Not I, Said the Vixen

by Bill S. Ballinger

  I had spent a lot of time on the bartender’s examination, stalling while I waited impatiently for word from Nordeen. When it arrived, Taylor again shook his head in the negative. Zimmerman had no record, at least in Los Angeles, and there was not enough time to wait for additional information from out of state.

  But, at least, I had managed to make Zimmerman admit he had an argument with the owner of the Red Jay and was now out of work. All I could do was to plant a doubt in the jury’s mind. “So, Mr. Zimmerman, you have no hard feeling toward your former boss, the owner of the Red Jay, is that correct?”

  “No hard feeling at all.”

  “And you are giving this testimony out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “That’s right.”

  “With no thought of harming anyone?”

  “None at all.”

  “Now you know, Mr. Zimmerman, what you’ve said about the Red Jay can—and quite probably will—be printed in the newspapers?”

  “I suppose so.” Zimmerman was indifferent.

  “And once published… made public… what you have said about it—the details about the kind of women who frequent it—this information will then come to the attention of church groups and other civic organizations. What do you think these groups will do?”

  “That calls for speculation… a conclusion,” Willard was on his feet again.

  “I don’t think it calls for much of a conclusion to expect the Red Jay to lose its license—fast!” I snapped back at Willard.

  “Objection sustained,” ruled Raleigh. “Strike the question,” he ordered the court reporter.

  With that, I had to be content. I hoped that the jury might believe Zimmerman did have a reason—the motive of getting even with the club for losing his job—and had made up the story about Ivy visiting it.

  As I walked away from Zimmerman, I took a quick look at the jury. Their faces were impassive. When I reached the defense table, Raleigh recessed the court for lunch.

  I walked alone to the Claymore as Bert Taylor had to return to the office. In the lobby, I met Ivy and Lydia Gorham. Lydia, too, had some work to catch up on and asked if she could be excused from lunch that day. Consequently, Ivy and I ate lunch in her room, heavy spirited from the morning’s near disaster.

  Subdued, she asked me, “Do you think I’ve been lying to you?”

  “Not deliberately,” I told her. “Perhaps not even consciously. Often, however, a person wants to forget certain things… incidents, and does forget them. The danger we both face is not from my attempting to judge your past life, but from my ignorance of what to expect—from Willard.” I paused, trying desperately to make her understand. “For instance, this morning… Harvey Zimmerman. He was a surprise witness whom Willard dug up at the last minute.”

  “How could I know… that?” Ivy asked me, defensively.

  “You couldn’t.” I was forced to admit. I struggled on, “But don’t you see… I should’ve been prepared for a hundred Harvey Zimmermans—if necessary?”

  Perhaps Ivy didn’t see. Finally she lifted her gaze from the plate, and her lovely eyes looked into my face. “Isn’t it enough that I love you?”

  “No!” I told her frankly. “Not if you want me to save your freedom.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” Her voice was very low.

  “Dammit!” I exploded. “Can’t you understand? It’s no longer a matter of love… or trust. It’s a matter of being able to fight Joe Willard on equal terms!” I noticed the glisten of moisture in the corner of her eyes, and my anger slowly drained from me. “Yes,” I continued rather unsteadily, “I do love you, and because I do—I don’t want to lose you.”

  Willard’s first witness, that afternoon, was Vera Bright.

  The details aren’t important. It was obvious to me that Vera Bright was, at best, an amateur call girl—and more probably, a professional, who testified she had been approached, sexually, by Arthea Simpson on two occasions. When I cross-examined her, she stated she had worked at various jobs—waitress, usher, cosmetics saleswoman—but Nordeen had had time to dig up the fact that she had twice been arrested for “soliciting.” Not cosmetics—herself! After that it was easy to cast doubt on her testimony.

  The jury had gotten the message, when Minnie Jackson was called to the stand.

