The Baxter Trust

situation. Having been forced into the decision to charge the girl, Dirkson was eager to go to trial. Because the longer this dragged on, the longer he was caught between his duty as prosecutor on the one hand, and Maxwell Baxter’s influence on the other. Already he had had a painful phone call from the commissioner. The commissioner, though in essence backing him all the way, was, in reality, in between every other line demanding to know what the hell he thought he was doing. And it could only get worse.
    Yeah, Dirkson was eager to get to trial. And the thing was, he knew that if any other attorney was on the case, he’d be throwing roadblocks in his path right and left. He’d be storming his office with writs of habeas corpus, and orders to show cause, and demands for bail hearings, and what have you. All of which was a bother, but all of which he could deal with.
    But Winslow wasn’t doing that. And even though Dirkson didn’t want it done, it bothered him that Winslow wasn’t. What was Winslow’s game? Was he just dumb, or what? Christ, he hadn’t even met the guy. He had reports of Winslow showing up at the jail to interview his client, and, of course, that bit about him getting arrested, which a shamefaced Sergeant Stams had been unable to hush up. The reports were that the guy looked like some long-haired hippie freak. Well, that didn’t mean anything— he’d clean himself up for court.
    But who was he?
    Yeah, that was the question.
    The guy appeared to have Maxwell Baxter’s support—he had his twenty-five-thousand-dollar retainer check—so he must have something going for him.
    But what?
    The phone buzzed.
    Dirkson scooped it up. “Yes?”
    “A Mr. Steve Winslow on the line,” Reese said.
    “I’ll take it.” Dirkson sighed. Well, that was a relief. Finally. Business as usual. He pushed the button. “Dirkson, here.”
    “Yes, Mr. Dirkson. This is Steve Winslow. I’m attorney for Sheila Benton.”
    “I know. I’d been expecting to hear from you.”
    “Yes. I’ve been busy. I’d just like to know how you intend to proceed.”
    Dirkson frowned. God, this guy was green. No demands. No assertions.
    “Well,” Dirkson said, feeling he was doing the man’s job for him. “With regard to bail—”
    “I’m not asking for bail.”
    “What?”
    “It’s a capital crime and the evidence you have is fairly conclusive. I see no hope of reasonable bail. I won’t contest it. But under those circumstances, I must insist on my client’s right to a speedy trial:
    Dirkson blinked. Any other attorney would have got the client out on bail and stalled forever.
    “I see,” Dirkson said. Though he didn’t.
    “How do you plan to proceed? Preliminary hearing or grand jury indictment?”
    “I’m going before the grand jury,” Dirkson said.
    “Fine,” Steve said. “Indict her and let’s go to court. I’ll waive all matters of time, and stipulate away all red tape. Indict her and set the trial date.”
    “Fine.”
    “See you in court,” Steve said, and hung up.
    Dirkson hung up too. He felt slightly nauseous. What the hell was going on? And why did he feel so uneasy about it? He’d wanted the guy to call him—the guy had called him. He’d wanted a speedy court date—the guy had given it to him.
    Dirkson had just gotten everything he wanted.
    And he didn’t like it at all.

33.
    S TEVE W INSLOW SLUMPED INTO ONE of Mark Taylor’s overstuffed clients’ chairs and rubbed his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s the rundown. The grand jury’s indicted Sheila Benton for murder. You can go over the transcripts all you want, but you won’t find anything we don’t already know. The D.A. gave the grand jury just enough to indict, nothing more. Any little surprises he has for me are gonna remain surprises until he springs them on me in front of the jury. Meanwhile, she is remanded to custody without bail.”
    “As expected,” Taylor said.
    Steve nodded. “Right. Okay. Let me tell you what I want you to work on, then you can tell me what you’ve got.”
    Taylor grabbed a notepad. “Shoot.”
    “You got any connections in California?”
    “Yeah. I know a guy with an agency in LA. Why?”
    “Samuel Benton.”
    “Who?”
    “Sheila Benton’s father.”
    “What about him? He’s dead, isn’t he?”
    “That’s what I want to find out. According to the best information I have, Samuel Benton married Alice Baxter in California shortly before Sheila was born. How shortly I don’t