The Baxter Trust

45

Steve Winslow went up the front steps of the courthouse, just as he had every morning since the trial had begun. Only today there was a difference. Every other day he had gone up the steps alone and unnoticed. Today he was besieged by reporters.

That should have been gratifying for a young attorney conducting his first trial. It should have been but it wasn’t. Because Steve knew why the reporters were there, and it wasn’t because of his brilliant courtroom technique. It was because of the role he had forced himself to play to try to take the heat off his client and focus the attention of the jury on himself. It was because of the image he had created, the image that was reflected in the newspaper cartoon.

It was because they saw him as a clown.

And if there were any doubt in his mind that that was what they thought, their questions dispelled it.

“How about a statement, Mr. Winslow?”

“Is it true Maxwell Baxter tried to fire you?”

“Is it true you’ve never been in court before?”

“Is it true you drive a cab?”

Steve pushed by them without comment and entered the courthouse. He was later than usual due to his meeting with Mark Taylor, and when he entered the courtroom he discovered Sheila Benton was already there and was looking around anxiously for him. As their eyes met, it seemed to him he could see the relief washing over her face, as if she were a drowning person who had just grabbed a life preserver. He slid in next to her at the table.

“Where the hell have you been?” she asked.

“Working.”

“Working on what?”

“Tell you later.”

Judge Crandell entered, called court to order, and Maxwell Baxter resumed his place on the stand.

After the fireworks of the day before, there was an aura of expectancy among the spectators, particularly when they saw Maxwell Baxter on the stand. But Dirkson disappointed them. Today was not his day for surprises, today was his day for crisp efficiency, and point by point he methodically laid out the facts that would show that Sheila Benton had had the opportunity to commit the crime.

“Mr. Baxter,” he began. “Going back to the day of the murder, your niece called on you that morning, did she not?”

“Yes.”

“Why did she call on you?”

“I’m her uncle.”

“I daresay you are. The point is, she wanted to borrow some money, did she not?”

“Uh, yes, she did.”

“One hundred dollars?”

“Yes.”

“And you gave it to her?”

“Yes, I did.”

“In cash?”

“Yes.”

“And what time did your niece leave?”

“I have no recollection.”

“Well, let’s get at it another way. Was there anyone else in your apartment when your niece arrived that morning?”

“Yes. My brother Teddy, and his son, Phillip.”

“Who left first?”

“My brother and his son.”

“And Sheila remained behind?”

“Yes.”

“How long after your brother left did Sheila leave?”

“I tell you I can’t remember.”

“More than fifteen minutes?”

“It might have been.”

“More than half an hour?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Surely you remember generally. Did she stay to lunch? Did you offer her coffee or tea? Did you sit and chat?”

“I tell you I-”

“Or,” Dirkson said, boring in, “did she leave as soon as you gave her the money?”

“Sir,” Max said angrily, “I consider that remark-”

Dirkson raised his voice. “Did she take the money and leave, yes or no?”

Baxter glared at him and took a breath. “Yes, she did.”

“Then she couldn’t have been in your apartment more than fifteen minutes after your brother left, could she?”

“I suppose not,” Max said grudgingly.

“No further questions,” Dirkson said.

With that, the focus of the crowd shifted to Steve Winslow, in the hope of more fireworks, a hope that was dashed when he declined to cross-examine.

Dirkson’s announcement that Theodore Baxter would be his next witness raised further expectations-another Baxter, another man of wealth and power-expectations that were immediately shattered by Teddy Baxter’s entrance. His appearance labeled him for what he was: a poor relation.

His testimony was routine too, as Dirkson tried to pin down the time element.

“No sir,” Teddy Baxter said. “I don’t remember what time it was when we left.”

“Perhaps I can refresh your memory. Your son, Phillip, had to catch a bus, did he not?”

“Yes he did.”

“The eleven forty-five to Boston out of Port Authority?”

“Yes.”

“And did he catch that bus?”

Steve knew the answer to the question was inadmissible-Teddy hadn’t seen Phillip actually catch the bus, so his answer had to be a conclusion based on hearsay-but he also knew from Mark Taylor’s investigation that Phillip had caught the bus, so he didn’t bother to object.

“Yes, he did,” Teddy Baxter said.

“No further questions,” Dirkson said.

Steve didn’t bother to cross-examine.

