He met the flat patient stare of Sergeant Lloyd Rankin, which indicated
a readiness like that of a dog who will not attack unless provoked. Say
a Boxer: Rankin was built like that, and would fight in a Boxer's style,
with single-minded courage closely akin to stupidity.
He saw T. J. Hunter seated at the prosecution's table and turned partly
away from the witness chair, making a show of rereading that transcript
of Callista's ordeal. T.J. would be listening to the cross-examination,
and sharply; but Cecil Warner had to admit that the show of bored
indifference was quite as expert as anything he could have managed
himself. This silence had lasted long enough, or too long; he heard
fidgeting in the back rows; he could not spend any more time gloomily
viewing Rankin's Boxer jaws.
"Sergeant Rankin, when Miss Blake realized she would be under
suspicion, you asked her--I think these were your words--you asked her
who she thought would believe a story like hers. Correct?--that's your
recollection of what you said?"
"Yes, sir, I think I put it that way."
"Meaning, I suppose, that you didn't believe her story yourself?"
"No, sir--I mean no, I didn't believe it."
"Did you suggest that she ought to change her story?"
"Oh, I told her--more than once, I guess--that she ought to tell the
truth about it, that she'd get a better break if she did."
"A better break. Those were your words, 'a better break'?"
He noticed a dim flush on Rankin's heavy cheeks, some flicker of doubt
or uneasiness in chilly gray eyes. Rankin could have no way of knowing
how much Callista might have told. "Yes, I think that was how I put it,
Mr. Warner. She seemed to be expecting me to believe it, and--"
"But she replied: 'Who knows what anyone believes?'"
"Yes."
"And asked then if you were going to arrest her?"
"She did, and I told her that would be up to my superiors, not me."
"This conversation took place in the kitchenette, after she had taken
you out there and shown you the brandy bottle, and volunteered her
account which you preferred not to believe?"
"It wasn't a case of preference, Mr. Warner. I--"
"All right, never mind that. The conversation took place in the
kitchenette?"
"Yes."
"And you told her to go back to the living-room, and she did so?"
"Yes."
"She went ahead of you?"
"Ahead of me?"
"My words are plain, aren't they?" _Give him no time--Boxer hates to be
pushed._ "She stepped out of the kitchenette and walked ahead of you
down that little hallway toward the living-room, did she not?"
"Really I don't remember. I suppose--"
"Don't _remember_! In direct examination you showed an excellent memory
for details. Let me just check your memory a little. What way does the
front of that apartment house face, 21 Covent Street? East?"
"Why--yes, east, or south-east anyway."
"Was it a bright day, August 17th?"
"Yes, bright sunny day."
"Hot?"
"Very hot."
"Sunlight in the living-room windows, was there? Remember?"
"Yes."
"In the hallway?"
"I guess so."
"Good memory. Let me check it just a little more. What was Miss Blake
wearing that day?"
"A--oh, just a dress, I don't know what a dressmaker would call it."
"Well--color?"
"White."
"Good. A simple white dress. Now look, Sergeant, I think you can
remember whether she went ahead of you into the living-room. I'll help
you out--you wouldn't have left her alone with that brandy bottle when
you'd as good as told her she was under suspicion, would you?"
"Oh--well, that. Yes, if it matters, I remember she went first."
"Did you again tell her she ought to change her story?"
"I may have."
"Sergeant, I point out to you again, your memory under direct
examination was excellent. You referred to your notebook, you repeated
several remarks verbatim--to some of which the defense might have
justifiably objected, if I had seen fit. Now--did you tell her a second
time that she would get a better break if she changed this story which
you say you didn't believe? Did you, Sergeant?"
"Yes, it's my recollection that I did."
"Did you suggest any other thing she might do that would, in your words,
give her a better break?"
"Any other--I don't know what you mean."
"Then let me help your memory again. This conversation, when you
repeated that she ought to change her story--did this conversation take
place while you were going back to the living-room?"
"I--oh, I guess so."
"I'm asking for testimony, not guesswork. Did it, or not?"
"Yes."
"What did Miss Blake say?"
"It's my recollection that she--I don't think she said anything."
"She didn't? You remember how she _looked_, don't you?"
"Of course."
"Of course. Simple white dress, you said--correct?"
"Yes."
"Walking down the hall, between you and the sunlight in the living-room.
Didn't she say, or rather cry out: 'Take your ugly hands off me, you
fool!'--have you forgotten that?"
He heard Hunter jump up, and waited motionless for the angry blast:
"Objection! This is outrageous. There has been nothing--"
Judge Terence Mann said: "There has been a good deal." Warner looked up
quickly then; if his astonishment showed for a second, probably no one
but Terence saw it. There was time to wonder how much of a surprise it
was to T.J.--complete, very likely. And Terence Mann himself looked
astonished at the swiftness and sharpness of his own words. "If there is
any suspicion that a police officer has acted in that manner toward the
defendant, the defense is well within its rights to pursue this line of
questioning. The objection is overruled." _But Terry must know we can't
prove it._ "Answer the question, Sergeant."