The Anonymous Client

19

Steve Winslow raised his right hand, took the oath, and seated himself on the witness stand.

Harry Dirkson, ever the politician, smiled at the grand jury before turning to Steve. It was not a broad, triumphant smile, even though Dirkson must have relished the thought of having his adversary on the witness stand where he could give him a good going over. No, the smile was just a quick acknowledgment of the grand jury’s presence before Dirkson turned crisply to the matter at hand. This was serious business, Dirkson’s manner seemed to say. This was murder.

“Mr. Winslow, what is your occupation?”

“I am an attorney-at-law.”

“Mr. Winslow, we are inquiring into events relating to the death of David C. Bradshaw, who was murdered on Wednesday, the ninth of this month. As an attorney-at-law, you have certain rights and privileges on which we do not wish to intrude. But this is a murder case, and you are privy to certain information that is vital to that case, so therefore it is necessary to ask you certain questions.

“Therefore I will ask you this: on Wednesday, October ninth, did you have occasion to go to 249 East 3rd Street?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why did you go there?”

“Now,” Steve said, “you are inquiring into matters as to which I cannot help you. I am afraid that question calls for information of a privileged nature between client and attorney. Therefore I must decline to answer.”

“What the client told you is privileged information. What you did is not.”

Steve smiled. “Aren’t you splitting hairs here, Dirkson? You’re asking me, in effect, if a client told me to go to Bradshaw’s apartment. If that were the case, it would be a privileged communication, and you can’t inquire into it.”

“Are you stating that such is the case?”

“Certainly not. I am stating a hypothetical point of law.”

“We are not here to discuss hypothetical points of law.”

“I agree. Why don’t you move on to something else?”

Dirkson frowned. “It is not your place to tell me what questions I should ask.”

“Quite right. You can ask any questions you want. I’m only telling you which ones I choose to answer.”

That sally brought grins to the faces of some of the grand jurors.

Dirkson bit his lip. The cross-examination was not going as planned. Winslow wasn’t supposed to be scoring any points. Dirkson needed to get him on the run.

“All right,” Dirkson said. “We’ll play in your ballpark. Let’s talk about what you did. The fact is, you went to that apartment.”

“That’s right.”

“What did you do when you got there?”

This was the part Steve wanted to skip over. He certainly didn’t want to have to admit he’d opened the foyer door with a credit card. In the hope of getting around it, he threw Dirkson a crumb.

“I knocked on the door. When I got no answer, I tried the knob.”

Dirkson pounced on it. “You tried the knob?” Dirkson said. His manner was the same as if Winslow had just confessed to murder.

“And why did you try the knob? Or was that the result of a confidential communication?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Well, what was it then?”

“Just a reflex action.”

Dirkson put his skepticism in his voice. “A reflex action?”

“That’s right. I knocked on the door. I jiggled the knob. The knob turned.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Dirkson shook his head. “You knew that door was unlocked, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You suspected it.”

Steve smiled. “You want to interrogate me on what I suspected?”

“Now you’re splitting hairs,” Dirkson said. “You had reason to believe that door was unlocked, didn’t you?”

“No, I did not.”

“Then why did you try the knob?”

“I told you why. I can’t make any better answer than I already have.”

Dirkson gave the grand jury a look. That look was a work of art. In one glance he managed to convey the idea that his work was being impeded by having to deal with a slippery, lying shyster.

Dirkson turned back to Steve. “The door opened and you entered the apartment?”

“That’s correct.”

“And what did you find?”

“I found the body of David C. Bradshaw lying on the floor. He’d been stabbed in the back with a knife.”

“You recognized him as David C. Bradshaw?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you’d seen him before?”

“That’s correct.”

“Where did you see him?”

“In my office.”

“When?”

“The previous day.”

“What was Bradshaw doing in your office?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s privileged information.”

“Regarding what client?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“I’m not asking you what the client told you. I’m asking you the name of the client.”

“I can’t help you there.”

“What business did you have with David C. Bradshaw?”

“I can’t tell you that either. You know that. Look, Dirkson, I’m here as a witness. If you want to ask me about what I did, fine. If you want to ask me about my business, go roll a hoop. You know the law.”

Dirkson took a breath. “All right. You found the body of Bradshaw?”

“That’s right.”

“What did you do when you found the body?”

“First I made sure he was dead.”

“How?”

“I felt for a pulse.”

“Where?”

“On his wrist.”

“So you touched the body?”

“I touched the wrist, yes.”

“Is that the only place you touched the body?”

“That’s right.”

“You didn’t move the body in any way?”

“No.”

“What about the clothing on the body?”

“What about it?”

“Did you touch the clothing?”

“My hand may have brushed his shirt feeling for the pulse.”

“That’s not what I’m asking. You know what I’m getting at. Did you search the body in any way?”

“No, I did not.”

“Put your hands in any of the pockets?”

“No.”

“None of the pockets?”

“No.”

“Did you take anything out of any of the pockets?”

“No.”

“You certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“I see. Then let me ask you this: did you put anything in any of the pockets?”

“No, I did not.”

“You did not?”

“That is correct.”

“You understand you’re under oath?”

“I object to that question.”

Dirkson looked at him. “What?”

“I object to the question.”

“I just asked you if you knew you were under oath.”

“Exactly,” Steve said. “It’s a thoroughly objectionable question. I’m a lawyer. I know what it means to be under oath. Your asking that is a snide attempt to imply to the grand jury that you don’t believe what I’m saying.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a question.”