  Minnie Jackson stated she had worked for Ivy Lorents, as a part-time maid, for a period of nearly seven months. She had left her job with Ivy to take another one at full-time. After going through these preliminaries, Willard showed her exhibit A for the state, and asked if she had ever seen the revolver before. Minnie identified it, and after further questioning, it was established that Ivy had kept it, in a hat box, on the top shelf of her clothes closet.

  Willard was trying to establish that Ivy had kept the revolver far out of reach, and not in the drawer of the Italian painted cabinet, according to Ivy’s story, the night of the shooting. He hoped to prove that Ivy had taken the revolver from its usual place of concealment at the far end of the apartment, and moved it to the chest near the living room, for the purpose of using it. But, as Minnie Jackson had left Ivy’s employment a month before the shooting, this was difficult to establish. Minnie didn’t help Willard, either, by volunteering additional information.

  Finally, Willard asked, “We know that the defendant had possession of the revolver for a number of months before the shooting of Arthea Simpson, and we know that the revolver was kept in the back bedroom closet during these months. Now, Miss Jackson, doesn’t it seem strange to you that the revolver should be moved from the hat box in the closet, to the chest of drawers conveniently near the living room?”

  “That calls for a conclusion,” I interrupted. “I object!”

  “Sustained. Strike the question,” Raleigh directed.

  Willard didn’t attempt to rephrase his question. He had scored his point. “Now,” he continued, “did you answer the phone for Miss Lorents, and sometimes was it Miss Simpson who was calling?”

  The witness raised her eyes to peek quickly at Ivy, then lowered them again. “Yes, sir. Sometimes it was Miss Simpson,” she replied softly.

  “And how did you know it was Miss Simpson?”

  “’Cause she’d say so.”

  “What would they talk about?”

  “I don’t rightly remember…”

  While Willard conducted his examination, I conferred quietly with Ivy. “How did you and Minnie Jackson get along?” I asked.

  “Wonderfully,” Ivy whispered back. “I always liked her, and I’m sure she liked me.”

  I nodded. I had a feeling that Minnie Jackson was giving her testimony somewhat reluctantly. It was possible that she might cooperate better with me on cross-examination.

  Willard’s voice was droning on with more questions. “Besides Miss Simpson, did other persons call on the phone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did Mr. Robert Knox ever call on the telephone?”

  “Sometimes…”

  “But not as often as Miss Simpson?”

  “No, sir…”

  Willard then handed the witness a photograph of Arthea Simpson which had been entered as evidence, and originally displayed to Zimmerman. “Do you recognize the person in this picture?”

  “It’s Miss Simpson,” Minnie Jackson identified her.

  “Did you ever see Miss Simpson at the defendant’s apartment? Did she ever come over to visit the defendant?”

  “Yes, sir. I seen her.”

  “Did Miss Simpson come there often?”

  “No, sir. Not often.”

  I know Minnie Jackson’s answer caused Willard to pause, although he covered his surprise smoothly. He returned to Minnie’s previous testimony that she had worked for Ivy Lorents approximately seven months, and during that time, he brought out, Arthea Simpson had visited at the apartment possibly half a dozen times. And that upon Arthea’s arrival, she and Ivy had usually left the apartment.

  “What time would they return?” asked Willar
d.

  “I don’t know, sir. I wasn’t there when they got back.”

  “Because it was very late?”

  “No, sir. I just worked part of the day,” Minnie Jackson explained. “I’d start work at noon for Miss Lorents, then I’d leave at five o’clock. After that… I wouldn’t have a way of knowing when they came back.”

  I was perfectly satisfied with Willard’s predicament. He was unhappy with Minnie Jackson, whose testimony was vital to his case. It sometimes happens that a witness will change sides, emotionally, during a trial, and apparently this was now occurring with the maid, although she was supposed to be Willard’s witness. The jury, however, might not be aware of this; certainly, the men and women were listening intently, and Willard gave no outward indication of discomfort.

