A Handy Death

“Mr. Dupaul, we will get around to your baseball career in a little while, but first a few questions regarding the crime on which you are charged. First, in your testimony you claim that on the night of July 25, 1964, you were in a bar with a woman, but that nobody — among the customers or the bartenders — saw you two together. Is that true?”

“Yes, but I—”

“Unless a more detailed answer is indicated by a question, please just answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Now, you further claim that you went to the Neeley apartment with this woman in a cab, but no cab was ever located that made that trip. Is that true?”

“Yes, but—”

“Please. You further claim that Raymond Neeley appeared in the doorway with a suitcase, but that suitcase was never found. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“You further claim that Raymond Neeley drew a gun, but that gun was never found by the police. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, the only gun that was found was the gun you used. And that gun belonged to you. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“You were very drunk that night, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me,” Varick said smoothly, “have you ever taken drugs?”

“Me?” For the first time Billy Dupaul was startled out of his calm. “Never!”

“Heroin?”

“I said, never!”

“LSD?”

“I said—”

“In high school did you ever try pot? Marijuana?”

Billy Dupaul hesitated. He looked over toward the defense table, but Ross was calmly cleaning his fingernails with a file, his eyes on his task. Billy looked up.

“Well, maybe in high school I did smoke a stick or two, but all the gang was doing it—”

“Did you ever take sleeping pills?”

“Well, sure — sometimes.”

“Prescription pills?”

“I don’t remember. Pills from a drugstore, generally, the ones you don’t need prescriptions for. But I never took them very often. Just when I got worked up, sometimes.”

“Like after signing a contract for a fortune in money?” Varick didn’t wait for an answer but went right on. “Mr. Dupaul, are you aware of the effect of alcohol on a person who has taken certain drugs? They induce a euphoria, a dreamlike state where hallucinations are common—”

“Objection,” Ross said mildly, looking up from his nails. “The prosecution has failed to qualify himself as a medical internist.”

There was a ripple of laughter in the courtroom, instantly stilled.

“Sustained.”

Varick continued as if he had heard neither the objection nor the sustentation.

“Are you aware that under the influence of this combination, a person’s subconscious tendency for violence often comes to the surface and he—”

“Objection,” Ross said in the same even tone. “The prosecution has similarly failed to qualify as a psychiatrist.”

“Sustained.”

Varick was not at all disturbed by the decision. He went on.

“Mr. Dupaul, I want you to know that acts performed under the influence of drugs, alcohol, or a combination of both; or acts performed under a hallucination, do not relieve a person of the full responsibility for any crime committed—”

“Objection,” Ross said. “Now the prosecutor is trying to qualify as a lawyer.”

Laughter swept the courtroom. Repeated pounding of the gavel was necessary to finally bring it under control. Judge Waxler glared at both Varick and Ross.

“The objection is sustained,” he said. “I must warn both defense counsel and the District Attorney on both their questions and their comments. Mr. District Attorney, you may continue, but I suggest a different line of questioning.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Varick said meekly, but it was easily seen he was pleased with himself. At the prosecution table Gorman was grinning openly. Varick turned back to the witness.

“Mr. Dupaul, the defense mentioned baseball. Let’s touch on that a moment. You say you pitched in a baseball game within the past few days — a week ago last Thursday, to be exact. Where did this baseball game take place?”

“At Attica Prison.”

“What were you doing at Attica Prison? Were you visiting the prison?”

“I was an inmate there.”

Judge Waxler glanced quickly at the defense table, expecting — and prepared to sustain — an instant objection, but Ross was sitting back in his chair comfortably, apparently listening with mild interest at best, now filing a rough edge from one nail. Varick had paused momentarily, also expecting a prompt objection; when none was forthcoming he quickly took advantage of the lapse on his opponent’s part and hurried on.

“Mr. Dupaul, how long were you an inmate at Attica Prison?”

“Which time? The first time or the second time?”

It was too much for Judge Waxler. He rapped his gavel to stop Varick for the moment and leaned over the bench, frowning down at Ross.

“Mr. Ross,” he said. “Are you with us? Did you hear the question?”

Ross looked up, as if surprised at being interrupted. “Yes, Your Honor. I heard the question.”

“And you have no objection?”

“No, Your Honor. After all,” Ross said sententiously, “we are all here to see justice done, and I’m sure my opponent would not ask questions that were not directed to that end.”