by Jack Finney
It was late afternoon on one of the first days of real spring after a San Francisco winter of rain and fog. Here on North Kearny Street people walked more slowly than usual, enjoying the sun. Walking among them, toward the big gray Hall of Justice ahead, were two men; but one of them seemed only a background for the other. At a distance it would not have been easy to say why; for the second man, wearing a dark suit and a snap-brim hat, was taller, younger, and considerably larger than the first. Yet it was the first man whom passers-by turned to glance after. Hey, Max! Hi, Maxie! people occasionally called out to him; he was well known among the courtroom attendants and hangers-on of this street. But he did not answer or respond except to lift a corner of his mouth in a wry little smile; he seemed to accept these calls not as greeting but as tribute.
Mostly it was the man's face which here as everywhere brought heads lifting to stare after him. Under the dark Homburg shoved back off his forehead, his face looked cruel, at a little distance — long and lean, the flat cheeks gashed with twin furrows from cheekbones to jaw, the lips held tight and thin. But his large brown eyes, seen closer, were too wearily wise for cruelty. They looked out at the world with a cynical knowledge of everything they saw, but they looked, too, with a wryly humorous interest; women who met those eyes remembered them.
No one knew how old he was; he claimed he didn't know. He might have been a weather-beaten thirty-one or -two, his curling black hair graying prematurely; girls in their twenties assumed that he was. But he could have been a young fifty, his hair only now beginning to whiten, and older women assured themselves this was so. Certainly, in all ways, it was a memorable head, and at Jack's restaurant, at Eugene's, at the bars in the Palace and the Fairmont and at Breen's and along Howard Street, people murmured, Who's that? and those who knew, and there were always many, answered, Max Wollheim, with smug pride in their knowledge.
That was a lousy lunch today, he said now, accusingly, and the younger man frowned.
I didn't pick the restaurant, Max; you did.
Excuses — the other shrugged — you can't eat excuses. You ought to know what restaurants are no good any more. Keep in touch, Al, always keep in touch.
The younger man grinned; his name was Al Michaels; he was about twenty-five, husky, his black hair cut short. It tasted okay to me, he said. And maybe you'd have liked it better if I weren't getting married.
You couldn't be more wrong. Max glanced at him. I don't care what you do — get married, get drunk, drop dead.
Oh? Al's eyes were amused. That's a sudden change of heart. 'A good criminal lawyer shouldn't be married.' Or so you've said ever since I met Cora.
Well, it's true. Women are fine, Al, at the right time and place. By all means, see this girl, see all the girls you want, but don't marry one. Believe me, a wife will compete with your career, Al! They're jealous of it. She'll try to influence your career, and she will! You can't get marr—
Oh, yes I can. And will.
All right! But wait; you're just starting your career.
Max, quit trying to con me. All you care about is that your full-time slave is finally escaping. You won't have me to run your errands day and night any more. I'm getting married, tonight.
Okay. Max flung his hands out contemptuously. But it's for your own good I'm telling you. I hate to see a potentially first-rate criminal lawyer go down the drain — not many come along. But you're too cynical and suspicious to see that, so go ahead. One thing for sure, though, Al; you're dead wrong about getting married tonight.
Yeah? Why?
A girl deserves a church wedding, the works! Not a lousy little ceremony in her sister's living room as though you were ashamed of getting married!
Tell that to Cora; this was her idea. She'll be touched by your sudden solicitude for her. He nodded at the great dingy gray building just ahead. Why do you want me along, Max, seeing a brand-new client today of all days? Some kindly partners would have said, 'Al, you're getting married tonight, go home early, you must have plenty to do.' Instead of dragging me around on useless trips to the jail.
Useless? Max actually shouted it. No trip to the jail is ever useless! If that's how getting married has you thinking, you're the one who'll be useless! He glared at Al, his voice dropping to an angry mutter. A criminal lawyer should see people in jail. Regularly. Once a week at least. People waiting to go on trial for their lives. Just to remind himself why he's on earth; something you seem to have forgotten. Come on. They turned onto the steps that led up into the Hall of Justice, and the County Jail on the third floor.
