Ehrengraf for the Defense
Read Ehrengraf for the Defense Online
Authors: Lawrence Block
Tags: #Detective and Mystery Stories; American, #innocence, #criminal law, #ehrengraf
Lawrence Block
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2012 Lawrence Block
All Rights Reserved
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to
other people. If you would like to share this book with another
person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not
purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com
and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work
of this author.
Ehrengraf For the Defense
© 2012,
Lawrence Block
“The Ehrengraf Defense” © 1976
“The Ehrengraf Presumption” © 1978
“The Ehrengraf Experience” © 1978
“The Ehrengraf Appointment” © 1978
“The Ehrengraf Riposte” © 1978
“The Ehrengraf Obligation” © 1979
“The Ehrengraf Alternative” © 1982
“The Ehrengraf Nostrum” © 1984
“The Ehrengraf Affirmation” © 1997
“The Ehrengraf Reverse” © 2002
“The Ehrengraf Settlement” © 2012
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales
are entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any
review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in
part by electronic, mechanical or other means, is forbidden without
written permission of the author.
Ehrengraf Defense
“
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery sooth the dull cold ear of death?”
—
Thomas Gray
“Mrs. Culhane,” Martin Ehrengraf said. “Do
sit down, yes, I think you will find that chair comfortable. And
please pardon the disarray. It is the natural condition of my
office. Chaos stimulates me. Order stifles me. It is absurd, is it
not, but so then is life itself, eh?”
Dorothy Culhane sat, nodded. She studied the
small, trimly built man who remained standing behind his extremely
disorderly desk. Her eyes took in the narrow mustache, the thin
lips, the deeply set dark eyes. If the man liked clutter in his
surroundings, he certainly made up for it in his grooming and
attire. He wore a starched white shirt, a perfectly tailored dove
gray three-button suit, a narrow dark blue necktie.
Oh, but she did not want to think about
neckties—
“Of course you are Clark Culhane’s mother,”
Ehrengraf said. “I had it that you had already retained an
attorney.”
“Alan Farrell.”
“A good man,” Ehrengraf said. “An excellent
reputation.”
“I dismissed him this morning.”
“Ah.”
Mrs. Culhane took a deep breath. “He wanted
Clark to plead guilty,” she said. “Temporary insanity, something of
the sort. He wanted my son to admit to killing that girl.”
“And you did not wish him to do this.”
“My son is innocent!” The words came in a
rush, uncontrollably. She calmed herself. “My son is innocent,” she
repeated, levelly now. “He could never kill anyone. He can’t admit
to a crime he never committed in the first place.”
“And when you said as much to Farrell—”
“He told me he was doubtful of his ability to
conduct a successful defense based on a plea of innocent.” She drew
herself up. “So I decided to find someone who could.”
“And you came to me.”
“Yes.”
The little lawyer had seated himself. Now he
was doodling on a lined yellow scratch pad. “Do you know much about
me, Mrs. Culhane?”
“Not very much. It’s said that your methods
are unorthodox.”
“Indeed.”
“But that you get results.”
“Results. Indeed, results.” Martin Ehrengraf
made a tent of his fingertips and, for the first time since she had
entered his office, a smile bloomed briefly on his thin lips.
“Indeed I get results. I must get results, my dear Mrs. Culhane, or
else I do not get my dinner. And while my slimness might indicate
otherwise, it is my custom to eat very well indeed. You see, I do
something which no other criminal lawyer does, at least not to my
knowledge. You have heard what this is?”
“I understand you operate on a contingency
basis.”
“A contingency basis.” Ehrengraf was nodding
emphatically. “Yes, that is precisely what I do. I operate on a
contingency basis. My fees are high, Mrs. Culhane. They are
extremely high. But they are due and payable only in the event that
my efforts are crowned with success. If a client of mine is found
guilty, then my work on his behalf costs him nothing.”
The lawyer got to his feet again, stepped out
from behind his desk. Light glinted on his highly polished black
shoes. “This is common enough in negligence cases. The attorney
gets a share in the settlement. If he loses he gets nothing. How
much greater is his incentive to perform to the best of his
ability, eh? But why limit this practice to negligence suits? Why
not have all lawyers paid in this fashion? And doctors, for that
matter. If the operation’s a failure, why not let the doctor absorb
some of the loss, eh? But such an arrangement would be a long time
coming, I am afraid. Yet I have found it workable in my practice.
And my clients have been pleased by the results.”
“If you can get Clark acquitted—”
“Acquitted?” Ehrengraf rubbed his hands
together. “Mrs. Culhane, in my most notable successes it is not
even a question of acquittal. It is rather a matter of the case
never even coming to trial. New evidence is discovered, the actual
miscreant confesses or is brought to justice, and one way or
another charges against my client are dropped. Courtroom
pyrotechnics, wizardry in cross-examination—ah, I prefer to leave
that to the Perry Masons of the world. It is not unfair to say,
Mrs. Culhane, that I am more the detective than the lawyer. What is
the saying? ‘The best defense is a good offense.’ Or perhaps it is
the other way around, the best offense being a good defense, but it
hardly matters. It is a saying in warfare and in the game of chess,
I believe, and neither serves as the ideal metaphor for what
concerns us. And what does concern us, Mrs. Culhane—” and he leaned
toward her and the dark eyes flashed “—what concerns us is saving
your son’s life and securing his freedom and preserving his
reputation. Yes?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“The evidence against your son is
considerable, Mrs. Culhane. The dead girl, Althea, was his former
fiancée. It is said that she jilted him—”
“He broke the engagement.”
