The Baxter Trust

42

Dirkson came out firing right after the noon recess. The morning had been a disaster for him-Winslow had scored points and swung the sympathy of the jury-but now it was his moment to shine. There was no way Winslow could know the surprises Dirkson had in store for him. It was time to let him have it with both barrels.

Dirkson called Lieutenant Farron. He felt better just seeing him take the stand. After the bad impression made by the evasive Reginald Steele, Lieutenant Farron seemed to exude confidence.

“Now, Lieutenant Farron,” Dirkson said. “Are you acquainted with the defendant, Sheila Benton?”

“I am.”

“When did you first meet her?”

“On June sixth of this year.”

“The day before the murder?”

“That is correct.”

“Would you explain the circumstances of that meeting?”

“Yes. Miss Benton called the police and then came to the station. She first talked to Sergeant Stams, who brought her to my office.”

“And what did she want?”

“She claimed that she had received an anonymous letter and an anonymous phone call.”

“And did she show you the anonymous letter?”

“Yes, sir. She gave it to me.”

“And could you describe the letter?”

“It consisted of words cut from a newspaper and pasted on a sheet of paper to form a message.”

“And do you recall the message?”

“Yes, sir. It said: ‘I know all about you.’”

“I hand you a letter and ask you if you have ever seen it before.”

Lieutenant Farron took the letter and looked it over. “Yes, sir. That is the letter I referred to. The one the defendant gave me.”

Dirkson took the letter back from Farron. “I ask that this letter be marked for identification as People’s Exhibit number three.”

“No objection.”

“So ordered.”

Dirkson handed the letter to the clerk and turned back to Farron. “Now then, Lieutenant. Did you examine the envelope in which the letter was received?”

Steve straightened in his chair. A warning light had come on. The envelope. Sheila hadn’t mentioned the envelope, and he hadn’t even asked.

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Farron said.

“Can you describe the envelope?”

“It was addressed to the defendant. The address had been typed. There was no return address.”

“But the address of the defendant had been typed on a typewriter?”

“Yes, sir.”

Steve leaned over to Sheila. “Is that true?” he whispered. “Was the envelope typed?”

“Yes,” she whispered back. “Why? What’s the matter? Does it make a difference?”

“We’ll talk about it later. Right now, just keep smiling and don’t let the jury see it makes any difference.”

Steve kept smiling, but his world was collapsing. Does it make a difference? Well, just a little, he thought ironically. He knew typing was as distinctive as handwriting. Which meant they could prove which typewriter had typed the envelope. Which meant they could tie the letter to Greely.

Dirkson had walked to the prosecution table and picked up an envelope. He crossed back to the witness.

“I hand you an envelope and ask you if you have ever seen it before.”

“Yes, sir. That’s the envelope the defendant gave me. The one she said the letter came in.”

“How do you identify it?”

“By my initials, which I marked on it at the time.”

“I ask that the envelope be marked for identification as People’s Exhibit number four.”

“No objection.”

“So ordered.”

“Now then, Lieutenant. Did you make a search of the decedent’s apartment?”

“Yes, sir. I did.”

“Did you find anything that you considered significant?”

“Yes, sir. I found a Smith-Corona portable typewriter.”

Dirkson produced a typewriter from a bag on the prosecution table. “Is this the typewriter to which you now refer?”

“Yes, sir. It is.”

“I ask that the typewriter be marked for identification as People’s Exhibit-uh, what are we up to now? — number five.”

“No objection.”

“So ordered.”

Dirkson watched while the clerk marked the typewriter for identification. He looked over at the defense table. Winslow was still sitting calmly, with that maddening smile on his face. All right, damn him, Dirkson thought. Time to turn the tables on him. Let’s let him get angry. Let’s let him start objecting. Let’s wipe that smug smile off his face.

“Now then, Lieutenant,” Dirkson said. “Did you make any tests to determine whether the envelope, People’s Exhibit number four had been typed on the typewriter, People’s Exhibit number five?”

Farron was surprised by the question. Dirkson hadn’t intended to ask him that. It had been understood that the handwriting expert was going to give that testimony.

“I did,” Farron said.

“And had the envelope been typed on that machine?”

“It had.”

Judge Crandell frowned, and looked at Steve Winslow. Steve just sat smiling. He might not even have heard the question. Judge Crandell leaned forward.

“One moment here,” Crandall said. “Would the court reporter read back that last question and answer?”

The court reporter looked at the tape. “Question: ‘And had the envelope been typed on that machine?’ Answer: ‘It had.’”

Judge Crandell looked expectantly at Steve, who said nothing.

Crandell cleared his throat. “I do not wish to presume upon the responsibilities of the defense counsel, but in order to keep the record straight, I must point out that that last question clearly calls for a conclusion on the part of the witness for which no proper foundation has been laid. Lieutenant Farron is a police officer, but he has not been qualified as a handwriting expert.”

Steve smiled. “I think the point is well taken, Your Honor.”

Judge Crandell stared at him.

“In that case, Your Honor,” Dirkson said, “I ask that the witness be temporarily withdrawn so that Stanley Forrester, an eminent handwriting expert, can take the stand.”

“There’s no need for that,” Steve said casually. “I will stipulate that Mr. Forrester would testify that the envelope, People’s Exhibit number four, was typed on the typewriter, People’s Exhibit number five.”

Judge Crandell looked at him incredulously. “Mr. Winslow, how can you possibly make such a stipulation? The prosecution hasn’t even stated what it expects to prove by this witness.”

“Why else would they call him, Your Honor?” Steve said. “I think it’s perfectly clear to everyone that the envelope was typed on the machine. I’ll stipulate that it was.”

