A Handy Death

“Twenty-five years,” Coughlin said sullenly.

“You were retired from the paper?”

“That’s right.”

“On a pension?”

Coughlin scowled. “That’s my business.”

Ross said. “It might be ours. I have an affidavit here signed by the then-publisher, James Kimberly, stating that you retired May 14, 1964, on a pension amounting to sixty percent of your top salary. So how broke could you have been a mere two months later?”

Varick came to his feet, his voice weary.

“Really, Your Honor, the prosecution fails to see—”

“Overruled,” Judge Waxler said, before Varick could continue. He was watching the pale witness with narrowed eyes, a look of speculation in them. “Proceed, Mr. Ross, but try to connect fairly soon.”

“I intend to, Your Honor,” Ross said, and turned back to the witness. “Mr. Coughlin, let me put it that my last question was rhetorical. Let’s move on. While you were living and working in Glens Falls — the year 1942, to be exact — were you engaged to marry?”

Coughlin’s face was gray. His eyes came up, dark holes in his gaunt face.

“Is that another rhetorical question?”

“No,” Ross said quietly.

“In that case the answer is, no.”

“Do you know a Mrs. Gendreau?”

Coughlin frowned at the change in direction. “Sure. She was my landlady at that time.”

Varick came to his feet, shaking his head. “Your Honor, how far astray is Defense Counsel going to be allowed to take us? Now we’re involved in the love affairs of a reporter eight or nine years ago. Really, Your Honor...” He allowed his voice to trail away.

Judge Waxler looked at Ross. “Mr. Ross?”

“Your Honor,” Ross said, “I will connect up at this moment. I have an affidavit from this Mrs. Gendreau, as well as from Mr. Kimberly, stating that the witness was engaged to be married to a Miss Mary Emerich, the defendant’s mother. I intend to prove that this is an important fact in this trial.”

There was a stirring in the courtroom and a sharp gasp from the defense table. Billy Dupaul unconsciously started to rise, but Steve Sadler clamped a thin but strong hand on his knee. Billy subsided, his face white. Ross turned from the judge to face the witness, purposely keeping his back to his client.

“Well, Mr. Coughlin?”

Coughlin’s color was that of damp ashes: he looked faint. “It... it wasn’t anything official.”

“Still, what happened to that engagement?”

“She changed her mind, that’s all.”

“Oh. Still,” Ross went on, bending toward the witness a bit, while Judge Waxler watched closely, “in later years romance didn’t evade you so cruelly, did it?”

“I don’t know what you mean...”

“I mean that you were later married, were you not?”

Coughlin swallowed. He looked around, seeking some place to escape, and then came back to stare at Ross as if partially hypnotized. “I... I—”

“What’s the matter, Mr. Coughlin? Is there anything wrong with being married?”

“No. I—”

“Could you tell us the name of the lucky lady?” Ross went on, boring in.

“Her name—?”

“Was it a woman named Grace Melisi?”

Coughlin merely stared at him.

“I have here,” Ross said, moving to the defense table and picking up a paper, “a certified copy of a marriage certificate dated February 6, 1952, in Albany, New York, which states that on that day Jerome Coughlin married Grace Melisi.”

Varick jumped up again. His attitude was that of a long-suffering man who feels he must try once more to make people understand a relatively simple problem.

“Your Honor,” he said, “in all fairness, the court stated before that it would entertain a motion to strike if the testimony became irrelevant or remote. Your Honor, I have never heard testimony quite so remote, quite so unrelated to the case under consideration. The People, Your Honor, therefore do object, and do move to strike.”

Judge Waxler frowned. He looked down from the bench.

“Mr. Ross,” he said, “I must admit there is much justification in what the District Attorney has said. I have allowed you extra latitude, since I felt the defendant was not getting fully effective assistance of counsel earlier in this trial. However, we are certainly far afield from the indictment. You said you were about to connect this up, but if so, when?”

“Very soon, Your Honor. It is true that we’ve gone all around the barn to get where we are, but it was necessary. If you will bear with me a very short time, we shall soon be there.”

“Make it soon,” Judge Waxler said warningly. “You may proceed.”

Ross turned to Coughlin. “Were you married to Grace Melisi?”

Coughlin’s voice was almost inaudible. “Yes.”

“Were you living with her on July 20,1964?”

“Yes.”

“At 562 West Twenty-eighth Street?”

“Yes.”

“Then what was the necessity of taking an additional apartment, in her name alone, at 453 West Sixtieth Street, the same apartment building where Raymond Neeley lived? Especially when you were — as you put it — so broke?”

There was an excited buzzing from the audience. Judge Waxler banged his gavel once; the noise instantly subsided. The spectators were as interested in the drama before them as the participants.

Ross leaned forward. “Well, Mr. Coughlin?”