Crandell banged the gavel.
“Court is now in session,” announced the bailiff. “The People of the State of New York versus Sheila Benton. The Honorable Preston Crandell presiding.”
Judge Crandell turned to Harry Dirkson. “Is the prosecution ready?”
“Ready, Your Honor.”
Crandell turned to Steve Winslow. He appeared to hesitate a second and raise an eyebrow before inquiring, “Is the defense ready?”
Dirkson was afraid Winslow would say something smart, do something clownish, but he merely said, “Ready, Your Honor.”
Crandell turned to the bailiff. “Bring in the first jurors.”
During jury selection, some of Harry Dirkson’s fears evaporated. Far from being flamboyant, the defense attorney seemed quiet and subdued. He asked only easy, general questions of the prospective jurors, regarding their ability to be impartial and fair, and seemed to take their answers at face value. Things went so smoothly, in fact, that the jury was impaneled that morning, and following the noon recess, Judge Crandell commenced the trial.
“Does the prosecution wish to make an opening statement?” he inquired of Dirkson.
Dirkson rose to his feet. “The prosecution does, Your Honor.”
Dirkson had expected the jury selection to have taken several days. However, he was a shrewd prosecutor who took nothing for granted, and thus his opening speech was well prepared. This was his moment to shine, and he was fully prepared to do so. He felt that old kick, that old surge of adrenaline, and he actually felt good as he strode out into the middle of the courtroom.
“Your Honor. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began. “The prosecution intends to prove, that on the seventh day of June of this year, the defendant, Sheila Benton, did, premeditatedly and with malice aforethought, murder one Robert Greely. We intend to prove that Sheila Benton is an heiress with a trust fund worth several million dollars. The trust is in the control of her uncle, Maxwell Baxter, until Miss Benton reaches the age of thirty-five, at which time he is to turn over the principal to her. However, there is a provision in the trust which states that if Sheila Benton is involved in any scandal that would bring disrepute on the family name, the entire trust is forfeit, and the money goes to charity. We intend to prove that Sheila Benton was engaged in an affair with a married man, one John Dutton. We intend to prove that Robert Greely learned of the affair, and demanded blackmail for his silence. Threatened with exposure, and unable to raise the sum of money Greely demanded, Sheila Benton lured him up to her apartment and killed him.
“We shall prove all of these things by competent evidence, and we shall expect a verdict of guilty at your hands.”
Dirkson smiled at the jury, went back and sat down.
Steve was impressed. It was an effective opening statement, short and to the point, stating what Dirkson expected to prove, but showing none of his hand. Steve realized the jury was impressed too. He had been watching them during Dirkson’s speech. They had listened intently. Some had even nodded. And now, all of them were looking at the defendant, a sure sign that the prosecution had scored.
“Does the defense wish to make an opening statement?” asked Judge Crandell.
Steve looked up. The judge clearly expected a negative response. It would be unusual for the defense to make an opening statement at this time. The usual practice would be to reserve the opening statement until the prosecution had rested and the defense began putting on its case.
But Dirkson’s opening statement had done its damage. The jury had already turned against the defendant. Okay, Steve thought. Break the mood.
He rose to his feet. “The defense does, Your Honor.”
He stepped out into the middle of the courtroom. All eyes were on him, all heads turned to watch this strange-looking man, to hear what he had to say.
“Your Honor,” Steve said, in his best stage voice. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.”
He paused theatrically, looked around the courtroom. Then he shrugged his shoulders, smiled slightly and, in a smaller voice with just a hint of Brooklyn twang, said, “She didn’t do it.”
Steve walked back to his seat and sat down.
A ripple of amusement ran through the courtroom. It was a delayed reaction, as the people slowly realized that was his entire opening statement.
Steve watched the jurors. Some smiled. Some looked at each other.
The mood Dirkson had created was gone.
Steve looked around the courtroom at the reaction, and in that moment, all his opening-night jitters were gone. He was in a fight, and he loved it.
But Dirkson’s world had just collapsed. It was his worst nightmare. My god, he thought, he is a clown.
37
As his first witness, Dirkson called the coroner, Dr. Marvin Fenton. Fenton, a bald, pudgy man with a slightly pompous bearing, stated his name and occupation.
“Now,” Dirkson said, “directing your attention to the afternoon of June seventh of this year, were you summoned to apartment 2B of an apartment house at 193 West 97th Street?”
“I was.”
“And what did you find there.”
“I discovered the body of a man.”
“Was he alive?”
“He was dead.”
“Did you determine the cause of death?”
“I did. Death had been caused by a large carving knife, which had been stabbed into the back of the victim. The blade had entered the back just below the left shoulder blade, and angled down until it penetrated the victim’s heart.”
“That was the only cause of death?”
“It was.”
“There were no contributing factors? No bruises or contusions of any kind?”
“No, sir.”
“No presence of any drug in the body?”
“No, sir.”
“The knife was the sole cause of death?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was the knife still in the body?”
“It was.”
“Would you know that knife if you saw it again?”
“Yes. I scratched my initials on the handle of the knife.”
Dirkson smiled his approval. He walked over to the prosecution table, where his assistant handed him a paper bag. With something of a flourish, he produced a carving knife.
“Doctor,” he said, striding back to the witness stand. “I hand you a knife and ask you if you have ever seen it before?”
Dr. Fenton took the knife and examined it.
“Yes, sir. This is the knife I found in the body of the victim.”
Dirkson took back the knife and approached the judge’s bench.
“Your Honor, I ask that this knife be marked for identification as People’s Exhibit number one.”
“No objection,” Steve said.
“So ordered,” said Judge Crandell.
Dirkson handed the knife to the court clerk to be marked. He turned back to the witness.
“Now then, Dr. Fenton. Did you determine the time of death?”
“Yes, sir. I did. The decedent met his death on June seventh between the hours of twelve-thirty and one-thirty P.M.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Dirkson said with a smile. He turned to the defense table. “Your witness.”
Steve frowned. It was a damn clever way of presenting the evidence. The coroner was undoubtedly armed with a barrage of expert medical testimony to back up his determination of the time of death. But Dirkson hadn’t asked for it. He was going to let Steve bring it out himself and crucify his own client.
Steve got up and went over to the clerk. “Could I see the exhibit, please? Thank you.”
Steve took the knife and approached the witness. He smiled, and began his cross-examination almost conversationally.
“Dr. Fenton, you identify the knife by the initials you scratched on the handle?”
“Yes. I do.”
“What tool did you use?”
Fenton frowned, wondering what he was getting at. “A small etching tool I carry for that purpose.”