Judge Barnes, taking his place on the bench, looked over the crowded courtroom with judicial gravity, glanced down at the lawyers seated at their tables, and said, “Before starting this case, the Court wishes to say a few words to the gentlemen of the press, who are assembled here. The court realizes that occasionally judges try to enforce a ruling that there will be no picture taking. The result is that some of the more ingenious members of the press manage to smuggle in concealed cameras with high speed lenses, and obtain surreptitious pictures.
“This Court has always felt that the public were entitled to know what goes on in important trials. The Court’s objection to photographs has been due to the interruption of proceedings, and the confusion incident to the exploding of flashlights. Therefore, gentlemen, I want it understood that there will be no flashlight pictures taken while Court is in session, nor are there to be any so-called candid-camera shots taken which will have a tendency to annoy the parties, distract the attention of the witnesses, or counsel. In other words, gentlemen, I am leaving the matter of photographs in your hands, and depending upon your good taste, and your ability to cooperate with the Court. In the event you abuse the privilege, it will be withdrawn.”
“Gentlemen, are you ready to begin the trial of the People vs. Sarah Breel?” Counsel for both sides answered that they were ready. Judge Barnes looked down at the white-haired woman who sat in a wheel chair at Perry Mason’s side, her right leg encased in a plaster cast, her expression as completely tranquil as was that of the judge himself. “Very well, gentlemen, proceed.”
Mason got to his feet, and stood tall and straight, having about him that indefinable something which draws the eyes of spectators like a magnet. “Your Honor,” he said, in a resonant voice which seemed not particularly loud, yet filled every corner of the mahogany-paneled courtroom as though he were talking into a microphone, “the defendant in this case wants only a fair trial. She is satisfied the facts will speak for themselves. We offer to stipulate with the district attorney’s office that the first twelve persons called to the jury box may be sworn to act as jurors in the case.”
“You mean without asking any questions at all of the proposed jurors?” Sampson asked. Mason nodded.
“Suppose they’ve read about the case? Suppose they have some fixed opinion in it?”
“I don’t care,” Mason said. “All I want is twelve men and women of intelligence and fairness.” He included the jury panel with a sweeping gesture of his arm. “I’am satisfied that every one of these people possesses the necessary qualifications. Call twelve names. We’ll accept them. We don’t care whether they have any prejudices or not.”
Larry Sampson scented a trap. One didn’t take chances with Perry Mason. Somehow he felt that if he departed from the orderly course of routine trial work, he’d find himself sailing uncharted seas, with dangerous reefs ahead. “No,” he said, “I wouldn’t care to make that stipulation.” Then suddenly realizing that to the ears of the prospective jurors this sounded as though he failed to share Mason’s opinion as to their integrity and fairness, he raised his voice and said, “Not that I doubt the intelligence or honesty of any of these men or women, but I want to find out... that is, I mean, I want to question them.”
Mason turned to face the jury impanelment. “Go ahead and question,” he said. “That’s your privilege. I won’t ask any questions.”
Mason sat down, and then, for the first time since the judge had taken the bench, turned to confer with Mrs. Breel. “Do you,” Mason asked, “feel as though the evidence might recall what happened to your mind?”
“My mind is a blank,” she said, “from Monday noon until I regained consciousness in the hospital.”
The lawyer said, “This is going to be an ordeal. You’ll have to steel yourself to the idea of having the district attorney’s office sketch you as a scheming criminal. There’ll be sarcasm, shouting, a lot of sneering references to your loss of memory.”
She smiled serenely. “I can take it,” she said.
The clerk called the names of twelve jurors. Sampson advised the prospective jurors of the nature of the case. The judge asked a few routine questions, then turned to the attorneys. “Proceed, gentlemen, with such questions as you have touching upon the Qualifications of prospective jurors.”
Mason, on his feet, scrutinized the jurors as though searching for something in each face. Then he smiled and said, “Your Honor, the defendant has no questions to ask of these jurors. We have no challenges for cause.”
Sampson sighed and settled down to an examination of the jurors, realizing with each question that he had been forced into a position of seeming to distrust these men and women. Yet, once having embarked upon such a policy, he dared not change. And, since the defense had given him no lead by its questions, he was forced to plug along, doggedly determined to bring out the facts, whether they knew the defendant or counsel for the defendant, whether they had read of the facts, or purported facts, in the newspapers, whether they had formed or expressed any opinion. Once, to his embarrassment, he disclosed that one of the jurors, having read the newspapers, had concluded Mrs. Breel was guilty. But that juror, meeting Perry Mason’s disarming smile, promptly asserted that he could and would lay aside such opinion if he was actually sworn to act as a juror, and would try the case solely and impartially upon the evidence introduced.
Sampson knew, of course, that Perry Mason would excuse this juror on a peremptory challenge, and the other members of the panel would understand the exercise of that challenge. But Sampson felt, somehow, as though he were doing Mason’s work for him.
Eventually, his examination drew to a close. He passed the jury for cause, and, satisfied that Mason would exert his peremptory on the biased juror, passed for peremptory. Mason said, “Your Honor, I was satisfied with the jury when I first saw them, and I’m still satisfied with them. I pass my peremptory. Swear theory.”
Once more, Sampson experienced a vague feeling of uneasiness. He had expected at least half a day to be consumed in the examination of jurors, but now he found himself swept into the trial after less than an hour, and, somehow, felt that he was on the defensive. However, as he warmed to his opening speech before the jury, he regained his confidence. The mere recital of the facts arrayed against the defendant was sufficient to reassure any prosecutor.
The defendant had been acquainted with the decedent. She had been in the neighborhood — in fact, directly in front of the decedent’s house — at approximately the time of the murder. Robbery had been the motive for the murder. The defendant had in her possession the gun with which the murder had been committed. Moreover — and realizing that the prosecution might have some difficulty in actually proving that the handbag was the property of the defendant, Sampson stressed this point particularly — the shoe worn by the defendant had been stained with human blood — the blood of the decedent. The person who had murdered Austin Cullens had stood over the body, taking gems from a chamois-skin belt. In doing this, that person had left the telltale red smears of footprints near the body of the deceased. The jurors would be shown photographs of tracks of footprints in the hallway. And then they would be shown the left shoe which had been worn by the defendant at the time she was brought to the hospital. That shoe, standing by itself, would be sufficient to warrant a conviction of first-degree murder.