In the jail, a small cell, Max sat down beside Al on the blanketed cot, and leaned against the wall. The uniformed jailer stood locking the cell door, and the prisoner had turned to pull a backless stool out from the wall. He was tall, with long black hair, a well-built man perhaps thirty years old. He had a day-old stubble of black beard, and wore a soiled, wrinkled white shirt and a pair of tan wash pants. Mr. Wollheim, he said, sitting down to face Max, I'm sure glad you've taken my case.
I haven't taken your case. For all I know, you ought to plead guilty and save the city a trial. The man sat staring at him, and Max said softly, You don't think so? Then tell me why not.
Because I'm innocent, Mr. Wollheim. Absolutely—
Yeah, yeah. Max had a hand up, wagging a palm. Just tell us what happened, that's all. Why are you here, Balderson? And make it fast; my partner's getting married tonight.
Well — Balderson swallowed. The way this started, I left the house to get a Sunday paper. That was a month ago, little longer. I always get up early, and I took a little walk first. He was staring at the concrete floor, remembering, and he shook his head at the mystery of why he should have been arrested. On my way back I stopped at a little store on Balboa, for my paper. Far's I know, I never been in the place before in my life. Now, here's what I think, Mr. Wollheim. He looked up, anxious to expound his theory. I last shaved on the Friday morning before that; I don't generally work Saturdays or Sundays.
What do you do?
I'm a warehouseman for Giamponelli Wholesale Groceries. I check shipments into the warehouse against the invoices.
What do you make?
Average around six hundred a month.
Okay, go ahead. Max pulled a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket.
Well, I wasn't shaved, and I had on old clothes; I was going to wash the car later. So maybe I didn't look so good. He glanced down at his clothes, smiling ruefully. Like now; my wife's due here with clean clothes tonight. Anyway, the proprietor, little middle-aged guy, kind of fat, he sort of stalled around, you know? Said he didn't have change in the register, it was too early. Said he had to get it from the back of the store. Well, what he did, I know now, was phone the cops, the precinct house a couple blocks away, and they were over in no time. Come in while the guy was counting out my change; two big detectives in plain clothes. They walked in behind me, I saw the little guy start nodding his head, then they grabbed me. Balderson shrugged. Then the little guy says it's me. He looked at Max, brows rising helplessly. Says I robbed his store a week before. Come in late at night, he says, just when he was closing, stuck a gun at him, and emptied his register. Stole a couple hundred bucks, he said. Again Balderson shrugged. And that's about all, Mr. Wollheim. I told the cops I didn't do it, but they took me in anyway. Said I'd been identified, charged, and they were taking me in. The little guy came along, and they booked me, and locked me up; they let me call my wife after about an hour. So she came down, I told her what happened, and she went home, and phoned some friends. Her cousin recommended a lawyer, and the lawyer came to the City Jail to see me Monday morning.
Were you arraigned that Monday?
Well, I appeared before a judge in the afternoon; then they brought me here to the County Jail.
You were arraigned in Municipal Court. and waived a preliminary hearing. They remanded you to the Superior Court; the D.A. file any information then?
Well, I was in a court again, and
said not guilty.
Max nodded. That's what happened. Then they scheduled your trail. How come you're not out on bail?
Balderson shook his head. Lawyer said the bail bond fee would be too high, and I better hang onto my money.
Max grinned. Wanted to be sure you could pay his fee, didn't he? Why was it so high?
Because the cops piled on more charges, Mr. Wollheim! Balderson was leaning forward, face anguished. Monday morning they stuck me in a lineup down at the main police station here, and six more guys picked me out! Said I robbed them! He shook his head slowly. They all own stores. All of them reported these robberies. So they called these guys clown Monday morning. And every last one of them picked me out; seven charges of armed robberies. And a stiff bail on each one. I couldn't pay bail bond fees on that, so I been in jail ever since. My lawyer said he'd try to get me a quick trial, and he has, but he don't seem to know what else to do about this.
Max laughed, and Al glanced at him, annoyed. I don't blame him, Max said. What's he supposed to do, shoot the witnesses? All right; that all?
Well ... I guess so; yes.
Why talk to me about it if you got a lawyer?
