“What if she is? She may have left home for various reasons. She certainly doesn’t want to blab out her heart’s secrets in this crowded courtroom, and I don’t think any Court should make her. Counsel has no right to discredit the witness by collateral evidence, whether he introduces it from other people or drags it from the mouth of the witness herself.”

  “He doesn’t want her heart’s secrets,” Judge Keetley said. “He merely wants to know why it took her a year to hitchhike here from Indiana. The Court wants to know that, too. However, if the district attorney persists in his objection, I am afraid asking this witness in detail where she has been and what she has done during the last twelve months may be a little remote as to the time element.”

  “We insist on our objection, as a protection to the privacy of this young girl,” Burger said.

  “Very well,” Judge Keetley ruled, “the Court will very reluctantly sustain the objection as to anything as remote as a year ago. You are entitled to show just what happened within a reasonable time limit, Mr Mason, and certainly the Court is going to permit you the most searching cross-examination as to what occurred in the immediate time bracket covered by the testimony of this witness and within a reasonable interval preceding such time.”

  “Very well, Your Honour,” Mason said, “Now, you had been hitchhiking in a westerly direction, Miss Dale, when you got out to wait at this culvert?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened? Why did you get out at that particular point?”

  “I left the car in which I was riding voluntarily,” she said. “I resented the pawing intimacies of the man who was driving the car and who was trying to take advantage of me.”

  “So what did you do?”

  She answered readily enough now in a firm voice, “I protected myself in the only way a girl has under circumstances of that sort. I leaned forward and switched off the ignition and pulled out the car keys. I opened the car door – naturally, with a dead motor, the car slowed to a stop. I jumped out and flung the keys at the man.”

  “Rather a neat trick,” Mason said. “How did you learn it, Veronica?”

  “I’d done it before.”

  “Many times?”

  “Your Honour,” Hamilton Burger said, “here we go again, right back to this girl’s past, trying to besmirch her reputation …”

  “Objection sustained,” Judge Keetley snapped. “Confine your examination to a reasonable time interval before she is alleged to have seen Mr Addison.”

  “Very well, Your Honour,” Mason said.

  “So you switched off the motor and got out of the car.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there any attempt to stop you?”

  “Yes. He tried to grab me and paw me and take certain liberties with me, but, of course, he was more or less busy steering the automobile, and then he put on the brake so he could have both hands free, and that was when I jumped out of the car and threw the car keys on to the floorboard.”

  “What did he do then?”

  “He got out and started to chase me, then realized the position in which that put him, cursed me, called me all sorts of names, got back in the car and groped around until he found the car keys. By that time I was off in the brush at the side of the road.”

  “It was dark?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “How long had you been struggling with this wolf?”

  “For some little time. I remember that I intended to get out at this little town, Canyon Verde, but I thought I could stick it out. He was only making passes at me then.”

  “And he became amorously violent shortly after you passed Canyon Verde?”

  “Yes.”

  “As an experienced hitchhiker,” Mason said, “you appreciate the danger of picking up with anyone who happens to come along?”

  “I am very discriminating,” she said. “Before I let anyone give me a ride, I size things up.”

  “And when the right sort of a car comes along, you give the driver the eye?”

  “I let him see that I would be interested in accepting a ride. I don’t do anything crude, such as trying to thumb my way.”

  “So you sized up this man with whom you were riding?”

  “Well, I tried to, but, of course, you can’t size up a man when he’s coming toward you at fifty miles an hour and …”

  “But you sized up the car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you got in the car and rode in it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of a car was it?” Mason asked. “What make? Quick, what make?”

  “A Lincoln sedan.”

  “A sedan?”

  “Yes, a Lincoln sedan.”

  “New?”

  “A late model, yes. It looked new.”

  “What was the licence number?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You mean you didn’t notice the licence number either before you got in or after you got out?”

  “Well, I … I think I did, but I can’t remember.”

  Mason said, “As a matter of fact, don’t you make a habit of writing down the licence numbers of automobiles in which you have been given a ride?”

  “I …”

  “Do you or don’t you?”

  “I have on occasion.”

  “In a notebook?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have that notebook in that purse with you right there?”

  “I …”

  “Do you or don’t you?” Mason said.

  “Oh, Your Honour,” Hamilton Burger said, “this browbeating. This…”

  “Sit down, Mr District Attorney!” Judge Keetley snapped. “Don’t interrupt the cross-examination. The Court wants to know whether the witness has such a book as much as Counsel does. It’s entirely relevant. Do you have that book in your purse, Miss Dale?”

  “I … I have a notebook, yes.”

  “And you took down the licence number of the automobile driven by John Racer Addison?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “It’s a matter of precaution, in case there should be any trouble.”

  “When did you take down the licence number of Addison’s automobile? Before you got in or after you got out?”

