use every trick I can.” Steve turned back to Mark Taylor. “So, no, Mark, the time element don’t mean shit. But tell me, did you like my cross-examination of the doctor?”
“I’ll say,” Taylor said. “It was right on. That’s why I figured it had to mean something.”
“Well, it doesn’t. But you liked it, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the jury liked it too. I knew they would. I mean, here’s an arrogant, pompous, condescending doctor, and the jury just loved to watch me rip his can off. We scored points for it.
“And that’s what it’s all about now. Dirkson has such a damn good case on the one hand, and such a horrifying one on the other. I mean, you should have seen those pictures. This is not just a murder. This is a gruesome murder. Dirkson’s drenching the jury in horror, and they’re lapping it up. The best I can do now is lighten the mood. It ain’t easy, and I gotta score points any way I can. That’s why I was so brutal with the doctor.”
“Yeah, I see that,” Taylor said. “So now what?”
Steve shrugged. “More of the same. And it’s only gonna get worse.”
“How come?” Tracy asked.
“Well, more than likely next up is the derelict who saw Jack Walsh and Jeremy Dawson together. He’s gonna make the identification, I’m gonna have to shake it. And it’s gonna be a bitch. The jury loved me for tearing into the doctor. They’ll hate me if I tear into this guy.”
“So what you gonna do?” Tracy asked.
“Anything I can. You got those pictures, Mark?”
Taylor tapped his briefcase. “Yeah. Right here.”
“What pictures?” Tracy asked.
“Head shots,” Taylor said. “Kids with green hair.”
“Oh, I didn’t see ‘em,” Tracy said. “Can I take a look?”
“Sure,” Steve said. “Pass ‘em over, Mark. But keep ‘em covered,” he cautioned Tracy. “It’d be just our luck to have someone from Dirkson’s office walk by.”
Taylor opened the briefcase, took out a manila envelope, passed it over to Tracy.
Tracy pulled out the photos, leafed through them. They were eight-by-ten color glossies of teenagers with green mohawks. Tracy flipped through the pictures, stuck them back in the envelope, and looked up at Steve.
“Are these different kids, or are they all the same guy?”
Steve grinned. “You just made my day. Nice work, Mark.”
Tracy handed the envelope back to Mark Taylor and frowned. “Yeah, good, but I don’t get it. You may be able to confuse the hell out of the witness, but isn’t that just what you said you didn’t want to do? Isn’t that gonna piss the jury off?”
“Depends how it’s done,” Steve said. “I gotta tread lightly and try to reverse the field.”
Tracy frowned. “I don’t know what that means. Tell me something. Was one of those pictures Jeremy Dawson?”
Steve grinned again. “That’s the second best thing I’ve heard all day.”
Tracy frowned and shook her head. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not. I mean, everything you’re doing-the pictures, the doctor-it’s not to prove a point. It’s to confuse the issue. It’s to try to throw up a smoke screen to keep the facts from getting out. Dammit, it’s the classic case you hear about. It’s the clever defense attorney using his legal education to help some criminal beat the rap.”
“I can’t think that way.”
“Why not?”
“I have a premise, a given, a bottom line. That bottom line is, Jeremy Dawson did not kill Jack Walsh. That’s the assumption on which I’m operating. The prosecution says he did, I say he didn’t.”
Steve paused, took a sip of coffee. “And let me tell you something. If you didn’t like the doctor and the photos, you are in for a rude shock.” Steve held up his finger. “Because I promise you, I am going to use every trick in the book to get Jeremy Dawson off.”
32
When court reconvened, Dirkson stood up and said, “Call Joseph Bissel.”
In the back of the courtroom, Mark Taylor nudged Tracy Garvin. “This is it.”
“Huh?”
“Joe Bissel. That’s the derelict.”
Tracy Garvin watched with some interest as Joseph Bissel walked to the stand. The prosecution had certainly done everything in their power to clean him up for court. He’d had a shave and a haircut. He was dressed in an inexpensive, but clean and presentable suit.
He was also sober, which had to be a big victory for the prosecution. Tracy couldn’t help wondering exactly how they’d managed that. An occasional slight tremor now and then as he walked up the aisle with the court officer was the only real indication of what this man had once been. Otherwise, he seemed a perfectly ordinary, if somewhat pale and emaciated fifty-five-year-old man.
Joseph Bissel took the oath, seated himself on the witness stand.
Dirkson rose and approached him. “Your name is Joseph Bissel?”
The witness tugged at his shirt collar, snuffled slightly. His manner indicated nervousness, but not fear. His face was long and lean. His eyes, though slightly sunk in, were wide and trusting. The overall impression he made was good-a simple, honest man.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
Dirkson smiled. “And where do you live, Mr. Bissel?” he asked gently.
Joseph Bissel tugged at his shirt collar again. “I don’t live anywhere.”
“No?”
“No. I guess I’m what you’d call one of the homeless.”
“I see,” Dirkson said. He glanced at the jury, and there was sympathy in his look. Dirkson’s entire manner was different than it had been with any other witness. He was gentle, considerate, solicitous.
Kind.
This is a man who can be easily bruised, Dirkson’s manner seemed to say. And I am not going to be the one to do so.
“Tell me, Mr. Bissel. Where do you sleep?”
“When it’s warm, I sleep in the park. When it’s cold, I sleep in subway stations.”
“In subway stations?”
“Yes.”
“And were you sleeping in a subway station on February the 26th?”
“February the 26th?”
“Yes.”
The witness shook his head. “I know you’ve asked me this question before. As I’ve told you, I don’t know the date. I can only tell I was sleeping in the subway on the day of the fire.”
Dirkson nodded his approval, emphasizing the witness’s honesty and integrity. “Yes. The day of the fire. That’s the day we are interested in. You say you were sleeping in the subway on the day of the fire?”
“Yes, I was.”
“And what subway station was that?”
“The 66th Street Station.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because that’s where I usually stay. There and 28th Street.”
