"Well, which would you say?”
"Ten after, I guess.”
"And you were there for ... well, how many minutes?
Fifteen? Twenty?”
"I'd say twenty. I like to talk to people.
There's just me and the cat, you see.”
"So you conducted your business there ...”
"Bought a fifth of bourbon, yes.”
"And talked to ... well, who'd you talk to?”
"Ralph. The man who owns Empire.”
"And you say you left about twenty minutes after you got there.”
"Yes.”
"Which would make it about nine-thirty.”
"Yes, sir. Just about that time.”
"You came out onto the street at nine-thirty, did you?”
"Yes.”
"Did you hear anything at that time?”
"I heard shots.”
"How many.”
"Three.”
"Where were they coming from?”
"The bakery shop next door.”
"Did you see anyone coming out of the bakery?”
"I did. Almost knocked me over, in fact.”
"Who almost knocked you over?”
"The man coming out of the bakery.”
"You saw a man coming out of the bakery ...”
"Running out of the bakery.”
"And you say he almost knocked you over?”
"That's right. And told me to get the hell out of his way.”
"Are you sure you didn't see two men running out of the bakery?”
"Positive. It was just the one man.”
"Do you see the man sitting there at the defense table?" Addison said, and pointed to where Sonny Cole was sitting erect with his hands folded in his lap.
"Yes, I see him," Unger said.
"Is he the man you saw running out of the bakery shop at 7834 Harrison Street last July seventeenth at nine-thirty P.M.?”
"No, he is not," Unger said.
Addison walked to the defense table, picked up what to Carella-from where he was sitting -looked like a black-and-white photograph, and carried it back to the witness stand.
"Your Honor," he said, "I would like this marked for identification.”
"Mark it Exhibit A," Di Pasco said.
"May I show it to the witness, Your Honor?”
"Yes, go ahead.”
"Mr. Unger, I show you this, and ask if you recognize the man in the photograph?”
"Yes, I do.”
"Who is he?”
"I don't know his name. He's the man I saw running out of the bakery shop.”
"When?”
"On July seventeenth last year.”
"At what time?”
"At nine-thirty P.M.”
"Your Honor, I would like this photograph moved into evi ...”
"Just a minute, please," Lowell said at once. "Objection, Your Honor. There's no foundation for admitting that picture as evidence. I don't know where it came from, I don't know who took it, I don't even know who the subject ...”
"Let's approach," Di Pasco said.
Both attorneys went to the bench.
"Where'd you get that picture?" Di Pasco asked.
"From the New Orleans PAID," Addison said.
"Who's it a picture of?”
"Desmond Whittaker. It's the mug shot taken at the time of his arrest.”
"Well, really, your Honor," Lowell said, "I don't know if this came from New Orleans or Timbuktu. I don't know if it's a mug shot or a graduation picture. Without corroboration ...”
"You don't really doubt its authenticity, do you, Mr. Lowell?”
"Well, Your Honor, all I know is it's a photograph. Where it came from, whose picture it is ...”
"It came from arrest files in the New Orleans PAID," Addison said. "And it's a picture of ...”
"So you tell me. But until someone from the New Orleans PAID can testify to that effect ...”
"I can supply such a witness if the district attorney insists, but ...”
"Well, yes, I do insist.”
"... but that would require an adjournment,”
Addison said. "And, of course, a subsequent waste of the court's time.”
"Do you really want him to provide that witness, Mr. Lowell? I can understand bringing someone all the way up from New Orleans if you sincerely doubt the picture's authenticity. But I must tell you, if you're doing this just to break Mr. Addison's chops ...”
Addison smiled.
"... and mine as well, you might do better to let that picture move in unchallenged.”
Lowell looked at him.
"What do you say?" Di Pasco asked. "Do we stipulate?”
"Sure," Lowell said, and sighed heavily.
"Good," Di Pasco said, and turned to the jury. "The parties have stipulated that Exhibit A may be moved into evidence," he said. "Mark it," he told the clerk, and then nodded to Addison.
"Let the record indicate," Addison said, walking back to the witness stand, "that Exhibit A is a photograph of Desmond Albert Whittaker, alias Diz Whittaker, taken by the New Orleans Police Department at the time of his arrest in Louisiana six years ago. Now, Mr. Unger," he said, "I'd like you to take another look at this photo, if you will.”
Unger studied the picture again.
"Are you absolutely certain that Desmond Albert Whittaker is the man you saw coming out of the bakery shop at 7834 Harrison Street last July seventeenth at nine-thirty P.M.?”
"It is.”
"Did he have a gun in his hand?”
"He did.”
"And you say he was alone?”
"He was alone.”
"Thank you, no further questions.”
Lowell took his time rising. When at last he approached the stand, he appeared thoughtful and a trifle sad.
"Mr. Unger," he said, "you say you live alone, just you and your cat.”
“That's right.”
"Have you always lived alone?”
"No, I'm a widower.”
"I'm sorry to hear that. When did you lose your wife?”
"Six years ago.”
"Ah. I'm sorry," Lowell said.
He did, in fact, seem genuinely sorry, and Carella wondered why in hell he was garnering sympathy for a witness who-if the jury believed him-had just shot down their entire case. If Desmond Whittaker had been operating alone that night ...
"Just you and the cat now," Lowell said.
"Yes.”
"And you feed the cat his dry food every night before the news.”
"Yes. Around nine.”
"What time do you eat, Mr. Unger?”
"Well, that depends.”
"Dinner, I mean. What time do you normally eat dinner?”
"Depends.”
"Do you eat when you get home from work? Well, first ... do you work, Mr. Unger?”
"No, I'm retired.”
"Ah. Then you're home all day, is that it?
Just you and the cat.”
"Yes.”
"How do you spend your time, Mr. Unger?”
"I have hobbies.”
"Like what?”
"I clip things from the newspapers. I send away for things. I have hobbies.”
"Do you drink, Mr. Unger?”
"Drink?”
"Alcohol. Do you drink alcohol?”
"Objection, Your Honor.”
"Overruled. Answer the question, please.”
"Yes, I drink alcohol. Everyone drinks alcohol.”
"Well, no, everyone does not drink alcohol.”
"Objection!" Addison shouted.
"Argumentative, harassing the ...”
"Sustained.”
"Tell me, Mr. Unger," Lowell said, "just how much alcohol do you drink?”
"One or two cocktails a day.”
"Cocktails.”
“Yes.”
"Mixed drinks, do you mean?”
"Yes.”
"What'd you mix your bourbon with that night of July seventeenth last year?”
"I'm sorry, I don't understand the question.”
"You said you bought a fifth of bourbon at Empire ...”
"Oh. Yes, I did.”
"To drink with the ten o'clock news. Did you, in fact, drink any of that bourbon when you went back upstairs?”
"Yes, I did.”
"Well, with what did you mix it?”
Unger looked at him.