by Parnell Hall
“No.”
“Did you find a key to the decedent’s apartment anywhere in the defendant’s apartment?”
“No.”
“Sergeant Stams, did you make a search of the decedent’s apartment?”
“I did.”
“Did you find his wallet?”
“I did not.”
“Did you find the key to his apartment?”
“No.”
“Yet neither of these objects was on the body of the decedent when you searched it?”
“That’s right.”
“Sergeant Stams, is it then your opinion that after Robert Greely was killed, the body was searched?”
“Objection, Your Honor. Assuming facts not in evidence and calling for a conclusion on the part of the witness.”
“He’s a police officer, Your Honor,” Steve said.
“He’s not a clairvoyant, Your Honor,” Dirkson countered.
“The objection is sustained,” Crandell ruled.
Steve figured he’d thrown up enough of a smoke screen. “No further questions,” he said.
Dirkson was pleased. There was plenty of time left, and Dirkson figured he’d need it. His next witness was not going to be easy.
“Call Saul Callen,” he said.
Saul Callen was a cantankerous old curmudgeon, quarrelsome and argumentative. He settled himself on the witness stand, and peered down at Dirkson through ancient-looking bifocals.
“Your name?” Dirkson said.
“You just called me by name,” the witness said.
“For the record, give your name,” Dirkson said.
“Saul Callen.”
“Occupation?”
“Locksmith.”
“You have a store on Broadway and Ninety-fifth?”
“I do.”
“I hand you a key, marked People’s Exhibit number six, and ask you if you have ever seen it before.”
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t even looked at it.”
“That’s right.”
“Would you look at it, please?”
“All right. I’ve looked at it.”
“And have you ever seen it before?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you seen a key like it?”
“Like it? I’ve seen a million keys like it.”
“Can you tell me anything about it?”
“It’s fairly new. It’s been recently made.”
“Do you recognize the blank?”
“It’s a standard blank.”
“Do you have blanks like it in your shop?”
“Every locksmith has blanks like it.”
“Then you might have made this key?”
“Sure. And I might have been elected president, but I don’t recall it.”
“Directing your attention to June sixth, did a gentleman come into your shop and ask you to make a key?”
“If one hadn’t, I wouldn’t be in business.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Dozens of people come into my shop every day and ask me to make keys. If only one person came in a day, I couldn’t operate. Do you know what my rent is?”
“Mr. Callen, I think you know what I’m getting at. Did the police ask you to go to the morgue to identify a dead body?”
Callen snorted. “I’ll say they did. I lost half a day’s work.”
“And did you identify the body?”
“I don’t know what you mean by identify.”
“Had you seen the man before?”
“As I told the police, I thought I had.”
“And where had you seen him?”
“In my shop.”
“And when would that have been?”
“I told this to the police.”
“And now I’d like you to tell me. When did you see him?”
“I can’t be sure. Either the fifth or the sixth.”
“Of June?”
“What do you think, November? Yes, of June.”
“To the best of your recollection the man was in your shop on the fifth or sixth of June?”
“That’s right.”
“And what did he want?”
“He wanted me to make a copy of a key.”
There was a reaction from the spectators. Dirkson glanced around. Newspaper reporters were scribbling furiously.
Dirkson smiled. “I’d like to pin this down. Did you make this copy from a wax impression or from another key?”
“From another key.”
“And the man who came into your shop and gave you the key and asked you to make a copy was the man you identified at the morgue?”
“That’s right.”
“And what was the name of the man you identified?”
“Robert Greely.”
“Cross-examine.”
Dirkson turned and walked back to his seat. As far as he was concerned, his work for the afternoon was over. Winslow would really tear into this one. The guy hadn’t identified the key. His identification of Greely was shaky at best, and those bifocals the guy wore made it look as if he could hardly see. Winslow would tear him apart.
Dirkson looked over at Winslow. Winslow appeared bored. He waved his hand. “No questions, Your Honor.”
That announcement drew a bigger reaction than Callen’s testimony about the key. Dirkson frowned.
“The witness is excused,” Judge Crandell said. “Call your next witness.”
Dirkson looked at the clock. He still had a good half hour left before adjournment. After the testimony about the key, any witness he put on would be an anticlimax. He didn’t want that. So what could he do?
Then it came to him. All right. Go for the kill. Tie it down. If Winslow was going to let him do it, why not? Give ’em the motivation too, and tie it all together.
Dirkson stood up. “Call Maxwell Baxter.”
An excited murmur ran through the courtroom. Maxwell Baxter! This was the name. This was the one they’d all come to see. And it was happening now. Necks craned to watch the aloof, distinguished millionaire as he walked to the stand.
Inside the gate, Maxwell Baxter stopped to look over at his niece. The effect that look created in the minds of the jurors could not have been a good one in terms of the defense. It was the look a stern parent might give a particularly naughty and unruly child.
Maxwell Baxter met Steve Winslow’s eyes. The look Max gave Steve was one of pure contempt. Steve merely smiled.
