The Anonymous Client

31

When Court reconvened the next morning, District Attorney Harry Dirkson stood up and said, “Call Douglas Kemper.”

That announcement drew no reaction from the spectators in the courtroom. Most of them didn’t know who Douglas Kemper was. But it certainly produced a reaction in Marilyn Harding. She came half out of her chair, twisted around, and looked toward the back of the room. Fitzpatrick was immediately on his feet, interposing his bulk between his client and the spectators in the courtroom, but not before Steve Winslow caught the look on her face.

Steve Winslow turned to Tracy Garvin. “This is it. Dirkson’s about to drop a bombshell.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Probably an admission or confession of some sort. She must have told Kemper something damaging. Dirkson’s gonna bring it out.”

“Can he do that?”

“I don’t know. Kemper can lie, evade, even take the Fifth Amendment. He may simply take the position he knows nothing at all. Then Dirkson will have to try to impeach him.”

“Can he impeach his own witness?”

“On a material point, yes. Not on character. Even then he has to show surprise.”

“What do you mean?”

“That he expected one answer and the witness gave him another. It rarely happens. Here we go.”

Kemper took his place on the witness stand.

“Mr. Kemper,” Dirkson said. “Are you related to the defendant in this action?”

“That’s right. I’m married to her stepsister.”

“You’ve known the defendant for some time?”

“Yes. Six or seven years.”

“And you talk to her from time to time?”

“Naturally.”

“Have you and the defendant ever had occasion to discuss the decedent, Donald Blake?”

Fitzpatrick was quick, but not that quick. There was a plainly audible gasp from Marilyn Harding before he roared, “Objection, Your Honor!”

“Overruled,” Judge Graves said. “The prosecution is asking for an admission against interest. Witness will answer the question.”

“I’ll repeat the question, Mr. Kemper,” Dirkson said. “Have you and the defendant ever had occasion to discuss the deceased, Donald Blake?”

Kemper shifted position on the witness stand. “No, we have not,” he said.

“You have not?”

“No.”

“You claim that in all the conversations you have had with the defendant, she never once mentioned to you the man Donald Blake, otherwise known as David C. Bradshaw?”

“Objected to as argumentative and already asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

“Well now,” Dirkson said. “Let me ask you this: have you ever had any dealings with the decedent, Donald Blake?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“Never met the man?”

“No, I did not.”

“Never been to his apartment?”

“That’s right.”

“Then if a witness should state that they had seen you in his apartment, that witness would be mistaken, is that right?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Kemper, have you ever paid any money to Donald Blake?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“Mr. Kemper, an examination of your bank account reveals that on the morning of the seventh of October, you withdrew the sum of twelve thousand dollars in small bills. Did you by any chance give any of that money to Donald Blake?”

The courtroom was abuzz with excitement. The witness blinked twice. “No, sir, I did not.”

“No? But it is a fact that you withdrew twelve thousand dollars on the morning of the seventh?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Fitzpatrick said. “What this witness may or may not have done is not binding on my client.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Kemper, is it not true that the decedent was blackmailing you as well as the defendant?”

“No, it is not.”

“It is not? Mr. Kemper, you claim that you and the defendant never discussed the decedent, Donald Blake?”

“Objected to as already asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

“Directing your attention to the afternoon of the second of October, did you and the defendant not discuss the decedent, Donald Blake, at that time?”

“No, we did not.”

“Perhaps I can refresh your memory,” Dirkson said, boring in. He raised his voice. “I am referring to the time when you and the defendant checked into the Sand and Surf Motor Inn in Queens, registering as Mr. and Mrs. Sampson. Did you discuss Donald Blake at that time?”

The effect of the question was electric. The courtroom was in an uproar. Fitzpatrick was on his feet, shouting objections, but he could barely be heard above the din.

What created the furor was not so much the question, but the witness’s reaction to it. Douglas Kemper looked as if he’d just been shot through the heart.

It was several minutes before Judge Graves managed to restore order. Fitzpatrick, under pressure, seemed capable of finding grounds for objection unheard of before in any court of law. Judge Graves listened to them all, then said calmly, “Objection overruled. It is an impeaching question, directed to a material point of the testimony of the witness. I direct the witness to answer.”

Dirkson smiled. “Can you answer that question, Mr. Kemper?”

Douglas Kemper was still visibly shaken. He opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “Could I have a glass of water please?’

“Certainly,” Dirkson said. He made a show of being solicitous. He went to the judge’s bench and personally poured the water, then handed the glass to the witness. “Here you are. Take all the time you want. Just drink your water, and when you’re through, please answer my question.”

Kemper gulped the water and took a breath. Some of the color returned to his cheeks. “The answer is, no, I did not.”

“You did not discuss the decedent Donald Blake with Marilyn Harding? But you and Marilyn Harding did register at the Sand and Surf Motor Inn as Mr. and Mrs. Sampson?”

“Objection,” Fitzpatrick said. “Incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial.”

“Sustained.”

“But is it not true,” Dirkson persisted, “that you and the defendant were having an affair; that Donald Blake learned of this affair and demanded money for his silence; that Marilyn Harding paid him ten thousand dollars and you paid him an additional twelve?”

“No, it is not.”

“And is it not true that after that Donald Blake demanded even more money? Money that you refused to pay? Is it not true that you argued with Donald Blake about that? In fact you argued on the very afternoon that he was killed?”

“No, I did not.”

“And didn’t that argument take place in Donald Blake’s apartment? And wasn’t the time of that argument at five-thirty in the afternoon of the ninth of October? And wasn’t it your voice the witness Margaret Millburn heard when she called and reported an altercation to the police?”

“No.”

“It was not?”

“No.”

“And you’ve never been in Donald Blake’s apartment?”

“No, sir.”

Dirkson picked up the glass from the witness stand. “Then sir, if I were to take this glass that you have been drinking from, and give it to Mr. Riker of the police crime lab, and ask him to compare the prints found on it with the unidentified prints found in the apartment of Donald Blake, are you telling me that there is no chance whatsoever that one of those prints might happen to be yours?”

Douglas Kemper opened his mouth. Closed it again. He blinked twice. He looked around the courtroom, as if looking for a way out. His right hand reached up inside his jacket.

There was a moment’s stunned anticipation. Dirkson took a step backward. The bailiff stiffened and reached for his gun.

But it was not a gun Douglas Kemper pulled from his inside jacket pocket.

It was the torn half of a dollar bill.