Sampson thanked the jury, and sat down. Mason reserved his opening statement, and Sampson called, as his first witness, an acquaintance who testified briefly, and without objection or cross-examination, that he had known Austin Cullens in his lifetime; that Austin Cullens was dead; that he had seen the body of Austin Cullens at the time of the postmortem; that the body on which the autopsy surgeon had been working was that of Austin Cullens, who had lived at 9158 St. Rupert Boulevard.
Sampson called the autopsy surgeon, Dr. Carl Frankel. Mason stipulated his qualifications, subject to the right of cross-examination, and Dr. Frankel described the postmortem, the course of the fatal bullet, and the cause of death. “You may cross-examine,” Sampson said.
Mason asked casually, “What time was the postmortem performed, Doctor?”
“Around three o’clock in the morning.”
“You recovered the fatal bullet which had caused the death of Austin Cullens?”
“I did.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I gave it to Sergeant Holcomb of the homicide squad, who was standing at my side.”
“Let’s see,” Mason said musingly, “three o’clock in the morning. You had two postmortems to perform by that time, didn’t you, Doctor?”
“I did.”
“The other one being that of George Trent, who had also been shot?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you performed both of those postmortems at the same time?”
“No, sir, I performed the postmortem on Austin Cullens first, and then the autopsy on George Trent.”
“But you performed the postmortem on George Trent immediately after you had finished with that of Austin Cullens?”
“That’s right.”
“And Sergeant Holcomb was present at both examinations?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he leave the room at any time?”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Sampson asked.
“Merely trying to get the picture,” Mason said affably. “I want to find out what became of the bullets.”
“You’ll find out when we put Sergeant Holcomb on the stand,” Sampson said.
“Well,” Mason observed, “I think if the doctor answers this question, that will conclude my cross-examination.”
“No,” Dr. Frankel said, “Sergeant Holcomb did not leave the room. He was present at my side during both of the postmortems.”
“That’s all,” Mason said.
“Call Harry Diggers,” Sampson said.
Diggers took the witness stand. Clearly, almost photographically, he described operating his car on St. Rupert boulevard. He had just passed Ninety-First Street and was about midway in the block. There had been a blue sedan with a crumpled left rear fender parked at the curb. This sedan had suddenly lurched into motion and swerved sharply to the left. The witness had pulled his car to the right to avoid a collision. At that moment, the defendant had jumped out from the curb, to run directly in front of his headlights. She had flung up her hands as though to ward off the car. The witness had swung his car sharply to the left, but the front end had missed the defendant, and the running board had struck her leg and knocked her down. She was unconscious. He had started to take her to the nearest hospital, but other motorists, who had driven up, advised him to let the ambulance which had been summoned take the responsibility. Diggers had found her bag lying beside her, with a gun protruding from it. He had picked the bag up, and had insisted on having its contents inventoried, at first by bystanders, and then, when he realized the nature of the contents, by the ambulance crew. He read the inventory, and the number of the gun, from his notebook, where he had scribbled them down.
Sampson watched the jury intently. As Diggers read out the numbers, he saw a certain hardness creep into the jurors’ eyes. Then their glances strayed from the witness to the defendant. He knew that symptom only too well. Let Mason go ahead and pull his bag of tricks. When jurors lean forward in their chairs to listen to damaging testimony, then, with hard faces, look with steely indifference at the defendant, the verdict is in the bag.
With the conclusion of Diggers’ direct examination, the court took its usual midday recess, and Sampson tried hard to keep from swaggering as he walked from the courtroom.
A nurse changed Mrs. Breel’s position in the wheel chair so that she would not become cramped. Mrs. Breel smiled at Mason and said, “Well, that wasn’t so bad.”
“It’s going to get worse,” Mason warned.
“Then what?” she asked.
“Well,” Mason said, “it’s always darkest just before dawn.”
Virginia Trent came forward, standing tall, thin and austere, her face with its look of grim tension in contrast with Mrs. Breel’s carefree smile. “It’s a crime,” she said, “for them to drag Aunt Sarah into court while she’s still suffering from that broken leg.”
Mason said, “The district attorney’s office wanted to rush her to trial while she was still suffering from a loss of memory.”
“Couldn’t you have presented a physician’s certificate and secured a continuance?” Virginia Trent asked accusingly.
“I could,” Mason admitted, “but I had a better idea.”
“What?” Virginia Trent asked.
“To go on with the trial before your aunt had recovered her memory.”
Mrs. Breel flashed him a swift glance. Virginia Trent said indignantly, “What do you mean by that, Mr. Mason?”
“I just meant that I wanted to try the case while I stood the most chance of getting an acquittal.”
“Do you feel certain?” Virginia Trent asked him, her voice harsh with nervousness.
“Well,” Mason hedged, “let me put it just the way I explained it to you a few days ago... I’m as certain of getting an acquittal now as I’ll ever be. On the other hand, a lapse of time may strengthen the Prosecution’s case.”
“You’ve said that two or three times,” Mrs. Breel said. “Can you tell us just what you have in mind?”
Mason, shoving papers into his brief case, said, “Suppose you leave the worrying to me.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Mrs. Breel nodded to Virginia Trent.
“Well, I don’t,” Virginia Trent said. “I think we’re both adult, and I think we’re entitled to share in the responsibilities.”
“Go ahead and worry, then,” Mason told her gravely.
Sarah Breel sighed resignedly and said, “Very well, Ginny, since you feel that way about it, I agree with Mr. Mason. We’ll let you worry.”
Virginia’s eyes sparkled dangerously. “You two act as though you were laughing at me all the time,” she said. “This isn’t any laughing matter. In case you want to know it, Mr. Perry Mason, the general comment around the courtroom has been that you’re laying down on the job.”
There was something of a twinkle in Mason’s eyes. “Don’t let that worry you,” he said. “You see, I’m mentally lazy. I save all of my energy for fighting where it will do the most good. These lawyers who doggedly contest a case every step of the way use up too much energy. They bum themselves out.”
Virginia Trent and the nurse turned Mrs. Breel’s wheel chair around, and Virginia Trent snapped over her shoulder, “Well, you haven’t burnt yourself out. If you ask me, you aren’t even lukewarm.”
Sarah Breel couldn’t turn in the wheel chair so she could see Mason’s face, but she raised her right hand to wave reassuringly. “Don’t mind Ginny,” she called. “I always thought she took life too seriously. After all, I’m the defendant in this case. Come on, Ginny.”
