Parnell Hall - The Baxter Trust

“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.

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.