by Max Shulman
“Yes, your honor,” I said briskly.
“I have to appoint a public defender in a trial that is coming up next Monday. The defendant is so palpably guilty that no lawyer with an ounce of brains will touch the case. So I called you.”
“I hope you will find me worthy of your confidence,” I said simply.
“His name is Sam Hiff and he’s in the county jail,” said the judge and threw me out of the room, indicating that the interview was over.
I went at once to see Sam Hiff, whom I found to be an attractive cross-eyed man with eczema. “How do you do?” I said. “I’m Harry Riddle and I’ve been appointed by the court to represent you.”
“They couldn’t get nobody else, huh?” asked Hiff.
I shook my head.
“You look pretty stupid, hey.”
I made a moue.
“Well,” he shrugged, “I guess I’m stuck with you, hey.”
“That’s the spirit, Mr. Hiff,” I said, clapping his fat back. “Now let’s get down to business. If I’m to be your attorney, I will require you to be absolutely truthful with me. First of all, Mr. Hiff, are you innocent?”
“Yeh,” he replied.
I seized his hand thankfully. “That’s what I wanted to hear, Mr. Hiff. You may rest assured that I will leave no stone unturned in my efforts to disprove this monstrous accusation that has been brought against you. Trust me, Mr. Hiff, trust me.”
Giving his hand a final squeeze, I left the cell. When I got home later, it occurred to me that I should have asked him what he was accused of. But I decided not to go back and ask him, thinking that such a move might impair his confidence in me.
The case of the State vs. Sam Hiff opened at nine o’clock Monday morning under the able direction of Judge Ralph Schram, who threatened to disbar both Swanson, the district attorney, and me if we did not wind up the trial in time for him to attend an execution early that afternoon. In the interests of speed, Swanson and I picked the jury by the simple process of accepting the first twelve veniremen who came before us, notwithstanding the fact that four of them were deaf-mutes. By nine-twenty the jury was sworn, and Swanson rose to deliver the opening statement of the prosecution.
At this moment I was still not aware of the charge against Sam Hiff, but I was not disturbed. I was sure that I would learn the charge from Swanson’s opening address and that I could prepare an instant rebuttal. In addition to being a sensitive, retiring person, I am also a quick thinker.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” said Swanson with a nervous glance at Judge Schram, who sat frowning over a stop watch, “I will not waste your time with any long oration. The state intends to bring this trial swiftly to its inevitable conclusion …”
“Come on, come on,” snapped Judge Schram.
“We will prove,” continued Swanson, “that the defendant Hiff has large deposits in several banks, that he has various sources of income, that he lives in a luxurious apartment filled with costly furniture. At the conclusion of the State’s case, you will have no choice except to find the defendant guilty as charged. Thank you.” He sat down.
I could only conclude from Swanson’s remarks that Hiff was on trial for being a wealthy man. I did not know when the possession of large sums of money had been made a crime, for I had not kept up with recent legislation, but I was filled with a sense of outrage. This kind of thing struck at the very fundament of our republic. This was no longer merely the case of the State vs. Sam Hiff; this was Americanism vs. un-Americanism, totalitarianism vs. democracy. I leaped to my feet and strode across the court to the jury.
“I trust counsel for the defense will not dawdle for forty-three seconds as did the prosecution,” said Judge Schram.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I said rapidly, “what I have to say is brief. Sam Hiff is a rich man. I say this proudly. Sam Hiff is a rich man …”
There was a puzzled murmur among the spectators, and Judge Schram jailed them all for contempt.
“If you return a verdict of guilty against the wealthy defendant Hiff,” I continued, “you will be returning a verdict of guilty against George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Andrew Carnegie, Bernard Baruch, and other Americans who have made this country great. Thank you.”
I sat down and noted with satisfaction the effects of my speech. The jurors sat stupefied, looking at each other askance. At the prosecution table Swanson and his assistants were in animated conversation. The reporters covering the trial were rushing to telephones. Even Judge Schram was impressed; he sat shaking his head slowly.
“Well,” I said to Hiff with permissible pride, “what did you think of that?”
“I didn’t know that Washington and Carnegie and Baruch and all them guys was relief chiselers, hey,” he said.
“What?” I said.
“I didn’t know they took relief checks from the county welfare board like I done.”
“Mr. Hiff,” I said, aghast, “can you possibly mean that you are charged with accepting relief checks while you had a private income?”
“How do you like that, hey?” mused Hiff. “George Washington! I never even knew they had relief in them days.”
I could see it was true. “Mr. Hiff,” I said frankly, “I have made a terrible mistake.”
“Don’t worry about it, hey,” he answered, baring his Hutchinson’s teeth in a kindly smile. “You just prove that Washington and them guys was relief chiselers and they ain’t a jury in the country would convict me.”
“Mr. Hiff,” I said, “if you wish to retain another counsel, I stand ready to withdraw.”
“You nuts?” he asked, giving me a playful push. “If I hire myself a mouthpiece, then they know I got dough and I’m licked. I got to take whatever they give me, even a punk like you, hey. But,” he added, “I got to admit you sure pulled one out of the hat. George Washington! Jeez!”