Paul Drake moved forward and whispered to Perry Mason, “Sergeant Holcomb’s detectives have found Mrs. Peabody.”
“You mean Lone Bedford?” Mason asked.
“Yes.”
“What are they doing about it?” Mason asked.
“Nothing,” Drake said. “They’re keeping her under surveillance, that’s all. My men have her sewed up. When these other shadows moved in, they got wise and tipped me off. One of my boys recognized them. They’re from Homicide.”
“And there’s been no sign of Pete Chennery?”
“None. She’s sitting tight... And don’t think Holcomb is going to do anything to play into your hands, Perry, because he isn’t. He has shadows on the job, but that’s as far as he’ll go.”
Mason grinned. “Thanks, Paul. I think this leaves us sitting pretty.”
As court reconvened at two o’clock, Mason took up his cross-examination of Diggers. “You say you were going about twenty-five miles an hour, Mr. Diggers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And this defendant stepped out from the curb, directly in front of your headlights?”
“Yes, sir.”
“About how long was it after she stepped out from the curb in front of your headlights before you struck her?”
“Not more than one or two seconds, at the most.”
“And the defendant threw up her hands just before you struck her?”
“Yes.”
“Show the jury just how she did it.” Mason said.
The witness held up his hands, palms outward.
“As though trying to push the automobile back?” Mason asked sympathetically.
“That’s it exactly.”
“You saw both of her hands?”
“Yes.”
“Was she wearing gloves?”
“Yes, black gloves.”
“You’re certain you could see both of her hands plainly?”
“Yes, sir. That is etched on my memory, so I’ll never forget it.”
“You could see the palms of both of her hands?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And she was wearing gloves?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which one of her hands could you see the most clearly?”
The witness, feeling that Mason was trying to trap him, grew indignant. “I could see both of them equally well,” he said. “She was standing facing me. She had her hands up like this, as though trying to push the automobile away.”
Mason appeared to have been defeated. He abandoned that line of cross-examination with the bad grace of one who is retreating hastily in order to save himself from rout. “Now then, after you struck this woman, you stopped your car?”
“Yes, sir... Understand, I’d started to stop the car before I hit her.”
“I understand,” Mason said. “Where was she lying when you stopped the car?”
“I stopped the car almost at the moment of impact. She was lying right by the right rear wheel.”
“You got out of the car on the right side?” Mason asked.
“No, sir,” Diggers corrected him, “on the left side. I opened the door nearest the steering wheel.”
“Then you walked around the car to where the defendant was lying?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Around the front, or around the back?”
“Around the back.”
“What did you do?”
“I picked her up and felt for a pulse, then tried to carry her over nearer to the sidewalk. I was just picking her up when some other people came to help me.”
“Do you know who these other people were?”
“No,” Diggers said, “although I have the names of some of the witnesses who helped me inventory the contents of the bag.”
“Oh, yes,” Mason said casually. “Now, let’s see. You were pretty much excited at the time, weren’t you?”
“Well, I was startled, but I didn’t lose my head at all.”
“And you remember everything which occurred very vividly?”
“Yes, sir, the entire occurrence is etched vividly in my mind.”
Mason inquired casually, “Then after you had carried the defendant over to the curb, you first saw this bag lying on the road, is that right?”
Diggers said, “No, sir, that isn’t when I first saw it. I first saw it when the defendant left the curb.”
Mason was on his feet, pointing his finger. “I thought” he thundered, “that the defendant raised up her gloved hands in this manner, as though to push back the automobile that you saw; one hand just as clearly as you saw the other. Now, kindly tell the jury how that could have been possible if the defendant had been holding a bag such as this bag which you have identified, at the time?”
Diggers waited patiently until Mason had finished. Then he turned to the jury, just as Sampson had instructed him to do.
“She wasn’t holding the bag when she had her hands up, Mr. Mason,” he said. “She dropped the bag just before she put her hands up, and the bag was lying on the road, right where she had dropped it.”
“That bag was lying just about where the blue sedan had been parked, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the blue sedan had been there until just a moment before the defendant stepped out from the curb, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, how do you know that the bag which you picked up hadn’t been dropped by the occupants of the blue sedan?”
“Because,” Diggers explained patiently, “I saw the defendant carrying the bag in her hand. The minute I saw her, I saw the bag. If that bag had been dropped by the occupants of that blue sedan, Mr. Mason, the defendant must have dived under the blue sedan, picked up the bag, run back to the sidewalk, and then turned to run out in front of my headlights.”
“Now, where was the gun when you first saw it — this thirty-eight caliber revolver you have just described to the jury?”
“Practically protruding from the handbag.”
“It wasn’t lying on the pavement near the handbag?”
“No, sir.”
Mason sat down. “That is all,” he said.
“The witness is excused,” Sampson announced, and a note of triumph was apparent in his voice.
Sampson next called one of the ambulance attendants to identify the bag and its contents. Mason offered no cross-examination.
Sampson heaved a sigh of relief. Well, he’d got past that hurdle Very nicely. Mason had been forced to surrender the point. He consulted his list of witnesses.
“Call Carl Ernest Hogan,” he said, and, with Hogan on the stand, quickly ran through his occupation ballistics expert for the police force. Once more, Mason stipulated to the qualifications of the Witness, subject to the right of cross-examination. And Hogan, testifying with the close-clipped efficiency of an expert who is as much at home on the witness stand as in his own living room, identified the test bullet which had been discharged from the gun found in the bag, identified the bullet which had been handed him by Sergeant Holcomb as the fatal bullet, and then introduced a greatly enlarged micro-photograph showing the marks of the rifling on the two bullets. The photograph was offered in evidence, and admitted without objection. The jury needed only to look at it to tell that the two bullets had unquestionably been fired from the same gun. An attempt had been made to trace the ownership of the gun from the numbers. The attempt had been unsuccessful because the records of a merchant, going back over a period of years, had been lost or destroyed. The numbers on the gun, however, had not been tampered with. “Cross-examine,” Sampson said triumphantly.
Sampson sat back in his chair, breathing easily while the cross-examination droned on. No, the witness couldn’t, of his own knowledge, testify as to the fact that this gun had been found in the bag. It was a gun which had been given him by Sergeant Holcomb of the homicide squad. The witness had, however, checked the numbers, and, as Mr. Mason could observe, the numbers tallied with those which had been written down by Harry Diggers at the time of the accident.