Judge Crandell was annoyed by his attitude. “Well, I don’t intend to have the matter disposed of in this manner. Mr. Forrester will take the stand.”

Lieutenant Farron stepped down from the stand, and Stanley Forrester was sworn in.

“Yes,” Forrester said. “There is no question. The envelope was typed on the machine, People’s Exhibit number five.”

“Cross-examine,” Dirkson said.

Steve yawned. “No questions.”

“I now ask that People’s Exhibits numbers three, four and five be received in evidence.”

“No objection.”

“So ordered. Now, Lieutenant Farron was on the stand for direct examination. Would Lieutenant Farron please return to the stand?”

Sheila Benton leaned over to Steve. “I need to talk to you,” she said between clenched teeth.

“Later.”

“No. Now.”

“Not in front of the jury.”

“Then ask for a recess.”

He saw the look on her face, and he didn’t want the jury to see it. Strategically, it was a bad time to request a recess, but he had no choice. He stood up.

“Your Honor,” he said. “Some of the recent testimony has covered matters of which the prosecution has been aware for some time, but which have come as a surprise to the defense. I find I need to confer with my client. If I could ask for a brief recess.”

Dirkson rose to his feet. “No objection, Your Honor. I’m sure counsel and his client have a lot to talk over.”

Judge Crandell, irritated by Dirkson’s manner, considered a rebuke, but thought better of it. “Very well,” he said. “Court stands in recess for half an hour.”

As court broke up, reporters surrounded a grinning Dirkson, while guards led Steve Winslow and Sheila Benton out a side door. They were marched down to a small visiting room and left alone.

Sheila watched the guard close the door. The second it was closed, she wheeled on Steve. “All right,” she asked angrily. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to save your neck.”

“Yeah, sure. What the hell happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“This morning you were going great. You were terrific. You had ’em all on the run. This afternoon you’re a washout. What happened?”

Steve smiled. “Are you telling me you’re dissatisfied with the way I’m handling your case?”

She stared at him. “Dissatisfied? No. Of course not. Why should I be dissatisfied? You run around court bowing and smiling like a fucking moron. You don’t know when to object. The judge has to run your case for you. And then, when the prosecution puts on an important witness who ties me right in with the murder, you don’t even cross-examine. Years from now, after I’m convicted of this crime, people will say ‘Sheila Benton? I remember her. She was the girl with the asshole lawyer.’”

“Finished?”

“I’m just getting started! Who the hell do you think you are, Perry fucking Mason?”

Steve’s eyes faltered. It was an accurate shot. He looked at her and smiled. “No,” he said. “There’s a difference.”

“What?”

“Perry Mason knew what he was doing.”

Sheila stared at him. “Are you telling me you don’t?”

He nodded. “That’s right. I don’t. At least, not in the way you mean. You see, the thing about Perry Mason was he didn’t just try to get his client acquitted. He always tried to find the guilty party, to prove who actually did it. And the hard thing to realize is, that’s not the way it works.” Steve smiled and shook his head. “No one is going to break down on the witness stand and confess to this crime. That’s the thing you gotta understand. In all probability, we will never find out who really killed Robert Greely, or why. Now, that may be hard to take, but that’s how it is. So when I tell you I don’t know what I’m doing, what I mean is, I don’t have any ultimate goal, any secret plan. I don’t know who did it, and I don’t expect to be able to find out who did it. All I can do is try to blunt the testimony of the prosecution’s witnesses, and try to put your case in the best possible light. And in doing that, win over the jurors. ’Cause that’s what it’s gonna come down to-whether or not the jurors like us. That’s really it. It’s a popularity contest. Or a beauty contest. We score some points on the talent competition, and they crown you Miss Innocent Defendant. You see what I mean?”

“Yes,” Sheila said. “I see what you mean. And I’m telling you, how you’re going about it stinks.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you think that letter was important?”

“It’s damned important. It gives the prosecution the link they need to establish your motive. It’s the most damaging evidence the prosecution’s put on so far.”

“And so you just sit calmly and watch them do it?”

“Look. The envelope was typed on that machine. That’s a fact. Nothing I can do is going to alter that fact.”

“You could at least try. Or did you take one look at that handwriting expert and realize he was too much for you?”

“I couldn’t have shaken his testimony, if that’s what you mean. All I would have accomplished would have been to make the jury think we felt the point was important.” Steve took a deep breath, and let it out again. “Look. This is a case in which all the facts are against you. There’s no getting away from them. I can’t even put you on the stand to deny them, because you’ve told so many lies to the police that you can’t stand up to cross-examination. So all I can do is sit back and punch holes in the prosecution’s case. But I’ve got to do it selectively. When the prosecution introduces evidence that is incontestable, I have to pass it off as if it weren’t important. It does you more harm than good to have me make a big stink about something and lose. Our only chance is to treat the damaging facts as if they weren’t particularly important.”

“I don’t agree with you.”

“Then get another lawyer.”

“I can’t get another lawyer. You know that perfectly well.”

“Ask your uncle to hire you a lawyer. I’ll step out of the case.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Why should you do that? That’s what my uncle’s been trying to get you to do all along.”

“That’s what he wanted me to do. But if you’re convicted, I don’t want it on my conscience that you wanted another lawyer.”

Sheila frowned. She looked down, thought that over. She looked up at him again.

“Tell me. Do you really think what you’re doing will work?”

Steve had been controlling himself for some time. Now he finally snapped. “How the hell should I know?” he said in exasperation. “I’ve never been in a fucking courtroom before.”

They stood there, looking at each other.