  “So, if Miss Simpson and the defendant returned at five minutes after five, you wouldn’t know, is that correct?” Joe started up again.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If they arrived back at five minutes after midnight, and remained until five minutes before noon…”

  “I object!” I leaped to my feet.

  “… five minutes before you came to work, you still wouldn’t know?” Willard continued, raising his voice above mine.

  “You know that question was out of order,” Raleigh reprimanded Willard. “I must warn you not to do it again.”

  “I am intending to establish, Your Honor, that the deceased, Arthea Simpson, could have had the opportunity to call many times at the defendant’s apartment… after five o’clock, and…”

  By now I was steaming. “If the prosecution wishes to argue his intent, then he shouldn’t do it in front of the jury! Let it retire!”

  “Mr. March is correct,” Raleigh ruled.

  “It won’t be necessary,” Willard shrugged.

  “Please direct the jury, Your Honor,” I requested.

  Raleigh turned to the attentive faces in the jury box. “I must direct the jury to disregard the last question by Mr. Willard, and the following exchange between the two counsels. It is not to be accepted as evidence.”

  I returned to my seat. But the jury had heard, had understood what Willard was driving at—the fact that Arthea Simpson could have remained, as a lover, overnight—on numerous occasions—in Ivy’s apartment. And although it was not evidence, it was quite likely that it would be remembered against Ivy.

  It was twenty-five minutes of three when I took over on the cross-examination. I gave a friendly smile to Minnie Jackson. “Did you like working for Miss Lorents?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir.” The maid smiled at Ivy. “She was always very nice to me.”

  I dropped my voice nearly to the level of the witness. The jury leaned forward, intently, to catch the words. “Did you ever see signs, when you came to work at noon, that there had been a big party the night before?”

  “No, sir. I never saw any signs.”

  “And you never saw anyone… man or woman… at her apartment when you arrived at work?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Mr. Willard asked you about Miss Lorents’ phone calls. To use his exact words, he asked… ‘and other people called, too?’ Do you remember that?” The witness nodded in reply. “And then you told him that other persons had called.” I paused, then continued. “Do you remember anyone calling—a man—who refused to give his name?”

  The witness regarded me alertly. “Some men called and didn’t leave their names…” she agreed.

  I nodded encouragement. “And did any of these men… say anything unpleasant? Make any threats?”

  “You mean talk nasty?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  “To me—or about Miss Lorents?”

  “Either of you.”

  Minnie Jackson slowly shook her head. “Not that I can think of.…”

  I had to decide quickly. I had been leading the witness—a dangerous tactic. But I could feel Minnie’s sympathy for Ivy, and decided to continue a little longer, although I didn’t know how long I’d get away with it. “Did Miss Lorents ever tell you that she’d received unpleasant, threatening phone calls?”

  “I kinda remember something about that…” Minnie seemed to be sorting out her thoughts. “It must’ve happened when I wasn’t around…”

  “At night, you mean? Miss Lorents received these threatening calls at night… and told you about them later?”

  The witness nodded with vigor, “Yes, sir.”

  “She told you several times?”

  Willard stood up. “It should be obvious to this court that the counsel for the defense is deliberately leading the witness.”

  I shrugged. I felt I had pressed my luck far enough. “Now Miss Jackson, earlier you replied to Mr. Willard about Arthea Simpson telephoning Miss Lorents. And you said sometimes Miss Lorents acted pleased. Now by the word ‘pleased,’ you didn’t mean that it made Miss Lorents extremely happy, did you?”

  “No, sir… Not real happy… like.”

  “Well,” Minnie Jackson searched for explanatory words, “it was… Miss Lorents wasn’t mad or anything, and she wasn’t real happy either… sort of in between. More like she was just pleased to have somebody to talk with.”

  “I see. It was as if Miss Lorents was simply talking to a good friend, is that it?”

  The witness nodded, “Yes, sir.”

  “The counsel is putting words into the witness’ mouth again,” Willard snapped another objection.

