Rose-colored Glasses

by Downing, John

  “I didn't know you had a brother,” he said. There was no reason why he should; he and DeBrough had never been close enough that they discussed each other's families.

  “He's being arraigned tomorrow morning. I want you to be there to represent him.”

  “You're going too fast, Terry,” he said, stalling for time to get his bearings. “Tell me more.”

  “My brother was arrested tonight. He's accused of murdering his wife. He's scheduled to be arraigned tomorrow morning at ten. That's all you need to know right now. Will you take the case?”

  Why me? Langley wondered. With all his contacts, why would DeBrough turn to him? It wasn't as though he were an old and valued friend. And it certainly wasn't that his professional reputation was such that it would make him a natural first choice.

  “Wouldn't you rather use a lawyer from the family's law firm?”

  “If I had wanted one of their lawyers, I wouldn't be calling you.” A pause. “They're corporate lawyers, Owen. Most of them have never tried a criminal case.”

  But they could recommend someone, Langley thought.

  “If you're to get here by nine‌—‌I want to talk to you before you see my brother‌—‌you'll have to leave there about seven. I'll send a car to pick you up, if you're agreeable.”

  “What does your brother have to say? Maybe there's someone else he'd prefer to have represent him.”

  “In that case you'll have made the trip for nothing. You'll be well paid for your time.”

  What could he say? He could have said no. He could have said, I'm on vacation here with my fiancée and I can't be bothered. He could have said, I never much liked you, DeBrough, and if your brother's anything like you I don't expect I'll like him, either. He could have said, Something doesn't smell right here; I want some time to think this over. But he didn't say any of those things. He told DeBrough he'd be ready to go at seven.

  Why, he asked himself as he hung up the phone, had he hesitated to take the case? Why hadn't he snapped it up? It wasn't as if business was booming and he wouldn't be able to fit it into his caseload. He was in the midst of the driest spell of his career. The Mylong victory hadn't brought in the parade of high-tone clients he had hoped for. It hadn't brought in clients of any kind. In the six months since the Mylong verdict, he had had maybe a half dozen nickel-and-dime cases to handle, none of which had done the least thing to advance his career or to enhance his bank account. Now here he was being handed the potential breakthrough case every young lawyer hopes for. He should be breaking out the champagne, shouldn't he?

  ***

  Lifting his glass of champagne (which he just happened to have on hand, chilled yet; had somebody tipped him off?), Mr. Redmond said, “To Owen and Fay. May you be as happy as Nina and I have been.”

  ***

  After her parents had retired, Langley drew Fay aside and told her about the phone call. She was disappointed at first to learn that he was going to have to return to the city the next day, but when he told her why her mood changed. She positively bubbled with the enthusiasm he should have felt but didn't.

  And she had a million questions.

  How had DeBrough come to pick him?

  Making no mention of his own reservations, he said, “I knew him in college.”

  “You never told me, Owen.”

  “I knew him for about ten minutes, Fay, in our freshman year. Two ships passing in the night.”

  “You're too modest, Owen. He obviously remembers you. What did he do?” she asked.

  He noted her automatic assumption that DeBrough must have done something. Not what was he accused of, but what did he do.

  “DeBrough didn't do anything,” he told her. “It's his brother I'm going to represent.”

  “What did he do?”

  Langley smiled.

  “What is it?” Fay asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “His brother is accused of murdering his wife.”

  Her expression sobered. A fine thing, he thought; twenty minutes after toasting the years of marital bliss that lay before them, here he was talking about a man murdering his wife.

  But that wasn't what Fay had on her mind. “This could be the Big One, Owen.”

  Indeed it could, he thought. So, again, why wasn't he as tickled at the prospect as Fay was?

  Maybe it was because he believed firmly in the old saw: If something looks too good to be true, it usually is.

