“The entire truth? It wasn’t true at all, was it?”
“Well …”
“Was it true or wasn’t it?”
“No, it was not.”
“It was a lie, was it not, Mr. Danby?”
“Objection. Already asked and answered.”
“Overruled.”
“Yes, it was.”
“The story you told me that afternoon in Milton Castleton’s apartment about how the defendant left her job was a lie, is that right?”
“Objection. Already asked and answered.”
“Sustained.”
“Mr. Danby, why did you lie to me that afternoon in Milton Castleton’s apartment?”
“Objection.”
“Overruled.”
Danby hesitated. He seemed to be choosing his words very carefully. “You were the defendant’s attorney. We didn’t know what you knew. Since we were dealing at arm’s length, we didn’t want to give you any information you didn’t already have. We didn’t know what the situation was, we were playing it very cautiously.”
“When you say we, you mean you and Milton Castleton?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me, Mr. Danby. Did you just lie to me, or did you lie to Milton Castleton as well.”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“Did Milton Castleton know the story you were telling me was a lie?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“Mr. Danby, getting back to your explanation of why you lied to me, you say it was because you didn’t know what was going on and you didn’t know what I knew. Is that right?”
“Yes it is.”
“So you were trying to protect yourself?”
“That’s right.”
“By yourself, you mean you and Milton Castleton?”
“That’s right.”
“Mr. Danby, I take it that you are fiercely loyal to your employer?”
“It is no secret that I am loyal to Milton Castleton.”
“And you would do anything to protect him? Even lie?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
36
After Phil Danby’s testimony, the next witnesses were somewhat of an anticlimax. Dirkson couldn’t help that, but he was sharp enough to know it and to compensate for it. He simply shifted gears, quickly, coolly and methodically tracing David Castleton’s last moments on the night of his death.
First he called the bartender from the singles bar on Third Avenue, who testified that David Castleton had showed up sometime in the vicinity of six-thirty to seven o’clock. David Castleton was a regular there, the bartender knew him well, and there was no doubt about it. He’d been at the bar, drinking and talking with a young woman who was not the defendant. But he had not left with her. He had left her at the bar to go talk to another woman who had just arrived. The bartender could not identify that woman as the defendant, Kelly Clay Wilder, and was forced to admit he had not been paying that much attention. Nor could he testify that David Castleton had left with this woman. All he knew was that from that point on he didn’t recall seeing him again.
Next up was the cabdriver who testified to picking up a young man and woman outside the singles bar and taking them to Gino’s, a small Italian restaurant on the upper East Side. The cab-driver could not identify the man, but testified that he thought the woman was the defendant. His identification of her was shaky at best, and on cross-examination Fitzpatrick all but made him retract it.
That turned out to be a moot point, because next up were the waiter and maitre d’ from Gino’s, both of whom knew David Castleton well and identified him absolutely, and both of whom were equally positive the woman he had dined with was Kelly Clay Wilder. The waiter also testified that he had served the veal no later than nine o’clock, and would not budge, despite a grueling cross-examination by Fitzpatrick.
Next came the cabdriver who had picked up a young man and woman and driven them from the restaurant to David Castleton’s apartment. He introduced his trip sheet, which showed the time of the pickup, ten-twenty, and the exact address of the apartment, 190 East 74th Street. He could not identify the man as David Castleton, but his identification of Kelly Clay Wilder as the woman carried conviction. The cabdriver was young, cocky, slightly arrogant and obviously fancied himself as something of a stud. The jury had no trouble believing he would take particular notice of a woman as attractive as Kelly Wilder.
On cross-examination Fitzpatrick did a good job in forcing him to admit that he had not seen these two people enter the building where he had taken them and that for all he knew the defendant could have said good-night to the young man and walked off down the street.
But that didn’t faze Dirkson. When Fitzpatrick was done, Dirkson simply stood up on redirect and said, “And what time was it when you dropped off these two people, one of whom was the defendant, Kelly Clay Wilder?”
“Ten-thirty.”
“And once again, what address did you take them to?”
“One ninety East 74th Street.”
Dirkson smiled and said, “That’s all.”
And when the defense had no further questions of the witness, Dirkson smiled again and rested his case.
37
“We’re gonna put you on the stand.”
Kelly Wilder blinked at Steve Winslow and Harold Fitzpatrick through the wire mesh. “I thought you weren’t sure,” she said.
“Yeah, well we are now,” Steve said. “We have no choice. Dirkson’s built up a strong case of circumstantial evidence, and frankly we haven’t been able to shake it. Our only hope now is to tell your story and sell it to the jury.”
“Good.”
Steve shook his head. “It’s not good.”
“But I want to tell my story.”
“I know,” Steve said. “It’s been bottled up inside you, it’s been frustrating as hell, you want to tell the whole world. That’s natural. But you don’t know what you’re in for. Because it’s your story and you know it’s true, so you think that’s all there is to it. But no one else knows it’s true, and no one else has even heard it. The jury will be getting this stuff for the first time. Believe me, they’re gonna be skeptical. ’Cause you’re gonna be contradicting things the prosecution’s already sold them on. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but I’m telling you it’s no cakewalk.”
“I know that. What do I have to do?”
“Just tell the truth. Simple, straight, the way it happened. Don’t worry. Fitzpatrick will lead you through it.”
“Fitzpatrick? Why not you?”
“Fitzpatrick will carry more weight with the jury. He’ll be kind, sympathetic, a father figure.”
Fitzpatrick grinned. “Thanks a lot.”
“Now,” Steve said, “we’re not gonna rehearse your story-we don’t want you to sound coached. Just tell it in your own words the way it happened. Just try not to get carried away.”
“You mean don’t get emotional?”
Steve frowned. “Yes and no. I don’t want you to seem cold and detached-juries peg a person like that as a methodical killer. No, the whole thing’s been a horrible experience, of course you’re upset about it, and it’s terribly frustrating to be on trial for a murder you didn’t commit. That’s only natural.
“But try not to be bitter. Try not to come across as vindictive, because that’s the picture that Dirkson’s been trying to paint. See what I mean?”
“Yeah. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Tell the truth.”
“Of course I’m gonna tell the truth.”
“Yeah, but tell the whole truth. Don’t leave anything out. And don’t say anything that isn’t so. Just let Dirkson catch you in one lie, however small, and you’re through. Even if it’s something as stupid as the color of the purse you were carrying, you either get it right or you say you don’t know.
“This may seem stupid, but you haven’t seen Dirkson in action. He’ll get you confused on what you had for breakfast that day. And if he can get you to contradict yourself on anything, even once, there goes your whole testimony and there goes the case. It’ll be ‘How sure are you David Castleton was alive when you left? As certain as you were you had Rice Crispies that morning?’”