The Naked Typist

23

District Attorney Harry Dirkson looked across his desk at A.D.A. Frank Crawford and thought once again, Christ, did I make the right choice?

He was sure he had. Crawford was one of his top A.D.A.s, with a conviction record second to none. He was bright, sharp, aggressive.

But young.

Shit, that was the problem. Young. Not much older than Steve Winslow. And the thing was, he looked it too. Thin and wiry, that was no problem, that was actually good-the lean and hungry look. But the face. The smooth boyish features. And the hair. That was the worst of it. The sleek, black hair. Not even a touch of gray at the temples.

For a second the thought flashed, could they spray some on? Dirkson frowned, angry at himself. Christ. Get serious. Get some control.

Dirkson took a breath, looked hard at the young man sitting opposite him. He held up his hand. “The bottom line,” he said, “is somber.”

“Sir?” Crawford said.

“Not somber, exactly, but serious. Deadly serious. The thing is, we got a big problem here. Not with the case. The way I see it, the case is open and shut. We got a problem with our image. I don’t like to hear that, and I don’t like to say it, but it’s you and me talking here, so let’s talk turkey.

“We don’t want to come out of this looking like schmucks. The fact is, the girl typed nude. Which means we got a media circus here. There is a serious danger of this case becoming a big joke. We’ll still win it, but it’ll be a big joke. We can’t let that happen.”

Crawford nodded. “So we play down the fact she was typing nude?”

Dirkson took a breath. Shit, the guy didn’t get it. “Not at all,” Dirkson said. “We want to win the case. We probably would anyway, but why take a chance? You use everything you got. The fact the girl typed nude will go a long way toward prejudicing the jury against her. That’s how juries think-a girl who would type nude would kill someone.

“So, no, you don’t play it down. Hammer it in. But keep it solemn. That’s the word I wanted. Not somber, solemn. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this woman typed nude.’ You gotta work on it so you can do it without cracking a smile. That’ll be hard. The defendant’s got big tits, visions of Playboy centerfolds are gonna be dancing in everyone’s heads. But you keep it solemn. It’s a serious business. The woman killed someone, that’s the bottom line. No matter how attractive she may be, no matter how hilarious the media wants to portray her prancing around in the nude, the fact is she took a gun, put it to David Castleton’s head and pulled the trigger, bang.”

Dirkson shot the A.D.A. Crawford with his finger. He sighted down the finger, stared hard into the young A.D.A.’s eyes. “You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You got any problem with what I told you so far?”

A.D.A. Crawford cleared his throat. “Ah, I think he was shot in the heart, not the head.”

Dirkson sighed, shook his head. “Yeah. Right,” he said dryly.

The intercom buzzed.

Dirkson frowned, snatched up the phone. “Reese, I told you to hold all calls.”

“It’s Milton Castleton, sir.”

“Shit. What line is he on?”

“He’s here, sir.”

“Here?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dirkson would have liked a little more than that, but realized Reese couldn’t say anything with Castleton right there. “All right,” he said. “Show him in.”

Dirkson had never seen Castleton before. He knew who he was, of course, but had never actually met him.

It was a bit of a shock. Dirkson’s first thought was, Christ, he should be in a wheelchair. Castleton was walking, but obviously with great effort. Two men were supporting him, one on either side, which made it hard getting in the door. One man was plump and bald, the other tall and thin. They guided Castleton up to the desk and seated him in the chair A.D.A. Crawford had vacated when they entered the room.

Castleton gripped the arms of the chair and held on tight. The man was so frail, the impression Dirkson got was that he was holding on to keep from falling off.

The plump, bald man spoke. “Mr. Dirkson, this is Milton Castleton.” Then, indicating the tall man, “His son, Stanley Castleton. I’m Mr. Castleton’s business associate, Phil Danby.”

Danby didn’t feel the need to indicate which Mr. Castleton he meant. That was obvious. In fact, Dirkson was surprised to find the tall, ineffectual man with the weak chin was Castleton’s son and Danby the associate, rather than the other way around.

“Yes, Mr. Castleton,” Dirkson said. “This is a pleasure.” Then, realizing it wasn’t, added, “I’m sorry we have to meet at such trying times.”

Castleton might not have heard him. He dug his fingers into the arm of the chair, pulled his slim, frail body erect. “She killed my grandson,” he said.

“Yes, sir. I know.”

“She has to pay.”

“She will, sir. That I promise.”

“Good,” Castleton said. “We will help. Anything you need, you’ve got.” Castleton’s right hand pointed slightly to Phil Danby. “This is Mr. Danby. You want me, you call him. Anything you want, he will do.”

“Yes, sir,” Dirkson said. He waited for another directive regarding Stanley Castleton, the son. None came.

Dirkson took a breath, wondering what to say next. “Is there anything we can do, Mr. Castleton?”

“Convict her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you need me to testify, I will testify. I am old. I am sick. But I can do it. Don’t keep me off the stand because you think I’m a sick old man.”

“Yes, sir,” Dirkson said. “Ah, what would you testify to?”

“How she tricked me into hiring her and then sued me. Part of a vindictive campaign because of her brother. That she made threats leading us to believe that she had been involved in industrial espionage. That she set up the meeting with my grandson and then killed him.”

“I see,” Dirkson said.

“Most of this, Phil Danby will testify to, as the go-between. But I confirm what he says. My name lends weight.”

“Yes, sir,” Dirkson said. He hesitated. “You understand, the testimony regarding her employment …?”

“Yes?”

“It is going to come out that the employment was somewhat unusual.”

“She worked nude,” Castleton said. “My secretaries work nude. I’m an old man, but I still like to look at naked women. Does that bother you?”

Dirkson gulped. “No, sir.”

“Good. Then it doesn’t bother me. And I don’t give a damn who knows it. So don’t pull your punches any.”

A.D.A. Crawford had been hovering in the corner. Castleton seemed to see him for the first time. He jerked his thumb in his direction. “Who’s he?”

“Oh,” Dirkson said. “This is A.D.A. Crawford. I was just briefing him on the case. He’ll be handling the prosecution.”

Castleton didn’t even look at Crawford. He stared straight up at Dirkson. “You,” he said.

“Sir?”

“You will be prosecuting.”

Dirkson cleared his throat. “No, sir. I will be supervising the prosecution as district attorney, and Mr. Crawford will be reporting directly to me.”

Castleton didn’t bother shaking his head, but the eyes in the emaciated face burned into those of the district attorney. “You will be prosecuting,” he said evenly.

Dirkson took a breath. Castleton was not just a wealthy man, he was a connected wealthy man. Without actually checking, it would be impossible to tell just how many campaign contributions were directly influenced by him. Even with checking, it might be impossible to tell. But the man’s influence was certainly extensive.

Dirkson nodded. “Yes, sir. Me.”