by Jack Finney
Dozens of framed and inscribed photographs of celebrities were arranged on one wall. The opposite wall, the one mass of color in the room, was open book shelves from floor to ceiling. On these shelves, in addition to several sets of leather-bound law hooks, including Deering's California Codes, were books on anatomy, forensic medicine, chemistry, statistical analysis, art, psychiatry, economics, politics, and a volume on the history of canoes. There were fifteen cookbooks, a history of pornography, four atlases, a Bowditch, several yards of paper-backed novels, five joke books, one of them in Latin, two hymn books, the Koran, Clemenceau's memoirs, a great stack of sheet music, over a hundred lead soldiers beautifully molded and painted, a nickel-plated revolver flaking with rust, a foot-high model of the Eiffel Tower in spun glass, a baseball — there was everything.
In the great space between these walls was a large chaise longue, with a low table beside it. On the table was a solid gold cigarette box. You don't wrap a Tiffany ring in a paper bag, Max had told Al the day he had come here. I'm expensive, and this is my showcase.
Now, clasping his hands, Max lay back on the chaise longue. He was in shirt sleeves, collar open, tie pulled down. Al stood hanging his coat on a standing rack beside his desk. All right, Max said brusquely, this client — what's his name?
Balderson.
Yeah, Balderson. Now, put everything out of your mind but him, and think. I want you to come up with the answer.
Al shook his head in a kind of stunned admiration. Max, you're the absolute limit, he said. In two hours I'm getting married; yet you've somehow got me feeling guilty about it.
Nobody's guilty around here. Max smiled. Now start thinking.
For some twenty minutes Al slowly strolled the huge office, his feet soundless on the thick carpeting. Max lay comfortably on his lounge, eyes closed; he might have been asleep. As he paced, AI occasionally reached out to touch something — a desk blotter, a lamp shade. Once, at the book shelves, he muttered. Cross-examination won't do it, and Max nodded without opening his eyes. Al wandered to the windows and stood staring out over the city at the yellow-gold lights of the Bay Bridge. Impeach the witnesses' characters? he said presently. Not seven of them, Al, Max murmured, and Al nodded.
Again he paced the room while Max lay, a smile on his lean, gaunt face. Then, Al walked to the foot of the lounge. Max, he said, get a continuance. For three weeks. You know you can. And I'll spend all my time on it from the day I get back.
Continuances; the bad lawyer's crutch. Max opened his eyes. We already know all there is to know. The time to start work on a case is the minute you get it. You know that!
Okay, go ahead! Al turned angrily away. Go to trial tomorrow! How will you defend him? Seven witnesses will come into court, one after another, and swear he's the man. They don't know each other; you can't claim collusion. And all Balderson can say, his only defense, is that nevertheless he didn't do it. Any jury will think he's guilty, they'll have to. I think so myself.
Max Wollheim's face went white. Don't say that! he whispered, thrusting himself forward on the lounge to stare up at Al. Don't ever say that! Who are you to say he's guilty? Max shouted. He's innocent!
How do you know? Al said uncertainly. Did you ask him?
Ask him? Max laughed, a short bark of sound without amusement. Of course not. I never ask a client if he's guilty.
Why not?
Because I don't want to know and I couldn't find out; he'd probably lie. Besides — suddenly he grinned up at Al — I don't have to ask. All my clients are innocent.
Yeah, you've told me. More than once. And I don't mind telling you I think it's a pretty cynical attitude.
Maybe. Max shrugged. I wouldn't know; I don't worry about things like that. Then he shook his head. But I don't think so. All my clients are innocent, Al, because who am I to say they aren't? And who are you? Who is to say, except a judge or jury? Across the room. Al had reluctantly turned to listen, and Max said quietly, Listen to me, Al. A man is innocent until he's proven guilty, but most people don't believe that. They say it; everybody says it! But they don't believe it, and don't act it. Half the people on a jury don't; they'll have a man convicted before the trial starts if you let them. I don't care if they've got moving pictures showing him in the very act of committing the crime; I don't care what the evidence is. He leaned toward Al. He is innocent, he repeated quietly. Your client is always innocent until a judge and jury, God forbid, says he is guilty; there is no other possible attitude for a lawyer. It's seven-thirty, Al, but now I want another half-hour, and not a single word of argument. You've got something to learn that's as important as getting married on time, and I'm going to teach you. Now, listen to me. Balderson is innocent. Because he's our client. Since he's innocent, those witnesses have got to be wrong. Now, why? Are they lying?
