“They still represent his thinking, according to his own testimony,” Wagner cut in.
“I submit this is merely a cheap bit for sensationalism on the part of the prosecutor to influence the jury. I object to fiction being—”
“I will be the judge of that, Mr. Clair,” the judge told Jackson. He turned to Wagner. “Do you plan to read all these books to the jury, Mr. Wagner?”
“No, sir. I will merely read a few sentences and sum up the contents of each book. These books give us a unique opportunity to look into the mind of the defendant, for in the printed form we have his thoughts before us.”
“To put these novels into evidence will make this court the laughing stock of the bar, would be a mockery of justice and—”
“Mr. Clair, I am the judge in this court and perfectly capable of performing my duties.”
“I object to these novels as immaterial and irrelevant!” Jackson said, his face flushed with anger.
“Overruled.”
“Exception!” Jackson snapped, returning to the defense table, where Matt was busy writing. Jackson sat down and began whispering to Matt, gesturing with his hands—as if Matt were the judge.
The jury was recalled and Matt returned to the stand. Wagner picked up the mimeographed papers, asked, “Mr. Anthony, are you a member of the Mystery Writers of America?”
“Yes, although I doubt if my dues are paid up.”
“Do they publish a monthly newsletter called, The Third Degree?”
“Yes.”
“I now show you a copy of The Third Degree for January of last year. I show you an article on page 3 titled, 'The .45 Typewriter' by Matt Anthony. Did you write this article, Mr. Anthony?”
“I did.”
“This is not fiction; this is an article, a piece of non-fiction, is it not, Mr. Anthony?”
“Well, yes. It's a puff, sort of an inside bit.”
“What does that mean?”
“It's the sort of piece that would only be understood by other writers, mystery story writers.”
Wagner handed it to the court clerk to be marked as an exhibit for the State. The clerk handed it up to the judge. The judge glanced at it—and he must have been a hell of a fast reader—then gave it to Jackson. Clair sat down and read it carefully. Matt watched him with an absolute bored expression and the whole courtroom moved restlessly. It was almost noon. Jackson sure took his time. Finally he got to his feet and boomed—jarring everybody—“I object, your Honor, on the grounds this has no relation to fact. Mr. Anthony has already stated this is inside information, written for a select group. This could easily have been written as a joke, a bit of sarcasm or mere boasting before other professional writers.”
The judge asked Matt, “Is this Mystery Writers something like a trade union, Mr. Anthony?”
“I wish it were. Perhaps you might call it that, loosely, in the same sense that one might call the American Medical Association a union.”
“Is this... eh... paper tee official organ of the organisation?”
“I believe so.”
“Objection overruled.”
Jackson barked, “Exception!” and handed the paper to the stenographer for marking. Then Wagner took the mimeographed sheets and told the jury, “Ladies and gentlemen, I will now read from State's Exhibit 'C' an article written by the defendant and titled, “The .45 Typewriter.' Quote: 'In no other writing medium have I found so much technical background data necessary as in the field of the mystery novel. With or without due modesty I can safely say I know more about poisons, knife wounds and ballistics than the average police official, and know more ways to commit murder than any killer. Indeed, I can qualify as an expert in any criminal endeavor.' Unquote. Did you write that, Mr. Anthony?”
“I did.”
“And do you know more ways to commit murder than any killer, Mr. Anthony?”
“probably—and so does any professor of criminology in a college.” Wagner went to his table, picked up a paperback book, glanced at some notes, then asked that Death in Spades by Matt Anthony be entered into evidence. Jackson went through the routine of objecting that the book was immaterial and the judge overruled him. Jackson thumbed through the book, said, “Your Honor, it is impossible for me to read this, study it, in a short time.”
“Do you wish time to read these books, Mr. Clair?” the judge asked.
“Your Honor, that would delay the trial for a number of days, add to the cost of the defense and my client has very little money. I do not wish to delay this trial.” Jackson handed the book back to be marked.
Holding the book up before Matt, Wagner asked, “Did you write this book, Mr. Anthony?”
“I did.”
“Do you know that in these 152 pages there are nine brutal beatings, six murders, four fornications and a rape?”
Matt said calmly, “I never counted them, but I will take your word for it.”
Wagner picked up another book. “Mr. Anthony, do you write under the pen name of Daisy Action?”
“I have used that name. I use quite a few names.”
Wagner had the gaudy-covered paperback titled, The Corpse in Her Life by Daisy Action put into evidence over Jackson's objections and said, “I will read from page 97. Quote: 'Please, please, she moaned as Ad Hardy staggered toward her, bloody hands out.
“'You lying little bitch, playing me for a patsy!' he said, the words tumbling from his mouth like a harsh explosion.
“'Please, Ad... please. I know what you want... take me.' She backed against the wall, eyes closed, her words almost a moan of pleasure.
“One bloody claw of a hand suddenly ripped her silk blouse down the front: her firm breasts stood out. Cursing, Ad began slapping her breasts until she collapsed, screaming with pain. Did you write that, Mr. Anthony?”
Jackson shouted, “Your Honor, I object to this form of questioning. Mr. Wagner is being deliberately sensational, influencing the jury. The defendant has said he authored the book, to keep asking him over and over if he wrote it serves no purpose.”
“I'm merely showing some of Mr. Anthony's thoughts, the things that 'cook' in his mind,” Wagner answered.
The judge told Wagner not to drag out the evidence.
Wagner next introduced into evidence five more novels, asked, “Mr. Anthony, do you know that in these five books there are exactly 22 killings, including the murder of two children?”
“I've never counted them. I don't write with an adding machine, Mr. Wagner.”
“Do you wish me to itemize them, Mr. Anthony?”
“If it gives you any pleasure, go right ahead.”
Wagner turned to the judge, who ordered Mart's answer stricken from the record. Jackson half-stood, as if ready to jump into a fight. When the judge warned Matt about being sarcastic, Matt told him, “I'm not being sarcastic, your Honor. Mr. Wagner has cited me as a criminal expert. As a D.A. he is also undoubtedly an expert on crime, or should be. I merely thought, as one expert to another, he wished to compare notes.”
This was also ordered out of the record. Jackson sat down, shaking his head. He started to make a note, then loudly snapped the pencil between his fingers. The judge glanced at him but didn't say anything.
Picking up another book, Wagner went through the routine of placing it in evidence, then read: “'Well honey, I tried my best to make something out of you, but once a lousy whore always a lousy whore. You could of made us both a pile of folding money, but... this is good-bye. I'll never again put time in a dumb slut.'
“As Martin picked up his hat, she slid off the dirty cot, looking thin and child-like as the sunlight painted her nude body. She stared at him with sad eyes. As he reached the door of the shack, with a motion as fast as a striking snake, she pulled a 38 from under the stained pillow, fired.