The Baxter Trust

43

Harry Dirkson wanted his headline. That was the thing he thought about during the thirty-minute recess. For Harry Dirkson was no babe in the woods. He was a veteran trial lawyer, and he knew all the ropes. And one thing he knew was, the common belief that cases aren’t tried in the papers was bullshit. Sure, jurors were instructed not to read the papers, but many of them did. And even those who didn’t couldn’t walk down the street without seeing the newspaper headlines, at least the ones in the Post and the Daily News.

So Dirkson wanted his headline. And the thing was, when the day started, he’d thought he had it. “BLACKMAIL NOTE TIED TO GREELY.” That was the headline. It had to be. A dramatic and damning bit of evidence that had caught the defense as well as the public by surprise. It was a natural.

Except for one thing. Reginald Steele. Goddamn Reginald Steele and his fingerprint evidence. Steele had made a hell of an impression on the stand. Too smug. Too assured. And that point Winslow had brought up, about how the knife must have been held. Steele hadn’t handled that well at all.

It didn’t bother Dirkson that Winslow’s point had been quite valid, that it was almost inconceivable that the girl could have stabbed him holding the knife that way. Dirkson was sure she was guilty, so things like that were annoyances, rather than anything to worry about or think about. The only real difference it made, as far as Dirkson was concerned, was whether he would get his newspaper headline.

That was the problem. Dirkson thought he had it. He thought the evidence about the typewriter was enough. But in the back of his mind was a horrible image he couldn’t get rid of. And it was this: a photograph of a hand holding a kitchen knife, with the headline above it, “LIKE A SWORD?”

Dirkson stewed about it the whole recess. And in the end, what he decided was, he couldn’t take the chance. The evidence of the handwriting expert was good, but not good enough. Not with the way the defense had sluffed over it, and paid no attention to it. It hadn’t been built up enough.

Dirkson had to be sure. So he would do it. He would shoot his wad. He would use the evidence he’d planned to hold for the next day, for tomorrow’s headline. He would use it today. Which meant rethinking his plan. Timing it. Ending with it, a grand finale.

When court reconvened, Lieutenant Farron resumed the stand.

“Now, Lieutenant,” judge Crandell said. “You are still under oath. The district attorney was questioning you on direct examination.”

Dirkson rose, approached the witness stand. “Just a few more questions, Lieutenant. Now, you have testified that the defendant gave you this letter, People’s Exhibit number three?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did she make any statement to you at the time concerning the letter?”

“Yes, sir. She said she thought it was a blackmail letter. I asked her if she was a likely target for blackmail, and she told me she wasn’t because she had no money of her own and she had never done anything that anyone could blackmail her for.”

“I see. And it was due to this statement on the part of the defendant that you decided that the matter didn’t warrant investigation?”

Steve rose. “Your Honor, I object. We are here to try a woman for murder, not to whitewash the police department’s sloppy investigative techniques.”

Dirkson was furious. “Your Honor, that’s not an objection. That’s a gratuitous attack on the police department.”

Steve equaled his tone. “And your question was a gratuitous defense of a police blunder.”

Judge Crandell banged the gavel. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Could we have some semblance of order here? Now, as far as the so-called objection goes, one point at least is well taken. We are supposedly conducting an investigation into a murder. Could we attempt to confine ourselves to that?”

Dirkson smiled. “Very well, Your Honor. I withdraw the question, and I have no further questions of the witness.”

Lieutenant Farron was surprised. He had expected Dirkson to question him at some length, and he had no way of knowing of Dirkson’s change in strategy.

“No questions,” Steve said.

Dirkson smiled. He had been afraid Winslow might cross-examine Lieutenant Farron at some length, which might have spoiled his timing. But now he had all the time he needed for what he wanted to do. By not cross-examining, Winslow was playing right into his hands.