No. Al shook his head.
Right. Why should they lie? So what does that leave us? They're mistaken. They've got to be, since Balderson is innocent.
Seven witnesses wrong, Max?
Seven or seven hundred, they've got to be mistaken if he's innocent. You can see that, can't you?
Oh, sure; your logic is flawless.
Max shrugged. Then that's your defense; the witnesses are mistaken. It's simple. All you have to figure out is how you're going to show that to the judge. He glanced at his watch again. I want another thirty minutes, AI; use them for your client.
At a quarter to eight the telephone rang, and Al turned to answer it, dropping into his desk chair. Hello? he said, then paused. Yeah, I know it is. He glanced at his watch. I'm just about to leave. Then he frowned, his forehead wrinkling. Well, I had to help Max, darling, he said defensively. A case came up this afternoon— He frowned at an interruption. Yeah, of course he knows, honey; he was coming to the wedding himself, but now he just can't make it— He stopped at another interruption, then almost shouted, Certainly I can make it! and Max got up from the lounge, and walked to his desk. Honey — Al's voice dropped — I'm leaving right now.
Max had pressed one of the row of buttons on the base of his phone, and now he spoke into the phone. Miss Pearson. he said quietly, this is my fault entirely; Al would have been out of here long since if I hadn't begged him to stay until now and help me. He listened, then nodded. Maybe not. Maybe it wasn't necessary, tonight of all nights; I suppose it's hard for me to judge. A note of wistfulness had come into his voice. For a man like me with nothing to go home to but an apartment with a clock ticking in an empty room, I suppose it's easy to say we'll work right up till the last minute. To consider only the man in jail, innocent, his wife sitting at home, alone and terrified because the man she married is going to prison tomorrow. Unless I somehow find a way to save him. That's why — and I want you to forgive me, Cora — I asked Al to help me tonight; to somehow find a way to save that other girl's husband. His lean, lined face was sad and brooding, and almost as though to himself he murmured, But who knows the truth about what he does? Maybe I was only hunting an excuse to postpone my own loneliness; I can't come to your wedding tonight, and I was looking forward to it. Because Al is my son, Cora. That's how I've come to think of Al. Across the room, holding his phone and listening, Al rolled his eyes to the ceiling. And I simply can't tell you, Max continued, how very much I was looking forward to meeting you, Cora. The phone held between his ear and shoulder, Max lit a cigarette, and exhaled a jet of smoke toward the ceiling. Thank you, my dear, he murmured then. I'm very grateful that you understand. I'll send Al over to get you now and with all my heart I wish I could come, too, and meet you. Your Al is a very lucky man, and I'm glad for him. But I envy him, too. Max hung up.
Al said, I'll be there soon as I'm dressed, honey. Then he smiled gently. I do, too, he murmured. See you very soon. He replaced the phone, and swung to face Max. All right, con man! he said. I'm getting the hell out of here; right now!
Con man, sure. Max smiled. A little bit, anyway; I didn't want your bride mad at you on your wedding night. Now she's happy instead;
you were working to save another girl's husband, and she likes you fine.
Sure. Al was rapidly buttoning his coat. And she likes you fine, too, now. For a minute there, I thought the two of you were going to elope. So long, Max.
One second, Al! Max called. Then you can go.
Al turned. I'm warning you, Max —
But Max had a hand up, wagging it placatingly. All I want to tell you, Al, is that I wasn't conning you completely; give me credit for a little sincerity. I like the sound of her, Al; I really do, and I congratulate you honestly. I wish I could be at your wedding tonight. And meet this girl. I wish it very much.
Max sprang suddenly to his feet, and walked quickly toward Al. Al, let me meet her! he cried. Go get her now, and bring her here; just for a minute! I want to wish her luck. Please, Al; do that for me! He stood staring up at Al, eyes bright with pleading.