No, the witness couldn’t, of his own knowledge, testify that this bullet was the fatal bullet. That bullet, as he understood it, had been taken by the autopsy surgeon from the body of Austin Cullens, given to Sergeant Holcomb, and by Sergeant Holcomb handed to the witness.
Larry Sampson, thinking that perhaps some of the jurors might be misled, took occasion to interpolate a comment to the court. “We’re not asking to introduce this fatal bullet in evidence at the present time, Your Honor. It’s only been marked for identification. The last link in the chain will be forged by the testimony of Sergeant Holcomb, and then we’ll have to have the bullet introduced.” Judge Barnes nodded.
Mason said casually, “By the way, Mr. Hogan, you were testing two guns at the same time, were you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Both thirty-eight caliber revolvers?”
“Yes, sir, but they were of different makes.”
“I understand that,” Mason said. “I’m simply trying to get the circumstances under which the test was conducted before the jurors. I believe one of the guns was one which had been used in the murder of George Trent, was it not?”
The witness smiled. “I’m sure I can’t tell you about that, Mr. Mason,” he said. “I know what Sergeant Holcomb told me when he handed me the guns. But it is only my province to test guns by firing projectiles from them and comparing them with fatal bullets.”
Judge Barnes smiled. Larry Sampson grinned. If Mason thought he could get anywhere cross-examining an expert like Hogan, he had another guess coming. Hogan was deadly as a rattlesnake on cross-examination. Try to crowd him, and he’d strike back in a hurry.
“By the way,” Mason said, “do you remember whether you first compared a bullet from the gun which Sergeant Holcomb told you had been used in the Trent case, or the one which Sergeant Holcomb told you had been found in the bag of the defendant in this case?”
Hogan frowned meditatively and said, “As nearly as I remember, Mr. Mason, I first discharged a test bullet from this gun. Then I discharged a test bullet from the gun which Sergeant Holcomb told me had been used in the Trent case.”
“And in checking the bullets, what order did you follow?” Mason asked.
“Sergeant Holcomb handed me a bullet which I first compared with a bullet fired from this gun,” Hogan said. “I believe I mentioned to Sergeant Holcomb that it wasn’t fired from this gun...”
“Oh, it wasn’t,” Mason said.
Hogan said acidly, “If you’ll permit me to finish my statement, Mr. Mason.”
“I wasn’t aware that I’d interrupted you,” Mason said. “I thought you had finished.”
“Well, I hadn’t finished,” Hogan said. “I was about to remark that I advised Sergeant Holcomb that the bullet hadn’t been fired from this gun, and Sergeant Holcomb told me of course it hadn’t that the bullet he had handed me was the one which had been taken from the body of George Trent. Thereupon, I compared that bullet With the test bullet fired from the revolver which Sergeant Holcomb had told me figured in the Trent case, and found that the bullets Were identical. I then compared the bullet which he gave me and which he told me had been taken from the body of Austin Cullens, and found that it was identical with the test bullet fired from this gun.”
Mason said wearily, “That’s all.”
“Call William Golding,” Sampson said.
Golding came forward to the witness stand and was sworn. His face was the face of a professional gambler, cold, expressionless, and observing, completely divorced from that which was taking place in his mind.
Golding stated his name and address. “Your occupation?” Sampson asked.
“I run a restaurant known as The Golden Platter.”
“Are you acquainted with the defendant, Sarah Breel?”
“Yes.”
“Were you acquainted with Austin Cullens, the decedent?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last see Austin Cullens?”
“On the evening of the day he was murdered.”
“Where did you see him?”
“At The Golden Platter — my place of business — at around seven o’clock in the evening.”
“And did you have occasion, later on, on that same day, to go to the residence of Austin Cullens?”
“I did. About eight o’clock.”
“And who was with you, if anyone?”
“Miss Eva Tannis.”
“And what did you do?”
“We drove to the ninety-one hundred block on St. Rupert Boulevard. Miss Tannis was driving the automobile. She parked at the curb in front of Mr. Cullens’ house.”
“You could see the house at that time?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Were there any lights in the house?”
“Not at that time, no.”
“Then what happened?”
“I was just about to get out of the car, when I saw some lights on the windows. My wife — Miss Tannis thought it was a flashlight...”
“Never mind what anyone else thought,” Sampson said hastily- “Just what did you see yourself, Mr. Golding?”
“I saw a flicker of light on the window. I saw that on two or three occasions; then I heard two shots; then I saw a woman run out of the front door of the house, and run toward my automobile.”
“Did you recognize that woman?”
“I did.”
“Who was she?”
Amidst a silence in which a pin could have been heard to drop, Golding raised a dramatic forefinger and pointed it at Sarah Breel. “She was the defendant in this case,” he said.
“The woman sitting there?” Sampson asked.
“Yes.”
“What did she do?”
“She ran toward my automobile. Miss Tannis said that...”
“Never mind what anyone else said,” Sampson interrupted. “What did you do, if anything?”
“I sat in the car while Miss Tannis drove it away.”
“Where was the defendant when you last saw her?”
“About six feet from the curb, running toward the street.”
“Running rapidly?”
“Yes.”
“You may cross-examine,” Sampson said to Perry Mason.
“Why did you and Miss Tannis drive away so hurriedly?” Mason asked.
“Because we didn’t want to see Mrs. Breel.”
“And you didn’t want Mrs. Breel to see you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Simply because I wanted to see Mr. Cullens without having anyone else present.”
“You operate a gambling establishment in connection with your restaurant?” Mason asked.
Sampson was on his feet. “Your Honor,” he said, “that is objected to as incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial. It is improper cross-examination it is an attempt to discredit the witness in the eyes of the jury by submitting him to...”
“The objection is sustained,” Judge Barnes interrupted to rule.
Mason smiled, and said, “I’ll reframe the question. Your Honor. Mr. Golding, isn’t it a fact that earlier in the evening Mr. Cullens had advised you that George Trent had pledged certain diamonds with you to cover a financial loss which he had incurred at the gambling tables in your establishment at The Golden Platter?”
“Your Honor,” Sampson said, “I object to this question, and I assign the asking of it as misconduct. I suggest that counsel be admonished by the Court. The Court has already ruled that...”
“The Court has ruled nothing of the sort,” Judge Barnes said. “The first question might have been considered as an attempt to embarrass the witness by casting reflections upon his character in connection with an extraneous matter. As the present question is worded, it relates entirely to a conversation which took place between Mr. Cullens and this witness on the night of the murder. The witness has already testified that he saw Cullens at that time, and counsel has a right on cross-examination to go into what was said, insofar as it may have any bearing on the present case. The objection is overruled, the witness will answer the question.”
