by Parnell Hall
“Yes, sir. I removed it from the body.”
“And then what did you do with it?”
“Well, the police wanted to test it for fingerprints, so—”
“That’s not the question,” Dirkson interrupted quickly, hoping to stave off another objection. “You know you can’t testify as to what the police wanted. The question is, what did you do with it?”
“I gave it to Sergeant Stams.”
“And where were you when you gave it to him?”
“Right there. At the scene of the crime.”
“And did you see what Sergeant Stams did with the knife?”
“Yes, sir. He put it in a plastic evidence bag and wrote his name on it.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Dirkson said. He turned to the defense table. “Your witness.”
With a broad grin, Steve announced, “No questions.”
Dirkson frowned. After Steve’s cross-examination of the coroner, Dirkson had expected him to tear into Dr. Blake.
“The witness is excused,” said Judge Crandell. “Call your next witness.”
“Call Sergeant Stams,” Dirkson said.
Sergeant Stams, on the stand, said, “Yes, sir, I received the knife from Dr. Blake.”
“And what did you do with it?”
“I was very careful not to disturb any fingerprints that might be on the knife,” Stams said self-righteously.
Dirkson was about to interrupt, but Stams let that matter drop, and got back to the point.
“I placed the knife in a plastic evidence bag and wrote my name on it.”
“And then what did you do with it?”
“I took it to the police lab.”
“And what did you do with it there?”
“I gave it to Reginald Steele to be fingerprinted.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
“No questions,” Steve announced cheerfully.
Dirkson gave him a look. “Call Reginald Steele.”
Reginald Steele took the stand and testified that he was an expert technician employed in the police lab.
“That is correct,” Steele said. “I received the knife from Sergeant Stams.”
“And what did you do with it?”
“I removed it from the evidence bag and tested it for fingerprints.”
“I see,” Dirkson said. “Now then, I am not asking you about any fingerprints you may have found at this time. I am merely trying to account for the whereabouts of the knife. With that understanding, please tell us what you did.”
“Yes, sir. I developed latent fingerprints on the knife, and turned it over to my assistant to photograph them.”
“And who is your assistant?”
“Samuel Beame.”
“Your witness.”
“No questions,” Steve announced, with the same broad grin.
With a sinking feeling, Dirkson suddenly realized what was going on. That grin. That damned, infuriating grin. It was infectious, and people in the courtroom were catching it. With each successive witness, the atmosphere in the courtroom was getting lighter. In a murder trial, for Christ’s sake. Dirkson couldn’t believe it.
And yet, he realized, there was no help for it. He had to keep on with what he was doing, even though he knew he was playing right into that clown’s hands.
“Call Samuel Beame,” he said, and out of the corner of his eye he could see some of the spectators smiling, and some of the jurors looking at each other.
“Yes, sir,” Samuel Beame testified. “I received the knife from Reginald Steele.”
“And what did you do with it?”
“I photographed the fingerprints on the knife.”
“Fine. I’m not asking you about those fingerprints at this time. But the fact is you photographed them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then what did you do with the knife?”
“I returned it to Reginald Steele.”
“That’s all.”
“No questions,” Steve said, grinning.
Dirkson knew it was coming. He’d been in the courtroom often enough to be able to read audiences just the way an actor would. And there was no mistaking the expectant hush of the crowd. But he had no choice.
“Recall Reginald Steele,” he said.
That’s when it hit. The first audible chuckles. Judge Crandell immediately banged them silent with his gavel, but Dirkson knew the dam had broken, and from here on the reaction could only grow.
“That is correct,” Reginald Steele said. “I received the knife back from my assistant, Samuel Beame.”
“And what did you do with it then?”
Steele seemed unhappy about his answer, which only made things worse. “I gave it to Sergeant Schneider to deliver to Sergeant Stams.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
Steve grinned. “No questions.”
Dirkson sighed. “Call Sergeant Schneider.”
As Dirkson had expected, it was worse. The chuckles were louder this time. Even some of the jurors were grinning. Christ, even the defendant was grinning.
Sergeant Schneider turned out to be one of those bullnecked cops who look and talk as if they had the I.Q. of a tree stump, which didn’t help.
“Yeah, I got the knife,” he said.
“Where did you get it?”
“Steele gave it to me.”
“And what did he tell you to do with it?”
“Give it to Sergeant Stams.”
“So what did you do with it?”
Schneider helped Dirkson out by staring at him as if he were an idiot. “Gave it to Sergeant Stams.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
“No questions,” Steve announced happily.
“Recall Sergeant Stams.” Dirkson announced. He got it in quickly, before the audience could build up the anticipation to it. It was a good strategy. It got chuckles, but not proportionally bigger than the last.
Sergeant Stams looked unhappy as he took the stand. It was apparent to everyone that he didn’t want to be there, and that he was giving his testimony very grudgingly. Which, of course, only heightened the mood.
“Yes, sir, that’s right,” he said. “I received the knife back from Sergeant Schneider.”
“And what did you do with it?” Dirkson asked.
Sergeant Stams looked trapped. He hesitated, looked around and then blurted, “I gave it to you, sir.”
