With that he turned and stalked out of his chambers.
Dirkson glared at Winslow and Fitzpatrick, then turned and followed him.
In front of Judge Wallingsford, Fitzpatrick had looked positively contrite. But as they followed the judge and the D.A. out of chambers, Fitzpatrick nudged Steve Winslow in the ribs, leaned over and whispered, “Most fun I’ve had in years.”
28
The NEW YORK POST and the Daily News both had the headline, “TAKE HER CLOTHES OFF!” The New York Times had a small paragraph in section two.
Steve Winslow, Mark Taylor and Tracy Garvin read the papers the next morning in a small coffee shop near the courthouse.
“Not bad,” Taylor said.
“The coffee or the coverage?” Steve asked.
“The coverage, of course. The coffee sucks.”
Steve took a sip, grimaced. “No argument here. What do you think of the press?”
“Obnoxiously sexist,” Tracy said.
“No argument on that either. That’s what it is.”
“It may be sexist, but it sure is funny,” Taylor said.
“No it isn’t,” Tracy said. “Here’s a young woman on trial for murder, and everyone’s making fun of her.”
“That’s true,” Steve said.
“So what’s the point?”
“Overkill.”
“What?”
“The press knows she typed nude, the public knows she typed nude, the jurors know she typed nude. Everyone knows she typed nude. There’s nothing we can do about that. The only thing to do is overplay it until it becomes boring and everyone forgets about it.”
“Fat chance on that,” Taylor said.
“You know what I mean,” Steve said. “The fact is, if we sat on this and tried to fight it, it would titillate the jury and drag out through the whole trial. So we have a big splash now, get it out of our system and get on to other things.”
“Such as?” Taylor said.
Steve frowned. “That’s the problem. The prosecution has a case. We don’t.”
“Any more surprises planned?”
Steve shook his head. “Nope. That was it. From here on in it will depend on what Dirkson throws at us.” He jerked his thumb at the headlines. “I knew this was coming, so I had it in the bag.”
“How come Fitzpatrick did it and not you?” Tracy asked.
“That was the whole point,” Steve said. “Dirkson would expect this from me. It’s the sort of thing I’d pull. From Fitzpatrick he wouldn’t have a clue. Besides, coming from me it wouldn’t have meant anything. Typical Winslow trick-of course I’d say that. But respectable, dignified Fitzpatrick standing out there in his three-piece suit-well, from him it really made a splash.”
“I’ll say.”
“Well, eat up,” Steve said. “I wouldn’t want to be late for court. I can’t wait to see what Dirkson throws at us next.”
29
For his first witness Dirkson called Joyce Wilkens, David Castleton’s cleaning lady, who testified to coming to work at nine o’clock, letting herself in with a key as was her custom and finding him lying dead on the floor. She then called the police and waited for them to arrive.
Fitzpatrick held a whispered conference with Steve Winslow, then took her on cross-examination.
“Miss Wilkens, you say you called the police?”
“That’s right.”
“How?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Where did you call them from? What phone did you use?”
“From there. The phone in the apartment.”
“So you handled the phone in the apartment?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Did you touch anything else in the apartment?”
“No.”
“While you waited for the police to arrive, where were you?”
“There.”
“In the apartment?”
“Yes.”
“And while you were waiting for them to arrive, are you sure you didn’t do anything? Start straightening up from force of habit?”
“No, I did not.”
Fitzpatrick nodded. “I see. Now, you say the body was that of David Castleton?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know?”
The witness stared at Fitzpatrick. “I saw him. I saw the body.”
“Yes, Miss Wilkens,” Fitzpatrick said. “But the point I’m making is, how did you know who the body was?”
“He’s the man I work for.”
“I see. Tell me, how long have you worked for David Castleton?”
“Oh, must be two years now.”
“How often did you work for him?”
“Once a week.”
“You came in once a week to clean for the past two years?”
“That’s right.”
“I see,” Fitzpatrick said. “And on that particular morning you arrived at nine o’clock and let yourself in with a key, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Was that unusual, or do you always do that?”
“I always do that.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I have to get in. By nine o’clock David Castleton has left for work.”
“I see. So you get there at nine o’clock. And what time do you go home?”
“Four o’clock.”
“Is David Castleton home then?”
“No.”
“Then how do you get paid?”
“He leaves money in the foyer for me.”
“I see. So when you’re finished, you take your money, lock up and go home, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“I see,” Fitzpatrick said. “Miss Wilkens, I ask you again, how did you know the body was that of David Castleton?”
“I told you. I recognized him.”
“How? According to your testimony, you’ve never seen him. You arrive after he leaves for work and leave before he gets home. When did you ever see him?”
“I saw him when he hired me.”
“When he hired you?”
“Yes.”
“That was two years ago?”
“That’s right.”
“Have you ever seen him since?”
The witness hesitated. “I think there was once when he was home sick.”
“You think?”
“No. I remember. There was a time he was home sick.”
“You saw him then?”
“Yes. I remember, he was sick in bed. He told me to skip his bedroom, he wasn’t feeling well, he just wanted to be left alone.”
“I see. So you left him alone?”
“That’s right.”
“And that’s the only occasion you can recall seeing him since he hired you?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
For his next witness, Dirkson called Walter Burke, a radio patrol officer who testified to responding to a report of a possible homicide at 190 East 74th Street.
“And what did you find?” Dirkson asked.
“I found the body of a white male, some twenty-five to thirty years of age, lying face down in a pool of blood. There was a gun lying next to the body.”
“What did you do?”
“Checked for signs of life.”
“Were there any?”
“There were none.”
“So what did you do?”
“Radioed for EMS and a Crime Scene Unit.”
“That’s all.”
The defense did not cross-examine.
Next up was Detective Oswald of the Crime Scene Unit. He testified to arriving at the apartment and photographing the deceased, and a series of eight-by-ten photographs was duly marked for identification, shown to the witness, and received into evidence.
Dirkson next called Harold Kessington, who proved to be the medical examiner. Dr. Kessington was a tall, thin man with no chin and a lot of Adam’s apple. He had a rather cheerful disposition for someone who dealt so often with death, and seemed quite comfortable on the witness stand.
“And what time did you arrive at the apartment, Doctor?” Dirkson asked.
“Approximately nine forty-five.”
“Can you be more precise?”
Kessington shook his head. “No. I can tell you it was after nine-forty, and I can tell you it was before nine-fifty-that I know for sure. But the exact minute I can’t give you. But it was approximately nine forty-five.”
“And what did you find?”
“I found the body of the decedent lying face down on the floor.”