Sampson slowly sat down. Golding, with his face calmly expressionless, said, “That is substantially correct, sir.”
“And George Trent had lost money over your gambling tables at The Golden Platter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And had pledged certain diamonds as collateral, in order to secure his gambling debt with you?”
“No, sir.”
“He hadn’t?”
“No, sir, he hadn’t.”
“Do I understand that you had not received any diamonds whatever from Mr. Trent, pledged as collateral security for gambling losses?”
“No, sir.”
“Or for any other losses?”
“No, sir.”
“Or to cover any loans?”
“No, sir.”
“Or any indebtedness of any sort?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you certain that you didn’t enter the residence of Austin Cullens at St. Rupert Boulevard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You had only parked the car at the curb, and hadn’t left the car?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you certain that the bag, which was found lying on the street about where your car was parked, hadn’t been tossed from your car?”
“It had not.”
“And the gun, which the witness, Diggers, has testified about, wasn’t that in your possession at some time during the evening in question?”
“It was not.”
“And you didn’t drop it or throw it from your sedan?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor did Miss Tannis?”
“No, sir.”
“But,” Mason said, eyeing him steadily, “you were, by your own admission, on St. Rupert Boulevard, within a few feet of the house in which Austin Cullens resided, on the night of the murder. You were there at a time when you heard two shots fired, which sounds apparently came from the house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you are unable to give any explanation as to what you were doing there, other than the statement which you have just made to this jury?”
“That’s right.”
“And your car was a blue sedan with a crumpled rear fender?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you knew that the witness, Diggers, had told the police about seeing such a car parked there at the curb the night of the murder?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you immediately got rid of that car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to be called as a witness.”
“Why not?”
“I wanted to keep out of the whole business. I’m a gambler. I knew that would be brought out somehow. You’ve done it now. That’s going to ruin my business. I’ll be closed up.”
“Your desire to keep out of it wasn’t because you were mixed up in the murder itself?”
“No, sir.”
Mason said, “That’s all.”
“Call Sergeant Holcomb,” Sampson said.
Sergeant Holcomb came striding to the witness stand. His manner clearly indicated that he had a sneering contempt for the defendant and her counsel. He was a man who knew what he was going to testify to, and didn’t intend to let any attorney confuse him. He was sworn and gave his name, address and occupation to the court reporter. He sat down in the witness chair and crossed his legs, after the manner of one who is thoroughly at his ease, amid familiar surroundings. He glanced at Larry Sampson, and his manner said very plainly, “All right, young man, go ahead.”
Sampson started building up his case with Sergeant Holcomb. The Sergeant testified to finding the body of Austin Cullens, testified to the presence of Perry Mason and Paul Drake, a private detective, at the scene of the crime, to the copper coin in the light socket. One by one, he identified photographs showing the room, the body, the red smears leading from the body to the corridor. Later on, Sampson would use those photographs with telling effect. He’d compare the size and shape of the stains in the corridor with the size and shape of the stains on the sole of Mrs. Breel’s left shoe. Right now, he wanted to get the evidence in, and minimize the effect of it as much as possible so that he could crash it home to the jury with dramatic force. And so, the long line of photographs were identified and received in evidence. Then he brought up the fatal bullet.
Sergeant Holcomb identified it. He had been standing by the side of the autopsy surgeon when the bullet had been taken from the body of Austin Cullens. He had received this bullet from the doctor. He had handed this bullet to the witness, Hogan, for the purpose of making tests. He had been present at those tests. The fatal bullet had been fired from the gun which had been taken from Mrs. Breel’s handbag.
“Cross-examine,” Sampson said to Perry Mason.
“How long have you been attached to the homicide squad, Sergeant Holcomb?” Mason asked.
“Ten years,” Holcomb said.
“You’ve had considerable experience in working up murder cases in that time?”
“Naturally.”
“You know what to do when you enter a room where a homicide has been committed?”
“I think I do.”
“Do you go through the pockets of the corpse, Sergeant?”
“Not until the coroner gets there. We leave the body just the way it is until the coroner arrives.”
“And you did that with the body of Austin Cullens?”
“Yes.”
“And then you searched the pockets?”
“We did.”
“You found a chamois-skin belt on the corpse?”
“We did.”
“Were there some jewels in that belt?”
“There were a few jewels left in the belt,” Sergeant Holcomb said. “Mrs. Breel had taken the gems from front pockets of the chamois-skin belt and put them in her bag.”
“You don’t know, of your own knowledge, that Mrs. Breel did that, do you, Sergeant?”
“Well, I have a pretty good idea... As you said, I’ve been on Homicide for ten years, and I’m not so dumb.”
Judge Barnes said, “The Court, of its own motion, will strike out the remarks of the witness as to what Mrs. Breel must have done, as being a conclusion of the witness and not responsive to the question.”
“Can you remember what was in the pockets of the corpse?” Mason asked.
“I can by refreshing my recollection from notes I made at the time.”
“Do so,” Mason said. Sergeant Holcomb produced a memorandum book. “What was in the upper left-hand vest pocket of the corpse?” Mason asked.
“A fountain pen and a pocket comb.”
“What was in the left-hand hip pocket?”
“A handkerchief and a pen knife.”
“What was in the right-hand hip pocket?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s right. You heard what I said — nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “I don’t know how you can have a nothing, unless it’s a nothing at all. When I say nothing, Mr. Mason, I mean nothing.”
Mason said, “Let’s see, Sergeant, you were present at a post-mortem examination made by Dr. Frankel on the body of Austin Cullens, and immediately following that you were present at the postmortem made on the body of George Trent. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“You didn’t leave the room where the postmortem was conducted, from the time Dr. Frankel started to work on the body of Austin Cullens until he finished with the body of George Trent?”
“That’s right.”
“You received one bullet from Dr. Frankel which had been taken from the body of Austin Cullens?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, just to keep the records straight, Sergeant, let’s refer to the bullet which was taken from the body of Austin Cullens as the Cullens bullet, and the thirty-eight caliber revolver, which the witness Diggers says he found in the handbag of Sarah Breel, the defendant in this case, as the Breel gun. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, what did you do with the Cullens bullet?”
“I put it in my left-hand vest pocket.”