Max. I can't. Al spread his hands helplessly. There just isn't time. I've got to tear home, shave, change clothes.
Do it here! Max cried excitedly. You've got your gray courtroom suit here! And clean linen, shoes, everything! Get Cora first, that's all! Bring her here, and let me meet her.
Al stood frowning. Well, he said doubtfully; then, I suppose I could. It wouldn't take any longer, at that.
Max had Al's hand in both of his, gripping it tightly. Wonderful, he said. Al. I'm delighted. Now, get out of here. He gave the younger man a shove. And get Cora up here just as fast as you can.
As the office door closed behind Al, Max turned, and walked to his desk. Standing behind it, he yanked a phone hook from a drawer, and flipped quickly through its pages; then, as his forefinger slid down a column. he found a number.
He dialed, and his lean face looked hawklike, actually predatory. Florence? he said, and leaned forward over the phone intently. This is Max. He listened, then smiled. Well, I've been busy day and night. Literally; you know how it gets sometimes. I thought of you last Tuesday, though; it was just two years ago when you and I— He paused at an interruption, listening, then nodded. You remembered. too? he said softly. I wondered if you would. Listen, Florence. His voice was brisk and rapid now. I need help, and fast; I was afraid you might be on duty. He listened, then said. Well, you can still make it; you'll have time. Because I want you to come here dressed ready to go to work; you can leave directly from here. I'll send you in a cab. Yeah! Yeah! He nodded impatiently. We'll have dinner this week. I'll phone you, and that's a definite promise. Now, here's what I want you to do, and you've got to hurry; listen, and don't interrupt. If you can possibly get hold of this right away — and I think that big Irish friend of yours can help you — I want you to bring something along in the cab; I'll be waiting in front of the building to help you. He continued to talk for thirty seconds; than he said goodbye, glanced at his watch, and began to pace his office.
Some forty minutes later, Al Michaels held open the outer door of Wollheim & Michaels, and his fiancée stepped in past him. She was young, twenty-three at most, wearing a white blouse and a gray felt hat matching her gray suit and shoes, and she was very pretty. Al hurried past her to open the door to the inner office, and she entered it.
Max Wollheim lay on the chaise longue facing them, and beside him, in starched white uniform and cap, stood a nurse. In her hand was a long rubber tube attached to a five-foot cylindrical tank which lay propped against the lounge. The other end of the tube was in Max Wollheim's mouth. For an instant they stood staring at each other — Max and the nurse, Al and his fiancée. Then Max's hand swung up, sweeping the rubber tube from his mouth. Get that thing out of here, he said roughly. I don't need it; I'm fine! He tried to heave himself up from the lounge, smiling at Cora, who stood beside Al. Cora, he said, and held his hands out to her, I'm so glad you came. I'm so happy to see you. Don't let this stuff frighten you. He gestured at the tank beside him. I've got a quack doctor wants a new car, and I guess he's decided I'll pay for it. Come here.
For a moment Cora stood staring; then she accepted Max's outstretched hands. Max. Al was saying. What the hell's wrong?
Nothing's wrong! Been working a little too hard, that's all. Phoned my doctor, and he said a little oxygen was all I needed, and it's done the trick fine. Cora — he took her hands in his — let me just look at you. He smiled into her eyes.
She's a wonderful girl, Al, Max murmured, glancing at him momentarily, then turning back to Cora. Delightful; absolutely delightful. With a final squeeze, he reluctantly released Cora's hands, and turned to Al. Why, it happened right after you left, he said. And it's nothing. Al, just a little spasm, a pain. I almost wonder if it's anything more than simple indigestion.
The nurse sniffed, and brought the rubber tube to Max's mouth again. A little more now, Mr. Wollheim, she said pleadingly. You've got to; two more full breaths at least.
Max shrugged humorously at Al and allowed the tube to enter his mouth. Then he inhaled, slowly and deeply, his eyes closing, and he sank wearily back on the lounge.
Max, what is this? Al demanded. Are you really sick? Or is this some damned tr—
Of course I'm not sick! I'm all right! This is a lot of nonsense! He glared angrily up at the nurse. Al, if my doctor weren't right in this building, I wouldn't even have bothered phoning him. I simply called. and told him what happened. A little pain, that's all; I thought he might send up a pill or something. Instead, he had this frozen-faced nurse and her idiotic tank up here before I knew what was happening.