“I don’t doubt that for a moment, but the
prosecution would have it otherwise. This girl was strangled.
Around her throat was found a necktie.”
Mrs. Culhane’s eyes went involuntarily to the
lawyer’s own blue tie, then slipped away.
“A particular necktie, Mrs. Culhane. A
necktie made exclusively for and worn exclusively by members of the
Caedmon Society at Oxford University. Your son attended Dartmouth,
Mrs. Culhane, and after graduation he spent a year in advanced
study in England.”
“Yes.”
“At Oxford University.”
“Yes.”
“Where he became a member of the Caedmon
Society.”
“Yes.”
Ehrengraf breathed in through clenched teeth.
“He owned a necktie of the Caedmon Society. He appears to be the
only member of the society residing in this city and would thus
presumably be the only person to own such a tie. He cannot produce
that tie, nor can he provide a satisfactory alibi for the night in
question.”
“Someone must have stolen his tie.”
“The murderer, of course.”
“To frame him.”
“Of course,” Ehrengraf said soothingly.
“There could be no other explanation, could there?” He breathed in,
he breathed out, he set his chin decisively. “I will undertake your
son’s defense,” he announced. “And on my usual terms.”
“Oh, thank heavens.”
“My fee will be seventy-five thousand
dollars. That is a great deal of money, Mrs. Culhane, although you
might very well have ended up paying Mr. Farrell that much or more
by the time you’d gone through the tortuous processes of trial and
appeal and so on, and after he’d presented an itemized accounting
of his expenses. My fee includes any and all expenses which I might
incur. No matter how much time and effort and money I spend on your
son’s behalf, the cost to you will be limited to the figure I
named. And none of that will be payable unless your son is freed.
Does that meet with your approval?”
She hardly had to hesitate but made herself
take a moment before replying. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.
The terms are satisfactory.”
“Another point. If, ten minutes from now, the
district attorney should decide of his own accord to drop all
charges against your son, you nevertheless owe me seventy-five
thousand dollars. Even though I should have done nothing to earn
it.”
“I don’t see—”
The thin lips smiled. The dark eyes did not
participate in the smile. “It is my policy, Mrs. Culhane. Most of
my work, as I have said, is more the work of a detective than the
work of a lawyer. I operate largely behind the scenes and in the
shadows. Perhaps I set currents in motion. Often when the smoke
clears it is hard to prove to what extent my client’s victory is
the fruit of my labor. I do not attempt to prove anything of the
sort. I merely share in the victory by collecting my fee in full
whether I seem to have earned it or not. You understand?”
It did seem reasonable, even if the
explanation was the slightest bit hazy. Perhaps the little man
dabbled in bribery, perhaps he knew the right strings to pull but
could scarcely disclose them after the fact. Well, it hardly
mattered. All that mattered was Clark’s freedom, Clark’s good
name.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I understand. When
Clark is released you’ll be paid in full.”
“Very good.”
She frowned. “In the meantime you’ll want a
retainer, won’t you? An advance of some sort?”
“You have a dollar?” She looked in her purse,
drew out a dollar bill. “Give it to me, Mrs. Culhane. Very good,
very good. An advance of one dollar against a fee of seventy-five
thousand dollars. And I assure you, my dear Mrs. Culhane, that
should this case not resolve itself in unqualified success I shall
even return this dollar to you.” The smile, and this time there was
a twinkle in the eyes. “But that will not happen, Mrs. Culhane,
because I do not intend to fail.”
* * *
It was a little more than a month later when
Dorothy Culhane made her second visit to Martin Ehrengraf’s office.
This time the little lawyer’s suit was a navy blue pinstripe, his
necktie maroon with a subdued below-the-knot design. His starched
white shirt might have been the same one she had seen on her
earlier visit. The shoes, black wing tips, were as highly polished
as the other pair he’d been wearing.
His expression was changed slightly. There
was something that might have been sorrow in the deep-set eyes, a
look that suggested a continuing disappointment with human
nature.
“It would seem quite clear,” Ehrengraf said
now. “Your son has been released. All charges have been dropped. He
is a free man, free even to the extent that no shadow of suspicion
hangs over him in the public mind.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Culhane said, “and that’s
wonderful, and I couldn’t be happier about it. Of course it’s
terrible about the girls, I hate to think that Clark’s happiness
and my own happiness stem from their tragedy, or I suppose it’s
tragedies, isn’t it, but all the same I feel—”
“Mrs. Culhane.”
She bit off her words, let her eyes meet
his.
“Mrs. Culhane, it’s quite cut and dried, is
it not? You owe me seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“But—”
“We discussed this, Mrs. Culhane. I’m sure
you recall our discussion. We went over the matter at length. Upon
the successful resolution of this matter you were to pay me my fee,
seventy-five thousand dollars. Less, of course, the sum of one
dollar already paid over to me as a retainer.”