“Now, a few minutes later you received from Dr. Frankel a bullet which had been taken from the body of George Trent, did you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, for the purpose of keeping the records straight, let’s refer to that as the Trent bullet. And, since it is claimed that that bullet was fired from a revolver found in the drawer of a desk in Trent’s office, we’ll refer to that gun as the Trent gun. Do you understand, Sergeant?”
“Certainly.”
“All right. Now what did you do with the Trent bullet?”
“I put that in my right-hand vest pocket.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Then I went at once to the ballistics department, where I had Mr. Hogan fire test shells from the gun.”
“How did it happen,” Mason asked affably, “that you got those bullets confused?”
“That I got what? ” Sergeant Holcomb roared, half rising from the witness chair. “I didn’t confuse any bullets.”
“I thought you did,” Mason said. “Didn’t you hand Hogan the Trent bullet to check with the Breel revolver?”
“I did no such thing.”
“I thought Hogan said you did.”
“Well, he didn’t,” Sergeant Holcomb said, sliding over to the extreme edge of the witness chair, in order to emphasize his remarks, “and,” he went on, his face flushed to a brick red, “any insinuation to that effect is a deliberate falsehood. Your...”
Sampson jumped to his feet to interrupt hastily, “That’s enough, Sergeant, I understand how you feel, but please remember your function here is only that of a witness. Any resentment you may feel for what you consider tactics of obstruction or confusion used by counsel, is to be kept out of the case. You will please be respectful in your answers to Mr. Mason’s questions.”
Judge Barnes said, impressively, “The witness is a police officer. He is undoubtedly familiar with courtroom procedure. He will answer questions, and refrain from any comments or recriminations.”
Sergeant Holcomb’s hands were clenched into fists, his eyes glittered dangerously, and his complexion was that of a man who has been holding his breath for several seconds.
“Proceed, Mr. Mason,” Judge Barnes said.
Mason inquired casually, “You handed Mr. Hogan the Trent bullet, and asked him to compare that bullet with the test bullet fired from the Breel revolver, didn’t you, Sergeant?”
“I did nothing of the sort,” Sergeant Holcomb said.
“Just what did you do, Sergeant?”
“I took the Trent bullet from my pocket and handed that to Hogan, and told him to compare it. I didn’t say with which gun. Hogan compared it with the test bullet from the Breel gun first. Naturally, the bullets didn’t match. He told me so, and I said, ‘Of course, they don’t. That isn’t the Cullens bullet, that’s the Trent bullet.’ So then he compared the Trent bullet with the test bullet from the Trent gun, and they matched. Then I handed Hogan the Cullens bullet, and he compared that with the test bullet from the Breel gun, and they matched. Now, those are the facts of the case, and you can’t mix me up on ‘em, Perry Mason! ”
Judge Barnes said sternly, “That will do, Sergeant Holcomb.”
Mason said, “Isn’t it a fact, Sergeant, that you confused those bullets? Didn’t you first hand Mr. Hogan the Trent bullet under the impression that it was the Cullens bullet?”
“No, sir,” Holcomb said, “I told you once, and I’m telling you again, and I’ll tell you a thousand times, that I put the Cullens bullet in my left vest pocket, and the Trent bullet in my right vest pocket.”
“But when you handed those bullets to the ballistics expert, you first took the bullet from your right waistcoat pocket, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s natural for a person to do that when he’s right-handed,” Sergeant Holcomb said.
Mason smiled. “And, by the same token, Sergeant, and following the same line of reasoning, it’s natural for a right-handed person to put an object given him first in his right-hand pocket, and an object given him after that in his left-hand pocket, isn’t it?”
Sergeant Holcomb’s face flared into color again. For a moment he was silent. Then he said, “I’m not talking about what’s natural when I tell you where I put those bullets. I know where I put them. I put the Cullens bullet in my left pocket, and the Trent bullet in my right pocket.”
“Notwithstanding the fact that you received the Cullens bullet first,” Mason said, “and that your natural tendency would be to put that bullet in your right-hand vest pocket, you put that bullet in your left vest pocket?”
“Notwithstanding anything, and notwithstanding your attempt to confuse the jury about what I’m...”
Judge Barnes pounded on the desk, “Sergeant Holcomb,” he said, “just one more violation of the Court’s admonition, and you will find yourself fined for contempt. You will answer questions and confine your comments to statements necessary to answer questions. Now, answer Mr. Mason’s question.”
Sergeant Holcomb said sullenly, “I put the Cullens bullet in my left pocket, and the Trent bullet in my right. I didn’t mix them up.”
“There’s no chance you could have been mistaken?
“None whatever.”
“Not one chance in a million?”
“Not one chance in ten hundred thousand million,” Sergeant Holcomb said.
Mason waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “That,” he said, “is all.”
Sampson took occasion to smile at the jury. “Call Eva Tannis,” he said.
Eva Tannis took the stand, and answered Sampson’s questions in a low well-modulated voice. She gave the impression of being a tigress, with her claws momentarily sheathed as she corroborated the testimony of Bill Golding in every detail.
“Cross-examine,” Sampson said, and braced himself to frame indignant objections should Mason seek to insinuate the witness had, at one time or another, posed as Mrs. Golding. But Mason said quietly, “No questions. No cross-examination at all, Miss Tannis, thank you.”
The Court thereupon took a brief recess, and Mason, surrounded by newspaper reporters, disclaimed any attempt on his part to confuse Sergeant Holcomb. “I just wanted to establish the facts,” he said, “that’s all.”
At the end of the brief recess, Sampson announced tersely that the prosecution would rest its case.
Mason said, “I desire to make a very brief opening statement to the jury.” He arose and walked across the courtroom to stand in front of the mahogany rail which separated the jury box from the courtroom. In a quiet, courteous, almost conversational tone of voice, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to ask you to remember that it is not necessary for the defendant to prove herself innocent. She has had neither the time, nor the facilities, to make an investigation which would enable her to establish who actually did murder Austin Cullens. It is encumbent upon the Prosecution to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that she murdered Austin Cullens. In the event the Prosecution fails to do this, the defendant is entitled to an acquittal.”
“Now then, ladies and gentlemen, the entire case of the Prosecution hinges upon the fact that the gun Diggers says he found in Sarah Breel’s handbag, and which we have referred to as the Breel gun, is the one which fired the bullet that killed Austin Cullens. We expect to prove to you that it is a physical impossibility that this gun could have killed Cullens. We expect to prove to you that it is a mathematical certainty that this gun did kill George Trent. And, in the same manner, ladies and gentlemen, we expect to prove to you that the Trent gun killed Austin Cullens.”