Balderson frowned. Well, like I say, the trial was set for a month later; that's tomorrow. Tomorrow morning I go on trial. Day before yesterday, the lawyer tells me that since I haven't got an alibi — I don't know where I was when those stores were robbed! — I better change my plea to guilty, and maybe get the charges reduced. Can you imagine that! He tells me to plead guilty, with the trial coming up tomorrow! So I got scared. I fired him, and told my wife to get in touch with you. I'm desperate, Mr. Wollheim!
Sure you are. When they start to holler for Wollheim. they're desperate. Well, all right; your lawyer had over a month to figure out a defense for you, and couldn't do it. So what am I supposed to do? Figure out in a day how to get you off? You picked a bad time, Balderson; my partner's leaving me tonight for two weeks.
Balderson was staring at him, as though it had never occurred to him that Max Wollheim might not he able to do what another lawyer couldn't; Al, too, was staring at Max. You don't need me, he murmured uneasily. You're not busy right now. And you can get a continuance.
Max sat staring up at the ceiling. Presently he said thoughtfully, Superior Court, department six, eleven, or twelve. Who will he draw, Al?
I can look it up in The Recorder, but the Leggett trial's still on; Judge Bengle. So he'll probably draw Hackster.
Judge Hackster, Max murmured. He'll give me a certain amount of leeway sometimes. If his asthma's not bothering him. What's the pollen count these days?
Al smiled at the absurd question. I'm afraid I don't know.
Well, find out! Max glared at him. Why don't you know? Too busy getting married? Hackster gasps like a fish when the pollen count's up. And who'll be prosecuting? Phone the D.A.'s office, and find out. You can give me a little time. You're not getting married this minute, are you?
Al shrugged. No. But if you think you're going to hook me into this case—
Max interrupted, swinging to Balderson, his voice hard. All right; how much money you got? That money you been hanging onto so carefully in case you need it?
Well … about fifteen hundred dollars. My wife could tell you exactly.
I'll ask her. You own your house?
I got just over six thousand dollars equity in it.
Six thousand. You pay your other lawyer?
No.
Well, you'll have to pay his fee. Almost snarling it, Max added, After you pay mine!
Balderson leaned forward. Then you'll take my case?
As though there'd never been any question of it, Max Wollheim replied blandly, Of course. Why do they yell, Get Wollheim, when they're desperate? When they feel the gates of San Quentin opening up for them, or smell the gas chamber waiting? Because Wollheim takes only the easy cases? The cases anyone could defend? Slowly and triumphantly he shook his remarkable head. No, that's not why they holler. Get Wollheim. Again his voice roughened, sounding almost angry. And that's not why they pay Wollheim's fees! You know what my fee is? Balderson sat slowly shaking his head, and Max said quietly, Well, it's always the same; it never changes. He sat up, holding Balderson's eyes with his own. My fee is everything, he said gently; then he snarled it, shouting it through the cell: Everything you've got! You own a car, you said. What kind?
A Buick, Balderson murmured. Fifty-seven sedan.
Tell your wife to bring in the pink slip; then sign it over to me. My fee is seventy-five hundred and ninety dollars, plus a Buick sedan. Balderson sat looking at Max, and Max said softly, Will you need a car in San Quentin, Balderson? Or money? You can't spend much in Quentin, you know.
Sure! Balderson said hastily. Sure, Mr. Wollheim; anything you say.
Max nodded curtly, and stood up. Well, I say what I always say; everything. All right, Al, let's go; we've got work to do. Before Al could respond, he said, You won't lose any time! We'll have dinner, and talk a little. Frankie! he yelled down the corridor for the jailer.
Al shrugged, and for a few moments the three men stood waiting. Then Balderson spoke, and Max turned to look at him.
Mr. Wollheim, he said hesitantly, you just don't know what it means to me to have someone realize I'm innocent. No one else does, except my wife. The police don't. And my lawyer didn't. Brows rising wonderingly, he said, How could you tell?
Max grinned. Why, that was easy. The jailer appeared, stooping to unlock the cell door; then he swung it open, and Max stepped out. It was easy, he repeated, turning to grin at Balderson, because all my clients are innocent. Then, Al following, Max Wollheim began strolling down the long corridor.
At Jack's the two men sat at a table in one of the little private dining rooms upstairs. Max finished the last of his coffee, then sat back. Good dinner, he murmured.
