“That is correct.”
“Mr. Riker, have you ever been in David Castleton’s apartment?”
“No, I have not.”
“Ever type on that keyboard?”
“No, I have not.”
“And you found eight points of similarity between your fingerprints and the smudges on that keyboard?”
“Yes, I did.”
Dirkson’s smile was rather a smirk. “Thank you. That’s all.”
34
After that, Dirkson picked up speed. He seemed to draw strength from his strategic victory on the fingerprint evidence, and forged ahead with a vengeance, becoming even more of a showman and playing to the jury.
The jurors, of course, had no idea what the fingerprint evidence was all about, what Winslow had been hoping to prove. For that matter, neither did Dirkson. But it didn’t matter. All the jurors knew was there had been a pitched battle and Dirkson had won. Dirkson used that as a springboard and played it for all it was worth.
First he called the ballistics expert, who testified conclusively that the bullet, People’s Exhibit 2, had been fired by the gun, People’s Exhibit 3.
Dirkson then called the manager of a sporting goods store to introduce records of the fact that the gun, People’s Exhibit 3, had been duly purchased by and registered to Herbert Clay.
Steve Winslow did not cross-examine either of those witnesses. He knew nothing he could do would shake their testimony, and after the fingerprint fiasco he couldn’t afford another fruitless argument.
After the witness had been excused, Dirkson said, “Call Herbert Clay.”
There was an excited buzz in the courtroom.
Kelly Wilder squeezed Steve’s arm. “Why are they calling Herb?”
“To identify the gun.”
“Oh.”
“And to show your brother’s a convicted felon.”
“Oh.” She grimaced. “Why can’t they leave him alone?”
“Shhh.”
Two court officers escorted Herbert Clay in through the side door.
Steve took one look and sighed. They’d allowed Herbert Clay to dress for court, but even so, the impression he made was terrible. There was a certain arrogance about him, a sullen punk insolence that nothing was going to hide. He looked exactly like what he was-a convicted felon.
Herbert Clay took the oath and sat on the witness stand, glaring hostilely around the courtroom. Seeing this, Dirkson paused a few moments before starting his questioning, to let the jurors get a good look at him.
“What is your name?” Dirkson said.
The witness raised his eyes to glare sullenly at him. “Herbert Clay.”
“What is your relationship to the defendant, Kelly Clay Wilder?”
“She is my sister.”
“I submit, Your Honor, that this is a hostile witness and I should be allowed to use leading questions.”
“Granted,” Judge Wallingsford said.
Dirkson picked up the gun and crossed to the witness. “Mr. Clay, I show you a gun marked People’s Exhibit 3 and ask if you have seen it before?”
Clay glared at Dirkson defiantly. “I don’t know.”
“You haven’t looked at it.”
“I’ve looked at it.”
“And you don’t know?”
“No.”
“The serial number on this gun is nine three two four seven six two. Does that refresh your memory any?”
“No, it does not.”
“Mr. Clay, I show you a gun register marked People’s Exhibit Eight and ask if you have ever seen it before?”
“I don’t know.”
“I ask you to look at it more closely, and I ask you if this is not your signature right here on this page?”
Reluctantly, Herbert Clay looked where Dirkson was pointing.
“Is that your signature?”
“Yeah. So?”
“That is your signature here on this page of the gun register, indicating you purchased the gun with the serial number nine three two four seven six two?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Mr. Clay, once again I show you the gun marked for identification as People’s Exhibit Three and ask you if you have ever seen it before?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’ve seen a gun like it?”
“Yeah.”
“You purchased a gun like it, did you not?”
“What if I did?”
“Is that the gun you purchased at that time?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you did purchase a gun similar to this one?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Why did you purchase that gun?”
“Because I wanted one.”
Dirkson took a breath. “Mr. Clay. According to the gun register, you purchased this gun three years ago on September seventeenth. Is that right?”
“I guess so.”
“Where were you employed at that time?”
Clay took a breath. There was an edge in his voice. “At Castleton Industries.”
“Castleton Industries. Was that the company owned by Milton Castleton?”
“Yes.”
“You were the bookkeeper there, were you not?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Who was your immediate supervisor?”
Clay took a breath. “David Castleton.”
“David Castleton, the decedent in this case?”
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Clay, as bookkeeper, was it sometimes your job to deposit large sums of money for the corporation?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Was that why you had the gun?”
“Yeah. That’s why I had it.”
“Where did you keep the gun?”
“In my office.”
“In your office?”
“Yes. In my desk.”
“You kept it in your desk so you would have it for those cash transactions?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you take the gun home with you?”
Clay shook his head. “Never.”
“Never?”
“That’s right. I kept it in the office.”
“These cash transactions-these deposits you made-were they in the evening after work?”
“Sometimes.”
“After you made a deposit, you’d go home, wouldn’t you?”
Clay shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“No, I’d go back to the office and put away my gun.”
“Even if it was late at night?”
“Sure.”
“You could get into the office then?”
“Absolutely. There’s a night watchman. Twenty-four hours. I could always get in.”
“You always returned the gun to your office and never took it home?”
“That’s right.”
“And if your roommate, the man with whom you shared your apartment, should testify that he had seen the gun lying on your bureau, he would be mistaken, is that right?”
“Objection. Argumentative.”
“Sustained.”
“You say you never took the gun home?”
“Never.”
Dirkson stood staring at the witness a moment. “Mr. Clay, have you ever been convicted of a felony?”
Clay’s eyes blazed. He said nothing.
“Your Honor, would you instruct the witness to answer the question.”
“Mr. Clay,” Judge Wallingsford said. “You are required to answer.”
“Have you ever been convicted of a felony?” Dirkson repeated.
“Yes,” Clay snapped.
“What was the charge?”
“Embezzlement.”
“You were convicted of embezzling over a hundred thousand dollars from Castleton Industries, were you not?”
Clay glared at the prosecutor. He took a breath, let it out slowly. “Yes.”
“Mr. Clay, where do you currently reside?”
“Rikers Island.”
“You are in jail?”
“Yes.”
“For the embezzlement?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been there?”
“Two years.”
“Mr. Clay, where were you on the night of June twenty-eighth?”
“There.”
“In jail?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Clay, did you kill David Castleton?”
“No.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
“Does the defense wish to cross-examine?” Judge Wallingsford asked.
Not on your life, Steve thought. But he merely smiled and said, “No questions, Your Honor.”
“Call Jeff Bowers,” Dirkson said.
Jeff Bowers took the stand and testified that he knew Herbert Clay and had shared an apartment with him up until the time that he’d been sent to prison.