A Fool for a Client (32 page)

“So why aren
’
t you offering to accept an insanity plea?”

“Then she
’
d have to be committed to a secure psychiatric institution for a fixed minimum period of one year.
That
’
s why I
’
m offering a nickel
’
s probation on a one twenty five, ten.”

Parker hesitated for a few seconds, flipping through the pages of the New York Penal Code in his mind
’
s eye as he considered the offer.
If Justine pleaded guilty to criminally negligent homicide, the
ADA
would agree to five years probation.
But then Parker shook his head, remembering the critical flaw in the whole idea.

“She
’
d never go for it.”

“She could be looking at a lot longer.”

“You know juries better than she does.
I know
her
better than you do.
She
’
d rather die than compromise.”

“Work on her.
The way things are going now she might have to serve hard time.
Even if I can
’
t make murder stick it
’
s beginning to look like first degree manslaughter.”

“I
’
ll put it to her.
But I don
’
t hold out much hope.”

Parker lowered his head regretfully.

“Let
’
s put the case on the side Rick.
Tell me something about yourself.”

“Like... what do you want to know?”

“Like, for instance, why did you decided to become a lawyer?
And why legal aid?”

Parker swallowed the final mouthful of his hors d
’
oeuvres and put the silver cutlery down on the elegant bone china plate.
He had been asked this question before, and it wasn
’
t an easy one to answer.
He could tell people why he wanted to become a lawyer easily enough.
But the legal aid question was a tough one.
He had a well-rehearsed answer.
But the trouble was he didn
’
t really believe it himself.”

“I grew up in a typical black home in the urban ghetto.
Lots of kids, lots of noise.
No privacy or solitude.
We took a lot of shit from both sides.
We were more likely to be accused of a crime than middle
-
class kids and more likely to be the victim of one, only not many people know about that side of the coin.”

“And you saw a lot of injustice because you were black and poor and you decided to do something about it.

“Not just because we were black and poor but also because we were ignorant.
I mean we had street smarts, but it took a long time to get them.
You don
’
t read about those things in books so you have to learn everything for yourself.
We couldn
’
t get taken for a ride by con
-
men the way a white doctor might get suckered into a bum investment by a smart-ass yuppie stockbroker.
But when one of us got into trouble with the law, ignorance was usually our downfall.
One of my brothers copped a plea for a crime he didn
’
t do because he didn
’
t think he could beat the rap and a shark hanging around the Night Court offered him an out.
I was only eight at the time.
It was round about then that I learned what they mean when they say knowledge is power.

Abrams was smiling.

“You remind me a bit of myself when I was your age.”

“But you
–
”

“I don
’
t mean I was poor,” the
ADA
explained.
“I grew up in a well
-
to
-
do Jewish household.
But I was also a crusading young idealist out to change the world.
I had that same spark of fire in my eyes.”

“What extinguished it?” asked Parker.
There was no immediate reaction from Abrams.
But Parker realized that he shouldn
’
t have said it.
Just because this man was on the other side was no reason to question his sincerity.

“I
’
m sorry,” he said genuinely apologetic.
“I was out of line with that.”

“No you
’
re right,” said Abrams wearily.
“It
was
extinguished.
Or maybe it burnt itself out. I used to tell myself that it was still alive.
But now I think the only thing left is a few
smouldering
embers.
The last faintly glowing traces of an enthusiasm that was once going to set the world on fire.
Now I just keep plodding on, trying to do the right thing.
But I don
’
t kid myself that the forces of evil are going to fall before my ringing oratory. I guess it all started when I discovered that justice isn
’
t so easy to identify let alone achieve.”

“An elusive butterfly?” asked Parker trying gingerly to figure out the right metaphor.

“More like a team of horses pulling in two directions. Procedural justice goes one way and substantive justice usually goes the other.”

“How do you mean?

Abrams leaned back and inclined his head slightly.

“I had a case... oh quite a while back.
A pro bono case. An indigent client accused of a series of brutal rapes and one murder.
The case against him was open and shut in terms of the facts. But the police had taken a few shortcuts to get the evidence. There was a faulty warrant with the wrong address and instead of rushing back to get a new one they went ahead with the search and found the evidence.”

“You got the physical evidence thrown out at the pre
-
trial presumably.”

“Exactly.
I mean it was standard defence procedure, and the prosecutor was furious.
But there was nothing he could do.”

“I bet he hated your guts after that,” said Parker, knowing the feeling.

