Lawrence Block
The Ehrengraf Defense
“Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery sooth the dull cold ear of death?”
“Mrs. Culhane,” Martin Ehrengraf said. “Do sit down, yes, I think you will find that chair comfortable. And please pardon the disarray. It is the natural condition of my office. Chaos stimulates me. Order stifles me. It is absurd, is it not, but so then is life itself, eh?”
Dorothy Culhane sat, nodded. She studied the small, trimly built man who remained standing behind his extremely disorderly desk. Her eyes took in the narrow mustache, the thin lips, the deeply set dark eyes. If the man liked clutter in his surroundings, he certainly made up for it in his grooming and attire. He wore a starched white shirt, a perfectly tailored dove gray three-button suit, a narrow dark blue necktie.
Oh, but she did not want to think about neckties—
“Of course you are Clark Culhane’s mother,” Ehrengraf said. “I had it that you had already retained an attorney.”
“Alan Farrell.”
“A good man,” Ehrengraf said. “An excellent reputation.”
“I dismissed him this morning.”
“Ah.”
Mrs. Culhane took a deep breath. “He wanted Clark to plead guilty,” she said. “Temporary insanity, something of the sort. He wanted my son to admit to killing that girl.”
“And you did not wish him to do this.”
“My son is innocent!” The words came in a rush, uncontrollably. She calmed herself. “My son is innocent,” she repeated, levelly now. “He could never kill anyone. He can’t admit to a crime he never committed in the first place.”
“And when you said as much to Farrell—”
“He told me he was doubtful of his ability to conduct a successful defense based on a plea of innocent.” She drew herself up. “So I decided to find someone who could.”
“And you came to me.”
“Yes.”
The little lawyer had seated himself. Now he was doodling on a lined yellow scratch pad. “Do you know much about me, Mrs. Culhane?”
“Not very much. It’s said that your methods are unorthodox.”
“Indeed.”
“But that you get results.”
“Results. Indeed, results.” Martin Ehrengraf made a tent of his fingertips and, for the first time since she had entered his office, a smile bloomed briefly on his thin lips. “Indeed I get results. I must get results, my dear Mrs. Culhane, or else I do not get my dinner. And while my slimness might indicate otherwise, it is my custom to eat very well indeed. You see, I do something which no other criminal lawyer does, at least not to my knowledge. You have heard what this is?”
“I understand you operate on a contingency basis.”
“A contingency basis.” Ehrengraf was nodding emphatically. “Yes, that is precisely what I do. I operate on a contingency basis. My fees are high, Mrs. Culhane. They are extremely high. But they are due and payable only in the event that my efforts are crowned with success. If a client of mine is found guilty, then my work on his behalf costs him nothing.”
The lawyer got to his feet again, stepped out from behind his desk. Light glinted on his highly polished black shoes. “This is common enough in negligence cases. The attorney gets a share in the settlement. If he loses he gets nothing. How much greater is his incentive to perform to the best of his ability, eh? But why limit this practice to negligence suits? Why not have all lawyers paid in this fashion? And doctors, for that matter. If the operation’s a failure, why not let the doctor absorb some of the loss, eh? But such an arrangement would be a long time coming, I am afraid. Yet I have found it workable in my practice. And my clients have been pleased by the results.”
“If you can get Clark acquitted—”
“Acquitted?” Ehrengraf rubbed his hands together. “Mrs. Culhane, in my most notable successes it is not even a question of acquittal. It is rather a matter of the case never even coming to trial. New evidence is discovered, the actual miscreant confesses or is brought to justice, and one way or another charges against my client are dropped. Courtroom pyrotechnics, wizardry in cross-examination — ah, I prefer to leave that to the Perry Masons of the world. It is not unfair to say, Mrs. Culhane, that I am more the detective than the lawyer. What is the saying? ‘The best defense is a good offense.’ Or perhaps it is the other way around, the best offense being a good defense, but it hardly matters. It is a saying in warfare and in the game of chess, I believe, and neither serves as the ideal metaphor for what concerns us. And what does concern us, Mrs. Culhane—” and he leaned toward her and the dark eyes flashed “—what concerns us is saving your son’s life and securing his freedom and preserving his reputation. Yes?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“The evidence against your son is considerable, Mrs. Culhane. The dead girl, Althea, was his former fiancée. It is said that she jilted him—”
“He broke the engagement.”
“I don’t doubt that for a moment, but the prosecution would have it otherwise. This girl was strangled. Around her throat was found a necktie.”
Mrs. Culhane’s eyes went involuntarily to the lawyer’s own blue tie, then slipped away.
“A particular necktie, Mrs. Culhane. A necktie made exclusively for and worn exclusively by members of the Caedmon Society at Oxford University. Your son attended Dartmouth, Mrs. Culhane, and after graduation he spent a year in advanced study in England.”
“Yes.”
“At Oxford University.”
“Yes.”
“Where he became a member of the Caedmon Society.”
“Yes.”
Ehrengraf breathed in through clenched teeth. “He owned a necktie of the Caedmon Society. He appears to be the only member of the society residing in this city and would thus presumably be the only person to own such a tie. He cannot produce that tie, nor can he provide a satisfactory alibi for the night in question.”
“Someone must have stolen his tie.”
“The murderer, of course.”
“To frame him.”
“Of course,” Ehrengraf said soothingly. “There could be no other explanation, could there?” He breathed in, he breathed out, he set his chin decisively. “I will undertake your son’s defense,” he announced. “And on my usual terms.”
“Oh, thank heavens.”
“My fee will be seventy-five thousand dollars. That is a great deal of money, Mrs. Culhane, although you might very well have ended up paying Mr. Farrell that much or more by the time you’d gone through the tortuous processes of trial and appeal and so on, and after he’d presented an itemized accounting of his expenses. My fee includes any and all expenses which I might incur. No matter how much time and effort and money I spend on your son’s behalf, the cost to you will be limited to the figure I named. And none of that will be payable unless your son is freed. Does that meet with your approval?”
She hardly had to hesitate but made herself take a moment before replying. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course. The terms are satisfactory.”
“Another point. If, ten minutes from now, the district attorney should decide of his own accord to drop all charges against your son, you nevertheless owe me seventy-five thousand dollars. Even though I should have done nothing to earn it.”
“I don’t see—”
The thin lips smiled. The dark eyes did not participate in the smile. “It is my policy, Mrs. Culhane. Most of my work, as I have said, is more the work of a detective than the work of a lawyer. I operate largely behind the scenes and in the shadows. Perhaps I set currents in motion. Often when the smoke clears it is hard to prove to what extent my client’s victory is the fruit of my labor. I do not attempt to prove anything of the sort. I merely share in the victory by collecting my fee in full whether I seem to have earned it or not. You understand?”