Lawrence Block
The Ehrengraf Reverse
“How does it happen, tell me,
That I lie here unmarked, forgotten,
While Chase Henry, the town drunkard,
Has a marble block, topped by an urn,
Wherein Nature, in a mood ironical,
Has sown a flowering weed?”
“I didn’t do it,” Blaine Starkey said.
“Of course you didn’t.”
“Everyone thinks I did it,” Starkey went on, “and I guess I can understand why. But I’m innocent.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m not a murderer.”
“Of course you’re not.”
“Not this time,” the man said. “Mr. Ehrengraf, it’s not supposed to matter whether a lawyer thinks his client is guilty or innocent. But it matters to me. I really am innocent, and it’s important that you believe me.”
“I do.”
“I don’t know why it’s so important,” Starkey said, “but it just is, and—” He paused, and seemed to register for the first time what Ehrengraf had been saying all along. His big open face showed puzzlement. “You do?”
“Yes.”
“You believe I’m innocent.”
“Absolutely.”
“That’s pretty amazing, Mr. Ehrengraf. Nobody else believes me.”
Ehrengraf regarded his client. Indeed, if you looked at the man’s record you could hardly avoid presuming him guilty. But once you turned your gaze into his cornflower blue eyes, how could you fail to recognize the innocence gleaming there?
Even if you didn’t believe the man, how would you have he nerve to tell him so? Blaine Starkey’s was, to say the least, an imposing presence. When you saw him on the television screen, catching a pass and racing downfield, breaking tackles as effortlessly as a politician breaks his word, you didn’t appreciate the sheer size of him. All the men on the field were huge, and your eye learned to see them as normal.
In a jail cell, across a little pine table, you began to realize just how massive a man Blaine Starkey was. He stood as many inches over six feet as Ehrengraf stood under it, and was big in the shoulders and narrow in the waist, with thighs like tree trunks and arms like — well, words failed Ehrengraf. The man was enormous.
“The whole world thinks I killed Claureen,” Starkey said, “and it’s not hard to see why. I mean, look at my stats.”
His stats? Thousands of yards gained rushing. Hundreds of passes caught. No end of touchdowns scored. Ehrengraf, who was more interested in watching the action on the field than in crunching the numbers, knew nevertheless that the big man’s statistics were impressive.
He also knew Starkey meant another set of stats.
“I mean,” the man said, “it’s not like this never happened before. Three women, three coffins. Hell, Mr. Ehrengraf, if I was a hockey player they’d call it the hat trick.”
“But it’s not hockey,” Ehrengraf assured him, “and it’s not football, either. You’re an innocent man, and there’s no reason you should have to pay for a crime you didn’t commit.”
“You really think I’m innocent,” Starkey said.
“Absolutely.”
“That’s what everybody’s supposed to presume, until it’s proved otherwise. Is that what you mean? That I’m innocent for the time being, far as the law’s concerned?”
Ehrengraf shook his head. “That’s not what I mean.”
“You mean innocent no matter what the jury says.”
“I mean exactly what you meant earlier,” the little lawyer said. “You didn’t kill your wife. You’re entirely innocent of her death, and the jury should never be in a position to say anything on the subject, because you should never be brought to trial. You’re an innocent man, Mr. Starkey.”
The football player took a deep breath, and Ehrengraf was surprised that there was any air left in the cell. “That’s just so hard for me to believe.”
“That you’re innocent?”
“Hell, I know I’m innocent,” Starkey said. “What’s hard to believe is that you believe it.”
But how could Ehrengraf believe otherwise? He fingered the knot in his deep blue necktie and reflected on the presumption of innocence — not the one which had long served as a cardinal precept of Anglo-American jurisprudence, but a higher, more personal principle. The Ehrengraf presumption. Any client of Martin H. Ehrengraf’s was innocent. Not until proven guilty, but until the end of time.
But he didn’t want to get into a philosophical discussion with Blaine Starkey. He kept it simple, explaining that he only represented the innocent.
The football player took this in. His face fell. “Then if you change your mind,” he said, “you’ll drop me like a hot rock. Is that about right?”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“If you get to thinking I’m guilty—”
“I’ll never think that.”
“But—”
“We’re wasting time,” Ehrengraf told him. “We both know you’re innocent. Why dispute a point on which we’re already in agreement?”
“I guess I really found the one man who believes me,” Starkey said. “Now where are we gonna find twelve more?”
“It’s my earnest hope we won’t have to,” Ehrengraf said. “I rarely see the inside of a courtroom, Mr. Starkey. My fees are very high, but I have to earn them in order to receive them.”
Starkey scratched his head “That’s what I’m not too clear on.”
“It’s simple enough. I take cases on a contingency basis. I don’t get paid unless and until you walk free.”
“I’ve heard of that in civil cases,” Starkey said, “but I didn’t know there were any criminal lawyers who operated that way.”
“As far as I know,” Ehrengraf said, “I am the only one. And I don’t depend on courtroom pyrotechnics. I represent the innocent, and through my efforts their innocence becomes undeniably clear to all concerned. Then and only then do I collect my fee.”
And what would that be? Ehrengraf named a number.
“Whole lot of zeroes at the end of it,” the football player said, “but it’s nothing to the check I wrote out for the Proud Crowd. Five of them, and they spent close to a year on the case, hiring experts and doing studies and surveys and I don’t know what else. A man can make a lot of money if he can run the ball and catch a pass now and then. I guess I can afford your fee, plus whatever the costs and expenses come to.”
“The fee is all-inclusive,” Ehrengraf said.
“If that’s so,” Starkey said, “I’d say it’s a bargain. And I only pay if I get off?”
“And you will, sir.”
“If I do, I don’t guess I’ll begrudge you your fee. And if I don’t, do I get my retainer back? Not that I’d have a great use for it, but—”
“There’ll be no retainer,” Ehrengraf said smoothly. “I like to earn my money before I receive it.”
“I never heard of anybody like you, Mr. Ehrengraf.”
“There isn’t anyone like me,” Ehrengraf said. “I’ve thrilled to watch you play, and I don’t believe there’s anyone like you, either. We’re both unique.”
“Well,” Starkey said.
“And yet you’re charged with killing your wife,” Ehrengraf said smoothly. “Hard to believe, but there it is.”
“Not so hard to believe. I’ve been tried twice for murder and got off both times. How many times can a man kill his wife and get away with it?”
It was a good question, but Ehrengraf chose not to address it. “The first woman wasn’t your wife,” he said.
“My girlfriend. Kate Waldecker. I was in my junior year at Texas State.” He looked at his hands. “We were in bed together, and one way or another my hands got around her neck.”