  “As a good, competent maid,” Minnie Jackson nodded in agreement, to my praise, “you rightly assumed it wasn’t any of your business when Miss Simpson called, so you didn’t listen… you went about your work. But did you ever hear from the sound of their voices, that they might be arguing—or were angry?”

  “No, sir. Like you said, I didn’t listen to what she was saying.” Minnie Jackson turned and smiled at Ivy, who returned her smile. “And I sure wouldn’t say anything to do Miss Lorents no harm.” she added.

  My stomach dropped. Silence fell suddenly on the courtroom, and Minnie’s friendly words hung suspended in the still air. It seemed to me that Judge Raleigh leaned over his bench in slow motion to address the witness. “Do you mean,” the judge asked distinctly, “that you are not telling everything you know… the whole truth? That you are replying only in part, or evading the truth, in order to deliberately help the defendant?”

  Minnie flinched back in her chair, and started to stammer, “No, sir… Judge… Your Honor. I’m telling the truth… so help me.”

  I concealed the despair which had swept over me. I realized that it was doubtful, now, that the jury would credit any of the maid’s testimony which was helpful to Ivy Lorents. However, I had to speak up, and I tried to keep my voice calm. “Your Honor, if I may humbly offer an explanation, I think it is this: Miss Jackson has always been friendly to her former employer. She realizes that many of the things to which she has testified, have been… at best… unpleasant. She wants Miss Lorents to know that she sympathizes with her… as would anyone under the same circumstances… and bears her no ill will.”

  “That’s right, Judge…” Tears were standing in Minnie Jackson’s eyes. Suddenly she began to cry.

  Judge Raleigh slowly sat back in his chair. “I’ll accept the counsel’s explanation. But I must warn the witness, hereafter, to answer only the questions put to her… and to offer no additional remarks. Proceed Mr. March, but I must also caution you not to lead the witness.”

  I saw Bert Taylor signaling me. Tim Nordeen stood beside him holding a newspaper. Momentarily I returned to the defense table. Bert whispered, “The Register has an extra on the streets… about Ivy. They’re making a big blast about her having to wear glasses.”

  My face was brittle, cracking from the strain. I turned to the judge. “Your Honor,” I somehow managed to get out the words, “I would like to ask the court for a recess until tomorrow.”

  Willard was content to conclude the day; with the scene of Minnie Jackson’s catastrophe clea
rly in the jury’s mind, he made no objection. So Judge Raleigh adjourned.

  As the jury filed out, I stood with my back partly turned to the jury box. I forced myself to glance over my shoulder, and smiled pleasantly. I made it a practice to greet and leave a jury each day with an assumption of friendship. My mind, however, was occupied with problems and I wasn’t actually looking at the jurors. Taylor, though, was facing the jurors as they were leaving the room, and I heard him say, “That’s odd…”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’d swear that Piersall… the juror, looked over here and winked.”

  I turned around; the jury had now disappeared in the room behind the box. I looked at Bert. “You mean Piersall winked at Ivy?”

  “No. At you.” He added, “I’m surprised you didn’t see him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I certainly thought so,” Taylor told me. “Or perhaps he was just nervous…”

  “Piersall…?” I wondered. “Well… if he’s friendly—that’s to the good.” I turned to Nordeen. “You take Ivy back to the hotel. Keep her away from the reporters.”

  Bert Taylor and I gathered up our papers to return to the office. “This whole goddamned day has been one catastrophe from start to finish,” I told Taylor.

  He didn’t need to answer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  A copy of the Los Angeles Register was open on March’s desk. The upper corner of the front page announced “Exclusive Feature.” The headline asked: IS IVY MAGICIAN? The story carried a byline by Jack Barker, and it began:

  Important new evidence was unearthed today, exclusively by the Register, in the current Ivy Lorents murder case. The defendant, on trial, accused of the slaying of Arthea Simpson, prominent California sportswoman, is afflicted by pronounced myopia. Myopia is a medical term for what is commonly called “nearsightedness.”