Al nodded wearily. It should have been, he said. Did you actually give a hundred-dollar bill to that waiter?
Sure.
Al's mouth quirked in contempt. I thought that sort of thing went out in the nineties.
Maybe it did, and I just haven't heard.
You'll take every dime Balderson's saved, Al said bitterly, then toss a hundred bucks to a waiter.
What's it to Balderson what I do with my money? Is he any better off if I hoard it under a mattress?
Al glanced at the watch on his wrist. It's ten to seven, Max; I've got to leave. I have to shower, shave, and get dressed. Then pick up Cora, and be at her sister's by nine. I don't know why you wanted me here, anyway. I don't know what Balderson's defense is; I can't even think straight tonight.
Half an hour more, Al, then go with my blessings.
No. Al got to his feet, then, shouting, Can't you get it through your head? I'm getting married tonight!
Fine. Congratulations. But give me just thirty minutes more, because you're wrong about one thing. Maybe there was a time when Max Wollheim needed no man's help. But now there's something I haven't told you, Al. I may look fine, never sick, never tired. But—
Cut it out, Max. Save that jazz for the juries; they don't know you like I do. Al picked up his hat. I'm telling you, he said, getting married is one thing you can't con me out of. Not this time. He walked to the head of the narrow flight of stairs that led down to the main floor. You coming?
Yeah, yeah! Max answered irritably, snatching his Homburg from the rack.
Downstairs. they stepped out onto the sidewalk. Well, so long, Max. See you in a couple of week—
Walk me to the office first. It's on your way. And Max began to walk east toward Montgomery Street. Shrugging, Al followed, and after a moment Max said quietly, It's Wollheim and Michaels defending tomorrow, Al. And we haven't got a defense. Don't you care?
Max, don't start that stuff again. Sure, I care.
Yeah, I know. Max nodded. You care deeply; that's obvious. But you'll leave it all to old Max just the same.
Get a continuance, damn it!
You know I d
on't work that way.
Then what else can I possibly do?
You can be a lawyer, that's what you can do! You call yourself a lawyer?
Now, what? Al rolled his eyes. Yeah! I call myself a lawyer!
Well, you're not. Max walked on. You only graduated from law school. Third highest in your class, sure. He shrugged. And the best man in your class, or you wouldn't be in with me.
Go ahead. Al walked along beside him, lips compressed. Keep trying to con me.
I'm not conning you, I'm telling you you're not a lawyer, no matter what your diploma says. And tonight you're less of a lawyer than ever.
All right, I'll bite; why?
Because you've been watching the clock, Al, ever since we left the jail. You're worrying about your own personal affairs instead of the client's; I never did that in my life, and never will. By God! he suddenly shouted. You think I've been deliberately delaying you tonight? On the night you're getting married? What for! You've been no help to me so far! I've been giving you an opportunity, if you only had the sense to see it! And I'm giving you one now. a big one. You want to be a criminal lawyer? One of the best?
Yeah, sure.
Then this is your chance to learn what it is to be one. It's seven o'clock of the evening you're getting married. That's a big thing in a man's life, getting married. And it's all you've been able to think of, you say. But now let's see if you'll ever he a lawyer. You have thirty minutes, Max said. Put your own affairs out of your mind. Even your marriage tonight. Turn your full attention, all the power, energy, and ability you've got in you, toward the problem of your client. The total stranger you met for the first time only two hours ago! He stood staring up at Al. Then he spat the words out. If you claim to be a lawyer! he said, and turned on his heel to walk swiftly toward the glass door ahead. At the door, he swung to face Al again. Well? he barked; and after a moment Al nodded.
The inner office of Wollheim & Michaels, Attorneys, was the largest law office in San Francisco by many square yards. It had been two offices once, each considered large, and Max Wollheim had had the wall between them removed. Now the office was huge, and almost blatantly luxurious. In one wall stood a fireplace of glazed white brick with a finely carved mantel of dull gray wood. The walls were polished mahogany, the high molded ceiling white, and on the floor before the windows at the far end of the great room stood an enormous black desk of teakwood, its panels intricately and magnificently carved. Beside it stood an exact duplicate of the witness chairs used in the courts of San Francisco. A smaller desk, of gray steel — Al's — stood near the door.