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, lean, angular, with thick spectacles perched on a long pointed nose, she was a living caricature of a snoop.
Mrs. Rosenthal testified that she lived in the apartment next to Sheila Benton.
“That’s right,” she said, in a snippy, clipped voice. “Right next door.”
“And what is the relation of the front doors of the two apartments? That is, can you see Sheila Benton’s front door from your front door?”
“No way you could miss it. The doors are catty-corner to each other.”
“Catty-corner? By that do you mean at right angles?”
“By that I mean catty-corner. Don’t you know what catty-corner is?”
“Well, I-”
“I mean like this,” Mrs. Rosenthal said, touching her left elbow with the fingers of her right hand, and forming a right angle.
“That’s fine, Mrs. Rosenthal,” Dirkson said, with a smile to the jury, “but your arms are not in evidence here.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What I mean is, the court reporter cannot record the manner in which you are holding your arms. So for the record, we need to state that you are holding one arm at right angles to the other arm.”
“That’s right. Catty-corner.”
Dirkson smiled at the jury, and got several answering smiles. Dirkson was playing this witness just right. He was inviting them to share his amusement with her. By doing so he was extending to them a most welcome invitation-the invitation to feel superior.
“Yes. Catty-corner,” Dirkson said. “So if your door were open just a crack, it would be possible to see who went in and out of Sheila Benton’s apartment?”
“Well, I suppose it would. But I wouldn’t want to have you think I spend all my time peeking out the crack in my door.”
Dirkson stole a look at the jury, and noted with satisfaction that to the best if his judgment, every single one of them was convinced that that was exactly how Mrs. Rosenthal spent her time.
“Of course not,” Dirkson said. “All I’m getting at is on the few occasions when your door was open you would be in a position to notice who came and went.”
“Well, of course.”
“So let me ask you. Did Sheila Benton have any frequent visitors?”
“She had one.”
“And who was that?”
“A young man,” Mrs. Rosenthal said. Her tone made it sound as if she had said, “A child molester.”
“And would you recognize this man if you saw him again?”
“You know I would. You showed me his picture, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did,” Dirkson said. “But the jury doesn’t know that. So if you could just tell them. Would you recognize the man?”
“Yes, I would. I recognized his picture, didn’t I?”
“Yes you did. And can you tell me the name of the man whose picture you identified?”
“Yes, I can. His name is John Dutton.”
“I see. This John Dutton called on the defendant on several occasions?”
“That’s right.”
“Did he ever call on her at night?”
“Of course. That’s when he called on her.”
“And on those occasions when he called on her, could you hear what was going on in the apartment next door?”
“Well…”
“Well? Could you?”
“Well, the walls are paper-thin.”
“So you could hear?”
“Well, yes.”
“And could you tell us, please, just what you heard going on in Sheila Benton’s apartment on those occasions when John Dutton called on her?”
Mrs. Rosenthal’s lips clamped together in a straight line. She drew herself up indignantly. “I most certainly could not,” she snapped.