  CHAPTER 3

  The next morning, at precisely seven o'clock, a silver-gray Bentley pulled up at the Redmonds' front door. Over Langley's protests, Fay had risen early to see him off. She kissed him goodbye and then waited on the porch to watch the car leave. As it turned the corner, Langley glanced back through the rear window. She was still there, standing in the cold, her hand raised in a wave of farewell.

  Overnight the temperature had risen and much of the snow had melted. Except for piles of gray slush lining the shoulders, the roads were clear. The car moved as though it were floating on air. Langley suspected it would have ridden just as smoothly if it had been riding over broken stones.

  A few minutes before nine the Bentley deposited him before a brownstone located just off Fifth Avenue in the 80s. Mr. DeBrough's club, the chauffeur informed him. He would find Mr. DeBrough waiting for him in the dining room.

  ***

  “I've ordered breakfast,” DeBrough said by way of greeting.

  The food was served by a waiter at the same time more attentive but less obsequious than any Langley had ever encountered, even in the fanciest of restaurants. He and the other servants seemed to know precisely what was expected of them without being asked.

  During breakfast not one word was said about the business that had brought Langley here. DeBrough's behavior reflected the very essence of wealth, Langley thought. If he were meeting Joe Proletariat to discuss the matter of defending his brother in a legal matter‌—‌any legal matter, never mind murder‌—‌they would not first pause to have a burger and a beer. The rich could take their sweet time coming to the point, even when the point was murder.

  While Langley ate, he took in his surroundings. The room was spacious‌—‌in length, width and height‌—‌and opulent. Rich mahogany wainscoting lined the walls to a height of about eight feet; maroon drapes hung from the windows. Although it was a gloriously sunny day and the drapes had been opened to let in every ray of sunlight, the room was dark, but not in a gloomy way. The effect was one of coziness, comfort.

  What Langley saw at once attracted and repelled him. This room, the club, represented everything he aspired to (not that this particular club would ever be attainable to him). At the same time he was rather disappointed in himself for wanting it. What was the club really but a place for self-important people to show off to each other? Look at me, everybody; I'm a big shot, too.

  During the meal DeBrough asked him a few questions about the ride down, about the weather. Only after the dishes had been cleared and coffee served did he come to the point.

  “I imagine you have a few questions, Owen.”

  Only about five hundred. “Tell me about your brother,” he said.

  “My brother was‌—‌is‌—‌adopted. I haven't seen him, or spoken to him, in nineteen years.”

  In other words, Langley thought, you can't tell me anything about him. “How do you know he doesn't have a lawyer of his own in mind?”

  “I doubt he'd have the money to pay for a lawyer.”

  “In that case the court would appoint one for him.”

  “I don't want my brother to be represented by just anybody, unless that's his choice.”

  So, Langley thought. For what, if anything, it was worth, he was not “just anybody.” Still why him when there were a hundred other lawyers DeBrough could have picked?

  “Another thing, Owen. I don't want my brother to know of my involvement.”

  “I can't do that, Terry.”

 
; “I'm afraid he may not accept you if he knows I'm the one who's paying your fee.”

  So it was like that.

  “My brother is‌—‌” DeBrough broke off. “Perhaps I should let you find out for yourself.”

  “Don't pull my chain, Terry. ‘Is’ what?”

  DeBrough lit a cigar. “My brother's a bit odd, Owen.”

  “Everybody's a bit odd,” Langley said.

  DeBrough didn't smile. “Maybe more than a bit,” he said.

  “What exactly are you saying, Terry?”

  “I'd rather you decided for yourself. See him first. If you still have questions, I'll answer them.”

  Langley decided to let it go for now. “The judge may or may not set bail. Most likely not. If he does allow it, are you willing to put up the money?”

  “No.” Without being asked to elaborate, DeBrough added, “I don't want to be responsible if he should do anything while he's out on bail.”

  I'm damn well not going to call you for a character witness, Langley thought. But maybe that had been the purpose of DeBrough's remark: to distance himself as far as possible from what would happen from this point on. DeBrough would pay the bills, but he was not going to get sucked into any scandal.