Laughter rocked the courtroom. The spectators laughed. The jurors laughed. Everyone except the police and the prosecution was terribly amused.
Judge Crandell banged for silence, but even he seemed to be suppressing a smile.
Harry Dirkson stood, stony-faced, and waited for it to be over. There was nothing else for him to do.
When the courtroom was quiet again, he said dryly, “Thank you, Sergeant. And what did I do with the knife?”
“You gave it to Lieutenant Farron, sir.”
“In your presence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all,” Dirkson said, wearily.
Steve was on his feet. “Your Honor, I have no questions of this witness. I would also like to say at this time that the defense has no wish to embarrass the prosecutor by forcing him to take the stand. Therefore, we will stipulate that Harry Dirkson, if called upon to testify, would state that he received the knife in question from Sergeant Stams and that he gave it to Lieutenant Farron.”
Dirkson accepted the stipulation with bad grace. No attempt to embarrass him indeed, he thought. And then, having done so, the guy had the gall to play the good guy by making the stipulation. But there was nothing Dirkson could do but accept it.
Dirkson called Lieutenant Farron to the stand.
“Yes, sir,” Farron testified. “You gave me the knife.”
“And what did you do with it?”
“I delivered it to Dr. Fenton.”
“That’s all.”
“No questions,” Steve said.
“Recall Dr. Fenton.”<
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“That is correct,” Dr. Fenton testified. “I received the knife from Lieutenant Farron.”
“And it was then, and in his presence, that you scratched your initials on the handle?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dirkson turned wearily to Judge Crandell. “I now ask that the knife be received in evidence as the murder weapon.”
“No objection, Your Honor,” Steve said brightly.
Dirkson, who had expected a long argument, stared at the defense counsel in exasperation and disbelief.
Judge Crandell came to his aid. “So ordered,” he said. “It is now well past the hour of adjournment. Court stands adjourned until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
40.
JUDY MEYERS PROPPED HERSELF UP on one elbow and looked at Steve Winslow. Judy, twenty-nine, married, divorced, an actress who waited tables more often than not, probably knew Steve as well as anyone, which, she was well aware, wasn’t really saying much.
Steve was lying in bed next to her, staring at the ceiling. They had just had sex, if one could call it that. His mind had obviously been miles away.
“You’re scared stiff, aren’t you,” Judy said.
Steve might not have heard her. He appeared to be counting the cracks in the ceiling.
“Or perhaps ‘stiff’ isn’t the right choice of words,” Judy said.
Even this got no response.
Judy got up, padded naked into the kitchen, got a bottle of cognac, and filled two snifters. She came back into the bedroom and shoved one of them into Winslow’s hands.
“Here. Drink this.”
“What is it?”
“Ah. The man lives,” Judy said. “Never mind. Just drink it.”
Mechanically, Steve raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. Judy sat on the bed, watching him.
“You know,” she said. “I haven’t seen you in over a month.”
“I told you where I was.”
“That night, yeah. The other times, I don’t know. You had some excuses that were so plausible I can’t even remember them. I doubt if you can, either.”
He said nothing.
“And we wouldn’t have even had a date at all if I hadn’t run into you at that audition last month.”
“I’ve been working nights.”
“You were working nights before. And you were staying here three, maybe four nights a week. That’s why you stopped. You got scared. You thought it was becoming too permanent. You didn’t want to be tied down.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off.
“No, don’t argue. That’s it. You don’t want to be tied down. And that’s stupid, because I don’t want to be tied down either. Despite what you think.”
She took a sip of brandy. “You may not see me for a while, anyway. I got a callback for a national tour of The Foreigner. If I get it, I’m gone.”
“Break a leg.”
“Thanks.” She took another sip. “My guess is you came here tonight because you’re upset about something, and you thought you could take your mind off of it. But it didn’t work, did it?”
Steve sighed, rubbed his head. “No. It didn’t.”
“So what’s the problem? You got a murder trial. Aside from a Broadway lead, I thought that was what you always wanted.”
“So did I.”
“So what’s wrong?”
He took a sip of the brandy, then scrunched up to a sitting position. He twirled the cognac around in the glass, and watched it swirl.
“When I passed the bar and Wilson and Doyle hired me I was all gung ho. I was really excited, you know. It was a new career. Something important. Something worthwhile. When they fired me it was hard to take. I did everything I could to get another job. And it was like the fucking acting thing again, only worse. I made the rounds. I went to every goddamn law firm in the city. And I couldn’t get hired. ‘We’ll call you.’ The same old line. And they never did. ’Cause it was the talk of the industry. I was the guy who’d fucked up conservative, respectable Wilson and Doyle. Maybe I could have gotten a job assisting some ambulance chaser or something, but I didn’t want that. I studied criminal law, for Christ’s sake. So I did nothing. I went back to making the rounds again. I drove a cab and had an answering service, only now I was an out-of-work actor and lawyer. And it was a slow year.” He smiled. “I got extra work in three movies and one murder case.”
“I know,” Judy said. “That’s what I don’t understand. You got a murder case, for Christ’s sake. You should be dancing on the ceiling.”
“Yeah.”
“So what’s wrong?”