“As a matter of fact he didn
’
t.
And he didn
’
t blame the police either.
He hated the Supreme Court judges who interpreted the constitution in that asinine way. He knew that I only did what any lawyer would have done.”

Still... he couldn
’
t have been very happy.”

“Oh he wasn
’
t.”
Abrams hesitated.
“But neither was I when I heard two days later that my client had raped and killed again.
This time the police cornered him and shot him when he resisted arrest.
At least that was
their
story.
But it was too late to save the girl he murdered.
So there I was a smart-ass defence lawyer who scored one more for my
résumé
That
’
s when I learned that prosecuting the guilty is every bit as idealistic as defending the innocent.”

“And that
’
s when you threw in the towel and became a prosecutor?”

“I didn
’
t throw in the towel,” Abrams corrected.
“I just changed corners.”

“How did you get on with your former opponent?”

“He
’
s the one who held out the olive branch and invited me in.
I was his
protégé
.
I rose through the department with Jerry.”

“Jerry Wilkins?
The DA?”

“That
’
s the one,” said Abrams, with a smile.

White... the room was all white... the men and women gathered around him were all in white.
White was the colour of good.
Murphy
’
s mind grappled with the situation, trying to figure out where he was.
He remembered Justine, remembered her beautiful face turning to one of anger as she revealed to him what she had done.
But now there was no sign of her.
Now there was only peace and
tranquillity
.

He wondered about the figures in white, especially the beautiful woman in her early twenties attaching a bag to a pole beside the bed.

“Am I in heaven?” asked Murphy.

“You
’
re in a hospital,” said one of the men in white.
“I
’
m a doctor.”

For the first time since the death of his wife Murphy showed an emotion that was neither fear nor anger.
It was sorrow... he felt himself crying.

“I feel worse now than I did before you gave me that injection.
What was it?”

“It was the antidote to the poison you swallowed.”

“Then why isn
’
t it working?” asked Murphy, the pain mounting.

“I... I don
’
t know,” said the doctor.

He had been about to lie.
But he realised that he couldn
’
t carry it off.

“Is the priest here?”

“I
’
ll just go and check.”

He moved a few feet away from the bed and sent one of the nurses to bring in the priest who was waiting outside.

In the moment of silence, Murphy started brooding again and reminded himself of what had brought him here, the poisoning by Justine, an act of revenge by some one who seemed to have no motive for vengeance.

“Have they arrested the bitch?”

“I don
’
t know,” the doctor replied, embarrassed by the language of the pathetic specimen before him.

The nurse returned, leading a priest into the room.
The priest began the last rites, inquiring if Murphy accepted that Jesus was the only
begotten
son of God who had died on the cross and been resurrected that his sins might be forgiven.
While Sean Murphy confessed his sins and prepared to meet his maker, Dr. Stern signalled Professor Ostrovsky to join him in the far corner of the room.
Ostrovsky had come rushing down when Stern called him.
But Stern was still the physician in attendance.

“Do you have any idea why he isn
’
t responding?” asked Stern nervously, already fearing a malpractice suit.

“I don
’
t have a clue,” replied Ostrovsky, his mind going into overdrive in a desperate search for the solution to the riddle.
“We
must
have given the antidote in time.
The pyrethrum hadn
’
t even been absorbed into the bloodstream when we gave him the atropine.”

A stab of doubt hit Dr Stern.
In fact, it wasn
’
t so much doubt, as outright realization.

“Are you sure it was pyrethrum in the bottle?”

“I checked and double-checked.”

“What about the quantities?”

“The proportion matched both times.
If he was right about how much he drank then we got the quantity right too.”

“Didn
’
t you cross check the amount he said he
’
d drunk against the amount that was actually missing from the bottle?”

“I thought you said he told you she poured the contents of the bottle away,” said Ostrovsky.”

“Oh yes, that
’
s right,” said Stern, remembering.
He had been on the verge of trying to shift the blame to Ostrovsky, and they both knew it.”

“At any rate I based my recommendation on what you told me he said,” the professor continued.

Stern was getting increasingly nervous, the prospect of a malpractice suit loomed on the horizon.

“Maybe we should up the dosage.
Maybe he drank more than he thought.”

“Not a good idea,” said Ostrovsky, casting a quick glance at the screen readout from the equipment monitoring the patient
’
s vital signs.
“Specially in view of the readings we
’
re getting.”

“What do you mean?” asked Stern, a tinge of terror creeping into his voice.