couldn’t tell. I didn’t see anyone asking questions.
I caught up with the man who’d been standing next to MaryLou as he walked out the same door I had. He was wearing “I’m from around here” clothes: some kind of corduroy jacket, a whiteshirt, and a red tie with white whales on it. Carrying something that looked like a canvas courier’s bag on a strap over one shoulder. Maybe thirty-five years old.
“Excuse me,” I said, coming at him from the side. “Could I have a couple of minutes of your time?”
“Who are you?”
“A friend of MaryLou’s. I have some information that might be helpful to you.”
“Well?” he said, hands on hips.
“She won’t talk to you because you’ve been appointed by the state. And it’s the state that’s prosecuting her.”
“How do you know this?”
“Like I said, I’m a friend.”
“Well,” he said, a little smirk on his face, “that’s her choice. But unless she’s prepared to hire private counsel, I’ll be the one who—”
“She
is
prepared to hire private counsel. That’s why I’m here.”
“Fine. Then have her new—”
“She doesn’t want new counsel.”
“She hasn’t got a choice about that. Unless she wants to represent herself,” he said, doubling up on the smirk.
“I guess I’m not making myself clear,” I said, ignoring the guy’s posturing. “She wants you to be her lawyer, but she wants you to be working for her, not for the state.”
“I don’t work for the state,” he lectured. “The state pays me to represent her because any person charged with a crime is entitled to counsel, even if they’re indigent. Given the girl’s age—she’s legally an adult, but hardly expected to have any income—the court assumed indigence. That’s why I was assigned.”
“I’d feel better if you were hired, instead.”
“Are you saying you want to hire me? I assure you, whoever you are, that I’ll work just as hard no matter who pays me.”
I liked him for saying that, but I didn’t get all carried away with it.
“I’m sure that’s absolutely true. But … well, you know how kids are.”
“Yes. But the state pays—”
“I know what the state pays,” I told him. “I wouldn’t insult you by offering the same kind of slave wages.”
“Are you saying—?”
“What I’m saying is”—I cut him off—“could we go to your office and talk?” As I spoke, I compressed the air between us, so I could walk him farther away from the courthouse but still let him think he was leading me.
H is office was in a one-story building clad in fake-wood light-blue siding. There were the names of a few other lawyers as well as his own—Bradley L. Swift—on a sign that had a few empty slots below the filled ones.
He asked the piggish woman at the front desk if there had been any calls. She seemed to take some pleasure from telling him no. My guess was that she worked for the landlord, not the lawyer.
His personal office was decent-sized. Computer with a small flat screen, fax machine, two-line cordless phone sitting in a cradle. Small reddish cloth sofa against one wall, pair of wood chairs on the client side of his desk. His own chair was a match to the sofa.
I sat across from him. Before he could start talking, I put five thousand in hundreds on his desk. That shut his mouth quicker than a leveled pistol would have done.
“I don’t know much about criminal law,” I told him. “I know you don’t get paid by the hour. The way I figure it, a case like this, it would have to cost at least twenty-five thousand. If I’m right, then there’s your retainer. I’ll pay you the rest as we go along, the same way as this.”
He swept the cash into a drawer of his desk like he was hiding evidence of a crime he was guilty of. A serious one.
“That is a fair fee for a case this complex,” he said, playing it like he pulled in that kind of cash all the time, but having a little trouble with his voice. “Who should I make the
I caught up with the man who’d been standing next to MaryLou as he walked out the same door I had. He was wearing “I’m from around here” clothes: some kind of corduroy jacket, a whiteshirt, and a red tie with white whales on it. Carrying something that looked like a canvas courier’s bag on a strap over one shoulder. Maybe thirty-five years old.
“Excuse me,” I said, coming at him from the side. “Could I have a couple of minutes of your time?”
“Who are you?”
“A friend of MaryLou’s. I have some information that might be helpful to you.”
“Well?” he said, hands on hips.
“She won’t talk to you because you’ve been appointed by the state. And it’s the state that’s prosecuting her.”
“How do you know this?”
“Like I said, I’m a friend.”
“Well,” he said, a little smirk on his face, “that’s her choice. But unless she’s prepared to hire private counsel, I’ll be the one who—”
“She
is
prepared to hire private counsel. That’s why I’m here.”
“Fine. Then have her new—”
“She doesn’t want new counsel.”
“She hasn’t got a choice about that. Unless she wants to represent herself,” he said, doubling up on the smirk.
“I guess I’m not making myself clear,” I said, ignoring the guy’s posturing. “She wants you to be her lawyer, but she wants you to be working for her, not for the state.”
“I don’t work for the state,” he lectured. “The state pays me to represent her because any person charged with a crime is entitled to counsel, even if they’re indigent. Given the girl’s age—she’s legally an adult, but hardly expected to have any income—the court assumed indigence. That’s why I was assigned.”
“I’d feel better if you were hired, instead.”
“Are you saying you want to hire me? I assure you, whoever you are, that I’ll work just as hard no matter who pays me.”
I liked him for saying that, but I didn’t get all carried away with it.
“I’m sure that’s absolutely true. But … well, you know how kids are.”
“Yes. But the state pays—”
“I know what the state pays,” I told him. “I wouldn’t insult you by offering the same kind of slave wages.”
“Are you saying—?”
“What I’m saying is”—I cut him off—“could we go to your office and talk?” As I spoke, I compressed the air between us, so I could walk him farther away from the courthouse but still let him think he was leading me.
H is office was in a one-story building clad in fake-wood light-blue siding. There were the names of a few other lawyers as well as his own—Bradley L. Swift—on a sign that had a few empty slots below the filled ones.
He asked the piggish woman at the front desk if there had been any calls. She seemed to take some pleasure from telling him no. My guess was that she worked for the landlord, not the lawyer.
His personal office was decent-sized. Computer with a small flat screen, fax machine, two-line cordless phone sitting in a cradle. Small reddish cloth sofa against one wall, pair of wood chairs on the client side of his desk. His own chair was a match to the sofa.
I sat across from him. Before he could start talking, I put five thousand in hundreds on his desk. That shut his mouth quicker than a leveled pistol would have done.
“I don’t know much about criminal law,” I told him. “I know you don’t get paid by the hour. The way I figure it, a case like this, it would have to cost at least twenty-five thousand. If I’m right, then there’s your retainer. I’ll pay you the rest as we go along, the same way as this.”
He swept the cash into a drawer of his desk like he was hiding evidence of a crime he was guilty of. A serious one.
“That is a fair fee for a case this complex,” he said, playing it like he pulled in that kind of cash all the time, but having a little trouble with his voice. “Who should I make the
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