was the way she gripped the witness stand, maybe it was merely the way she sat. Steve Winslow didn’t know. But whatever it was, it was something. That, coupled with the fact that Dirkson’s direct examination had been very brief, told Steve Winslow that there was something the witness was holding back.
And Steve realized, if he could see it, it was a cinch Fitzpatrick could see it too.
“Miss Millburn,” Fitzpatrick said, “you say you heard the sounds of an altercation coming from the victim’s apartment?”
“That’s right.”
“What kind of altercation?”
“What do you mean?”
“You tell me. What did you hear?”
“The sound of things being knocked over. Furniture being smashed.”
‘Did you hear voices?”
“Voices?”
“Yes. Did you hear voices? Was it also a verbal altercation? Did you hear the sounds of an argument?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Really? You didn’t mention that on direct examination.”
“I wasn’t asked.”
“No, you weren’t, Miss Millburn. Now why do you suppose that was?”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Sustained.”
“Did you
“Objection.”
“Sustained as to form.”
“Miss Millburn, when you gave your testimony, was there any intention
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Overruled. Witness will answer the question.”
“Yes, there was.”
“And why was that?”
“Because I couldn’t hear the voices clearly enough to identify them, and Mr. Dirkson told me-”
“Objection, Your Honor!”
“No, no,” Fitzpatrick said, grinning broadly. “Tell us. What did District Attorney Dirkson tell you?”
Judge Graves banged the gavel. “That will do,” he snapped. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, it is not your place to rule on objections, it is mine. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“In this case, the objection is overruled. The witness is explaining why she refrained from mentioning certain things in her testimony. It is entirely relevant. The witness will answer the question.”
“You didn’t mention voices because of something District Attorney Dirkson told you?”
“That’s right. He said that since I couldn’t recognize the voices, there was no reason I should mention them unless specifically asked.”
“I see,” Fitzpatrick said, grinning. “Now then, you are being specifically asked. The fact is, you heard voices?”
“That’s right.”
“You say you couldn’t recognize them?”
“No.”
“Are you familiar with the voice of the decedent, Donald Blake?”
“Not really.”
“You were next door neighbors. You had never been to his apartment?”
“No.”
“Surely you must have bumped into him in the hall.”
“He’d only lived there a couple of months. I’d bumped into him a few times.”
“Just to say hello in passing?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you had heard his voice?”
“Yes. I had.”
“Was one of the voices you heard arguing that of Donald Blake?”
“I tell you, I couldn’t hear the voices well enough to identify them.”
“But one of them
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“Miss Millburn, although you couldn’t identify the voices, could you hear clearly enough to tell that there were two?”
“No, I could not.”
Fitzpatrick raised his eyebrows. “You’re stating that there were
“No, I’m not. There might have been two. I’m merely saying I couldn’t identify them.”
Fitzpatrick stopped, frowned. “Miss Millburn, have the police or the prosecution at any time asked you to listen to the voice of the defendant, Marilyn Harding?”
“No, they have not.”
“They have not?”
“No.”
Fitzpatrick frowned again. He stopped, thought for a moment. Suddenly he smiled. He turned back to the witness.
“Miss Millburn, you claim you couldn’t distinguish between the voices.”
“That’s right.”
“Miss Millburn, just for the sake of argument, assuming that there were two voices-you will concede it takes two to make an argument-and assuming that one of the voices was that of Donald Blake, let us consider the other voice you heard. You say that you couldn’t distinguish between the voices. I ask you, considering all that, is it possible that the second voice you heard was that of a
The witness shifted on the stand, and Fitzpatrick knew he’d scored.
She batted her eyes. “No,” she said.
“No?” Fitzpatrick said.
“No,” she said. “It was a man.”
Fitzpatrick turned from the witness stand with a broad grin. But his eyes were hard. And they moved to the back of the courtroom, where they sought, caught and held those of Steve Winslow.
30
Steve Winslow leaned back in Mark Taylor’s overstuffed clients’ chair and rubbed his head.
“So,” he said, “what’s his game?”
Mark Taylor looked at him. “Fitzpatrick? I thought that was fairly obvious.”
Steve shook his head. “Naw. Screw Fitzpatrick. I mean Dirkson.”
Mark Taylor frowned. “I don’t get it, Steve.”
“I don’t get it either,” Steve said, “and it bothers me.”
Mark Taylor took a sip of coffee. “Look, Steve. We’re not connecting here. I don’t know what you’re thinking, and I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you expect me to contribute to this conversation, you better let me in
