A Handy Death

Ross sat down and the shifting of bodies repeated itself. In the press box reporters exchanged glances; the charge of swindle was a new aspect. They settled down to what they were sure would be an interesting trial, as all those of Ross were. At the prosecution table Gorman was looking confident, not put off at all by the opening statement of the defense; he expected almost anything from Ross, and especially when he knew Ross was in a bind, as he was in this case. Paul Varick shuffled his notes, checked them one last time, and rose.

“For our first witness, we call Joseph Paretta.”

Paretta, a dapper little man, took the stand and was sworn in. From his cool and collected manner it was evident that he was not on the witness stand for the first time. Varick moved forward.

“What is your name?”

“Joseph Paretta.”

“What is your business or occupation?”

“I’m a stenotypist. A court reporter.”

“By whom are you employed?”

“I’m employed by the New York Supreme Court.”

“Were you employed by the New York Supreme Court as a court reporter on November fourteenth to November twenty-seventh of the year 1964?”

“I was.”

“Did you attend and take the minutes of the proceedings of the trial of the People of the State of New York against William Dupaul, Indictment Number 1263 of the year 1964?”

“I did.”

“I show you this transcript of the testimony of that trial. Is this a true and accurate transcript of that testimony, recorded by you in stenotype and later transcribed?”

The dapper man took the file handed him, checked his initials on the corner of each sheet while the courtroom waited, and then started to hand it back.

“Yes, sir. It is.”

“Mr. Paretta, please keep the transcript. Now, will you read the testimony of Raymond Neeley, beginning at the top of page 63 of that transcript?”

Paretta pulled the thick sheaf of papers back into his lap, riffled through the pages to the one requested, cleared his throat and began to read.

Q: Where did you first meet the defendant?

A: I was on my way home from a movie and I was passing this bar when the door opened and this man — the defendant — staggered out and grabbed my arm. He started to fall but I managed to help him keep his balance, but instead of thanking me, he started to swear. He said, “What a goddam crummy town, a guy can’t even get a lousy goddam drink—”

Paretta’s voice droned on, emotionless, avoiding with professional skill any dramatizing or editorializing through intonation. Billy Dupaul, his face a mask, slouched in his chair and stared at the floor. Steve Sadler was listening interestedly, as if he had not read the same testimony time after time. Ross watched the jury quite casually. The twelve people in the box seemed enthralled by the testimony.

The reading continued page after page, the only sounds in the silent courtroom other than Paretta’s even voice an occasional cough and the crackle of paper as Paretta turned the pages. The testimony followed Varick’s opening statement almost word for word. Paretta turned the final page of Neeley’s testimony. He read:

Q: What did he say then?

A: He said, “I’ll find it easier with you out of the way.” And then he shot me, and I woke up in the hospital.

Paretta stopped, looking at Varick. “Do you want me to read more?”

“That’s enough, thank you,” Varick said. He turned toward the defense table. “Cross-examination.”

“Thank you,” Ross said, and came to his feet. He walked over and stationed himself before the court reporter.

“Mr. Paretta, while you are still on the stand, will you please turn to page 116 of the transcript? Thank you. Now, would you please start reading beginning on line five?”

Paretta dutifully found the place, cleared his throat, and began.