Max took the stand and was sworn in. Dirkson approached the bench.
“Your Honor,” he said. “This is a hostile witness. He is the uncle of the defendant, and he has refused to answer any questions put to him by the police or the prosecution. Therefore I may need to ask leading questions.”
“I will reserve that ruling until it becomes necessary,” Judge Crandell said.
Dirkson turned to the witness. “You are Maxwell Baxter, the uncle of the defendant?”
Max stared at Dirkson as one might stare at a particularly loathsome bug. “I am.”
“You are, I believe, her trustee?”
“That is correct.”
“Is hers a large trust?”
“That depends what you mean by large.”
“What is the amount of the trust?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“And yet you are the trustee?”
“That is correct.”
“And yet you state you don’t know the amount of the trust?”
“That is correct.”
“Why don’t you know the amount of the trust?”
“A large portion of the trust is in stocks, which constantly fluctuate. It would take an accountant to tell you what they’re worth.”
Dirkson looked at Judge Crandell in helpless exasperation.
“Very well,” Judge Crandell said. “You have your ruling.”
Dirkson turned back to Maxwell Baxter. “Mr. Baxter, is Sheila Benton’s trust worth more than a million dollars?”<
br />
“It is.”
There was a reaction from the spectators.
“Is it worth several million dollars?”
“What do you mean by several?”
“You tell me. How many millions would you say the trust is worth?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say.”
“More than five?”
“Yes.”
“More than ten?”
“Yes.”
“More than twenty?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Mr. Baxter, are you telling me that the amount of Sheila Benton’s trust is somewhere close to twenty million dollars?”
“I’m not telling you anything. I’m answering your questions.”
“Yes, you are. Let me ask you another one. As trustee, you are familiar with the provisions of the trust, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“And is not one of the provisions to the effect that if Sheila is involved in any scandal that would damage the family name, the trust is declared void and the money goes to charity?”
“Yes. That is true.”
That produced another reaction in the courtroom. However, Dirkson stood there and looked all around the room, and particularly at the jurors, just to be sure they all got the point, before he announced, “Your witness.”
Steve rose to his feet. As opposed to the ponderous dramatic air of Dirkson, he was bright and breezy as he smiled and approached the witness.
“Yes, Mr. Baxter,” he said. “And whose discretion is it whether Sheila’s behavior is scandalous enough to warrant terminating the trust?”
“The decision is mine, as trustee.”
“Yours alone?”
“Mine alone.”
“And if someone had proven to you that Sheila was involved in an extramarital relationship, would you have considered that sufficient grounds for terminating the trust?”
“Certainly not,” Max said. “I consider that provision in the trust particularly idiotic. I would always interpret it as leniently as possible.”
Steve smiled. “No further questions.”
Dirkson rose to his feet. He also was smiling. He could have objected to Winslow’s question, but he had a counterattack of his own planned.
“I have some redirect, Your Honor. Mr. Baxter, did your niece, Sheila Benton, know that you wouldn’t terminate the trust if she became involved in a scandal?”
Max glanced at the defense table, expecting an objection, but Steve just sat there. Max turned to the judge. “I think that’s an improper question, Your Honor.”
“There being no objection from the defense, you are required to answer.”
“I can’t answer for what my niece may or may not have known,” Max said, evasively.
“Let me put it this way. Did you ever tell your niece that you wouldn’t terminate the trust under those circumstances?”
Again Max looked at Steve and got no response. “I fail to see how what I may or may not have told my niece is relevant,” he said to the judge.
“It is up to the court to decide what is relevant, Mr. Baxter,” Judge Crandell said. “In the absence of an objection from the defense, you will answer the question.”
“Then I will have to say that I can’t remember.”
“You can’t remember telling your niece?” Dirkson asked.
“No.”
“Then you probably did not.”
“I can’t remember,” Max said.
“Then let me put it this way. Was there in your own mind the intention not to tell your niece that you didn’t intend to break the trust, because by letting her think that you would break the trust you could control her actions?”
Maxwell Baxter, who had been well coached by his attorneys as to the type of objections he could expect Steve Winslow to make in his behalf, and who was thoroughly frustrated at not hearing them, now came out with them himself. “That is a wild allegation on your part,” he blustered angrily, “assuming facts not in evidence, calling for a conclusion on my part, and inquiring into matters that are incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial.”
Judge Crandell banged the gavel. “Mr. Baxter,” he said sternly. “Another such outburst and I’ll hold you in contempt of court. Must I remind you that you are not a lawyer?”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Max said. “But someone has to function as a lawyer around here, and my niece’s inexperienced attorney is just sitting there letting the prosecution get away with these objectionable questions.”
Steve Winslow got slowly to his feet, smiled and said calmly, with elaborate condescension, “Your Honor, I haven’t been objecting because I don’t want the jury to get the impression that Sheila has anything to hide. I think it would damage her case to do so. I assumed that Mr. Baxter was an intelligent man, capable of taking care of himself. If, however, he would like me to come to his rescue at the expense of his niece’s best interests, I’ll endeavor to do so.”