  “I'm sure you have a lot of other questions, Owen. I wish you would save them until after you see my brother. Then I'll be happy to answer them all.”

  “One more question I'd like the answer to now,” Langley said. “What's in this for you, Terry?”

  “Besides the satisfaction of helping my brother?”

  “Yes. Besides that.”

  DeBrough puffed several times on his cigar.

  “When we met last summer, I believe I told you I was entertaining the thought of running for Mayor next year.”

  Langley remembered that he had danced all around the question.

  “Well,” DeBrough said, “I'm going to run. Just after the New Year I'll be making the announcement. And I have a reasonable chance of winning, if not next year then in '61. It will not do my campaign any good to have a brother‌—‌adopted, or otherwise‌—‌convicted of murder. Even if he is found innocent, the publicity surrounding the trial will not help. I want you to do as much as you can to quiet the publicity. I realize a certain amount is unavoidable. And I want you to do everything you can to defend my brother properly. But if it's not going to help him, I wish you would keep my family‌—‌and me‌—‌out of it.”

  “Are there any skeletons in the family closet I'm liable to trip over in my investigation? I think you should know from the outset, Terry, I'll include any angle of your brother's history that I think will help.”

  DeBrough accepted the question equably. “If you find any skeletons you feel might help my brother, feel free to trot them out.” He paused. “I would ask only one thing. My mother is very ill; in fact, she's dying. I have not told her about what's happened and I don't intend to. Whatever questions you have, I wish you would direct them to me.” He checked his watch. “And now I think it's time you were leaving for the courthouse.”

  Langley had caught the “you.”

  “You're not coming?”

  “I don't think my brother would appreciate seeing me.”

  Oh, really.

  “You may report to me here afterwards, Owen.”

  And so he was dismissed. DeBrough had not offered‌—‌not now, not last night‌—‌one word of gratitude. Langley was his hired hand, nothing more.

  Langley rose.

  “One more thing, Terry,” he said. “What is your brother's name?”

  Up to now DeBrough had parried the toughest of his questions without turning a hair. Suddenly he looked like a contestant in the isolation booth on The $64,000 Question racking his mind for some elusive bit of esoterica. If this was The $64,000 Question, DeBrough would have lost. Time would have run out on him.

  At last he spoke. “My brother's name is Terence.”

  ***

  Langley had always thought that one, perhaps the truest, measure of a man's success was the quality of his opponents. Rocky Marciano hadn't fought just any palooka; he'd fought only ranked contenders. Conversely, a challenger facing Marciano hadn't come to be there by accident; he'd earned his shot at the champ by working his way up the rankings. Even if he lost, he would have the satisfaction of knowing he had fought the very best.

  In his own career Langley had not yet reached that level. His opponents, even the prosecutor who had opposed him in the Mylong murder case, were the palookas of the various borough district attorneys’ offices. No, that wasn't quite fair. His opponents, like most A.D.A.s, were young, untested lawyers just out of law school. They joined the D.A.'s office to acquire courtroom experience, and when they had acquired it they moved on. In a real sense, the D.A.'s office was a training ground, maybe the best there was, for new lawyers, offering on-the-job experience. Few stayed past a couple of years. Of those who stayed longer, most did so knowing they wouldn't be able to make it on their own. A few stayed for other reasons.

  Evan Crandall was, at age 42, the senior A.D.A. in the Brooklyn D.A.'s office, and the most able. A lucrative career in private practice was his any time he wanted it. But year after year he remained in a job that was financially and professionally a dead end. His reason for staying was known only to himself. Perhaps he liked the work, preferring to put criminals in prison rather than spring them out. Perhaps he liked being the big fish in the little pond. Perhaps he hoped one day to use his office as a springboard to a political career. Whatever his reason, he was the undisputed champ in his particular arena. While his record was not the equal of Marciano (who had retired from the ring undefeated only months earlier), he had a remarkably high success rate. Making it even more remarkable was the fact that it had been compiled against the best defense attorneys in the business, in some of the most difficult cases to come before the Supreme Court of Kings County. His next opponent was Owen Langley.