Mr. Wollheim, the nurse said with quiet fury, the doctor said—
I don't care what he said! Will he go into court and try my case tomorrow? I'll have a few more whiffs from that thing, soon as these people are gone — and you'd better get ready, Al! Then it's out you go, and I'll lock the doors. I've got work to do, and f feel great! Now, just let me talk to my friends, please. Cora — he smiled up at her from the lounge — you're much too good for this unshaven shyster; why don't you marry me? Al, you'll be late!
Listen, Max, Al said, you can't work tonight; don't be a fool. Get a continuance—
I don't work that way, Al. And I'm not changing my methods because of this; I simply won't give in to it. It's not the worst way for a criminal lawyer to go, if that's how it has to be.
Max, you can't, you simply—
I can, and I will! Max shouted, half rising from the lounge to glare at Al; then he sank back. Very gently he said, Al, you thought I was some kind of louse, taking every cent Balderson's got. And you've thought so before in other cases; I've seen it in your eyes. Don't you know why I do it, son? Not for the money! You know that; money's nothing to me, and I'll never let it make me fat and cautious. Al stood staring at him, lips compressed in worry and doubt. But when I take a case, Max Wollheim continued, I want to be committed completely. Don't you see? If I take all a man's got. I can't give anything less in return. It's why I win my cases, he said quietly. There's no retreat, no excuses when you've taken all a man has. Quit, and go home early because I'm tired? Unthinkable. Prepare a case, then shrug if I lose because you can't win them all? Not me, Al, not Max Wollheim. When I lose it's almost more than I can hear. Eyes widening, staring past Al's shoulder, he said, Thomas Wendell, age thirty-one. machinist. Agnes Magannini, age twenty-nine. stenographer. Hubert Rihm, age fifty-two, stock broker. Benjamin Horowitz, age sixty, salesman. Carl—
What are you talking about, Max! Who are they?
Jurors! He glared up at Al. And I can name all the rest! The jury in the people versus Edwin Stieglitz, charged with first-degree murder. They convicted him! My client! And he died in the gas chamber at San Quentin prison.
Staring, Al murmured, When was that?
Eleven years ago. And I've been retrying the case in my mind ever since. At night I lie in bed thinking about it. He shook his head. I cannot lose, Al; it's not permitted to me. And so I'll work tonight ? he smiled at Al and Cora. With a tube in my mouth, if I have to. And when I've proved Balderson innocent tomorrow, you're right; I'll blow the whole fee. Al, get out of here; d
on't keep this girl waiting. And I've got work to do.
For a moment longer, Al stood staring at the man on the lounge; then he glanced at the girl beside him. She took his arm, and led him away to the front of the office, by the windows. You want to help him, don't you? she said gently. You feel that you've got to, don't you, darling? That you can't walk out, and leave this man here like that.
Look, honey. Al looked down at her upturned face, his eyes tender and disturbed. We've planned this for months. We've postponed it three times because of my work. Because of Max.
But she was shaking her head. Could you enjoy our honeymoon? she said softly. I couldn't; suppose Mr. Wollheim died!
He can get a continuance, damn him!
But will he? Al shook his head, and the girl put a hand on his arm. Darling, I know what you think you ought to do; I can tell. Well, we can postpone this it we have to, sweetheart; it isn't as though we had a church full of people waiting. And if that's how it has to be, then I guess we'd better just face it. He didn't answer and once again she touched his arm. Come on, she said. Let's go tell him.
At a quarter to ten the next day, Cora Pierson entered the courtroom of Judge Wallace N. Hackster wearing a dark-green sweater, a tweed skirt, and a tan camel's hair coat; she looked very pretty. Cora paused at the rear of the room, hunting a vacant seat. Glancing toward the front of the room, on the other side of a low wooden railing, she saw the back of a magnificent graying head, and knew this must be Max Wollheim. He was sitting at the long defense counsel's table leaning comfortably back in his chair, and Cora wondered whether he might still be ill.