Steve Winslow went up the front steps of the courthouse, just as he had every morning since the trial had begun. Only today there was a difference. Every other day he had gone up the steps alone and unnoticed. Today he was besieged by reporters.
That should have been gratifying for a young attorney conducting his first trial. It should have been but it wasn’t. Because Steve knew why the reporters were there, and it wasn’t because of his brilliant courtroom technique. It was because of the role he had forced himself to play to try to take the heat off his client and focus the attention of the jury on himself. It was because of the image he had created, the image that was reflected in the newspaper cartoon.
It was because they saw him as a clown.
And if there were any doubt in his mind that that was what they thought, their questions dispelled it.
“How about a statement, Mr. Winslow?”
“Is it true Maxwell Baxter tried to fire you?”
“Is it true you’ve never been in court before?”
“Is it true you drive a cab?”
Steve pushed by them without comment and entered the courthouse. He was later than usual due to his meeting with Mark Taylor, and when he entered the courtroom he discovered Sheila Benton was already there and was looking around anxiously for him. As their eyes met, it seemed to him he could see the relief washing over her face, as if she were a drowning person who had just grabbed a life preserver. He slid in next to her at the table.
“Where the hell have you been?” she asked.
“Working.”
“Working on what?”
“Tell you later.”
Judge Crandell entered, called court to order, and Maxwell Baxter resumed his place on the stand.
After the fireworks of the day before, there was an aura of expectancy among the spectators, particularly when they saw Maxwell Baxter on the stand. But Dirkson disappointed them. Today was not his day for surprises, today was his day for crisp efficiency, and point by point he methodically laid out the facts that would show that Sheila Benton had had the opportunity to commit the crime.
“Mr. Baxter,” he began. “Going back to the day of the murder, your niece called on you that morning, did she not?”
“Yes.”
“Why did she call on you?”
“I’m her uncle.”
“I daresay you are. The point is, she wanted to borrow some money, did she not?”
“Uh, yes, she did.”
“One hundred dollars?”
“Yes.”
“And you gave it to her?”
“Yes, I did.”
“In cash?”
“Yes.”
“And what time did your niece leave?”
“I have no recollection.”
“Well, let’s get at it another way. Was there anyone else in your apartment when your niece arrived that morning?”
“Yes. My brother Teddy, and his son, Phillip.”
“Who left first?”
“My brother and his son.”
“And Sheila remained behind?”
“Yes.”
“How long after your brother left did Sheila leave?”
“I tell you I can’t remember.”
“More than fifteen minutes?”
“It might have been.”
“More than half an hour?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Surely you remember generally. Did she stay to lunch? Did you offer her coffee or tea? Did you sit and chat?”
“I tell you I-”
“Or,” Dirkson said, boring in, “did she leave as soon as you gave her the money?”
“Sir,” Max said angrily, “I consider that remark-”
Dirkson raised his voice. “Did she take the money and leave, yes or no?”
Baxter glared at him and took a breath. “Yes, she did.”
“Then she couldn’t have been in your apartment more than fifteen minutes after your brother left, could she?”
“I suppose not,” Max said grudgingly.
“No further questions,” Dirkson said.
With that, the focus of the crowd shifted to Steve Winslow, in the hope of more fireworks, a hope that was dashed when he declined to cross-examine.
Dirkson’s announcement that Theodore Baxter would be his next witness raised further expectations-another Baxter, another man of wealth and power-expectations that were immediately shattered by Teddy Baxter’s entrance. His appearance labeled him for what he was: a poor relation.
His testimony was routine too, as Dirkson tried to pin down the time element.
“No sir,” Teddy Baxter said. “I don’t remember what time it was when we left.”
“Perhaps I can refresh your memory. Your son, Phillip, had to catch a bus, did he not?”
“Yes he did.”
“The eleven forty-five to Boston out of Port Authority?”
“Yes.”
“And did he catch that bus?”
Steve knew the answer to the question was inadmissible-Teddy hadn’t seen Phillip actually catch the bus, so his answer had to be a conclusion based on hearsay-but he also knew from Mark Taylor’s investigation that Phillip had caught the bus, so he didn’t bother to object.
“Yes, he did,” Teddy Baxter said.
“No further questions,” Dirkson said.
Steve didn’t bother to cross-examine.
Dirkson called the cab driver who’d taken Sheila back to her apartment. He testified that he’d picked up Sheila Benton at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third Street at five minutes after one and dropped her off in front of her apartment at one-twenty. He made a good impression on the jury, as Steve had known he would. Handsome and cocky, he so obviously considered himself a stud that his identification of Sheila Benton was unshakable. There was no way anyone was going to believe he could have missed her.
Steve could have challenged him on the time element, however. Five after one, and one-twenty were bound to be approximations-the guy’s trip sheet wouldn’t be accurate to the minute, and he would have a hard time maintaining that it was. But Steve saw no point in it. The prosecution could maintain that Sheila had killed him earlier and then dashed out to Fifth Avenue to build up an alibi by taking the cab back, or they could claim she killed him as soon as she got home and just before she called the police. A few minutes either way wouldn’t make any difference.
Steve didn’t bother to cross-examine.
The next witness, Stella Rosenthal, was more interesting just because she was a character. Middle-aged,