Mason turned from the startled faces of the jurors to glance at Larry Sampson. “Will you, Mr. Sampson,” he asked, “stipulate that George Trent was murdered on the Saturday afternoon in question some time between the hours of two o’clock in the evening that the best evidence available by your autopsy surgeon is that he met his death at approximately the hour of five o’clock?”
Sampson hesitated, and was aware that the eyes of the jurors were on him. He knew that he shouldn’t hesitate. His manner should be that of striving to be fair, of asking only for justice. And yet, he sensed a trap. There was a peculiar sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. After all, Sergeant Holcomb might.
“Because,” Mason went on smoothly, “in the event you do not so stipulate, I will call your own witnesses, one by one, as my witnesses and prove absolutely that George Trent was shot by a thirty-eight caliber revolver at approximately the hour of five o’clock in the afternoon.”
Once more Sampson hesitated. There seemed to be a ringing in his ears, as a confused medley of thoughts crowded his mind, demanding his attention. Suppose Mason should be right... But he couldn’t be right... But could he confuse the issues... Did he dare to stipulate... Suppose he didn’t stipulate... My God, this hesitation was the worst possible trial strategy! It looked as though he had something to conceal. Well, for God’s sake, make up your mind... But did he dare stipulate... “I am waiting for my answer,” Mason said.
Larry Sampson took a deep breath. “I will so stipulate,” he said. “But you understand, Mr. Mason, I am not stipulating anything whatever about these bullets or these guns. The Prosecution stands absolutely on the testimony of Sergeant Holcomb.”
“I so understand,” Mason said courteously. “My first witness will be Lieutenant Ogilby.”
Lieutenant Ogilby advanced to the stand with military bearing. He testified that he was a Lieutenant in the United States Army that, as such, he was interested in revolver shooting that he was friendly with Virginia Trent, a niece of George Trent that they occasionally took walks in the country that he had taught her revolver shooting that his service revolver was too heavy for her, but that her uncle possessed a light thirty-eight caliber revolver, shooting a shell known generally as a thirty-eight short, which suited Miss Trent’s hand. That, under his guidance, she had become an expert shot. That on the Saturday afternoon when George Trent had been murdered, he had called for Virginia Trent in his automobile. That she had taken the gun from the upper right-hand drawer of the desk in George Trent’s office. That at the time, Trent had been out to lunch. That the witness saw Trent eating lunch at a lunch counter near the building where he had his office. That the witness and Virginia Trent had gone out into the hills and had fired some fifty shots at targets. That he had returned the witness to her home at approximately six o’clock in the evening.
Mason turned to Sampson and said courteously, “Now if the Prosecutor’s office will kindly produce the gun which was found in the drawer of George Trent’s desk, and the gun with which it is claimed George Trent was killed, I will ask the witness to identify that gun.”
Sampson said, “It will take a few minutes.”
“Very well,” Mason said, “the Court will perhaps take a brief recess.”
The Court took its recess. Newspaper reporters crowded around Mason, asking questions. Spectators, feeling that courtroom history was being made, refused to leave their seats. The jurors glanced at Mrs. Breel as they filed out. Their glances no longer contained hostility. There was curiosity, interest, and, here and there, a glance of sympathy. Perry Mason continued to sit at his counsel table. There was about him nothing of the swagger of one who is putting across a tricky play. He had, instead, only the attitude of a disinterested expert who is trying to assist intelligent jurors in discharging their duties.
Mrs. Breel indicated by a beckoning forefinger that she wished to talk with Perry Mason. He moved his chair over to her side. “Do you,” she asked, “know what you’re doing?”
“I think so,” Mason said. “I’d hoped, of course, I could keep them from definitely establishing that it was your handbag. Now, I’m having to fall back on my second line of defense.”
“Well,” she said, weighing the issues as judicially as though her own fate had not been involved, “it seems to me that you’re getting out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
“Well,” Mason observed, smiling, “that at least will be a change of scenery.”
She thought for a moment, then said, “Do you know, Mr. Mason, I believe that if I concentrated real hard, I could get some glimmerings of memory about what took place...”
“Don’t concentrate, then,” Mason said.
“Why? Don’t you want me to remember?”
“I don’t think it will be necessary.”
“Do you think it would hurt anything?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Mason told her. “So far, I’m proceeding simply according to logic. But when we check up on events, it’s sometimes startling to find how illogical events actually are.”
“Well,” she told him, “you know your own business best, but I don’t think there’s a single person on that jury who believes that the man from the homicide squad got those bullets mixed up. He’s too positive, and he’s had too much experience.”
“Yes,” Mason said simply.
“Now, what do you mean by that?” she asked.
Mason grinned. “That he’s too positive,” he said, “and that he’s had too much experience.”
Sarah Breel laughed. “Promise me,” she said, “that you’ll be careful.”
Mason patted her hand. “Leave the worrying to me,” he told her. “I believe that was the bargain, wasn’t it?”
“No,” she said with a smile, “Virginia took over the worrying concession.”
“That’s right,” Mason admitted, “perhaps she’s worrying now. Who knows?”
Sarah Breel flashed him a swift glance of pointed interrogation. But Mason, apparently intending his last remark merely as a pleasantry, moved back to the counsel table and started arranging his papers.
Court reconvened at the end of five minutes, and Carl Ernest Hogan, the ballistics expert, stepped forward and said, “Let the ·record show that, purely for the purpose of evidence in this case, I submit for inspection a certain revolver numbered R, nine-three-six-two. And the record can also show that I’m not going to let that gun out of my possession.”
“That’s quite fair,” Mason said. “I understand that this weapon is being held as evidence in connection with the homicide of George Trent.”
“That’s right,” Carl Ernest Hogan said.
“Lieutenant Ogilby, I am going to ask you if you have ever seen this gun before?”
“I have.”
“Is that the gun which Virginia Trent had with her on the Saturday afternoon in question?”
Lieutenant Ogilby snapped open the cylinder, spun it swiftly and said, “It is.”
“Is that the gun which was fired by her at that time?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mason said to Sampson, “You may cross-examine.”
Sampson jumped to his feet, as though fairly tearing into the witness. “You say that is the same gun,” he thundered, “and yet you have given it only a casual inspection. You haven’t even looked at the number on the gun.”