“Mr. Hiff, there’s something you must know. George Washington was not a relief chiseler, nor any of those people I mentioned.”
His jaw flew open. “So why,” he asked in a strangled voice, “did you tell the jury I was a rich man, hey?”
“It was an error,” I admitted with a wry smile. “But not irreparable,” I added. “In the first place, four of the jurors didn’t hear me. As for the rest, I am confident that I can prove to them that you are a poor man and needed those relief checks. For, by your own admission, Mr. Hiff, you are innocent, and I offer you my solemn pledge that you will be freed.”
“What,” he cried, clutching his head with both hands, “did I get myself into? Why didn’t I cop a plea?”
“Truth crushed to earth,” I continued, “shall rise again. Depend on me, Mr. Hiff. I shall not fail you.”
“Ah, shaddup,” said the defendant.
“The State will damn well call its first witness,” said Judge Schram.
Swanson promptly called a man named Homer Lascoulie, who was rushed to the witness chair by two bailiffs and hurriedly sworn. “What is your occupation, Mr. Lascoulie?” asked Swanson.
“I am cashier of the First National Bank.”
“Are you familiar with the defendant Hiff?”
“Yes, I have seen him at the bank making deposits on many occasions.”
Swanson walked over to the exhibits table, picked up a large filing card, and returned to the witness. “Do you recognize this card, Mr. Lascoulie?”
“Yes. It is one of the cards we use at the bank to record the balances of depositors.”
Swanson handed him the card. “Will you read the name on the card, please?”
“Sam Hiff.”
“Now will you read the balance which is recorded there?”
“$14,896.20.”
“The State offers this card in evidence as Exhibit A,” said Swanson.
“I object, your worship,” I cried, rising to my feet.
“Ah, shaddup,” said Judge Schram.
“Your witness,” said Swanson to me.
“No questions,” I said,
for indeed I could not think of any.
Swanson then called in rapid succession the cashier of the Fanners and Merchants National Bank, who testified that Hiff had $9,106.53 on deposit there, the cashier of the Main Street Savings Bank, who testified that Hiff had $4,653.08 on deposit there, the cashier of the Commerical Bank and Trust Company, who testified that Hiff had $17,094.80 on deposit there, a man named One-Eye Harrison, who testified that he was employed in a billiard parlor owned by Hiff, a man named Brains Ellingboe, who testified that he was employed in a pinball-machine business owned by Hiff, a man named Dirtyface Hogan, who testified that he was employed in a bar and grill owned by Hiff, the landlord of the Elmhurst Park Towers, who testified that Hiff paid $400 a month for his quarters in that apartment house, the manager of the Bon-Ton Furniture Emporium, who testified that Hiff had paid him $8,965.38 to furnish his apartment, and the manager of the Bicycle Playing Cards Corporation, who testified that Hiff had ordered a boxcar of pinochle decks from him.
Although I was sure that there was some simple explanation to account for all the facts brought out by these witnesses, I could not for the moment think of it and I was forced to let them all go without cross-examination. I kept patting Hiff’s arm reassuringly through all the testimony, but he did not seem to take much comfort from it. He sat slack-jawed and dull-eyed—until the State called Esme Geddes to the stand. Then he perked up.
“Lookit, hey,” he said eagerly to me as Miss Geddes took the witness stand. “Now there is my idea of a real piece.”
It was mine too, frankly, but I should not have put it so vulgarly. Miss Geddes did not have the spare frame that is so highly regarded by modern young women; she had instead a toothsome sleekness. There was flesh on this girl, and although it did not sag, there was no place on her body that would not provide satisfaction to a man bent on pinching. Her face was round and pert, with full, soft lips and eyes of deep blue. Her hair was the color of honey.
A young woman of Miss Geddes’s contours would ordinarily give the impression of voluptuousness, even carnality. Not so Miss Geddes. There was a levelness in her blue eyes, an attitude in her erect carriage that spoke only of good breeding, of honesty, straightforwardness, principle, and dignity. A fine young woman, it was clear. A noble young woman; an American princess.
“Did you ever see a pair of knockers like that in your life?” asked Hiff.
As a matter of fact, I had not, but I did not reply.
Miss Geddes settled herself in the witness chair and pulled her simple but expensive frock over her knees. She took the oath, Judge Schram pinched her, and Swanson began the questioning.
“Your name is Esme Geddes?”
“Yes.”
“And you are with the county welfare board?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of work do you do for the county welfare board?”
“Investigating relief clients, mainly. Sometimes I am sent out to shame an unwed mother, but mainly I investigate relief clients.”
“You were the investigator in the case of the defendant Hiff?”
“Yes. We became suspicious after he had called for his relief check several times in a chauffeur-driven car.”
“Did you go to the defedant Hiff’s apartment at the Elmhurst Park Towers?”
“Yes.”
“Will you describe the apartment for his honor and the jury?”
“I cannot recommend its décor, but I am sure it was very expensively furnished. The marble bathtub in the living room alone must have cost ten thousand dollars.”
“How did the defendant Hiff greet you when you arrived?”
“He kissed my hand.”
