The Baxter Trust

them before this is over.”

39.
    W HEN COURT RECONVENED , D IRKSON CALLED Dr. Morton Blake to the stand.
    “Your name?” Dirkson asked.
    “Dr. Morton Blake.”
    “What is your occupation?”
    “I am deputy coroner.”
    “Directing your attention to the seventh of June, were you called to 193 West 89th Street, apartment 2B, to examine a body?”
    “I was.”
    “And did you examine the knife in the back of the body?”
    Steve Winslow rose to his feet. “Your Honor, the prosecutor is leading the witness. All these questions are leading and suggestive.”
    “These are preliminary questions, Your Honor,” Dirkson said, irritably.
    “I think they are,” Judge Crandell said. “Nevertheless, try not to lead the witness. The objection is sustained. Please rephrase your question.”
    Nettled, Dirkson turned to the witness and said sarcastically, “Did you notice anything sticking in the back of the decedent that struck you as unusual?”
    Dr. Blake smiled. “Yes, sir. A knife.”
    “Did you do anything to that knife?”
    “Yes, sir. I removed it from the body.”
    “And then what did you do with it?”
    “Well, the police wanted to test it for fingerprints, so—”
    “That’s not the question,” Dirkson interrupted quickly, hoping to stave off another objection. “You know you can’t testify as to what the police wanted. The question is, what did you do with it?”
    “I gave it to Sergeant Stams.”
    “And where were you when you gave it to him?”
    “Right there. At the scene of the crime.”
    “And did you see what Sergeant Stams did with the knife?”
    “Yes, sir. He put it in a plastic evidence bag and wrote his name on it.”
    “Thank you, Doctor,” Dirkson said. He turned to the defense table. “Your witness.”
    With a broad grin, Steve announced, “No questions.”
    Dirkson frowned. After Steve’s cross-examination of the coroner, Dirkson had expected him to tear into Dr. Blake.
    “The witness is excused,” said Judge Crandell. “Call your next witness.”
    “Call Sergeant Stams,” Dirkson said.
    Sergeant Stams, on the stand, said, “Yes, sir, I received the knife from Dr. Blake.”
    “And what did you do with it?”
    “I was very careful not to disturb any fingerprints that might be on the knife,” Stams said self-righteously.
    Dirkson was about to interrupt, but Stams let that matter drop, and got back to the point.
    “I placed the knife in a plastic evidence bag and wrote my name on it.”
    “And then what did you do with it?”
    “I took it to the police lab.”
    “And what did you do with it there?”
    “I gave it to Reginald Steele to be fingerprinted.”
    “Thank you. That’s all.”
    “No questions,” Steve announced cheerfully.
    Dirkson gave him a look. “Call Reginald Steele.”
    Reginald Steele took the stand and testified that he was an expert technician employed in the police lab.
    “That is correct,” Steele said. “I received the knife from Sergeant Stams.”
    “And what did you do with it?”
    “I removed it from the evidence bag and tested it for fingerprints.”
    “I see,” Dirkson said. “Now then, I am not asking you about any fingerprints you may have found at this time. I am merely trying to account for the whereabouts of the knife. With that understanding, please tell us what you did.”
    “Yes, sir. I developed latent fingerprints on the knife, and turned it over to my assistant to photograph them.”
    “And who is your assistant?”
    “Samuel Beame.”
    “Your witness.”
    “No questions,” Steve announced, with the same broad grin.
    With a sinking feeling, Dirkson suddenly realized what was going on. That grin. That damned, infuriating grin. It was infectious, and people in the courtroom were catching it. With each successive witness, the atmosphere in the courtroom was getting lighter. In a murder trial, for Christ’s sake. Dirkson couldn’t believe it.
    And yet, he realized, there was no help for it. He had to keep on with what he was doing, even though he knew he was playing right into that clown’s hands.
    “Call Samuel Beame,” he said, and out of the corner of his eye he could see some of the spectators smiling, and some of the jurors looking at each other.
    “Yes, sir,” Samuel Beame testified. “I received the knife from Reginald Steele.”
    “And what did you do with it?”
    “I photographed the fingerprints on the knife.”
    “Fine. I’m not asking you about those fingerprints at this time. But the