A Matter of Conviction

“I see. What do you suppose the line of defense will be?”

“For Reardon and Di Pace, they’ll attempt to justify the homicide. For the Aposto boy, mental incompetency.”

“You ready to fight them?”

“As for the self-defense, we still haven’t turned up the knife Morrez was supposed to have pulled. And his blindness would seem to eliminate any foolish theories about his being the attacker. As for the Aposto boy, I’d like him examined by Bellevue. Would you arrange for his remand, Ephraim?”

“Be happy to. What’s your next move?”

“I’m going up to Spanish Harlem tomorrow. I want to track down this knife thing. If they’re going to use it, I want to be prepared. What’d you have to tell me, Ephraim?”

“First of all, Judge Samalson is going to try the case.”

“What?”

“I thought you’d be surprised. Defense counsel raised a hell of a stink. Claimed he was a friend of yours, claimed you studied under him at N.Y.U., claimed he was prejudiced in your favor.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“Of course. But it didn’t stop them from asking for a change of venue.”

“That must have sat very well with Abe.”

“Abe Samalson is the fairest judge we’ve got on the bench. In words of one syllable, he denied the motion by telling the defense to go straight to hell.”

“Good for Abe!”

“This didn’t stop them. They insisted on a change of venue. Claimed the local press had made prejudicial and inflammatory statements about the case. Abe still told them to go to hell. He recognized their motion for just what it was. Another dilatory tactic. This makes the third. First they made a motion to examine the grand-jury minutes on the grounds that the indictment was handed down without proper legal evidence. The motion was denied. Next they asked for a bill of particulars identifying the witnesses, the place, the weapons — but this only gained them a week. The trial is still set for next month, and Samalson will still be hearing it. Are you pleased?”

“Yes. I like Abe. He’s a good man.”

“Seen him recently?”

Hank suddenly laughed. “I think he’s coming to dinner this weekend!”

“Oh, great,” Holmes said. “I’d advise you not to discuss the case.”

“Thanks. I didn’t plan to.”

The phone on Hank’s desk buzzed. He picked up the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Hank, this is Dave on the desk. Two people here for you. One’s got a carton full of lunch.”

“Who’s the other?”

“Guy named Barton. Claims he’s a reporter. Ever hear of him?”

“Mike Barton?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard of him. What does he want?”

“Wants to talk to you.”

“Tell him we’re just about to have lunch. If he doesn’t mind my mumbling around a sandwich, he’s welcome to join us. And send it in, Dave. I’m starved.”

The lunch and Mike Barton came into the office together. Barton was a tall man with the shoulders and chest of a truck driver. His lips were thick, and attention was drawn to his mouth by a heavy black mustache which sat under his nose like a smear of printer’s ink. He extended his hand immediately.

“Mr. Bell?” he asked.

“How do you do?” Hank said, and he took the hand. “Ephraim Holmes, chief of the bureau. Ephraim, Mr. Barton.”

“We’ve met,” Holmes said dryly.

“Having a tête-à-tête with your star prosecutor, Sherlock?”

“Just having lunch with him, Mike,” Holmes said, taking the sandwiches and drinks out of the cardboard box. He paid the delivery boy and then made himself comfortable in one of the chairs, spreading the food out on the desk top.

“What’s on your mind, Mr. Barton?” Hank asked.

“Good question,” Barton said, smiling. When he smiled, his teeth were startlingly white against the black mustache. His eyes, too, seemed to gleam with reflected pinpoint light, a deep brown against the wide expanse of his face. He has a very big head, Hank found himself thinking. It’s too bad he’s not in the theater. “What’s on everybody’s mind these days?” Barton continued.

Hank unwrapped his sandwich and began munching on it. “Well, I’m not qualified to speak for everybody. Only myself.”

“And what’s on your mind?”

“The Morrez case.”

“The very same thing that’s on my mind, Mr. Bell.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“That’s exactly why I’m here. Have you been reading our paper lately?”

“I’m sorry,” Hank said. “I don’t read the tabloids.”

“Snobbery in a public official?”

“Not at all. I just never got into the habit.”

“Our tabloid happens to be a good one,” Barton said.

“What are you running this week?” Holmes asked dryly. “An exposé on Park Avenue call houses?”

Barton chuckled, but there was no humor in the laugh. “We fill a public need,” he said. “And we also perform a public service.”

“Sure. You tell the average citizen where he can go to get laid. You give the Vice Squad extra headaches.”

“We also ran a series on the Vice Squad,” Barton said.

“Your paper stinks,” Holmes said flatly. “It’s a cheap, sensational, yellow tabloid which poses under the banner of liberalism to sell extra copies and advertising. What do you want here?”

“I came to talk to Mr. Bell,” Barton said, his brows pulling down darkly.