“No, sir,” Lieutenant Ogilby said. “I didn’t make my identification from the number on the gun.”
“The company which manufactures this revolver makes thousands of absolutely identical revolvers, made by machinery, and alike in every respect, save only that, for the purposes of identification, each one of those revolvers is given a number by the manufacturer. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then how can you presume to recognize this gun and differentiate it from the thousands of other identical guns which have been made, unless you look at the only positive mark of identification, to wit, the number stamped on the gun by the manufacturer?”
Lieutenant Ogilby smiled. “You’ll pardon me, Mr. Sampson,” he said, “but I happen to know firearms. It’s a hobby of mine. While you are correct in your statement that these firearms are absolutely identical when they’re manufactured, just as automobiles are identical when they leave the factory, before guns have been in use very long, they take on certain individualities. For instance, on this gun, the front sight was a little high. Miss Trent shot low with it. I tried to get her to take a coarse sight, but she couldn’t understand doing that, so I filed the sight down myself. The file marks are quite visible on this sight. Moreover, in order to absolutely check so there could be no question of doubt, I went out to the place where we had done our target shooting, at the request of Mr. Mason, and picked up the empty shells which had been ejected from the gun when I reloaded it.”
“What have the empty shells got to do with it?” Sampson asked sneeringly.
“Simply this,” Lieutenant Ogilby said. “Before the science of ballistics learned that bullets fired from a gun could be identified by marks made by the rifling, the only method of determining whether a shell had been fired from a given gun was to center the firing pin on the percussion cap. Firing pins, theoretically, strike in the center of the percussion cap. Actually, they do no such thing. Furthermore, in the course of use, each firing pin develops little peculiarities of its own. There is not only the position of the indentation made by the firing pin on the percussion cap, but there are also little irregularities in that impression which are distinctive. I satisfied myself that each one of those shells had been fired from this same gun.”
“You didn’t have the gun to compare those shells with,” Sampson said.
“No, but I had a photograph of the cylinder of this gun which was furnished me by a newspaper, and which I have every reason to believe was authentic. But just a minute, Mr. Sampson, if you wish, I’ll make that check right here and now.”
He produced a discharged shell from his pocket, took the gun from Hogan, opened it and said to Hogan, “You’re an expert. You can see for yourself.”
Hogan leaned forward, and Sampson said, “I object to that form of examination. Let the witness answer the question so the jury can get it.”
Mason grinned and said, “He’s your own expert. Take him away if you don’t want him there.”
Hogan stepped back, looked at Sampson, and nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Just step up to the jury,” Mason said to Lieutenant Ogilby, “and show them the marks made by the firing pin on the discharged shell which is in the cylinder of the weapon, and the discharged shell which you hold in your hand and which you picked up where you had been engaging in target practice.”
Lieutenant Ogilby stepped over to the jury rail. The jurors crowded forward. The lieutenant pointed out the points of similarity made by the mark of the firing pin.
Sampson engaged in a brief whispered conversation with Hogan, the firearms expert of the homicide squad, and then said lamely, “That’s all. There are no further questions on cross-examination.”
His head was in a whirl. Facts shot through his mind in a confused procession. He tried to arrest them long enough to follow his ideas to their logical conclusion, but the confusion was too great. He felt as though he had been standing at the local station in a subway, watching express trains thundering past, and trying ineffectively to stop them. He was aware that people were looking at him, aware that Judge Barnes was frowning in puzzled concentration, that Mason was smiling, that the jurors were staring. He felt mental vertigo amounting almost to nausea. There was a dry taste in his mouth.
He heard Mason saying, “Now, if the Court please, having demonstrated that George Trent could not have been killed with the so-called Trent gun, he must have been killed by the Cullens gun, since it is established beyond question that there are only two guns, the Trent gun and the Cullens gun, and only two fatal bullets, the Trent bullet and the Cullens bullet. The bullet taken from Trent’s body matched the test bullet fired from one of the guns in the possession of the ballistics department. Since that couldn’t have been the bullet fired from the Trent gun, it must have been the bullet fired from the Breel gun.”
“Now then, your Honor, in view of the circumstances, I now ask that the jury be permitted to go to the house of Austin Cullens for the purpose of viewing the premises.”
Sampson’s only instinct was to fight. He jumped to his feet and said, “For what purpose, your Honor? Surely, nothing can be gained by having the jurors make such an inspection.”
“What is there there you don’t want them to see?” Mason asked.
“Nothing.” Sampson said lamely.
“Then why not let them go?”
Judge Barnes took a hand. “Just a moment, Mr. Mason,” he said, “you will please refrain from arguing with counsel, and address yourself to the Court. Just what reason have you for asking that the jurors go to these premises?”
“Simply this,” Mason said “the gun, which the witness Diggers says was found in the Breel handbag, actually came from the hip pocket of Austin Cullens. You will note, from Sergeant Holcomb’s testimony, that there was nothing whatever in the right-hand hip Pocket of Austin Cullens’ trousers. The reason there was nothing there is that Cullens was in the habit of carrying a gun there. In that Pocket, he carried a gun which killed George Trent. That is the gun which the witness Diggers claims was found in the handbag of the defendant in this case. Now then, your Honor, note the significant portion of the testimony given by the witnesses, Golding and Tannis. They, both of them, state there were two shots. The testimony of the autopsy surgeon is that there was only one bullet found in the body of Austin Cullens. There has been no explanation of what gun fired the other shot. Under the circumstances, the defendant feels that the jury should be given an opportunity to view the premises for themselves, and, if they desire, make some investigation to find out if there’s another bullet...”
Judge Barnes shook his head. “I don’t think that it’s a fair interpretation of the privilege of viewing premises to make the jurors witnesses to the discovery of some fact which may have a vital bearing on the case. However, the Court will appoint a disinterested investigator to make such a search if Counsel so desires, and that investigator can be accompanied by Counsel for both sides, and report to the Court in the morning.”
“That is quite satisfactory to me,” Mason said, “and in order to show that my desire is only to establish pertinent facts, I will suggest that the Court appoint Carl Ernest Hogan, the ballistics expert of the police department, to make this investigation forthwith in the presence of Mr. Sampson from the district attorney’s office, and myself as the representative of Sarah Breel.”
Judge Barnes nodded. “It is so ordered,” he said, “and Court will adjourn until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
An uproar gripped the courtroom.