  She smiled and said, “It would be difficult to take down the licence number of an automobile before you got in, Mr Mason. That would be rather obvious.”

  “So, naturally, you do it when you get out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “Well, it’s nice to know with whom one has been riding, in case there should be complications.”

  “What sort of complications?”

  “Well, in case the man has got rough.”

  “You take down the licence numbers of the men who try to get rough?”

  “Yes, it’s a matter of protection.”

  “For whom?”

  “Well, I … I want to know.”

  “Mr Addison didn’t get rough.”

  “No.”

  “Yet you took down his licence number.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me see that notebook.”

  She once more looked around the courtroom like a trapped animal, then rather reluctantly opened her purse and took out a small leather notebook which held a small lead pencil in a loop in the cover.

  “Let me see that book too,” Hamilton Burger said. “Let’s take a look at it.”

  “Certainly,” Mason said.

  Burger bent over him as they looked through page after page of automobile licence numbers. Opposite many of these numbers were a name and address, and there were dates subdividing the licences and the daily groups.

  Mason said, “So, on the day that you wrote down the licence number of John Addison’s automobile you had had about twenty other numbers written down. Is that right?”

  “I haven’t counted them.”

  “Count them now,” Mason said.

  He handed her the notebook.

  She counted and said, “Yes, twenty-two.”

  “You’d had twenty-two rides that day?”

  “Yes.”

  “And had taken the precaution of taking down the numbers of all of the men?”

  “Yes.”

  “All of the men?”

  “Yes.”

  “Weren’t any of the drivers women?”

  She hesitated.

  “Any women?” Mason asked.

  “No.”

  “Where’s the licence number of this wolf who tried to paw you and forced you to jump out of the automobile?”

  “I didn’t say he forced me to jump out of the automobile. I did that of my own free will.”

  “That’s right. What’s the licence number of the automobile?”

  “It isn’t there.”

  “But you have stated that you took down the licence numbers of every automobile …”

  “Well, that one I failed to take down. I was excited.”

  “You take down these numbers as a precaution, in case anything happens?”

  “Yes.”

  “What could happen after you get out of the car?”

  “Why … well, I don’t know. It’s just a habit, that’s all. I like to know the people with whom I’ve been riding.”

  “Oh, all right, all right,” Hamilton Burger interpolated. “The young woman has done a lot of hitchhiking. She’s restless. She goes from place to place. She accepts rides from men. So what? That doesn’t prevent the fact from being clearly established that she saw John Racer Addison approximately at the scene of the crime at approximately the time it was committed. And, Your Honour, after all this gruelling cross-examination, these damnable nasty insinuations, I know, and Your Honour knows, that she did ride in John Addison’s automobile and that he was out there at that house on that Tuesday night. And John Racer Addison isn’t going to deny it!”

  “We’ll take up the rest of the case in its logical sequence,” Judge Keetley said. “Let me see that notebook.”

  He took the notebook, thumbed through the pages, frowned down at Veronica Dale, said, “Where are you employed?”

  “I’m working – that is, I was working in the department store until police took me.”

  “Before that, where were you working?”

  “I haven’t been working for some little time, that is, at regular jobs.”

  “Well,” Judge Keetley said, “I think we have a picture here. It’s not a picture that I like, but I see no reason for going into it any further. Even if this young woman had a complete lack of moral character, that would not be a ground for a stultifying attack on her testimony. I think the cross-examination has probably covered the ground rather thoroughly.”

  “Except,” Mason said, “that I want to know how it happens she was at this particular culvert at the time she claims the defendant picked her up.”

  “She’s told you how she happened to be there,” Hamilton Burger said.

  “But her testimony doesn’t check,” Mason said, “she hasn’t any licence number indicating how she got there.”

  “Well, she’s told her story, and told it several times,” Judge Keetley said.

  “One or two more questions,” Mason said. “Let’s take these numbers that you have written down prior to your ride with John Addison. Now, the Addison licence number is the last licence number for that day. That’s because he was the last person with whom you rode?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you admit that you do not have the licence number of the person with whom you rode immediately prior to the licence number of John Addison?”

  “No.”

  “But the one that you have just before that,” Mason said, “let’s have a look at this licence number – 45S533. Do you remember that car?”

  “No,” she said, “not distinctly.”

  Suddenly Addison was struggling to his feet.

  Mason motioned him back. “Sit down,” he said.

  But Addison, his face showing startled surprise, blurted out, “That’s the licence number of Edgar Ferrell’s automobile!”

  “What?” Mason exclaimed.

  “That’s right,” Addison said doggedly. “That’s the licence number of Edgar Ferrell’s automobile.”

  Hamilton Burger was frantically pawing through notes in his files. “There must be some mistake,” he said.