Dirkson called the cab driver who’d taken Sheila back to her apartment. He testified that he’d picked up Sheila Benton at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third Street at five minutes after one and dropped her off in front of her apartment at one-twenty. He made a good impression on the jury, as Steve had known he would. Handsome and cocky, he so obviously considered himself a stud that his identification of Sheila Benton was unshakable. There was no way anyone was going to believe he could have missed her.

Steve could have challenged him on the time element, however. Five after one, and one-twenty were bound to be approximations-the guy’s trip sheet wouldn’t be accurate to the minute, and he would have a hard time maintaining that it was. But Steve saw no point in it. The prosecution could maintain that Sheila had killed him earlier and then dashed out to Fifth Avenue to build up an alibi by taking the cab back, or they could claim she killed him as soon as she got home and just before she called the police. A few minutes either way wouldn’t make any difference.

Steve didn’t bother to cross-examine.

The next witness, Stella Rosenthal, was more interesting just because she was a character. Middle-aged, lean, angular, with thick spectacles perched on a long pointed nose, she was a living caricature of a snoop.

Mrs. Rosenthal testified that she lived in the apartment next to Sheila Benton.

“That’s right,” she said, in a snippy, clipped voice. “Right next door.”

“And what is the relation of the front doors of the two apartments? That is, can you see Sheila Benton’s front door from your front door?”

“No way you could miss it. The doors are catty-corner to each other.”

“Catty-corner? By that do you mean at right angles?”

“By that I mean catty-corner. Don’t you know what catty-corner is?”

“Well, I-”

“I mean like this,” Mrs. Rosenthal said, touching her left elbow with the fingers of her right hand, and forming a right angle.

“That’s fine, Mrs. Rosenthal,” Dirkson said, with a smile to the jury, “but your arms are not in evidence here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What I mean is, the court reporter cannot record the manner in which you are holding your arms. So for the record, we need to state that you are holding one arm at right angles to the other arm.”

“That’s right. Catty-corner.”

Dirkson smiled at the jury, and got several answering smiles. Dirkson was playing this witness just right. He was inviting them to share his amusement with her. By doing so he was extending to them a most welcome invitation-the invitation to feel superior.

“Yes. Catty-corner,” Dirkson said. “So if your door were open just a crack, it would be possible to see who went in and out of Sheila Benton’s apartment?”

“Well, I suppose it would. But I wouldn’t want to have you think I spend all my time peeking out the crack in my door.”

Dirkson stole a look at the jury, and noted with satisfaction that to the best if his judgment, every single one of them was convinced that that was exactly how Mrs. Rosenthal spent her time.

“Of course not,” Dirkson said. “All I’m getting at is on the few occasions when your door was open you would be in a position to notice who came and went.”

“Well, of course.”

“So let me ask you. Did Sheila Benton have any frequent visitors?”

“She had one.”

“And who was that?”

“A young man,” Mrs. Rosenthal said. Her tone made it sound as if she had said, “A child molester.”

“And would you recognize this man if you saw him again?”

“You know I would. You showed me his picture, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” Dirkson said. “But the jury doesn’t know that. So if you could just tell them. Would you recognize the man?”

“Yes, I would. I recognized his picture, didn’t I?”

“Yes you did. And can you tell me the name of the man whose picture you identified?”

“Yes, I can. His name is John Dutton.”

“I see. This John Dutton called on the defendant on several occasions?”

“That’s right.”

“Did he ever call on her at night?”

“Of course. That’s when he called on her.”

“And on those occasions when he called on her, could you hear what was going on in the apartment next door?”

“Well…”

“Well? Could you?”

“Well, the walls are paper-thin.”

“So you could hear?”

“Well, yes.”

“And could you tell us, please, just what you heard going on in Sheila Benton’s apartment on those occasions when John Dutton called on her?”

Mrs. Rosenthal’s lips clamped together in a straight line. She drew herself up indignantly. “I most certainly could not,” she snapped.

There was a roar of laughter. Dirkson turned and let the jury and the spectators see his broad grin. He waited until the laughter had subsided then announced smugly, “No further questions.”

Steve Winslow got to his feet. There was not much he could do about her testimony. The damage had been done. But he still had a job to do. His job was to win back as much ground as possible with the jury, ground that he had lost through Dirkson’s performance with Mrs. Rosenthal. And basically, there was only one way to do that.

