“Will you please explain to the court these points of similarity.”
And so the afternoon droned on with the state remorselessly piling up an avalanche of fingerprint evidence against the defendant, with Alden Leeds sitting erect and dignified, without so much as batting an eyelash, Perry Mason and Della Street, fighting against the sheer fatigue of inaction, yet with nothing to which they could object, listening to the legal bricks being dropped into place in a wall which was designed to cut off all hope of the defendant’s escape.
At length, the hour came for the afternoon adjournment.
“How much longer will you be with this line of evidence, Mr. Deputy District Attorney?” Judge Knox asked.
“Probably all day tomorrow, Your Honor.”
“Very well, court will reconvene at ten o’clock. In the meantime, the prisoner is remanded to the custody of the sheriff.”
As court adjourned, Mason moved over to place a reassuring hand on Alden Leeds’ shoulder. His face, which was turned toward the courtroom, was wreathed in a confident smile, but the low-pitched words which came from his lips, and were only audible to the ears of the defendant, were far from reassuring. “It looks as though you’d been holding out on me,” Mason said.
Leeds faced him calmly. “I am not a young man,” he said. “I have but little to gain from an acquittal in this case, and less to lose from a conviction. I didn’t realize that I had left fingerprints in that apartment. I did not kill John Milicant. He... We can prove he was alive and well when I left.”
Mason’s eyes narrowed. “We can produce evidence to that effect,” he said, his lips still smiling reassuringly, “but that’s no sign a jury is going to believe it. One thing is certain. The judge is going to bind you over on a charge of first degree murder.”
“I had anticipated that,” Leeds admitted quietly.