It had been understood by Dirkson’s trial assistants that he would next call the cab driver to establish the time Sheila Benton returned to her apartment, so they were caught flat-footed when he instead called Sergeant Stams, and there was some delay getting him into the courtroom. The Sergeant was produced, however, and he took the stand.

“Sergeant Stams,” Dirkson said, “on the afternoon of June seventh did you receive a telephone call?”

“I did.”

“From whom?”

“From the defendant, Sheila Benton.”

“How did you know it was the defendant?”

“I recognized her voice. Lieutenant Farron and I had talked with her the day before.”

“I see. And what time did you receive the call?”

“At one thirty-five.”

“And what did the defendant say?”

“She said that a man had been murdered in her apartment.”

“And did you subsequently go to that apartment?”

“I did.”

“What did you find?”

“The body of a man.”

“The man who has subsequently been identified as Robert Greely?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you make a search of the victim’s clothing?”

“I did.”

“And what did you find?”

“A key.”

“A key?”

“Yes.”

“I hand you a key and ask you if this is the key you removed from the body?”

Sergeant Stams took the key and looked it over. “Yes, sir. That’s the key.”

“I ask that this key be marked for identification as People’s Exhibit number six.”

“No objection.”

“So ordered.”

“Now then, Sergeant, did you make any attempt to locate the lock that this key fitted?”

“I did.”

“And what did you find?”

“The key was to the front door of the defendant’s apartment.”

There was an audible reaction from the spectators in the courtroom. And from Sheila Benton. She gasped, and her face contorted.

And the attention of the jurors shifted from the witness and focused on her.

Steve Winslow kept his composure and betrayed no emotion. But he’d been hit with two body blows. First, hearing the devastating information about the key. And second, seeing the focus of the jurors’ attention shift to the defendant. It was a sign he could read clear as day.

A sign they’d made up their minds.

It was a delicious moment for Dirkson, and he did his best to prolong it. “Excuse me, Sergeant. Let me be sure I understand this. You say the key fit the door to Sheila Benton’s apartment?”

Judge Crandell looked expectantly at Steve. The question had already been asked and answered, and Dirkson was clearly milking the situation. But Steve was silent. He knew better than to make a fuss at this point.

“That’s right,” Sergeant Stams said.

“It would open the door to her apartment?”

“That’s right.”

“You tested it yourself?”

“I did.”

“And the key opened the door?”

“It did.”

“The door to Sheila Benton’s apartment?”

“That’s right.”

“Cross-examine,” Dirkson said triumphantly.

Steve looked at the witness. He couldn’t let this go by unchallenged. Not after the reaction of the jury. And particularly not after the reaction of the defendant. He had to do something to blunt the testimony. He got to his feet.

“Sergeant Stams,” he said. “You say you found this key in the decedent’s pocket?”

“Yes.”

“Was it on a key ring?”

“It was not.”

“In a key case?”

“No.”

“Were there other keys with it?”

“There were not.”

“Was the key attached to anything?”

“No.”

“You’re saying it was loose in his pocket?”

“That’s right.”

“Which pocket, by the way?”

“His right-front pants pocket.”

“What else was there in that pocket?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Nothing at all?”

“I don’t know how you can have a nothing without having a nothing at all.”

This brought smiles from some of the spectators, but Steve paid no attention.

“You’re saying the pocket was empty except for the key?”

“That’s right.”

“What about his other pockets?”

“They were empty too.”

Steve stopped and looked at the witness. “Wait a minute. I want to be sure I understand this. You’re saying there was nothing in any of his pockets except for the key?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you find anything belonging to the decedent in the defendant’s apartment?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Dirkson said. “That calls for a conclusion from the witness. How would he know what belonged to the decedent?”

“I’ll rephrase the question, Your Honor. Sergeant Stams, according to your testimony, the decedent’s wallet was not on the body?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you find a wallet bearing identification of the decedent in the defendant’s apartment?”

“No.”

“The decedent had no keys, other than the one you have identified. No key to his own apartment?”

“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?”

“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.