to intimidate the witness.”

  “If so, I apologize,” I told Willard. But that was exactly what I had been doing. “I’ll ask another question. Are you, Lieutenant Overland, an expert locksmith?”

  “I’m not, but I know a lot about keys…”

  “But you’re not an expert? You can’t make keys or fix locks?”

  “No, sir.” Overland was glaring at me.

  “So, even if this isn’t a pass key—which you don’t know one way or another—it still might unlock other doors than the one belonging to Ivy Lorents? Isn’t that a fact?”

  “It might…”

  “And you never tried to find out?”

  “No, sir.”

  It was time now to really hammer it home. I let Overland have it. “So, when Ivy Lorents told you that she didn’t know how Arthea got into her apartment, there is no reason
to believe that she knew about this key! You have no proof that Arthea Simpson might not have possessed this key for another reason, and then found it useful for breaking into Ivy Lorents’ apartment?”

  “It’d be a coincidence.”

  I stared at the jury, hopelessly, tugged open my collar, then swung back to Overland. I gritted out the words, “I’m not speaking about coincidence, because coincidence does happen… all the time. I’m putting this to you. You have no idea where Arthea Simpson got the key; you have no idea what other doors the key will unlock!” I bored straight into Overland’s eyes, locking wills with him. “Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Overland mumbled.

  Overland had given in. There wasn’t much more to ask. I turned my back on him and walked to the defense table.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  In the Silver Sands apartment of Pauline Morrisey, Jack Barker was saying, “Look up… keep the wrinkles away.” He was focusing a camera on Pauline.

  “Like this?” she asked, protruding her chin. Then, her voice in deep reflection, she said, “I think I understand why you don’t like that Cyrus March…”

  Barker grinned. “He made you look like an idiot,” he replied, while busying himself. The camera was fairly complicated and it automatically made prints of its own negatives within a matter of a few seconds. In addition, the camera had attachments for flash bulbs, as well as infrared to take pictures in almost total darkness. Originally, it had belonged to the late Mr. Morrisey. Barker was attempting to take Pauline’s picture as she lounged in brocaded Japanese pajamas on the couch. It was not that Barker wanted Pauline’s photograph, but he enjoyed tinkering with the camera.

  “He tricked me! And you know it!” Pauline explained sullenly. Each time she thought of her experience on the witness stand she became angry.

  “I warned you March was a sneaky bastard,” Barker told her without sympathy. “Now don’t drop your chin.” He applied an eye to the ground-glass viewer.

  “Is that why you don’t like him?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” Barker, to his own surprise, found himself considering Pauline’s question. Why didn’t he like March? Cyrus March hardly knew that Barker was alive—which may have been the reason. While Barker sought recognition, March had achieved it. Barker, however, refused to admit that he was jealous of March’s success. Although the newspaper man had been pinched often enough by reality to realize something was indeed wrong in his own life.