Blake?”
“Objected to as already asked and answered.”
“Sustained.”
“Directing your attention to the afternoon of the second of October, did you and the defendant not discuss the decedent, Donald Blake, at that time?”
“No, we did not.”
“Perhaps I can refresh your memory,” Dirkson said, boring in. He raised his voice. “I am referring to the time when you and the defendant checked into the Sand and Surf Motor Inn in Queens, registering as Mr. and Mrs. Sampson. Did you discuss Donald Blake at that time?”
The effect of the question was electric. The courtroom was in an uproar. Fitzpatrick was on his feet, shouting objections, but he could barely be heard above the din.
What created the furor was not so much the question, but the witness’s reaction to it. Douglas Kemper looked as if he’d just been shot through the heart.
It was several minutes before Judge Graves managed to restore order. Fitzpatrick, under pressure, seemed capable of finding grounds for objection unheard of before in any court of law. Judge Graves listened to them all, then said calmly, “Objection overruled. It is an impeaching question, directed to a material point of the testimony of the witness. I direct the witness to answer.”
Dirkson smiled. “Can you answer that question, Mr. Kemper?”
Douglas Kemper was still visibly shaken. He opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “Could I have a glass of water please?’
“Certainly,” Dirkson said. He made a show of being solicitous. He went to the judge’s bench and personally poured the water, then handed the glass to the witness. “Here you are. Take all the time you want. Just drink your water, and when you’re through, please answer my question.”
Kemper gulped the water and took a breath. Some of the color returned to his cheeks. “The answer is, no, I did not.”
“You did not discuss the decedent Donald Blake with Marilyn Harding? But you and Marilyn Harding did register at the Sand and Surf Motor Inn as Mr. and Mrs. Sampson?”
“Objection,” Fitzpatrick said. “Incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial.”
“Sustained.”
“But is it not true,” Dirkson persisted, “that you and the defendant were having an affair; that Donald Blake learned of this affair and demanded money for his silence; that Marilyn Harding paid him ten thousand dollars and you paid him an additional twelve?”
“No, it is not.”
“And is it not true that after that Donald Blake demanded even more money? Money that you refused to pay? Is it not true that you argued with Donald Blake about that? In fact you argued on the very afternoon that he was killed?”
“No, I did not.”
“And didn’t that argument take place in Donald Blake’s apartment? And wasn’t the time of that argument at five-thirty in the afternoon of the ninth of October? And wasn’t it your voice the witness Margaret Millburn heard when she called and reported an altercation to the police?”
“No.”
“It was not?”
“No.”
“And you’ve never been in Donald Blake’s apartment?”
“No, sir.”
Dirkson picked up the glass from the witness stand. “Then sir, if I were to take this glass that you have been drinking from, and give it to Mr. Riker of the police crime lab, and ask him to compare the prints found on it with the unidentified prints found in the apartment of Donald Blake, are you telling me that there is no chance whatsoever that one of those prints might happen to be yours?”
Douglas Kemper opened his mouth. Closed it again. He blinked twice. He looked around the courtroom, as if looking for a way out. His right hand reached up inside his jacket.
There was a moment’s stunned anticipation. Dirkson took a step backward. The bailiff stiffened and reached for his gun.
But it was not a gun Douglas Kemper pulled from his inside jacket pocket.
It was the torn half of a dollar bill.
32
Douglas Kemper looked at Steve Winslow with pleading eyes. “You have to understand,” he said.
“Oh, do I?”
They were talking through the wire mesh screen in the police lockup. It was approximately two hours since Kemper produced the half of a dollar bill in court. In those two hours a lot had happened. Steve Winslow had come forward and announced that he was Kemper’s attorney. Judge Graves then dismissed the jury and refereed a long, brawling argument among Winslow, Dirkson, and Fitzpatrick. In the end, Graves adjourned court for the day and remanded Douglas Kemper to custody.
So now, at long last, Steve Winslow was face to face with his elusive client.
He wished he wasn’t.
“You have to see it from my point of view,” Kemper said.
“I can barely see it from mine,” Steve said. “You wanna talk, talk, but you better start now, ’cause my patience is wearing thin.”
“I know, I know,” Kemper said. “Well, look, this thing with Marilyn. It wasn’t my fault. Or hers, either. We never planned anything. It just happened.”
“It always does.”
Kemper’s eyes flashed. “No, it doesn’t. You’re trying to make this sound like something cheap. It wasn’t. This is different. This is special. This is-”
“Bullshit. You can save that for someone who wants to hear it. I don’t give a fuck if you were Romeo and Juliet. The fact is, you woke up and realized you married the wrong stepsister. Big mistake. You could have had the younger, prettier one with all the money.”
Kemper came out of his chair. “You son of a bitch!”
“Right,” Steve said. “I’m very brave with the wire mesh screen between us. That’s your next line, Kemper. Go on. Say it.”
Douglas Kemper glared at him in helpless frustration.
“All right, look, clown,” Steve said. “You happen to be in one hell of a mess. Believe it not, it happens to be entirely of your own making. You want to try to get out of it, fine. You want to sit around trying to justify yourself, protesting to high heaven how wronged you’ve been, I can always come back later. I happen to be in no mood for that shit. So you calm down, get control, and then when you’re good and ready, tell me what the fuck happened.”
Kemper glared at him for some time. Then he seemed to wilt. He sank down in his chair and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Start with Bradshaw,” Steve said.
“Yeah. Bradshaw.”
“You know him?”
“Yeah. I knew him.”
“Been to his apartment?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s perjury for starters. Tell me about it.”
Kemper took a breath, blew it out again. “Well, it’s pretty much as he said.”
