The Baxter Trust

for every inch of available space. It was a zoo. A media circus.
    Dirkson was jumpy, and for good reason. Steve Winslow. He hadn’t even met the guy yet. That was unprecedented, at this stage in a murder trial. He’d talked to him on the phone, and the guy had sounded perfectly rational. Too rational. Dirkson smiled, as lines from a movie flitted through his head: “It’s quiet out there. Too quiet.” Right. The settlers in the fort wondering where the Indians are. Funny, but that’s how he felt. This Winslow wasn’t making any waves. Great, but why? What was his game? That was Dirkson’s great fear. The fear of the unknown.
    Yeah, Dirkson was scared. Scared enough that he didn’t want to go through with the trial, but he had no choice. This was one case he couldn’t pass off on any assistant D.A. He’d have taken too much flak for it. The press would have crucified him. No, this was one he had to handle himself.
    And he needed a conviction. He needed it desperately. But he wasn’t even thinking about that now. His only concern was getting out unscathed. With all the media coverage, with all the publicity focused on this trial, he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Above all, he could not let himself appear foolish.
    Which could very easily happen in a circus like this. Jesus, he thought, look at the clowns in the audience. Why was it that so many of the people who came to trials turned out to belong to the lunatic fringe? The zanies. The crazies. Jesus, look at that guy coming down the aisle now—some long-haired hippie who’s so stoned out he thinks it’s still the sixties. Why do they let them in here? Why don’t they screen them out and ... Wait a minute. He’s coming through the gate. Why isn’t the bailiff stopping him? Is everyone asleep here? Is no one doing his job? Can’t they see some clown just wandered into— Oh my god.
    Steve Winslow walked over to the defense table. So. Sheila Benton wasn’t here yet. But they’d be bringing her out soon. He should sit down. Was this his chair and that hers, or vice versa? He’d never done this before. No, this was his chair on the end, near the middle of the courtroom. He was the one who had to get up and down. She just had to sit there and look innocent. Great advice he’d given her. He wondered if other attorneys had given their clients the same advice. “Try to look innocent.” Words of wisdom.
    Steve looked over at the jury box, empty now, but soon to be filled with prospective jurors. And up at the judge’s bench, imposing, regal. And at the witness stand, where he would do battle, where he would have to shine.
    Last he looked over at the prosecution table. And there he was. The pudgy, bald man in the custom-tailored suit that was failing to do its job of hiding his excess weight had to be Harry Dirkson. The Dirk himself, as the attorneys at Wilson and Doyle used to refer to him. Jesus, Steve thought. The guy doesn’t look like that much. Can he really deserve his reputation as a demon cross-examiner? As he thought that, Dirkson looked at him and their eyes met. Steve nodded and smiled.
    Dirkson stared at him. Oh Jesus, he thought. He’s a clown. A goddamn clown. It’s a circus and he’s the clown, and there goes my political career.
    The door at the side of the courtroom opened, and the bailiff ushered in a police officer, a matron and the defendant, Sheila Benton. The bailiff led her to the defense table.
    Sheila stopped, stared, then slid into her seat next to Steve.
    “Jesus Christ,” she said. “What’s the matter, couldn’t you afford a suit?”
    “Shhh. Don’t worry about it.”
    “How the hell do you expect to make an impression on the jury dressed like that?”
    “I’m not trying to make an impression on the jury. I’m trying to get you acquitted.”
    “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”
    “Shhh.”
    “Please rise,” ordered the bailiff.
    Steve and Sheila got to their feet. She was still staring at him, but he was looking at Judge Preston Crandell, who had just entered and was taking his seat at the bench. Crandell, with thirty years on the bench, had a reputation as a hard, no-nonsense judge. In New York City, famous for its turn-’em-loose judges, Crandell was an exception—a judge who would convict if at all possible. A prosecutor’s judge.
    Crandell banged the gavel.
    “Court is now in session,” announced the bailiff. “The People of the State of New York versus Sheila Benton. The