The Luck of the Draw
by Joseph H. Delaney
Illustration by Dell Harris
It was one of those oppressively humid days where the air was still and the promise of relief from the thunderheads that loomed on the horizon was still an hour or more away. My clothes were sodden and my feet hurt from tramping all over the downtown area scattering cards. It was time for a rest and a cool drink in the quiet of my new office.
I paused to take a long look at the window before unlocking the door. The twenty-four carat gold-lettered sign had cost a small fortune, a fortune I didn’t yet have, and maybe never would acquire if events of the past week were any indication. A week—that’s how long the office of Rex Anwalt, Attorney-At-Law had been open for business.
Only—there hadn’t been any business. Beyond an occasional curious rubbernecker hardly anybody even looked at my storefront window, and those who did had obviously not been in need. I had taken brief encouragement when, on opening day, a strange little man had taken a notebook from his pocket and stopped to write something down, but except for me nobody had ever yet been inside—unless you counted the mailman, who had delivered the bill for telephone installation also on opening day.
For the first couple of days I had crouched behind the door between the reception area and my private office, peeking through the crack and counting the people who walked by, still hoping that something would happen. Before long, Uncle Joe’s prophetic words, the words he had uttered when I told him I meant to study law, began to echo through the stillness. “It’s dog eat dog these days. Not like when I started, when law was still an honorable profession, when lawyers didn’t have to steal to eat, and when a colleague’s word was good.”
If Uncle Joe hadn’t retired and moved away things might have been a lot easier for me. As it was, I didn’t have the cushy spot to move into that I’d been hoping for. I wouldn’t regard myself as a defeatist, but, considering how the first week had gone I was getting a little bit discouraged. That was why I’d spent the afternoon like I had, out beating the bushes to get noticed. After all, nothing was happening back at the office, and if somebody did call, the computer could schedule an appointment easily enough, all dates were open.
Suddenly, I noticed the red light flashing on the terminal. There had been a call; wouldn’t you know it, the minute you go out something like that happens. I fumbled in my pocket for the key, found it and jammed it into the lock, all the while cursing my luck. For days I’d sat around hoping this would happen.
Reason took over and I realized it was foolish to worry. After all, with my kind of luck it would be a wrong number anyhow, just as it had been the only other time the telephone had rung.
“Computer—play the message!”
There was a beep, followed by a pause, then that inevitable electronic buzzing. “Mr. Anwait, this is Daria Coons, Judge Westergren’s coordinator. I have an appointment for you. His name is Richard Thompson and he’s charged with murder. He’s in custody and you can see him at the jail. First chance you get I’d like you to stop in and sign an appearance. He’s already been arraigned.” The electronic noise stopped.
1 was stunned. I knew who Thompson was, of course, everybody did; he was the man who discovered the oil bush. He was worth millions, he could easily have afforded to hire the best in the business. So why was Judge Westergren appointing somebody like me to represent him in a murder case? It didn’t make sense, there had to be some kind of mistake.
I glanced at my watch. It was 3:00 P.M. The LED on the phone monitor was still lit, and showed the call had come in at 2:52 P.M. I’d just missed her. There was still plenty of time to hop over to the courthouse and sign the appearance, look at the official file and see Thompson before the sheriff cut off visiting to feed supper. I locked up again and hurried over there.
The courthouse was drafty as a barn, with the air conditioning on full blast. My wet clothes were beginning to feel uncomfortably clammy now, but I didn’t expect to be in there very long. Ms. Coons had Thompson’s file on her desk, anticipating I would want to see it. I signed the appearance for her and sat down in a chair in front of her desk to look through the file.
There wasn’t much in it. Thompson hadn’t yet been indicted, he had been arrested on a J.P. complaint and warrant. Bail had been denied. I went over the complaint carefully, looking for a mistake and finding nothing. Basically, all it said was that Thompson had intentionally or knowingly caused the death of Alejandro Gonzalez by shooting him with a gun, but that was legally sufficient to charge murder.
I knew the drill from there. Professor Tinker had pounded this into our heads for a whole semester. I could demand a hearing on probable cause, but I also knew that would be a waste of time because the D.A. could get him rearrested even if the magistrate turned him loose, simply by taking it back to the grand jury and getting him indicted. I knew the reason that hadn’t already happened was that Thompson had just been arrested day before yesterday and the D.A. simply hadn’t had time to schedule a grand jury meeting.
I left the file on the coordinator’s desk and went over to the jail, where they made me show my bar card. While I was fumbling around looking for it one of the regulars walked right past me without even being stopped. I wondered how it must feel to be that important.
Eventually they let me in and I rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. The door opened to reveal a guard inside a cage. He would be my next challenge. “I’m here to see Thompson,” I stuttered, hoping that might impress the guy.
Evidently it did; his jaw dropped and for an instant he was speechless. He recovered quickly and shoved a card to me through the bars. “Fill this out and sign it while I get him. You can wait in the visiting room.” He pointed to a closet-sized room across the hall.
I went in and waited, nervously rehearsing what 1 would say when I saw my very first client. I still hadn’t decided what would sound best when he came waddling out just ahead of the guard.
The orange coveralls and the rubber sandals were both an ill fit and Thompson didn’t look anything like the man whose picture I’d seen on the evening news the night before. That picture had obviously been from the T.V. station’s file and way out of date. This man was some five or six years older, and perhaps thirty pounds heavier.
I introduced myself and invited him to sit down on the other side of the tiny table.
“What’s all this foolishness, Mr. Anwalt? If I wanted a lawyer I’d hire one. I don’t need you, I’m guilty and that’s that.”
I cringed. “D-don’t say that, somebody’ll hear you.” I gawked around at the guard. I couldn’t tell whether he heard it or not, but I sure didn’t want him to hear any more, so I slammed the heavy steel door shut tight.
“What difference would that make? I already confessed.”
“Maybe we can get it suppressed, I…” I never finished the sentence. I couldn’t believe that anybody with Thompson’s credentials would do anything that stupid. He was supposed to be the dean of the molecular biologists, with an I.Q. some place up there in the stratosphere.
“You haven’t been paying attention, young man, I said I didn’t need you and I don’t. I know you probably mean well, and I admire your enthusiasm, but I’m a dead duck. I killed that skunk Gonzalez for the very good reason that he needed killing and I’m prepared to take my lumps for it. It’s as simple as that.”
I stiffened. Back in law school the professor had harped on that very point. A lawyer’s job is not just to win, but to make sure everybody gets due process, and due process meant he should get the advantage of each and every constitutional guarantee. I intended that Thompson should get due process, even if he didn’t want it.