“Neither you nor the prosecutor want a fair trial. You just admitted that. All you want to do is win.”
This guy can’t be for real.
“This is your fucking life at stake!” I bark at him, slapping the table for emphasis. “You can’t think you’re going to use this trial to reform society.
All you’d do is let them get away with what they’ve been doing for years which is screwing blacks simply because you are black!”
The louder I get, the calmer he becomes. “Every minority in this country from Jews to Japanese have been discriminated against,” he says, his voice barely audible, “and the way they have overcome it is by outworking you.”
The bitter coffee makes my stomach hurt. Suddenly, I realize Andy is the worst kind of client a martyr.
“There’s no comparison between blacks and Jews in the United States.
Jews weren’t degraded by being brought to this country in chains and bought and sold. They didn’t have laws here literally branding them as less than human beings.”
Andy begins nodding his head again.
“I don’t want you even implying to the jury that this case is about racism. If I had wanted to do that, I could have gone to a number of black attorneys who could do a much better job of it than you. What you don’t really understand is that the first thing a black child understands is that his entire society thinks he is inferior. This is drummed into his head day and night.
Every time we use the excuse of racial discrimination we allow society to confirm and reinforce our worst suspicions about ourselves. I’ve resisted that with every fiber in my being, and I’m not going to let this trial play into that trap.
Do you hear me?”
I stare at him, wondering how he got to this planet. A black Don Quixote. Logically, he doesn’t even make sense, but a part of me sees what he’s getting at, and I begin to feel a grudging admiration for him. Though I think he’s dead wrong, the stubborn son of a bitch has the ridiculous idea that he can help make this a color-blind society by pretending it is one. I shrug. This is absurd. If all blacks were like him, maybe I could see his point, but they’re not. Yet, as I think about it, I realize I have been let off the hook. Though I would have done it, I wasn’t looking forward to arguing that he was being singled out because he is black. Arkansas juries, like everyone else, resent being told they’re racists.
“Okay,” I say.
“I can live with that if you can.”
“Good,” Chapman says simply. Abruptly changing the subject, he volunteers, “I’ll get you some material on the theory of punishment, if you want.”
I give him an absent nod.
“Including whatever you used.” An involuntary sigh escapes me. Isn’t “Do no harm” the first rule? But maybe I can argue to a jury that what Andy did is no different from the invasive procedures doctors inflict upon critically ill patients to keep them alive. Aren’t those people often comatose and without a meaningful choice? The motive is no different-it is all for their benefit-to keep them alive. God, we fear death in this country. I look up at him and see a crack in his usually stoic face.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It must have broken your heart to go through this.”
For an answer, he raises his head and looks through the blinds at the sky. He does not tell me that the heart is merely an organ that pumps blood to the rest of the body. He says, “You have no idea.”
The truth is, I don’t. And I’m afraid no juror will either.
I decide not to try to find out more today. When I was first starting out at the Public Defender’s Office, I used to try to wring every detail out of my clients in the first interview. It took me a while to admit this meat-ax approach was often a mistake. People talk when they’re good and ready. He has more to tell me, but perhaps not today.
There are interviewing techniques they try to teach you in the clinical course in law school to deal with client reluctance.
He and I have come a long way since yesterday, but we’re not through yet. I say, “I’ve got some other things I have to do this morning. Do you want to continue now or talk later?”
He pushes back from the table.
“I’m more tired than I realized.”
Who wouldn’t be in his position? Regardless of what I can do for him, his career may never recover from the charge. I look up from my worthless notes.
“Andy,” I say, feeling weary even though I haven’t lived with the story I’ve just heard for more than an hour, “I can’t imagine sleeping a minute in the jail.”
He gives me a sad smile, his brown eyes as mournful as a clown’s.
After Andy leaves, Clan waddles into my office, as if on cue, munching on a bag of popcorn and carrying under his left armpit a couple of manila folders spotted with grease.
“At least I have a client,” I say, thinking I may not be able to do much more than plead him out to negligent homicide.
Clan collapses into the cheap chair across from my desk.
Ten more pounds of pressure on the back of it and I can sell the chair for firewood. “What a shitty way to make a living,” he complains mildly.
“People think lawyers are all rich. I wouldn’t know a corporate client if one grabbed me by the balls.”
As gross as Clan is, I can’t imagine it either. “The business is out there,” I say hopefully.
“The trick is to get a reputation.”
Clan drops the files on my desk.
“There’re all kinds of reputations,” he reminds me.
“In twenty years, when I’m in for my third bypass, I don’t want the nurses sitting around figuring out ways to torture me because they heard I’m a scumbag lawyer.”
I wonder if I’m a scumbag for walking off with Andy Chapman. By the plain black phone that obviously had been hooked up while I was in court this morning, a wadded-up pink message slip with Oscar Mays’s name on it is staring me in the face. I’ve got to return the man’s call and get it over with. Surely Andy Chapman isn’t worth trying to sue me over. I’m not normally the philosophical type, but I can’t help remarking, “We didn’t invent the free enterprise system;
we’re just paid to defend it.”
“Bullshit,” says Clan amiably, hitching up his pants to keep them from binding him.
“Lawyers like you and me fight over the crumbs. With the kind of clients we get, we don’t really make money practicing law; if you can’t get ahead enough to invest what little windfall occasionally comes your way, you’re gonna end up like old man Sievers.”
I feel a shiver sweep the back of my neck thinking of Cash Sievers, who was still trying to represent clients until his death earlier this month, although he was senile. With no investments, no Social Security, he was the Blackwell County bar’s oldest and most visible legal disaster. The story was that nobody had the heart to blow the whistle on Cash, and lawyers spent entire days cleaning up his messes. Though ancient and stooped, even toward the end he still attracted clients, but rumor has it that he represented most for nothing, presumably on the hope that they would give him something at the end of their case. Judging by his office and the clothes he wore, they didn’t give him much.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I tell Clan, who is missing his mouth with the popcorn as often as he is hitting it.
“Find a rich widow or divorcee-there’s so many women looking for men out there you can almost advertise for ‘em,” he advises, “and then bird-dog her till she drops. You’re just the right age.”
I laugh, but with Clan you never know. His wife’s family has money. I have no doubt that Dan’s home near the Pinetree Country Club wasn’t paid for by him. The thought of marrying for money is sickening, but my usual thoughts about women aren’t all that noble either.
“To paraphrase St. Augustine when told he had to give up sex for the church,” I tell Clan, repeating a story I heard told by a Catholic priest when I was in boarding school at Subiaco after my father’s death, “
