Parnell Hall: The Underground Man

“With Jeremy Dawson’s gun?” Mark said gently.

Steve considered. “There is that tiny flaw,” he deadpanned.

They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Tracy Garvin came in the door. “What’s so funny?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Steve said. “We’ve reached the stage of the case where you start getting punchy.”

“I’ll say. Look, would you mind coming down to earth for a minute?”

“What’s up?”

Tracy jerked her thumb. “Got a reporter on the line. Wants to ask you a question.”

“A question?”

“Yeah, and you’re not going to like it.”

“You mean you know what it is?”

“Yeah. The guy didn’t want to tell me, but I told him he didn’t have a prayer of getting through unless I knew what it was all about.”

“What’s the question?”

“Is it true you’re considering pleading Jeremy Dawson guilty to a lesser charge?”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. What do you want me to do?”

“Dammit to fucking hell, the goddam press.”

“Can’t you just deny it?”

“Sure, but any way it makes news. Then they’ll just print my denial.”

“How about ‘No comment?’”

“They’ll run the same story and say I declined to comment.” Steve waved it away. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. You and Mark can start making out subpoenas.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Dirkson’s getting ready to rest his case. When he does, I gotta be ready.”

“Who you gonna subpoena?”

Steve thought a moment. “Let’s try Rose Tindel, Jason Tindel, and Fred and Pat Grayson.”

“Fine,” Tracy said. She pointed to the blinking line on Steve’s phone. “But what about our friend here?”

“Oh yes,” Steve said. He pressed the button, lifted the receiver a half-inch and put it down again. The light went out. “Damn,” he said. “Must have disconnected.”

“Now why didn’t I think of that?” Tracy said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve said. “They’ll run it anyway.” He held up his hand, ran it over an imaginary headline. “‘DAWSON RUMORED TO COP PLEA: Jeremy Dawson’s lawyer could not be reached for comment.’”

“So what’s with the subpoenas?” Mark said.

“As soon as Tracy gets ‘em made out, have your men serve ‘em.”

“Yeah, but on them?” Taylor made a face. “I mean what the hell are they going to testify to?”

Steve shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“Well, I gotta subpoena someone.”

Taylor rubbed his head. “Steve, pardon me, but isn’t that abuse of process?”

Steve grinned. “No. That’s the beauty of it. They’re his relatives. I can say they’re character witnesses.”

The phone rang.

“Probably our friend again,” Steve said.

“You want me to get it?” Tracy said. “Or just pretend we’re not here?”

“Can’t do that,” Steve said. He pointed to the phone.

Tracy picked it up. “Mr. Winslow’s office.” She listened a moment, said, “It’s for you,” and passed the phone over to Mark Taylor.

Taylor said, “Taylor here,” listened a moment, said, “Are you sure?” then said, “Shit,” and hung up.

Taylor shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what you tell that reporter now.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve said.

“Yeah. His story just got knocked off the front page.”

“How come?”

“I been busting’ my chops tryin’ to find someone who saw Jeremy Dawson in Teaneck that night.”

“You found one?”

“No, but the cops did.”

“And?”

Taylor shook his head. “And it’s the worst. This comes straight from headquarters. The cops got a witness saw Jeremy Dawson seven o’clock that night breaking into the high school to get the gun.”

Jeremy Dawson looked worried when the court officers led him in. As soon as he sat down, he leaned over to Steve Winslow. “What’s goin’ on?”

“What do you mean?”

“I hear talk. The cops got a witness.”

“Yeah, they do.”

“Who is it?”

“Some guy saw you breaking into the high school that night.”

“Oh shit.”

“Hey, it’s not the end of the world. Sit tight and remember our deal.”

“But-”

“No buts, you do it. Sit back, relax, and above all, no matter what happens you don’t grab my arm.”

Judge Grimes entered, called the court to order.

When the jurors had been brought in and seated, Harry Dirkson rose with the confidence of a man who has every ace in the deck.

First he called Mark Taylor’s photographer and established the fact that Defense Exhibit A-2 was indeed a picture of Jeremy Dawson.

Then he called Claire Chesterton, who testified to the fact that Jeremy Dawson had not returned home until after midnight on the night of the murder.

After that, Dirkson moved in for the kill. He called one of the officers who had taken Jeremy Dawson’s statement the day he’d been arrested. Dirkson first established that the officer had indeed read Jeremy Dawson his rights, and that Jeremy Dawson had been cautioned that anything he said could be used against him. The officer then testified that he had asked Jeremy Dawson where he was on the night of February 26th, and Jeremy had told him he went to an eight-o’clock showing of the movie, Heathers in Teaneck.

Steve Winslow did not cross-examine.

For his next witness, Dirkson called Tom Randell, a pimply-faced high school student, who testified to having gone to the movie, Heathers , the previous Saturday night.

“And did you see anyone there you knew?” Dirkson asked.

“Yes, sir. I saw Jeremy Dawson.”

“You know Jeremy Dawson?”

“Sure. I know him from school.”

“Are you sure he was there that night?”

“Absolutely. I was in back of him in the popcorn line.”

“Are you sure it was Jeremy Dawson?”

“Absolutely.”

“There must have been other kids from your high school at the movie. How is it you happened to recognize him?”

The witness smiled. “Couldn’t miss him. He had green hair.”

Dirkson smiled back. “That’s all.”

“No questions,” Steve Winslow said.

That drew a murmur from the spectators in the courtroom, who were surprised to see such damaging testimony go unchallenged.

Harry Dirkson was somewhat surprised too. He shot Steve Winslow a look before saying, “Call Martin Steers.”

Martin Steers turned out to be a frail, elderly man with a cane. He made his way slowly to the witness stand, raised his hand and took the oath.

“Your name is Martin Steers?” Dirkson said.

“That’s right.”

“Would you speak up a little, Mr. Steers, so the jurors can hear you?”

“Sorry,” Steers said. He raised his voice. “Yes, my name is Martin Steers.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Steers?”

“In Teaneck, New Jersey.”

“Can you tell me where you were on the night of February 26th?”

“I was walking home from the store.”

“What time was that?”

“Around seven o’clock.”

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary at that time?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And what was that?”

Steers took a breath. “I was walking past the high school. The store is a block past the high school. It’s on one side. My house is on the other. I always have to walk past the high school to get to the store.”

“Yes?” Dirkson prompted.

“So I’d been to the store, and I was walking back with my groceries when I saw him.”

“Saw who?”

“A boy.”

“A boy?”

“Yes. A young boy. You know, a teenager.”

“And what was the boy doing?”