Judge Crandell’s gavel silenced Max’s angry retort. “That will do,” Crandell said. “The objection, if any, is overruled. The witness will answer the question.”
“Did you intend not to tell your niece?” Dirkson asked.
Max, defeated and furious, looked around the courtroom. “No,” he said. “I didn’t intend to tell her.”
Again the courtroom broke into a low murmur.
Dirkson smiled. “No further questions.”
“Any recross-examination?” Judge Crandell asked.
Steve Winslow rose. “Yes, Your Honor.” He strode up to the witness stand, smiled at Max, and said, “Mr. Baxter, do you like me?”
There was stunned reaction in the courtroom. No one could quite believe he had asked that.
Dirkson recovered first and struggled to his feet. “Your Honor, I object. Of all the absurd-”
Crandell banged the gavel. “That will do. If you have an objection, state it in legal terms.”
“Incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial,” Dirkson said.
“It’s always relevant to show bias, Your Honor,” Steve said.
Dirkson, still upset, said, “What bias? This is the defendant’s uncle. He’s biased for her.”
“He may be biased for her, Your Honor,” Steve said. “But he may also be biased against me. And since that bias might affect his testimony, I have a legal right to establish it.”
“Objection overruled,” Judge Crandell said. “Witness will answer the question.”
Max looked up at the judge. “You want me to answer?” he asked grimly.
“Yes,” Crandell said. “The court reporter will read the question.”
The court reporter flipped through the tape. “Question: ‘Mr. Baxter,’ he read, ‘do you like me?’”
Max looked around the courtroom, then straight at Steve Winslow. Steve smiled at him, a bright, broad smile.
Max’s face purpled. “I think you’re an incompetent jackass!” he said.
There was a huge reaction from the courtroom. Steve Winslow took no notice. He smiled, bowed and said politely, “Thank you. No further questions.”
Judge Crandell banged for silence, excused the witness and announced that it had reached the hour of adjournment.
District Attorney Dirkson hardly heard. Despite the victories he had scored all day long, he had a hollow feeling in his stomach, and he could not keep his eyes from wandering to the back of the courtroom, to the sight that was making him feel queasy, the sight of the newspaper reporters, scribbling gleefully.
44
Steve Winslow sat in the dingy coffee shop near the courthouse, moodily pushing the scrambled eggs around his plate.
Mark Taylor, a folded newspaper under his arm, came in the front door, looked around, spotted Steve and came over.
“Ham, eggs and coffee,” Taylor called to the waitress as he slid into the seat. “Well, good morning.”
“What’s good about it?” Steve said.
“I know what you mean,” Taylor said. He unfolded the paper
and laid it on the table facing Steve. It was the New York Post. The headline read: “B AXTER: Y OU’RE A N I NCOMPETENT J ACKASS!”
Steve glanced at it. “Yeah. I saw it.”
“You also made the page-six cartoon.”
Taylor flipped the paper open. The cartoon was a drawing of a jury. A small taxicab sat in front of the jury box. Out of the window of the cab, on a rubber neck, came a large caricature of Steve’s face, framed
by shaggy long hair. The caption on the cartoon read: “YOUR HONOR, I OBJECT!”
“Great,” Steve said.
The waitress set a cup of coffee in front of Taylor. He dumped in cream and sugar, took a sip, sighed and said, “You’ll pardon me for saying so, but it seems to me you’ve been going out of your way to make yourself look like an asshole.”
Steve nodded. “I know. But I have to do something. The prosecution hit me with two body blows yesterday. The typewriter and the key. The key is the worst. Greely had the original to copy. The inference is that Sheila gave it to him.”
“What does she say about it?”
Steve shook his head. “The same thing she’s always said. She never met Robert Greely and she has no idea where he could have gotten that key.”
“But they can’t prove she gave it to him, can they?”
“They don’t have to. It’s bad enough in itself. The guy had the key to her apartment. And she claims she never met him.”
Taylor nodded. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“It’s the worst.” Steve pointed to the paper. “This could read: “B ENTON K EY F OUND I N G REELY P OCKET.” As it is, the story about the key is buried on page twelve.”
Taylor thought that over. “Not bad for an asshole.”
Steve shook his head. “Something has to break. Shit, haven’t you got anything from California?”
“Nothing. The trail’s cold. I’m beginning to think there may be nothing to get. I mean, just because Alice Baxter said she had a baby in California doesn’t mean she did. Sheila could have been born in another state. She could have been born under another name. There’s a lot of possibilities. Now, I have to tell you, frankly, I got more men working out there on the coast than you can afford, and I still got nothing. Which may mean that there’s nothing to get.”
The waitress brought Taylor’s ham and eggs. He picked up a fork and dug in.
Steve looked dispiritedly at his own food. “The thing is, I need something fast. The prosecution’s gonna rest its case today or tomorrow, the way things are going. And what the hell am I gonna do then?”
