The Baxter Trust

Max’s angry retort. “That will do,” Crandell said. “The objection, if any, is overruled. The witness will answer the question.”
    “Did you intend not to tell your niece?” Dirkson asked.
    Max, defeated and furious, looked around the courtroom. “No,” he said. “I didn’t intend to tell her.”
    Again the courtroom broke into a low murmur.
    Dirkson smiled. “No further questions.”
    “Any recross-examination?” Judge Crandell asked.
    Steve Winslow rose. “Yes, Your Honor.” He strode up to the witness stand, smiled at Max, and said, “Mr. Baxter, do you like me?”
    There was stunned reaction in the courtroom. No one could quite believe he had asked that.
    Dirkson recovered first and struggled to his feet. “Your Honor, I object. Of all the absurd—”
    Crandell banged the gavel. “That will do. If you have an objection, state it in legal terms.”
    “Incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial,” Dirkson said.
    “It’s always relevant to show bias, Your Honor,” Steve said.
    Dirkson, still upset, said, “What bias? This is the defendant’s uncle. He’s biased for her.”
    “He may be biased for her, Your Honor,” Steve said. “But he may also be biased against me. And since that bias might affect his testimony, I have a legal right to establish it.”
    “Objection overruled,” Judge Crandell said. “Witness will answer the question.”
    Max looked up at the judge. “You want me to answer?” he asked grimly.
    “Yes,” Crandell said. “The court reporter will read the question.”
    The court reporter flipped through the tape. “Question: ‘Mr. Baxter,’ he read, ‘do you like me?’”
    Max looked around the courtroom, then straight at Steve Winslow. Steve smiled at him, a bright, broad smile.
    Max’s face purpled. “I think you’re an incompetent jackass!” he said.
    There was a huge reaction from the courtroom. Steve Winslow took no notice. He smiled, bowed and said politely, “Thank you. No further questions.”
    Judge Crandell banged for silence, excused the witness and announced that it had reached the hour of adjournment.
    District Attorney Dirkson hardly heard. Despite the victories he had scored all day long, he had a hollow feeling in his stomach, and he could not keep his eyes from wandering to the back of the courtroom, to the sight that was making him feel queasy, the sight of the newspaper reporters, scribbling gleefully.

44.
    S TEVE W INSLOW SAT IN THE DINGY coffee shop near the courthouse, moodily pushing the scrambled eggs around his plate.
    Mark Taylor, a folded newspaper under his arm, came in the front door, looked around, spotted Steve and came over.
    “Ham, eggs and coffee,” Taylor called to the waitress as he slid into the seat. “Well, good morning.”
    “What’s good about it?” Steve said.
    “I know what you mean,” Taylor said. He unfolded the paper and laid it on the table facing Steve. It was the New York Post. The headline read: “B AXTER : Y OU’RE A N I NCOMPETENT J ACKASS !”
    Steve glanced at it. “Yeah. I saw it.”
    “You also made the page-six cartoon.”
    Taylor flipped the paper open. The cartoon was a drawing of a jury. A small taxicab sat in front of the jury box. Out of the window of the cab, on a rubber neck, came a large caricature of Steve’s face, framed by shaggy long hair. The caption on the cartoon read: “Y OUR H ONOR , I O BJECT !”
    “Great,” Steve said.
    The waitress set a cup of coffee in front of Taylor. He dumped in cream and sugar, took a sip, sighed and said, “You’ll pardon me for saying so, but it seems to me you’ve been going out of your way to make yourself look like an asshole.”
    Steve nodded. “I know. But I have to do something. The prosecution hit me with two body blows yesterday. The typewriter and the key. The key is the worst. Greely had the original to copy. The inference is that Sheila gave it to him.”
    “What does she say about it?”
    Steve shook his head. “The same thing she’s always said. She never met Robert Greely and she has no idea where he could have gotten that key.”
    “But they can’t prove she gave it to him, can they?”
    “They don’t have to. It’s bad enough in itself. The guy had the key to her apartment. And she claims she never met him.”
    Taylor nodded. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
    “It’s the worst.” Steve pointed to the paper. “This could read: “B ENTON K EY F OUND I N G REELY P OCKET .” As it is, the story about the key is