“Yeah, I see that,” Taylor said. “So now what?”
Steve shrugged. “More of the same. And it’s only gonna get worse.”
“How come?” Tracy asked.
“Well, more than likely next up is the derelict who saw Jack Walsh and Jeremy Dawson together. He’s gonna make the identification, I’m gonna have to shake it. And it’s gonna be a bitch. The jury loved me for tearing into the doctor. They’ll hate me if I tear into this guy.”
“So what you gonna do?” Tracy asked.
“Anything I can. You got those pictures, Mark?”
Taylor tapped his briefcase. “Yeah. Right here.”
“What pictures?” Tracy asked.
“Head shots,” Taylor said. “Kids with green hair.”
“Oh, I didn’t see ‘em,” Tracy said. “Can I take a look?”
“Sure,” Steve said. “Pass ‘em over, Mark. But keep ‘em covered,” he cautioned Tracy. “It’d be just our luck to have someone from Dirkson’s office walk by.”
Taylor opened the briefcase, took out a manila envelope, passed it over to Tracy.
Tracy pulled out the photos, leafed through them. They were eight-by-ten color glossies of teenagers with green mohawks. Tracy flipped through the pictures, stuck them back in the envelope, and looked up at Steve.
“Are these different kids, or are they all the same guy?”
Steve grinned. “You just made my day. Nice work, Mark.”
Tracy handed the envelope back to Mark Taylor and frowned. “Yeah, good, but I don’t get it. You may be able to confuse the hell out of the witness, but isn’t that just what you said you didn’t want to do? Isn’t that gonna piss the jury off?”
“Depends how it’s done,” Steve said. “I gotta tread lightly and try to reverse the field.”
Tracy frowned. “I don’t know what that means. Tell me something. Was one of those pictures Jeremy Dawson?”
Steve grinned again. “That’s the second best thing I’ve heard all day.”
Tracy frowned and shook her head. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not. I mean, everything you’re doing-the pictures, the doctor-it’s not to prove a point. It’s to confuse the issue. It’s to try to throw up a smoke screen to keep the facts from getting out. Dammit, it’s the classic case you hear about. It’s the clever defense attorney using his legal education to help some criminal beat the rap.”
“I can’t think that way.”
“Why not?”
“I have a premise, a given, a bottom line. That bottom line is, Jeremy Dawson did not kill Jack Walsh. That’s the assumption on which I’m operating. The prosecution says he did, I say he didn’t.”
Steve paused, took a sip of coffee. “And let me tell you something. If you didn’t like the doctor and the photos, you are in for a rude shock.” Steve held up his finger. “Because I promise you, I am going to use every trick in the book to get Jeremy Dawson off.”
32
When court reconvened, Dirkson stood up and said, “Call Joseph Bissel.”
In the back of the courtroom, Mark Taylor nudged Tracy Garvin. “This is it.”
“Huh?”
“Joe Bissel. That’s the derelict.”
Tracy Garvin watched with some interest as Joseph Bissel walked to the stand. The prosecution had certainly done everything in their power to clean him up for court. He’d had a shave and a haircut. He was dressed in an inexpensive, but clean and presentable suit.
He was also sober, which had to be a big victory for the prosecution. Tracy couldn’t help wondering exactly how they’d managed that. An occasional slight tremor now and then as he walked up the aisle with the court officer was the only real indication of what this man had once been. Otherwise, he seemed a perfectly ordinary, if somewhat pale and emaciated fifty-five-year-old man.
Joseph Bissel took the oath, seated himself on the witness stand.
Dirkson rose and approached him. “Your name is Joseph Bissel?”
The witness tugged at his shirt collar, snuffled slightly. His manner indicated nervousness, but not fear. His face was long and lean. His eyes, though slightly sunk in, were wide and trusting. The overall impression he made was good-a simple, honest man.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
Dirkson smiled. “And where do you live, Mr. Bissel?” he asked gently.
Joseph Bissel tugged at his shirt collar again. “I don’t live anywhere.”
“No?”
“No. I guess I’m what you’d call one of the homeless.”
“I see,” Dirkson said. He glanced at the jury, and there was sympathy in his look. Dirkson’s entire manner was different than it had been with any other witness. He was gentle, considerate, solicitous.
Kind.
This is a man who can be easily bruised, Dirkson’s manner seemed to say. And I am not going to be the one to do so.
“Tell me, Mr. Bissel. Where do you sleep?”
“When it’s warm, I sleep in the park. When it’s cold, I sleep in subway stations.”
“In subway stations?”
“Yes.”
“And were you sleeping in a subway station on February the 26th?”
“February the 26th?”
“Yes.”
The witness shook his head. “I know you’ve asked me this question before. As I’ve told you, I don’t know the date. I can only tell I was sleeping in the subway on the day of the fire.”
Dirkson nodded his approval, emphasizing the witness’s honesty and integrity. “Yes. The day of the fire. That’s the day we are interested in. You say you were sleeping in the subway on the day of the fire?”
“Yes, I was.”
“And what subway station was that?”
“The 66th Street Station.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because that’s where I usually stay. There and 28th Street.”
“On the Broadway line?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be sure you were at 66th and not 28th?”
“I happen to remember. I was at 28th Street first. But someone was there. Sleeping in my spot. I didn’t want to wake him. So I caught the train to 66th.”
“And what did you do there?”
“Went to my usual spot. No one was there, so I lay down and went to sleep.”
“And where is your usual spot?”
“North end of the uptown platform. There’s a dumpster there. A little alcove behind it. That’s where I sleep.”
“And you went there that day?”
“That’s right.”
“And what did you do?”
“Like I said. I went to the alcove on the platform. No one was there. So I lay down and went to sleep.”
“Did you wake up at any time that day?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Tell us about it. How did that happen?”
“There was someone moving around. I heard voices. And someone stepped on my foot.”
“That woke you up?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The witness snuffled. Frowned. “Danger. That’s why. People mean danger. Have to be alert. I got nothin’ to steal, but even so. Some people wish you harm. I sleep light. Someone there, I know.”
“So, in any event, you woke up?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What did you see?”
“First thing I saw was scary. Woke me up more.”
“Scary? And why was that?”
“’Cause it was strange. It was a kid with green hair.”
“Green hair?”
“Yes. And it wasn’t just that it was green. It was cut funny.” Joseph Bissel ran his hands along the side of his head. “You know. Like an Indian.”
“You mean a mohawk?”
“That’s right. Mohawk.”
“I see. That does sound scary,” Dirkson said. “So that terrified you, because you didn’t know what it was?”
Bissel shook his head. “No. I knew what it was. A teenager. They wear their hair like that. I knew. That’s why I was scared. Teenagers scare me.”