“The decision is mine, as trustee.”
“Yours alone?”
“Mine alone.”
“And if someone had proven to you that Sheila was involved in an extramarital relationship, would you have considered that sufficient grounds for terminating the trust?”
“Certainly not,” Max said. “I consider that provision in the trust particularly idiotic. I would always interpret it as leniently as possible.”
Steve smiled. “No further questions.”
Dirkson rose to his feet. He also was smiling. He could have objected to Winslow’s question, but he had a counterattack of his own planned.
“I have some redirect, Your Honor. Mr. Baxter, did your niece, Sheila Benton, know that you wouldn’t terminate the trust if she became involved in a scandal?”
Max glanced at the defense table, expecting an objection, but Steve just sat there. Max turned to the judge. “I think that’s an improper question, Your Honor.”
“There being no objection from the defense, you are required to answer.”
“I can’t answer for what my niece may or may not have known,” Max said, evasively.
“Let me put it this way. Did you ever tell your niece that you wouldn’t terminate the trust under those circumstances?”
Again Max looked at Steve and got no response. “I fail to see how what I may or may not have told my niece is relevant,” he said to the judge.
“It is up to the court to decide what is relevant, Mr. Baxter,” Judge Crandell said. “In the absence of an objection from the defense, you will answer the question.”
“Then I will have to say that I can’t remember.”
“You can’t remember telling your niece?” Dirkson asked.
“No.”
“Then you probably did not.”
“I can’t remember,” Max said.
“Then let me put it this way. Was there in your own mind the intention not to tell your niece that you didn’t intend to break the trust, because by letting her think that you would break the trust you could control her actions?”
Maxwell Baxter, who had been well coached by his attorneys as to the type of objections he could expect Steve Winslow to make in his behalf, and who was thoroughly frustrated at not hearing them, now came out with them himself. “That is a wild allegation on your part,” he blustered angrily, “assuming facts not in evidence, calling for a conclusion on my part, and inquiring into matters that are incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial.”
Judge Crandell banged the gavel. “Mr. Baxter,” he said sternly. “Another such outburst and I’ll hold you in contempt of court. Must I remind you that you are not a lawyer?”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Max said. “But someone has to function as a lawyer around here, and my niece’s inexperienced attorney is just sitting there letting the prosecution get away with these objectionable questions.”
Steve Winslow got slowly to his feet, smiled and said calmly, with elaborate condescension, “Your Honor, I haven’t been objecting because I don’t want the jury to get the impression that Sheila has anything to hide. I think it would damage her case to do so. I assumed that Mr. Baxter was an intelligent man, capable of taking care of himself. If, however, he would like me to come to his rescue at the expense of his niece’s best interests, I’ll endeavor to do so.”
Judge Crandell’s gavel silenced Max’s angry retort. “That will do,” Crandell said. “The objection, if any, is overruled. The witness will answer the question.”
“Did you intend not to tell your niece?” Dirkson asked.
Max, defeated and furious, looked around the courtroom. “No,” he said. “I didn’t intend to tell her.”
Again the courtroom broke into a low murmur.
Dirkson smiled. “No further questions.”
“Any recross-examination?” Judge Crandell asked.
Steve Winslow rose. “Yes, Your Honor.” He strode up to the witness stand, smiled at Max, and said, “Mr. Baxter, do you like me?”
There was stunned reaction in the courtroom. No one could quite believe he had asked that.
Dirkson recovered first and struggled to his feet. “Your Honor, I object. Of all the absurd-”
Crandell banged the gavel. “That will do. If you have an objection, state it in legal terms.”
“Incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial,” Dirkson said.
“It’s always relevant to show bias, Your Honor,” Steve said.
Dirkson, still upset, said, “What bias? This is the defendant’s uncle. He’s biased for her.”
“He may be biased for her, Your Honor,” Steve said. “But he may also be biased against me. And since that bias might affect his testimony, I have a legal right to establish it.”
“Objection overruled,” Judge Crandell said. “Witness will answer the question.”
Max looked up at the judge. “You want me to answer?” he asked grimly.
“Yes,” Crandell said. “The court reporter will read the question.”
The court reporter flipped through the tape. “Question: ‘Mr. Baxter,’ he read, ‘do you like me?’”
Max looked around the courtroom, then straight at Steve Winslow. Steve smiled at him, a bright, broad smile.
Max’s face purpled. “I think you’re an incompetent jackass!” he said.
There was a huge reaction from the courtroom. Steve Winslow took no notice. He smiled, bowed and said politely, “Thank you. No further questions.”
Judge Crandell banged for silence, excused the witness and announced that it had reached the hour of adjournment.
District Attorney Dirkson hardly heard. Despite the victories he had scored all day long, he had a hollow feeling in his stomach, and he could not keep his eyes from wandering to the back of the courtroom, to the sight that was making him feel queasy, the sight of the newspaper reporters, scribbling gleefully.
44
Steve Winslow sat in the dingy coffee shop near the courthouse, moodily pushing the scrambled eggs around his plate.
Mark Taylor, a folded newspaper under his arm, came in the front door, looked around, spotted Steve and came over.
“Ham, eggs and coffee,” Taylor called to the waitress as he slid into the seat. “Well, good morning.”
“What’s good about it?” Steve said.
“I know what you mean,” Taylor said. He unfolded the paper and laid it on the table facing Steve. It was the New York Post. The headline read: “B AXTER: Y OU’RE A N I NCOMPETENT J ACKASS!”
Steve glanced at it. “Yeah. I saw it.”
“You also made the page-six cartoon.”
Taylor flipped the paper open. The cartoon was a drawing of a jury. A small taxicab sat in front of the jury box. Out of the window of the cab, on a rubber neck, came a large caricature of Steve’s face, framed
by shaggy long hair. The caption on the cartoon read: “YOUR HONOR, I OBJECT!”
“Great,” Steve said.
The waitress set a cup of coffee in front of Taylor. He dumped in cream and sugar, took a sip, sighed and said, “You’ll pardon me for saying so, but it seems to me you’ve been going out of your way to make yourself look like an asshole.”
Steve nodded. “I know. But I have to do something. The prosecution hit me with two body blows yesterday. The typewriter and the key. The key is the worst. Greely had the original to copy. The inference is that Sheila gave
