The Baxter Trust

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.
    There was a roar of laughter. Dirkson turned and let the jury and the spectators see his broad grin. He waited until the laughter had subsided then announced smugly, “No further questions.”
    Steve Winslow got to his feet. There was not much he could do about her testimony. The damage had been done. But he still had a job to do. His job was to win back as much ground as possible with the jury, ground that he had lost through Dirkson’s performance with Mrs. Rosenthal. And basically, there was only one way to do that.
    He needed to get a laugh.
    “Now, Mrs. Rosenthal,” he said. “You say you saw John Dutton call on the defendant on several occasions?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Mostly at night?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you were able to hear what was going on?”
    “Yes.”
    “Because the walls of the apartment are so thin, I think you said?”
    “That’s right. Paper-thin.”
    “Tell me, did this disturb you?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, did the things you heard ever keep you up at night?”
    Dirkson started to rise, but thought better of it. If the defense was asking for this, let them.
    “I’ll say they did,” Mrs. Rosenthal said.
    “Did they disturb your sleep?”
    “They most certainly did. I mean, how’s a body to get to sleep with that sort of thing going on? And until such hours of the night, too.”
    “I see. So this must have been quite annoying to you.”
    “It certainly was.”
    “Tell me, did you ever speak to the defendant about it?”
    “No.”
    “No? Why not, if it was such a disturbance?”
    “Well, it’s not the sort of thing polite people discuss.”
    “Maybe not. But there are ways of handling everything. Surely you could have just complained about the noise?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “But you didn’t?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Well ...”
    “Tell me, do you ever speak to the defendant?”
    “Well, no, I guess not.”
    “You’re next-door neighbors.”
    “Yes.”
    “But you don’t speak to her?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Well, I hate to say this, but you’re asking for it. She’s just not the sort of person I would want to talk to. I mean, a young woman like that, fooling around with a married