“We never keep much money in the apartment.”
“She only had three or four dollars in her handbag—she was planning to go to the bank later that afternoon. And Carol only had ten or eleven dollars and a few subway tokens. We’ve been kind of watching our budget lately, we just bought this furniture and the payments are a bit more of a load than we thought they’d be.”
“So,” Paul said slowly, “when it turned out there wasn’t more than a few dollars in the place they flew into a rage, is that it?”
“That seems to be what happened. They must have been strung out on amphetamines, that’s the way it sounds. Evidently they giggled and laughed the whole time. Carol said that was the worst thing about it—they never stopped laughing. I think the reason they didn’t—hurt her as badly as they hurt Mom was that when she saw what they were doing to Mom it got to be too much for her and she passed out. Naturally she doesn’t remember anything that happened after that for a while. When she came to her senses they were gone. She had the presence of mind to get to the phone and call the police.”
Paul was grinding a fist into his palm. “They took the portable television and a couple of other things. You’d think someone would have seen them carting those things out of the building.”
“Evidently not. The three kids must have been hanging around the supermarket and saw Mom and Carol come out without any packages. That would indicate they were having the groceries delivered. Then the three kids probably followed along to the apartment house. You know the way that doorman of yours always greets you by name? So it wouldn’t have been any trick for them to find out Mom’s name—the doorman chirping at her, ‘Hello, Mrs. Benjamin,’ and the building directory right there by the front door with everybody’s name opposite a doorbell button. So they found out her name and apartment number, and then Lieutenant Briggs’s best guess is they went around on Seventy-first Street down to that condemned tenement building half way down to the dead-end. It’d be no big deal to get into that building and through the basement into that big courtyard behind your building. Then all they’d have to do would be to break into the basement of your building. It’s not the first time burglars seem to have used that route to get into the building. If I were you I’d talk to the super about putting locks and bars on those basement windows.”
“That’d be locking the barn after the horse has been stolen.”
“It’s not the last time somebody’s ever going to try breaking into that building, Pop. It’s happening every few minutes in this pressure cooker we all live in.”
Paul nodded vaguely. “It’s just so hard to believe. That’s what I can’t get into my head—such a senseless God damned murder.”
“Well, I doubt it was premeditated, Pop. I don’t think anyone kills with his hands unless he’s angry or drugged to the point of irresponsibility. Not this way.”
Paul felt it come: the quick steady blast of blinding rage. He said through his teeth, “Is that how you’d defend them?”
“What?”
“Your grounds for their defense. They weren’t responsible for their actions.” He put on a savage mimicking tone: “Your Honor, they didn’t know what they were——”
“Now wait a minute, Pop.”
“——doing.’ Now God damn it I don’t give a shit what you call it, this is deliberate cold-blooded murder and if you think——”
“I don’t think,” Jack said coolly, “I know. Of course it was murder.”
“Don’t humor me. I’ve seen you in court trying to make innocent victims out of your slimy guilty little clients. I don’t——”
“Pop, now you listen to me. Whoever did this to Mom and Carol, they’re guilty of first-degree murder. It’s the law—the felony murder law. Any death that results from the commission of a felony is first-degree murder even if the death was an accident, which God knows Mom’s death isn’t. They were committing a felony—assault with intent to commit robbery—and they’re guilty of Murder One, guilty as hell. My God, do you think I’m arguing against that? Do you honestly think I’d——”
“Yes, I think you would!” He hissed it with furious force. “Do you think your fine neat pigeonholes of legal technicality can explain away all this? Do you really think these savages deserve all that complicated fine print?”
“Well then, what would you suggest?” Jack was cool, soft, deliberate. “Catch them and string them up from the nearest rafter, is that the idea?”
“It’s better than they deserve. They ought to be hunted down like mad dogs and shot on sight. They ought to——”
“Pop, you’re just working yourself up. It’s not doing anybody any good. I feel the same way you do, I understand exactly what you’re going through. But they haven’t even caught these bastards yet and you’re already jumping to the conclusion that some smart lawyer’s going to get them off the hook. What’s the use of aggravating things with useless speculations? They haven’t got these kids, for all we know they never will get them. Why get upset about miscarriages of justice that haven’t even happened yet?”
“Because I’ve seen the way these things work. Even if the police catch them they just go right out again through the revolving door—right back out onto the streets. And largely because of well-meaning bastards like you! Hasn’t any of this even made you stop and think about what you’re doing?”
“It’s made me stop and think,” Jack said. He turned his glance toward the kitchen. “Let’s just let it go at that for the moment, shall we?”
“What are you kids made out of? If I were you I’d have handed in my resignation two days ago and put in an application for a job on the District Attorney’s staff. How can you conceive of going back to your office and going right on defending these filthy little monsters?”
“It’s not all that simple and you know it.”
“Do I?” he demanded. “Isn’t that maybe our biggest failing? Copping-out with the complaint that it’s not all that simple? By God maybe it is all that simple and we just don’t have the guts to face it!”
“So you’d like to just strap on a pair of cowboy six-guns and go out there and gun them down, is that it?”
“Right now,” Paul said, “that is exactly what I’d like to do. And I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s the wrong idea.”
“My ears are pretty good, you don’t have to shout.”
“Sorry,” Paul snapped.
Jack sat there in his rumpled black suit, his hair standing out in wild disorder; his eyes mirrored a bitterness that Paul understood and felt.
Paul kept his eyes on Jack’s face too long; it made Jack get up and move to the liquor cabinet. “You want a drink?”
“I could use one.”
“Bet you thought I’d never ask.” Jack’s smile was too brief. He opened the cabinet door and poured two glasses half-full of Scotch. No ice, no mix. He handed one to Paul and went back to the couch. “I’m sorry if I seemed patronizing. I guess I was trying to be reassuring—not because it would calm you, but because with all this desperation in the air I needed calm words myself. Does that make sense?”
“Of course. I’m sorry I blew up.” But they were talking like cautious strangers now. He didn’t know which was worse.
Jack said, “All week I’ve been remembering something that happened—oh, two-three years ago. It must have been after midnight. I’d been up in midtown on some chore, something to do with a client, and it was a nice night so I was walking home. I ran into a teen-age girl outside Bryant Park. She was a wreck. It turned out she’d been gang-raped right there in the park. I gave her carfare and told her to call the police. I don’t suppose she ever did.”