Ed McBain - Kiss

"Maybe, but what I meant was ...”

"He's answered the question, Your Honor.”

"Let him explain.”

"I meant I saw two guys but only one of them had a gun.”

"I see. But that's not what you actually said on the night of July seventeenth, is it?”

"No.”

"That is what you're saying now, isn't it?”

"Yes.”

"With complete confidence.”

"Yes.”

"And you are also able to say-now, with complete confidence-that you saw Samson Wilbur Cole that night, and that he had a nine-millimeter semiautomatic assault weapon in his hand.”

"Yes.”

"Mr. Assanti, do you recall being shown some photographs by Detective Randall Wade on the twenty-fifth of July last year?”

"I do.”

"How many photographs were you shown?”

“I don't remember. There were a lot of them.”

"Well, by a lot of them ... would you say twenty?”

"More than twenty.”

"Well ... fifty?”

"More than that.”

"A hundred?" Addison said.

"No, not that many.”

"Somewhere between fifty and a hundred then?”

“Yes.”

"Does seventy-two sound like it might be a correct number?”

"Yes, around that.”

"Were you informed that these were mug shots of known criminals?”

"Yes.”

"Were you told that all of these known criminals had the nickname Sonny?”

“Yes.”

"What were you looking for, Mr. Assanti?”

"I was trying to pick out the man I saw running out of the bakery shop.”

"On July seventeenth last year?”

"Yes.”

"Were you successful in picking him out?”

"No.”

"You looked at upward of seventy photographs of known criminals named Sonny, but you could not find one who even faintly resembled ...”

"Objection.”

"Sustained.”

"Did you find a single photograph of anyone who resembled the man named Sonny, whom you say you saw running out of the bakery shop?”

"No, I didn't.”

"Seventy some-odd photographs!”

"Yes.”

"But now-five, almost six months after the event-you can look across the courtroom and point a finger at the defendant sitting there, and say without question that he is one of the men you saw running from that bakery with a gun in his hand.”

"That's right, yes.”

"No further questions.”

Lowell rose from the prosecutor's table, consulted some notes in his hand, and walked toward the witness chair.

"Mr. Assanti," he said, "when you - were shown those photographs last July, did Detectives Wade and Bent tell you what you were looking at?”

"Yes, they did.”

"What were you looking at?”

"Pictures of people convicted of felonies in this city.”

"And you say you could not find Mr. Cole's photograph among those that were shown to you, is that correct?”

"That's correct.”

"His photograph was not among those of known felony offenders in this city.”

"It was not.”

"Known offenders whose nickname was Sonny.”

"Yes, sir.”

"Not among those.”

"No, sir.”

"Were you shown pictures of anyone who may have committed a felony in California, for ex ...”

"Objection!" Addison shouted. "May we please approach the bench?”

"Come on up," Di Pasco said.

The attorneys moved to the bench.

"Your Honor," Addison said, "at this time, I would like to move for a mistrial.”

"Denied," Di Pasco said.

"Your Honor, the assistant district attorney's question implies that Mr. Cole has been convicted of felonies elsewhere ...”

"Yes, I know. And you know that in the pretrial Sandoval application ...”

"Yes, Your Honor, but ...”

"... I ruled that I'd allow questions about the defendant's prior murder conviction, based on your representation that Cole would testify and put his credibility into issue. Nothing has changed my mind about that. Moreover, you opened the door by bringing in the photographs in the first place.

Resume your questioning, Mr. Lowell.”

Lowell went back to the witness stand.

"Mr. Assanti," he said, "were you shown photographs of known felony offenders in California?”

"Not to my knowledge.”

"You were only shown pictures of felony offenders in this city.”

"Yes.”

"And Sonny Cole's picture was not among them.”

"It was not.”

"Thank you, no further questions.”

"I should caution the jury at this time," Di Pasco said, "against accepting questions as evidence.

Questions are not evidence. Only answers are evidence. You must not read anything into questions, you must accept them solely as vehicles for eliciting responses.”

At the defense table, Addison smiled.

The Property Clerk's Office occupied the entire basement of the new Headquarters Building on High Street downtown. This was a vast improvement over the cubbyhole that until recent years had served as a repository for recovered stolen goods or confiscated narcotics or clothing and jewelry removed from a victim or, in many instances, huge quantities of cash seized as evidence in an arrest. But despite its size and its enlarged staff-six police clerks where there used to be only two-the drafty basement room was crammed to overflowing, and the clerks seemed adrift on an ocean of flotsam and jetsam.

The filing system was now computerized, and so it was a relatively simple matter to punch up TILLY, ROGER TURNER and pull out the list of goods that had been bagged in his name at the morgue. It was quite another thing, however, to find all these things. The storage arrangement seemed to make sense when the clerk explained it to them ...

"Clothes are on the open shelves, jewelry and such in the locked mesh cages, cash in the steel, double-key lock boxes, like a bank has ...”

... but once he'd unlocked the grilled inner door and let them into that vast warehouse, it became almost immediately clear that locating Tilly's worldly goods would be akin to zeroing in on Rosebud deep in the caverns of Xanadu.

"There's a system, believe me," the clerk kept telling them.

The name on his little plastic tag was J. DI LUCA. He also kept telling them he wasn't too familiar with the system because he was just filling in for one of the regulars who was out sick. Where he normally worked was in the Identification Section upstairs. Up there, it was easy to find things because it was all paperwork. Even the fingerprints were paperwork. Down here in the basement, it was things, you follow? All these fuckin things.

Meyer had been at the crime scene almost all day, canvassing tenants and shopkeepers, trying to get a lead on what anyone might have seen or heard on the day of Tilly's murder. Carella had come here directly from the courthouse, leaving just as Lowell was beginning his recross. It was now almost four o'clock, and both men were bone-weary, but they were nonetheless eager to see all the miscellaneous papers and cards found in Tilly's wallet. His shoes and socks, his Jockey shorts, they could do without. Ditto the other articles of clothing and jewelry. But those miscellaneous papers and cards sounded like something they should look at.

"How does this work?" Meyer asked. "Do you take the money out of the wallet and put it in one of the lock boxes? Or do you ...?was "You're askin' me?" the clerk said. "I just started here this morning. And I'll be glad to get out of here, I'm tellin' you.”

"'Cause what we'd like to take a look at," Carella said, "is the wallet.”

"But not the cash, huh?”

"No, we're not particularly interested in the cash.”

"They got lock boxes down here with millions of dollars in cash in them, would you believe it?”

"I believe it," Carella said.

"From dope raids," Di Luca said.

"Somebody wants to get smart, he should hold up this joint, he'd get more than he would in a bank heist.”