by Parnell Hall
Steve Winslow walked over to the defense table. So. Sheila Benton wasn’t here yet. But they’d be bringing her out soon. He should sit down. Was this his chair and that hers, or vice versa? He’d never done this before. No, this was his chair on the end, near the middle of the courtroom. He was the one who had to get up and down. She just had to sit there and look innocent. Great advice he’d given her. He wondered if other attorneys had given their clients the same advice. “Try to look innocent.” Words of wisdom.
Steve looked over at the jury box, empty now, but soon to be filled with prospective jurors. And up at the judge’s bench, imposing, regal. And at the witness stand, where he would do battle, where he would have to shine.
Last he looked over at the prosecution table. And there he was. The pudgy, bald man in the custom-tailored suit that was failing to do its job of hiding his excess weight had to be Harry Dirkson. The Dirk himself, as the attorneys at Wilson and Doyle used to refer to him. Jesus, Steve thought. The guy doesn’t look like that much. Can he really deserve his reputation as a demon cross-examiner? As he thought that, Dirkson looked at him and their eyes met. Steve nodded and smiled.
Dirkson stared at him. Oh Jesus, he thought. He’s a clown. A goddamn clown. It’s a circus and he’s the clown, and there goes my political career.
The door at the side of the courtroom opened, and the bailiff ushered in a police officer, a matron and the defendant, Sheila Benton. The bailiff led her to the defense table.
Sheila stopped, stared, then slid into her seat next to Steve.
“Jesus Christ,” she said. “What’s the matter, couldn’t you afford a suit?”
“Shhh. Don’t worry about it.”
“How the hell do you expect to make an impression on the jury dressed like that?”
“I’m not trying to make an impression on the jury. I’m trying to get you acquitted.”
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”
“Shhh.”
“Please rise,” ordered the bailiff.
Steve and Sheila got to their feet. She was still staring at him, but he was looking at Judge Preston Crandell, who had just entered and was taking his seat at the bench. Crandell, with thirty years on the bench, had a reputation as a hard, no-nonsense judge. In New York City, famous for its turn-’em-loose judges, Crandell was an exception—a judge who would convict if at all possible. A prosecutor’s judge.
Crandell banged the gavel.
“Court is now in session,” announced the bailiff. “The People of the State of New York versus Sheila Benton. The Honorable Preston Crandell presiding.”
Judge Crandell turned to Harry Dirkson. “Is the prosecution ready?”
“Ready, Your Honor.”
Crandell turned to Steve Winslow. He appeared to hesitate a second and raise an eyebrow before inquiring, “Is the defense ready?”
Dirkson was afraid Winslow would say something smart, do something clownish, but he merely said, “Ready, Your Honor.”
Crandell turned to the bailiff. “Bring in the first jurors.”
During jury selection, some of Harry Dirkson’s fears evaporated. Far from being flamboyant, the defense attorney seemed quiet and subdued. He asked only easy, general questions of the prospective jurors, regarding their ability to be impartial and fair, and seemed to take their answers at face value. Things went so smoothly, in fact, that the jury was impaneled that morning, and following the noon recess, Judge Crandell commenced the trial.
“Does the prosecution wish to make an opening statement?” he inquired of Dirkson.
Dirkson rose to his feet. “The prosecution does, Your Honor.”
Dirkson had expected the jury selection to have taken several days. However, he was a shrewd prosecutor who took nothing for granted, and thus his opening speech was well prepared. This was his moment to shine, and he was fully prepared to do so. He felt that old kick, that old surge of adrenaline, and he actually felt good as he strode out into the middle of the courtroom.
“Your Honor. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began. “The prosecution intends to prove, that on the seventh day of June of this year, the defendant, Sheila Benton, did, premeditatedly and with malice aforethought, murder one Robert Greely. We intend to prove that Sheila Benton is an heiress with a trust fund worth several million dollars. The trust is in the control of her uncle, Maxwell Baxter, until Miss Benton reaches the age of thirty-five, at which time he is to turn over the principal to her. However, there is a provision in the trust which states that if Sheila Benton is involved in any scandal that would bring disrepute on the family name, the entire trust is forfeit, and the money goes to charity. We intend to prove that Sheila Benton was engaged in an affair with a married man, one John Dutton. We intend to prove that Robert Greely learned of the affair, and demanded blackmail for his silence. Threatened with exposure, and unable to raise the sum of money Greely demanded, Sheila Benton lured him up to her apartment and killed him.
“We shall prove all of these things by competent evidence, and we shall expect a verdict of guilty at your hands.”
Dirkson smiled at the jury, went back and sat down.
Steve was impressed. It was an effective opening statement, short and to the point, stating what Dirkson expected to prove, but showing none of his hand. Steve realized the jury was impressed too. He had been watching them during Dirkson’s speech. They had listened intently. Some had even nodded. And now, all of them were looking at the defendant, a sure sign that the prosecution had scored.
“Does the defense wish to make an opening statement?” asked Judge Crandell.