“Romance ’em, I always say,” said Hiff, tugging my arm. “A broad likes to be romanced, I don’t care who it is.”
I jerked my sleeve distastefully from his grasp.
“Then what happened, Miss Geddes?”
“He chased me around the marble bathtub until he became winded.”
“I got to quit smoking,” said Hiff to me.
I looked at him with loathing.
“Then what happened, Miss Geddes?”
“I asked him why he was on relief.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he was out of work.”
“What did you say?”
“I asked him what kind of work he did.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he was a horsecar conductor.”
“What did you say?”
“I asked him if he had tried to find another job.”
“What did he say?”
“He said: ‘What do you want to be a nosy Parker for? Sit down and I’ll fix you a drink. You’ll feel like a new broad.’”
“What did you say?”
“I declined with thanks.”
“What did he say?”
“He pushed me down on a twenty-four-foot divan covered in cloth of gold and started to make advances.”
“Yup,” nodded Hiff. “That’s what I did, hey.”
I growled in my throat; there was a red film over my eyes.
“What did you say?”
“I said: ‘Whatever can you be thinking of, Mr. Hiff?’”
“What did he say?”
“He did not answer the question but grasped me about the neck and proceeded to conduct himself in a most ungentlemanly manner.”
That was too much. Seizing a volume of Corpus Juris which was lying on the defense table, I swung it with all my force into the mouth of the defendant Hiff. “You cad!” I shrieked. “You unspeakable, unspeakable cad!” I threw him to the floor and leaped up and down on his head. He scrambled to his feet and tried to run from the room, but I threw a small juror at him and knocked him down again. I should have certainly killed him had I not been overcome by several bailiffs.
At length I was quieted and placed in a restraining jacket to await contempt proceedings.
CHAPTER 3
I was so exhausted after my amok that I slept around the clock. Although sleeping in this circular position was uncomfortable, I managed to put in almost eight hours. Shortly after I woke, the jailer unlocked my cell and told me that my bail had been posted and I was free to go.
“Who paid my bail?” I asked the desk sergeant on my way out.
“I did,” said a feminine voice.
“Why, Miss Geddes!” I exclaimed, for it was she.
My heart began to pound wildly at the sight of her, and I felt like leaping about the room fawn-fashion. But after my recent outburst, I thought I had better control my feelings, lest she think me unstable. I confined my enthusiasm to jumping up and down in a standing position.
“I hope you don’t think I’m intefering,” said Miss Geddes. “I felt that the least I could do was to put up your bail after what you did for me.”
“It was nothing that any red-blooded manic-depressive wouldn’t have done,” I murmured.
“You are too modest, Mr. Riddle,” she said. “It was the most gallant act I have ever seen in my life.”
I jumped up and down faster.
“Please,” said the desk sergeant, “would you mind jumping someplace else? You’re making the water in my foot bath slop over.”
“Of course,” I said. “Miss Geddes, would you like to go out for a good five-cent cup of coffee?”
“I’d love to,” she replied, “but it must be Dutch treat.”
“Very well,” I smiled. I offered her my patched but clean arm and we went to a funny little place that I knew.
After we had finished laughing at the funny little place, we started to talk. “Tell me about yourself,” I said.
“There’s nothing much to tell,” she disclaimed modestly. “I’m just like any other beautiful girl with superior breeding and intelligence.”
“How do you happen to be working for the county welfare board?”
“It’s only temporary. I’m gathering material for a paper about slums that I’m going to read to the Junior League.�
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“That must be fascinating,” I said, clapping my hands. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, I’m doing a survey of this city, showing the correlation between slum areas and crime. Here, I’ll show you.” She took a map of the city from her handbag and spread it on the table. “Here,” she said, indicating an exclusive residential section on the edge of town, “there is very little crime. Here”—she pointed out a rather shabby residential section closer to the commercial district—“there is a marked increase in the crime rate. And here”—she laid her finger on a slum bordering the railroad tracks—“is a veritable nest of crime.”
“That’s where I live,” I said.
“You do?” she asked, registering keen interest. “Are you a slum child?”
“I was,” I smiled. “Now I guess you’d call me a slum man.”
“But this is wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been wanting to get a good, intimate interview with a slum dweller. So far I’ve had no luck. I’ve tried to draw out some of the relief clients I’ve investigated, but they’ve all been so surly … downright hostile, some of them. One woman hit me with a darning egg.”
“My mother, I’ll wager,” I chuckled.
“Do you mean that you live in that tar-paper hovel by the coalyards?”
I nodded modestly.
“This is better than I expected!” she cried happily. She took a notebook and pencil from her bag and put on a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles. “I’m so lucky that I found you.”
“My feelings exactly,” I said and reddened at my boldness.
“Would you mind answering a few questions, Mr. Riddle?”
“Anything. Anything at all.”
She poised the pencil over the notebook. “Do you have pellagra?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Hm,” she said with some disappointment, but quickly rallied her spirits. “Do you find each crime easier to commit as you go along?”
“Well, I don’t know—” I temporized.
“I had hoped, Mr. Riddle,” she said coldly, “that you would be more co-operative.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Why, yes, I believe each crime would be successively easier.”