Lawrence Block - Enough Rope

“Oh, dear,” said Ehrengraf. “No, I think not. I can sometimes work miracles, Mr. Wheeler, or what have the appearance of miracles, but I can work them only on behalf of the innocent. And I don’t think the power exists to persuade me of poor Mr. Grodek’s innocence. No, I fear the man is guilty, and I’m afraid he’ll be forced to pay for what he’s done.” The little lawyer shook his head. “Do you know Longfellow, Mr. Wheeler?”

“Old Henry Wadsworth, you mean? ‘By the shores of Gitche Gumee, by the something Big-Sea-Water’? That Longfellow?”

“The shining Big-Sea-Water,” said Ehrengraf. “Another client reminded me of ‘The Village Blacksmith,’ and I’ve been looking into Longfellow lately. Do you care for poetry, Mr. Wheeler?”

“Not too much.”

“ ‘In the world’s broad field of battle,’ ” Ehrengraf said,

“ ‘In the bivouac of Life,

“ ‘Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

“ ‘Be a hero in the strife!’ ”

“Well,” said Evans Wheeler, “I suppose that’s good advice, isn’t it?”

“None better, sir. ‘Let us then be up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait.’ ”

“Ah, yes,” said Wheeler.

“ ‘Learn to labor and to wait,’ ” said Ehrengraf. “That’s the ticket, eh? ‘To labor and to wait.’ Longfellow, Mr. Wheeler. Listen to the poets, Mr. Wheeler. The poets have the answers, haven’t they?” And Ehrengraf smiled, with his lips and with his eyes.

“I’ve been givingthis a lot of thought,” Dale McCandless said. “Actually, there’s not much you can do around here but think.”

Ehrengraf glanced around the cell, wondering to what extent it was conducive to thought. There were, it seemed to him, no end of other activities to which the little room would lend itself. There was a bed on which you could sleep, a chair in which you could read, a desk at which you might write the Great American Jailhouse Novel. There was enough floor space to permit pushups or situps or running in place, and, high overhead, there was the pipe that supported the light fixture, and that would as easily support you, should you contrive to braid strips of bedsheet into a rope and hang yourself.

Ehrengraf rather hoped the young man wouldn’t attempt the last-named pursuit. He was, after all, innocent of the crimes of which he stood accused. All you had to do was look at him to know as much, and the little lawyer had not even needed to do that. He’d been convinced of his client’s innocence the instant the young man had become a client. No client of Martin H. Ehrengraf could ever be other than innocent. This was more than a presumption for Ehrengraf. It was an article of faith.

“What I think would work for me,” young McCandless continued, “is the good old Abuse Excuse.”

“The Abuse Excuse?”

“Like those rich kids in California,” McCandless said. “My father was all the time beating up on me and making me do stuff, and I was in fear for my life, blah blah blah, so what else could I do?”

“Your only recourse was to whip out a semiautomatic assault rifle,” Ehrengraf said, “and empty a clip into the man.”

“Those clips empty out in no time at all. You touch the trigger and the next thing you know the gun’s empty and there’s fifteen bullets in the target.”

“Fortunately, however, you had another clip.”

“For Mom,” McCandless agreed. “Hey, she was as abusive as he was.”

“And you were afraid of her.”

“Sure.”

“Your mother was in a wheelchair,” Ehrengraf said gently. “She suffered from multiple sclerosis. Your father walked with a cane as the result of a series of small strokes. You’re a big, strapping lad. Hulking, one might even say. It might be difficult to convince a jury that you were in fear for your life.”

“That’s a point.”

“If you’d been living with your parents,” Ehrengraf added, “people might wonder why you didn’t just move out. But you had in fact moved out some time ago, hadn’t you? You have your own home on the other side of town.”

Dale McCandless nodded thoughtfully. “I guess the only thing to do,” he said, “is play the Race Card.”

“The Race Card?”

“Racist cops framed me,” he said. “They planted the evidence.”

“The evidence?”

“The assault rifle with my prints on it. The blood spatters on my clothes. The gloves.”

“The gloves?”

“They found a pair of gloves on the scene,” McCandless said. “But I’ll tell you something nobody else knows. If I were to try on those gloves, you’d see that they’re actually a size too small for me. I couldn’t get my hands into them.”

“And racist cops planted them.”

“You bet.”

Ehrengraf put the tips of his fingers together. “It’s a little difficult for me to see the racial angle here,” he said gently. “You’re white, Mr. McCandless.”

“Yeah, right.”

“And both your parents were white. And all of the police officers involved in the investigation are white. All of your parents’ known associates are white, and everyone living in that neighborhood is white. If there were a woodpile at the scene, I’ve no doubt we’d find a Caucasian in it. This is an all-white case, Mr. McCandless, and I just don’t see a race card for us to play.”

“Rats,” Dale McCandless said. “If the Abuse Excuse is out and there’s no way to play the Race Card, I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this. The only thing left is the Rough Sex defense, and I suppose you’ve got some objection to that, too.”

“I think it would be a hard sell,” Ehrengraf said.

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“It seems to me you’re trying to draw inspiration from some high-profile cases that don’t fit the present circumstances. But there is one case that does.”

“What’s that?”

“Miss Elizabeth Borden,” Ehrengraf said.

McCandless frowned in thought. “Elizabeth Borden,” he said. “I know Elsie Borden, she’s married to Elmer and she gives condensed milk. Even if Elsie’s short for Elizabeth, I don’t see how—”

“Lizzie,” Ehrengraf pointed out, “is also short for Elizabeth.”

“Lizzie Borden,” McCandless said, and his eyes lit up. “Oh, yeah. A long time ago, right? Took an axe and gave her mother forty whacks?”

“So they say.”

“ ‘And when she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.’ I remember the poem.”

“Everybody remembers the poem,” Ehrengraf said. “What everyone forgets is that Miss Borden was innocent.”

“You’re kidding. She got off?”

“Of course she did,” Ehrengraf said. “The jury returned a verdict of Not Guilty. And how could they do otherwise, Mr. McCandless? The woman was innocent.” He allowed himself a small smile. “Even as you and I,” he said.

“Innocent,” Dale McCandlesssaid. “What a concept.”

“All my clients are innocent,” Ehrengraf told him. “That’s what makes my work so gratifying. That and the fees, of course.”

“Speaking of which,” McCandless said, “you can set your mind to rest on that score. Even if they wind up finding me guilty and that keeps me from inheriting from my parents, I’ve still got more than enough to cover whatever you charge me. See, I came into a nice piece of change when my grandmother passed away.”

“Is that what enabled you to buy a house of your own?”

“It set me up pretty good. I’ve got the house and I’ve got money in the bank. See, I was her sole heir, so when she took a tumble on the back staircase, everything she had came to me.”