Steve looked up. The judge clearly expected a negative response. It would be unusual for the defense to make an opening statement at this time. The usual practice would be to reserve the opening statement until the prosecution had rested and the defense began putting on its case.
But Dirkson’s opening statement had done its damage. The jury had already turned against the defendant. Okay, Steve thought. Break the mood.
He rose to his feet. “The defense does, Your Honor.”
He stepped out into the middle of the courtroom. All eyes were on him, all heads turned to watch this strange-looking man, to hear what he had to say.
“Your Honor,” Steve said, in his best stage voice. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.”
He paused theatrically, looked around the courtroom. Then he shrugged his shoulders, smiled slightly and, in a smaller voice with just a hint of Brooklyn twang, said, “She didn’t do it.”
Steve walked back to his seat and sat down.
A ripple of amusement ran through the courtroom. It was a delayed reaction, as the people slowly realized that was his entire opening statement.
Steve watched the jurors. Some smiled. Some looked at each other.
The mood Dirkson had created was gone.
Steve looked around the courtroom at the reaction, and in that moment, all his opening-night jitters were gone. He was in a fight, and he loved it.
But Dirkson’s world had just collapsed. It was his worst nightmare. My god, he thought, he is a clown.
37.
AS HIS FIRST WITNESS, DIRKSON called the coroner, Dr. Marvin Fenton. Fenton, a bald, pudgy man with a slightly pompous bearing, stated his name and occupation.
“Now,” Dirkson said, “directing your attention to the afternoon of June seventh of this year, were you summoned to apartment 2B of an apartment house at 193 West 97th Street?”
“I was.”
“And what did you find there.”
“I discovered the body of a man.”
“Was he alive?”
“He was dead.”
“Did you determine the cause of death?”
“I did. Death had been caused by a large carving knife, which had been stabbed into the back of the victim. The blade had entered the back just below the left shoulder blade, and angled down until it penetrated the victim’s heart.”
“That was the only cause of
death?”
“It was.”
“There were no contributing factors? No bruises or contusions of any kind?”
“No, sir.”
“No presence of any drug in the body?”
“No, sir.”
“The knife was the sole cause of death?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was the knife still in the body?”
“It was.”
“Would you know that knife if you saw it again?”
“Yes. I scratched my initials on the handle of the knife.”
Dirkson smiled his approval. He walked over to the prosecution table, where his assistant handed him a paper bag. With something of a flourish, he produced a carving knife.
“Doctor,” he said, striding back to the witness stand. “I hand you a knife and ask you if you have ever seen it before?”
Dr. Fenton took the knife and examined it.
“Yes, sir. This is the knife I found in the body of the victim.”
Dirkson took back the knife and approached the judge’s bench.
“Your Honor, I ask that this knife be marked for identification as People’s Exhibit number one.”
“No objection,” Steve said.
“So ordered,” said Judge Crandell.
Dirkson handed the knife to the court clerk to be marked. He turned back to the witness.
“Now then, Dr. Fenton. Did you determine the time of death?”
“Yes, sir. I did. The decedent met his death on June seventh between the hours of twelve-thirty and one-thirty P.M.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Dirkson said with a smile. He turned to the defense table. “Your witness.”
Steve frowned. It was a damn clever way of presenting the evidence. The coroner was undoubtedly armed with a barrage of expert medical testimony to back up his determination of the time of death. But Dirkson hadn’t asked for it. He was going to let Steve bring it out himself and crucify his own client.
Steve got up and went over to the clerk. “Could I see the exhibit, please? Thank you.”
Steve took the knife and approached the witness. He smiled, and began his cross-examination almost conversationally.
“Dr. Fenton, you identify the knife by the initials you scratched on the handle?”
“Yes. I do.”
“What tool did you use?”
Fenton frowned, wondering what he was getting at. “A small etching tool I carry for that purpose.”
“Well, Doctor, if you scratched your initials into the handle of the knife with an etching tool, how can you be sure that the pressure you put on the knife didn’t alter its position in the body and cause more extensive wounds than would otherwise have shown up in your autopsy?”
Dr. Fenton was indignant. “I did no such thing. I never said I scratched my initials on the knife while it was still in the body.”
Steve feigned surprise. “Oh? So when you scratched your initials on the knife it had been removed from the body?”
“It had.”
“Did you remove the knife from the body?”
“Ummm. No, sir. I did not. My assistant, Dr. Blake, removed it.”
“And what did he do with the knife?”
“Ummmm. Well ...”
“Yes?”
“Well, Sergeant Stams wanted to fingerprint the knife, so he turned it over to him.”
“I see. So it was Sergeant Stams who gave you back the knife?”
Dr. Fenton shifted in his seat. “Well, no, actually it was Lieutenant Farron who returned it to me.”
“Ah. So it was Lieutenant Farron who gave you back the knife. And where were you at the time?”
“In my laboratory at the city morgue.”
