There was a titter in the room, which was silenced by the coroner’s gavel. “Just what did you see, Mrs. Anderson?” he asked.
“I saw Rita Swaine standing at the window and clipping the canary’s claws.”
“Which foot, the right or the left?”
“The right.”
The coroner thanked her, excused her from the stand, and nodded toward Driscoll, who sat between a deputy sheriff on one side and Rodney Cuff on the other.
“Mr. Driscoll,” the coroner said, “as a matter of form, I’m going to ask you to take the stand and answer some questions. I realize, of course, that your attorney won’t allow you to answer them, but, just for the sake of keeping the record clear, I want your refusal to answer my questions to appear in the record of this inquest.”
Rodney Cuff, on his feet, was smiling and urbane. His voice, seemingly elevated hardly above a conversational tone, filled the crowded room with a vibrant resonance. “I think,” he said, “your Honor misunderstands our position. It is only the guilty who need to take refuge in technicalities. So far as James Driscoll is concerned, he will unhesitatingly answer any question put to him by the coroner or the deputy district attorney.”
There was a ripple of audible surprise in the room. Emil Scanlon exchanged puzzled glances with the deputy district attorney, then swore Driscoll as a witness.
“You’re acquainted with the decedent, Mr. Driscoll?” the coroner asked.
“Yes, I’d seen him once or twice.”