  “Look at the witness’ face if you think there’s a mistake,” Mason said. “And then, if you want really to do something, take the fingerprints of this young woman and compare them with the fingerprints of the mysterious woman who had been in Ferrell’s country house immediately before the murder.”

  And Mason dramatically walked back to his chair and sat down.

  The courtroom was a pandemonium of noise. Judge Keetley and the bailiff tried in vain for several seconds to get silence, then Judge Keetley said, “I’ll have silence in this courtroom! If the spectators can’t preserve decorum, they will be ejected. Now, let’s proceed with this case in an orderly manner.”

  “Your Honour,” Burger asked, “may I ask for a short recess?”

  “No!” Judge Keetley snapped. “Proceed with your cross-examination, Mr Mason.”

  “Your Honour, before I proceed with this cross-examination I want the fingerprints of this witness taken.”

  “You have no right to make any such aspersion,” Burger said. “That’s simply a grandstand and …”

  “If you think it’s a grandstand,” Mason interpolated, “take a look at the latent fingerprints on this water glass which the witness held in her hand. There’s a fingerprint which I think you will find corresponds exactly with one of the fingerprints your own witness has testified to finding in that house. Now, let’s have the other prints taken.”

  “Let’s have the other prints taken,” Judge Keetley said. “Where’s that fingerprint witness? Come forward and let’s get this thing straightened out.”

  George Maiden came forward, carrying a small box which contained his fingerprint outfit.

  Veronica Dale gave him her hand. With a face as expressionless as that of a wax doll, she let him take rolled impressions of her fingers. Maiden then retired to Hamilton Burger’s table, where he compared the prints with those of the latents. During all of this time, Veronica Dale obviously was thinking, but her face retained its childlike expression of complete innocence. There was not so much as a furrow in her forehead.

  Hamilton Burger cleared his throat twice, rose ponderously, said, “They’re the same, Your Honour,” and sat down.

  “Now,” Mason said, “suppose you tell us what you were doing in the house where that murder was committed, Veronica? You have already, by your own testimony, established the fact that you were in the vicinity at the time of the murder.”

  Judge Keetley leaned forward, said, “Take the microphone, young lady, and answer that question.”

  Veronica Dale said with complete assurance, “I was in the house for only a few minutes.”

  “Who took you there?” Mason asked.

  “Mr Ferrell.”

  “That’s better. Now let’s get it straight,” Mason said. “How did you meet Mr Ferrell?”

  She said, “I … I was working a racket with my hitchhiking.”

  “What’s the racket?” Mason asked.

  She said, “I make my living that way. I go out on the roads and let people pick me up. At first I go away from the city, and then I turn around and come back to the city. I only ride with older men in good cars. I tell all of these men about an unhappy home life and about how I have gone out in the world to seek my fortune. I’m careful to tell them all that I’m eighteen.”

  “What’s the idea?”

  “Invariably they are nice. I pick the good cars. They ask me how much money I have, and I tell them only a few cents. They nearly always give me money. It’s never less than five dollars; sometimes it’s as much as fifty.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Mason said. “What about your ride with Mr Ferrell?”

  She said, “I had been riding with a very nice gentleman. He had given me ten dollars. I knew he wouldn’t give me any more. I told him that I wanted to get out at the service station and get myself made as presentable as possible before I entered the city. He was reluctant to let me go, but I kept insisting, and told him not to wait.”

  “You were coming toward the city then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened?”

  “While I was at the service station, Mr Ferrell drove up. He was going in the other direction, but – well, directions really didn’t mean anything to me because what I wanted was the contact.”

  “So you sized Mr Ferrell up and gave him what you call ‘the eye’?”

  “I looked, I suppose, rather demure and helpless.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Mr Ferrell asked me if I wanted a ride, asked me in which direction I was going.”

  “So then what happened?”

  “I rode with him. While I was riding, I sized up the car. It was loaded, as though for a long trip. I got acquainted with Mr Ferrell and told him my stock story.”

  “And he gave you money?”

  She said, “I think he was going to give me money. He told me he had to go out to his country house for a little while; that he was going to meet some people there and that after that he was going back to the city and that if I’d go back with him he’d see I was all fixed up with a place to stay and with a job.”

  “And what happened then?”

  She said, “I drove out to this house with him. He kept telling me that I was perfectly safe with him and not to be nervous. He stopped the car and asked me if I wanted to come in. I told him I did, because it was cold in the car. I walked around behind the car and got the licence number, just as I always do. I made an excuse to get something out of my purse and wrote down the licence number. Then I went into the house with him.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “He lit a gasoline lantern and also lit a fire in a wood stove. He apologized for the shape the house was in and said it was just a hide-out he’d picked because be was working on a business deal that was so secret no one could have an inkling of what it was. And then he became rather embarrassed and suggested that when his visitors came I should keep very much out of sight because he didn’t want these persons to have any false ideas about our relationship.”