  And there the boxing analogy broke down. For it was not due to any personal achievement of Langley’s that the match-up with Crandall was happening. Nor was it due to the importance of the client he was going to represent.

  In New York City, for all practical purposes, there was but one political party. It controlled City Hall and all of the Borough Halls, except that of Staten Island. Crandall's boss belonged to the party. DeBrough would represent the party if and when he ran for Mayor.

  Not that the fix was in. Hardly. Crandall had a reputation for unflagging honesty and tenacity. He would do his damnedest to see Langley's client convicted; Langley had no illusions about that. At the same time, he knew, Crandall was expected to guard DeBrough's rear flank, more or less the same assignment he had been given.

  Crandall was expecting him. Greeting Langley with a firm handshake, he waved him to a chair next to his desk.

  “I've arranged a room for you to speak with Burden, Mr. Langley.”

  It was an unusual accommodation. Ordinarily a first meeting with a client who was minutes away from being arraigned would take place in the holding pens. Langley had met more than one client in the courtroom.

  Pretending not to know why this extraordinary courtesy was being offered, he thanked Crandall.

  “Is that what he calls himself‌—‌Burden?”

  “It's the name he had on his library card,” Crandall said. “You can ask him yourself what he likes to be called. While you're at it, you might see if you can prevail upon him to speak with us.”

  “My job is to see to it that he keeps his mouth shut.”

  “He doesn't need you for that, Mr. Langley. Since his arrest Wednesday night, he hasn't said anything to anybody. Not one word. He refuses even to acknowledge who he is.”

  “Sounds pretty sensible to me,” Langley said, thinking it was downright bizarre. He'd sensed something in DeBrough's words earlier. Now he knew what DeBrough had been dancing around: the possibility that Burden was unbalanced. Perhaps, even, not compete
nt to stand trial? Crandall was not going to throw him any advantage in that regard; Langley would have to make his own assessment of Burden's mental state and his own determination of how to proceed from there.

  ***

  Except for a crude wooden table and two chairs, the room was bare. Through a small, barred window, the clock tower of the Williamsburgh bank was visible.

  Langley had been waiting about five minutes when the door opened and the prisoner was led in by two court officers. He knew, of course, that he was not meeting DeBrough's real brother. Still he was taken aback by the man's appearance. DeBrough stood about five, ten and weighed around 160 pounds; he was poised, with perfect posture; in a tuxedo or in his skivvies, he was a DeBrough from head to toe, and could never be mistaken for anything else. The man who stood before Langley now was six feet, three or four; approximately 220 pounds, with massive arms and shoulders; he was unshaven, his hair poorly cut and uncombed; he was wearing jeans and a corduroy shirt, both of which were dirty and rank; he had a scar above his right eye and a misshapen nose that had been broken more than once. There was, Langley thought, no way to disguise him: you could wash and powder him, dress him in white tie and tails; at the same time take DeBrough, outfit him in overalls and roll him around in mud, then stand the two of them before a To Tell the Truth panel‌—‌and a blind man could pick out the real DeBrough. How, he wondered, had this man ever fit in the DeBrough family?

  “My name is Owen Langley,” he said. “I'm a lawyer.”

  Burden didn't react. He remained standing by the door, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Langley. He hadn't taken them off Langley since he'd entered the room.

  “Won't you sit down, Mr. Burden?”

  Langley sat, hoping that Burden would follow his example. Burden didn't move a muscle. Looking up at him, Langley felt like Gulliver in the land of Brobdingnag.

  “In a little while,” he said, “you're going to be arraigned. It's a formality. Nothing to be concerned about.” No, he thought, you're only going to be charged with murder. “We may learn a bit about what the State's case entails. But first”‌—‌he wished to hell Burden would sit down‌—‌“I have to know if you'll accept me as your lawyer.”