“Sure, it’s a question, but it’s not a question designed to elicit any information. It’s merely an attempt to belittle my testimony.”

“How could that belittle your testimony?”

“I told you. By implying you don’t believe what I’m saying.”

“I don’t believe what you’re saying,” Dirkson blurted.

Steve smiled. “There you are.”

Dirkson suddenly realized he was fighting a losing battle. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get back to what you did. When you entered Bradshaw’s apartment, did you have any money on you?”

“Certainly.”

“You did?”

“Of course I did. I always carry money on me. So many taxi drivers don’t take checks.”

“This is no joking matter.”

“I agree. Then ask me a question that makes sense. Everyone carries money.”

“You know what I’m getting at,” Dirkson said. “When you entered that apartment, did you have a large sum of money on you? To be specific, did you have ten thousand dollars in one thousand dollar bills?”

“No, I did not.”

“You deny that you had ten thousand dollars on you when you entered that apartment?”

“Yes, I do.”

Dirkson crossed to the prosecutor’s table and picked up a piece of paper.

“Mr. Winslow, I hand you a piece of paper and ask you if you have seen it before.”

“Yes I have.”

“What do you recognize it to be?”

“It is the list of serial numbers off of ten one thousand dollar bills.”

“Where did you get that list?”

“You just handed it to me.”

Dirkson frowned. “Don’t swap words with me. You know what I mean. Last night in my office I asked you to produce a list of the serial numbers of ten one thousand dollar bills. Is that the list you gave me at that time?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Once again, you are inquiring into matters that are privileged and confidential.”

“But you admit that you had that list in your possession?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And do you admit that you employed Mark Taylor of the Taylor Detective Agency to trace the numbers on that list and find out who withdrew those bills from the bank?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And do you know who did withdraw those bills from the bank?”

“Only by hearsay.”

“I understand. But the list speaks for itself, and it has been checked. Is it not true that, to the best of your knowledge, those bills were withdrawn from the First National Bank by David C. Bradshaw?”

“That is correct.”

“And where did that list come from?”

“There again you are inquiring into things that are privileged and confidential.”

“Did you ever have in your possession the ten one thousand dollar bills whose serial numbers are on that list?”

“That is also privileged and confidential.”

“I’m not asking you what anyone told you. I’m asking you if you had the bills.”

Steve shook his head. “You’re asking, in effect, if a client gave me those bills. That’s privileged information, as you well know.”

“You realize that by invoking your professional privilege you’re forcing us to draw our own conclusions.”

“Go ahead and draw them. I have nothing to say.”

“All right, I’ll draw them,” Dirkson said. “Is it or is it not a fact that when you went to Bradshaw’s apartment, you had ten thousand dollars on you in one thousand dollar bills? Is it not a fact that you searched the body, found another ten thousand dollars in thousand dollar bills on it? And is it not a fact that you then switched bills, placing the ten thousand dollars that you had on the body, and removing the ten thousand dollars that was there?”

“No, that is not a fact.”

“And,” Dirkson went on, as if Steve had not answered, “is it not a fact that before you could leave the apartment you were trapped by the arrival of the police, and, not wanting to be found with the bills in your possession, you hid them in the upstairs hallway of the apartment building?”

“That is not a fact.”

“You deny that you hid any bills in the hallway of Bradshaw’s apartment house?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you deny that you removed any bills from Bradshaw’s apartment?”

“That’s right.”

Dirkson abruptly changed his tack. “Is Marilyn Harding your client?”

“No.”

“Has Marilyn Harding ever been your client?”

“To the best of my knowledge, no.”

“What do you mean, to the best of your knowledge?”

“Exactly what I said. As far as I know, Marilyn Harding has never consulted me. Does that answer your question?”

Dirkson frowned. He wasn’t sure that it had. But he wasn’t sure that it hadn’t, either.

“Is it not true that you went to Glen Cove and called on Marilyn Harding last night?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And that was after you found the body of David C. Bradshaw?”

“That’s right.”

“And why did you call on Marilyn Harding?”

“There again, I can’t tell you.”

“Was the reason connected with the death of David C. Bradshaw?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.”

“Did you go to consult with her as your client?”

“I told you. Miss Harding is not my client.”

“And never has been?”

“And, to the best of my knowledge, never has been.”

Dirkson changed his tack again. “When you called on David C. Bradshaw, did you know that he was dead?”

“No, I did not.”

“Had you been told that he was dead?”

“No, I had not.”

“Or that he might be dead.”

“No, I had not.”

“Did you suspect he was dead?”

“You’re grasping at straws, Dirkson.”

“Answer the question.”

“No, I did not suspect he was dead. There. Now you have my thoughts, knowledge, and even my suspicions in the record. Now, do you have anything else?”

“Do you deny that before you went to Bradshaw’s apartment, a client told you that Bradshaw was or might be dead. Or,” Dirkson said, sarcastically, “does that answer betray a confidential communication?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Steve said. “The answer is no.”

“You deny it?”

“Yes, I do.” Steve leaned back in the witness chair. “Now, you’ve asked your questions and I’ve answered them. I’ve told you everything I can without betraying a professional confidence. Now then, do you have anything else?”

Dirkson didn’t. He suspected Winslow of lying, evading, holding out, and covering up. But he didn’t have a damn thing to back it up. And he didn’t know, specifically, what Winslow was trying to keep from him. And he was a smart enough campaigner to realize that his efforts to find out were not only futile, but were making him look bad.

“No,” Dirkson said. “That’s all.”