A Handy Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

stared at him a moment.
    â€œMr. Ross, you aren’t stupid.”
    â€œThank you. In general I would agree, but I’m afraid in this case—”
    â€œI get it. You want me to spell it out for you. Do you think I’m afraid to? I’m not.”
    â€œGood,” Ross said quietly. “Go ahead.”
    â€œI will. Billy Dupaul’s going up for murder one within a very short time, and being involved in a prison break that cost a guard’s life isn’t going to help his chances. Not the way feelings still are over Attica. I know it, you know it, and we both know the other knows it.”
    Ross remained silent, watching the man. Coughlin shook his head.
    â€œAnd don’t try to tell me the DA can’t bring this prison break into the murder trial, because if he can’t he’s a lot more incompetent than I think he is. Sure, he’s not supposed to—and you’ll object like crazy, and the judge will bust his gavel pounding, and he’ll sustain all your objections, and strike tons of stuff from the record and all that noise—but what do you think will be going through the minds of the jurors? You know as well as I do.”
    Ross smiled faintly. “You sound like a lawyer yourself.”
    â€œI’m no lawyer but I’ve been around. I’ve seen the inside of courtrooms, and not as a prisoner, either. I know how they work. I know how the minds of juries work, too.”
    â€œAnd how do the minds of juries work?”
    â€œThey work like this: Here’s this guy Dupaul, a bad apple, a two-time loser—look what happened up at Attica the other day. Last time they had a riot up there forty-three guys got killed. Riots are bad things; any guy starting one ought to be shot. What’s the judge saying? Don’t pay any attention to the riot and him starting it? What’s the judge saying? The guy isn’t charged with the riot, just with another murder eight years ago? Well, hell, sure he’s guilty! Any guy who would start a riot at a place like Attica must be a mad dog; ought to hang. I vote guilty.”
    Coughlin pointed his finger around the room, stabbing it toward imaginary jurors.
    â€œMe, too! Me, too! Me, too!”
    He stared across the desk, his hand falling beside him.
    â€œThat’s the way the minds of juries work, Mr. Ross, nine times out of ten. And we both know it.”
    Ross’s face was expressionless. “Anything else?”
    â€œI think you have the picture,” Coughlin said. “Your turn.” He leaned back.
    â€œThen let me ask you a few questions. Any objections?”
    â€œNone.” It was apparent that Coughlin did not lack confidence.
    â€œGood. First of all, then, where were you—physically—when you were watching this baseball game?”
    â€œOn the south wall.”
    â€œWith the guards there? In one of the towers?”
    â€œNo. Over the athletic field. The field is located between the south wall and the main cell block, with the shops and the power plant and the hospital and rec building around it like sort of half an H. Anyway, over the athletic field, maybe halfway along the wall between towers, they’ve built a little sort of press box mounted down from the top of the wall a bit. A spectator box would be a better word for it; I guess they don’t get many reporters at their sports events. It’s for visitors, or off-duty guards, or anyone else who wants to watch a game and has the clearance to sit there.”
    â€œAnd you have clearance?”
    Coughlin looked at Ross as if this was a question beneath the intelligence of the other. Ross returned the stare imperturably. Coughlin shrugged.
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œWere there any other visitors there at the time? Any off-duty guards watching? Or were you there alone?”
    â€œI was alone. Oh, the warden came by and said hello, but that was before the game started. They were at batting practice