“And it was at Lieutenant Farron’s request that you scratched your initials on the handle of the knife, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Then how do you know that the knife Lieutenant Farron handed you was the same knife you found in the body?”
“I recognized it.”
“How? You hadn’t scratched your initials on it yet.”
“I recognized it by the blood.”
“Anyone can put blood on a knife. What was there about the knife itself that enabled you to distinguish it from the hundreds of other knives of the same make and model as that found in the body?”
“It looked like the same knife.”
“I daresay it did. Now then, Doctor, if I were to produce evidence that on the afternoon of the seventh Lieutenant Farron purchased a knife similar to the one you have identified as People’s Exhibit number one, is there anything in your testimony that would prove that this was not that knife?”
Dirkson was on his feet. “Your Honor, I object. Counsel is indulging in the wildest fantasy. I defy him to produce such testimony.”
“It is a hypothetical question only, Your Honor,” Steve said, “for the purpose of impeachment.”
Judge Crandell nodded. “It is an impeaching question. The objection is overruled. Witness will answer the question.”
Dirkson slowly sat down.
Steve turned back to the witness.
Dr. Fenton sighed. “No, sir, there is not,” he said wearily.
“And you can’t identify this knife as being the one you found in the body?”
“No. I cannot.”
“Thank you.” Steve turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I move that the doctor’s testimony as to the knife, People’s Exhibit number one, being the fatal weapon, be stricken from the record.”
“Granted,” said Judge Crandell. “It will go out. The jurors will disregard Dr. Fenton’s testimony concerning the murder weapon.”
Dirkson was back on his feet. “Your Honor, this comes as something of a surprise. I had intended to introduce the knife into evidence at this time as the murder weapon.”
Judge Crandell shook his head. “Not unless you can connect it up.
“I understand. If I might have a short recess to locate the necessary witnesses?”
Judge Crandell glanced at the clock. “Court will stand in recess for half an hour.”
The judge banged his gavel. Court broke up.
Steve Winslow turned to Sheila Benton. Already the officer and the matron had appeared at her side. “Chin up, kid,” he said.
She had time to flash a twisted smile before they led her away.
38.
MARK TAYLOR PUSHED HIS WAY through the crowd in the courtroom.
“Steve!” he called out.
Steve turned and saw him coming through the gate.
“What is it, Mark?”
“I just heard from our correspondent in California.”
“And?”
“There’s no record of a marriage license issued to an Alice Baxter and Samuel Benton. There is no record of a death certificate on Samuel Benton. And there is no record of a birth certificate issued for Sheila Benton or a Sheila Baxter.”
Steve stroked his chin. “So maybe she was illegitimate.”
“Maybe. And maybe this Samuel Benton didn’t die after all.” Taylor smiled. “That’s assuming he ever existed in the first place.”
“Let’s assume he did. Try finding him, Mark. Give him top priority. I don’t care about anything else in the case, but I want that man.”
“I’ve got men working on it now. Listen, what’s this about the knife not being the fatal weapon?”
Steve waved it away. “Forget it. That’s bullshit.”
“You mean it is the fatal weapon?”
“Of course it is. The prosecution will connect it up as soon as the recess is over.”
“Then why make such a fuss about it?”
“Just misdirection.”
“Misdirection?”
“Yeah. You know, like the way a magician fools his audience by focusing their attention on his right hand while he’s doing something with his left. The important part of the coroner’s testimony isn’t the murder weapon, it’s the time element. The D.A. laid a trap for me by only a
sking the doctor when Greely was killed, and not asking his reasons. He wanted me to cross-examine him as to how he determined the time of death. Then the doctor would come out with volumes of medical testimony, all of which would have pointed up the fact that Greely was killed at just the time Sheila was in the apartment. Every question I asked would only prejudice the jury against her. So I’m ignoring the time element and concentrating on the murder weapon.”
“Great. But when the prosecution connects it up, won’t it look as if you’ve lost a point?”
Steve smiled grimly. “Listen,” he said. “I’m going to lose a lot more of them before this is over.”
39.
WHEN COURT RECONVENED, DIRKSON CALLED Dr. Morton Blake to the stand.
“Your name?” Dirkson asked.
“Dr. Morton Blake.”
“What is your occupation?”
“I am deputy coroner.”
“Directing your attention to the seventh of June, were you called to 193 West 89th Street, apartment 2B, to examine a body?”
“I was.”
“And did you examine the knife in the back of the body?”
Steve Winslow rose to his feet. “Your Honor, the prosecutor is leading the witness. All these questions are leading and suggestive.”
“These are preliminary questions, Your Honor,” Dirkson said, irritably.
“I think they are,” Judge Crandell said. “Nevertheless, try not to lead the witness. The objection is sustained. Please rephrase your question.”
Nettled, Dirkson turned to the witness and said sarcastically, “Did you notice anything sticking in the back of the decedent that struck you as unusual?”
Dr. Blake smiled. “Yes, sir. A knife.”
“Did you do anything to that knife?”