He needed to get a laugh.

“Now, Mrs. Rosenthal,” he said. “You say you saw John Dutton call on the defendant on several occasions?”

“That’s right.”

“Mostly at night?”

“Yes.”

“And you were able to hear what was going on?”

“Yes.”

“Because the walls of the apartment are so thin, I think you said?”

“That’s right. Paper-thin.”

“Tell me, did this disturb you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, did the things you heard ever keep you up at night?”

Dirkson started to rise, but thought better of it. If the defense was asking for this, let them.

“I’ll say they did,” Mrs. Rosenthal said.

“Did they disturb your sleep?”

“They most certainly did. I mean, how’s a body to get to sleep with that sort of thing going on? And until such hours of the night, too.”

“I see. So this must have been quite annoying to you.”

“It certainly was.”

“Tell me, did you ever speak to the defendant about it?”

“No.”

“No? Why not, if it was such a disturbance?”

“Well, it’s not the sort of thing polite people discuss.”

“Maybe not. But there are ways of handling everything. Surely you could have just complained about the noise?”

“Perhaps.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Well…”

“Tell me, do you ever speak to the defendant?”

“Well, no, I guess not.”

“You’re next-door neighbors.”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t speak to her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I hate to say this, but you’re asking for it. She’s just not the sort of person I would want to talk to. I mean, a young woman like that, fooling around with a married man.”

“Oh? That’s how you felt about her?”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“Then you knew John Dutton was married?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know that?”

“District Attorney Harry Dirkson told me so.”

“I’m sure he did,” Steve said with a smile. “But that was after the murder, wasn’t it? You said the reason you didn’t want to talk to her was because you knew she was fooling around with a married man, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must have known John Dutton was married then?”

“Well…”

“Did you?”

“Well, yes, I did.”

“I see. And how did you know he was married?”

Mrs. Rosenthal’s eyes shifted, and Steve knew he’d hit something. “Well…”

“Yes?”

“Well,” Mrs. Rosenthal said. “You have to understand, this was quite an annoyance to me. And, of course, with all this going on next to me I wanted to be sure everything was all right. I mean, if there was going to be a young man in my building all the time, I wanted to know who he was.”

“That’s most understandable. So what did you do?”

“Well, I saw them getting into his car one day. One of those little sports cars, you know?”

“Yes. And?”

“Well,” Mrs. Rosenthal said grudgingly. “I wrote down the license number.”

“I see.” Steve was now grinning just as broadly as Dirkson had. “And then what did you do?”

“Well… I have a cousin who works at motor vehicles.”

“I see. So you asked your cousin to look up the license number?”

“Yes.”

“And you found the car was registered to John Dutton?”

“Yes.”

“And then you checked with the marriage bureau and found out that John Dutton was married?”

Mrs. Rosenthal glared at him.

“Did you?”

“Yes, I did,” she said angrily.

“All because you wanted to know who this man was in case you ran into him in the hallway sometime?”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?” Mrs. Rosenthal said testily. “Good gracious, I would think if you had someone in your building all the time you’d want to know who he was.”

“I’m sure I would,” Steve said. He stole a look at the jury, just as Dirkson had done. “I don’t know if I’d go to such lengths to find out, but I’m sure I’d like to know.”

Steve stood, smiling at the witness. Mrs. Rosenthal sat, glaring back.

“Now then,” Steve said. “You say you’ve seen John Dutton enter the defendant’s apartment on many occasions. Tell me, did you ever see the decedent, Robert Greely, entering the defendant’s apartment?”

“No I did not.”

“Or leaving her apartment?”

“No.”

“Not even on the day of the murder?”

“That’s right.”

“You have never seen the decedent, Robert Greely, at all?”

That’s right.

“And you have never seen him entering or leaving Sheila Benton’s apartment?”

“That’s right.

“But he must have done so, since he was found murdered there, mustn’t he?”

“I suppose so.”

“Well then, can you tell me why it is that you have never seen the decedent, Robert Greely, entering or leaving Sheila Benton’s apartment?”

“Because I mind my own business,” Mrs. Rosenthal snapped.

There was a roar of laughter. It wasn’t as big as the one Dirkson had gotten, but it was the best Steve could have hoped for under the circumstances. He grinned broadly.

“No further questions.”