He took a sip. “I guess every young attorney has the fantasy of going into court and conducting brilliant cross-examinations and getting his client off.”
“So?”
He shrugged. “So here I am. I’ve finally gotten into court and I don’t know what to do.”
“Wait a minute. From what you told me, it sounds like you did pretty well today.”
He waved it away. “That was just jerking off. It didn’t prove anything. And I don’t know what to do. All of the facts in the case are against my client. I can conduct all the brilliant cross-examination I want, and the facts will still be the facts. And she’s going to be convicted—there’s nothing I can do about it. And I don’t even think it’s me. I don’t think any lawyer could do anything about it. But that doesn’t help.”
“Well, maybe she’s guilty.”
“Maybe. But I think she’s innocent.”
“Well, that’s half the battle, isn’t it?”
Steve sighed. “That’s what they tell you in law school. Actually, it’s a crock of shit. If your client’s guilty, at least you know what the facts are, and you can make up a story to account for them. If your client’s innocent, you don’t know what the fuck is going on.”
The phone rang. Judy picked it up. “Hello? ... Yeah, what time? ... Okay. Great. Goodbye.” She hung up the phone.
“Another audition?”
“Yeah. Commercial.”
“Break a leg.”
She looked at him. “You know what the trouble with you is?”
He sighed. “Shit.”
“I know. You don’t want to hear it. Listen. You know the character in Arms and the Man? Captain Bluntschli?”
“I played Bluntschli in summer stock.”
“Yeah? I played Raina. At Long Wharf. So you know. Bluntschli was this supercool, super professional soldier. They were all in awe of him. Is he a man or is he a machine? That’s the tag line, right? ‘What a man. Is he a man?’ And he’s just cool, crisp, efficient. Not a nerve in his body. And then, in the end, when he’s accounting for himself, he admits that he’s a man who all his life has spoiled his chances through an incurably romantic disposition. And they’re floored, because that’s the last way they would think of him. And then he explains himself—I did this when a man of sense would have done that—and it’s true.”
Judy smiled. “And that’s you. That’s who you are. An incurable romantic. No, don’t argue. I know you don’t think so. You see yourself as this practical, no-nonsense guy, cutting through the bullshit. Well, maybe you are. But the reason you are is because behind it all you’re the romantic hero, the white knight on the charger, slaying dragons and saving damsels in distress.”
Steve laughed. “Jesus Christ. This is what I came here for? Two-bit amateur psychoanalysis?”
“No.” She smiled. “I know what you came here for. Now this particular damsel in distress. I saw her picture in the paper. She’s pretty.”
Steve looked at her. “Are you implying something?”
“Why? Is there something to imply?”
“Are you kidding? She’s just a kid.”
“Right. Of twenty-four. Whereas I am a worn-out old hag of twenty-nine.”
He laughed. “Right. Over the hill. Washed up. Soon to be playing old-lady-character parts.”
He tickled her. She giggled, twisted away.
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“Stop that.”
“No, devil woman. You are in the clutches of the incurable-romantic tickling machine.”
She twisted away again, laughing and spilling brandy.
The phone rang.
“Time. Saved by the bell,” Judy said. She leaned over and grabbed the phone. “Hello.”
She listened, then turned to him with a slightly puzzled expression on her face. “It’s for you.”
“Oh. That’ll be Mark Taylor. I gave him this number.”
“Oh.” She handed him the phone.
“Hello, Mark. What’s up?”
“We can’t get a line on Sam Benton. He never served in the military. He never filed a tax return. He never drove a car.”
“Well, he was born, wasn’t he?”
“Not according to vital statistics. So in all probability, Sam Benton isn’t his right name.”
“Shit. What about Alice Baxter?”
“We’re trying to run her down. The trail’s pretty cold. It’s been twenty-five years, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Steve hung up the phone. His momentary kidding mood was gone.
Judy looked at him. “Bad news?”
“That’s the only kind I get,” he said.
41.
WHEN COURT RECONVENED THE NEXT morning, Dirkson called Carla Finley to the stand.
Sheila Benton leaned over to Steve Winslow, and whispered, “Who’s she?”
“Greely’s girlfriend,” Steve whispered back.
“Oh.”
Sheila was surprised. She had been so caught up in her own predicament, that it had never occurred to her the dead man was a person too, with a life of his own, and friends, and girlfriends. She watched Carla Finley with some interest.
Steve watched Carla Finley with some interest too. It was hard to believe that this woman walking down the aisle and taking the witness stand was the same woman he had seen in the peep show. Her hair was pulled back from her forehead and tied in a sedate bun. She was dressed in conservative, black mourning attire. But the main difference was her eyes. The eyes that in the peep show had seemed so bright, so alert, so challenging, the eyes that held the come-hither look, were now discreetly downcast. The effect was to transform a porn queen into a bereaved widow.
In Steve’s opinion, she had been brilliantly coached.
Carla Finley took the stand, and, in soft, halting tones, guided by Dirkson’s skillful questioning, stated that she had known the deceased, Robert Greely, in his lifetime, that she had gone to the morgue to identify a dead body, and that the dead man was the man whom she had known as Robert Greely.
