They Won't Believe Me

I guess you folks all realize

this is mighty important matter

we're deciding here.

Whether or not a man

has committed murder.

The state's done a fine job

of presenting its case.

They put five men and women

in that chair, key witnesses.

And a person would have to go a

long ways to find five better ones.

Anybody could tell right off.

They weren't the kind of

people who'd make up things.

A prominent Los Angeles businessman.

A young professional woman.

A man who's run a country store...

for twenty years.

A writer on a national news magazine.

And the head of our

city's homicide bureau.

I reckon there's no doubt

among you folks on the jury...

that they've been telling the truth.

As the lawyers say, to the best

of their knowledge and belief.

May I proceed with the defense,

Your Honor?

You may proceed, Mr. Cahill.

Lawrence Ballantine,

will you take the stand?

Raise your right hand.

Do you solemnly swear that

the testimony you may give in this cause

now pending before this court

shall be the truth, the whole truth and

nothing but the truth, so help you God?

I do.

What is your name please?

Lawrence Ballantine.

Mr. Ballantine. You're the defendant

in this case, are you not?

I am.

Charged with the brutal murder

of Verna Carlson.

That's right.

Are you willing to

describe to the jury...

to describe truthfully, the events that

led to the placement of that charge?

I certainly am.

To the jury, please.

I guess I better start

with a Saturday afternoon.

June, in New York.

It was in one of those little basement

restaurants on 52nd Street. Nick's.

Specializing in hors d'oeuvres.

Chateaubriand. Crpe suzette.

And uh...

Tables in dark corners where couples

can sit for hours and hours.

No questions being asked.

It was hot for June.

People were already leaving town.

But it was cool in Nick's.

And quiet.

What do you think of it?

Oh I think she's beautiful.

You ought to.

Seeing as how she's 60% yours.

Do you think you'd

be comfortable on it?

Well I have to shrink a little.

No wisecracks, Skipper.

You're being well paid for your advice.

Luncheon every Saturday for...

Eleven Saturdays.

Eleven?

Golly, it seems like

only a couple nights ago

we got to talking at that dull party.

What were the names of those people?

Comstock. They were dull.

Do you think we're dull?

Did you ever hear of a fisherman

finding another fisherman doll?

Do you have a cigarette?

Yeah. I think so.

I thought you were going

to get that thing fixed.

It isn't worth it.

What is on the agenda for today?

Engines.

Gas versus diesel. I've got

a lot of questions to ask.

- Golly, I've got to go.

- Oh, Larry...

Well, use you shouldn't

have been so late.

I should have thrown

that darn typewriter out the window.

I'll tell you what I'll do.

I'll phone you first thing Monday.

Will you?

With the first nickel I get my hands on.

I left the boat with Nick.

Diesels and other matters...

to be continued

in next Saturday's installment.

And walked along Fifth Avenue.

I couldn't have missed it

if I'd been blindfolded.

It was sitting in the center

of the jewelry store window.

Waiting there for me.

Bright and shiny.

A gold cigarette case.

It was expensive.

And for a little while,

turned out to be a lucky buy.

For a little while.

Coming home that evening,

I ran into the first of what

turned out to be a series

of unpleasant surprises.

I had guests.

Some of my favorite people.

Well.

If it ain't the Wolf of Wall Street!

Come in, Wolf.

And drink at the stream.

Hello, darling. You're late.

Flowers, champagne. What's the idea?

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