J. Jones: The Third Place

Werthen kept a keen eye on the judge, Dr Felix Landauer. It was after lunch, and Landauer, dubbed ‘lounging Landauer’ for good reason, was suppressing a monumental yawn following his intestinally challenging meal of gulyasch soup followed by four sausages, red cabbage and parsley potatoes, topped off with a cheese plate and palatschinken with chocolate sauce, and all washed down with a liter of the finest Gumpoldskirchen white wine.

It gave Werthen indigestion just to recall the litany of food- stuffs he had witnessed the judge ingest at Kulauer’s Restaurant and Weinhaus, favorite of the legal elite of Vienna.

It was just as Dr Landauer lifted an insouciant hand over his mouth to cover a yawn that Werthen made his announcement.

‘I think we can all agree that it was too dark for Herr Karlsen to recognize the defendant. Too dark for him to identify even his own mother.’

He gave the seven men of the jury his meaningful glance, to let them know he understood they were not fools to be led by the nose by Advokat Pinkop, the prosecutor.

Pinkop, of course, chafed at this, interrupting in a chirrupy voice that brought Landauer out of his near somnolence, sputtering and blowing and jiggling his jowls like a whale breeching.

‘I must protest, Advokat Werthen,’ Pinkop said in a voice that sounded like he was in training for the Vienna Choir Boys. ‘That is supposition on your part. Darkness has not been established in evidence.’

Pinkop looked to Landauer for assistance, and the judge, not knowing where legality lay but not much liking Werthen on principle for his activities as a private inquiries agent in addition to his lawyerly duties, agreed with the prosecutor.

‘My apologies to the court,’ Werthen said, and once again shot a meaningful look toward the jurors.

In the event, said jurors had no need to leave the august precinct of the courtroom to reach their verdict. Five to two for acquittal.

‘By damn, that was well done.’ Werthen’s client, Herr Vogelsang, clapped him on the back, as well he should. If convicted of breaking the arm of his arch-rival on the tennis courts, Vogelsang could have gotten four years.

‘Nothing to thank me for, Herr Vogelsang,’ Werthen said, gathering his papers. ‘Perspicacious jurors. They could see you were innocent.’

‘Clever of you about the lighting. Never occurred to me.’

Werthen smiled, not responding and not wishing to continue the conversation. Truth be told, he did not care for Vogelsang, not in the courtroom and not on the tennis court. The man tended to be full of bombast in both spheres. The type to puff out his chest after hitting a forehand winner on the line.

‘You were absolutely right, though, Advokat. Karlsen couldn’t have seen me that night. Not plainly, anyway. Hah, what a genius you are.’

The comment chilled Werthen to the bone and he shivered uncontrollably. He dropped his file, papers floating down around him like autumn leaves.

Vogelsang bent to help him retrieve them, and it took all of Werthen’s will power to keep his hands off the man.

‘I’ll see to that,’ he murmured, gesturing Vogelsang away.

Now he remembered why he had given up criminal law for so many years.

And he wished he could rid the system of the prohibition against double indemnity.

He had just managed to get a guilty man off.

At the office later that afternoon, he was still fuming. Familiar with the symptoms of such disappointment and utter disgust, he could also recognize them clearly in the face of their young office boy, Franzl Hruda, who brought him the afternoon papers.

‘Why so glum, young man?’

Franzl shrugged, puffing his lips. ‘Don’t know.’

‘I’ll bet you do. You’re usually the sunny one around here. Not feeling well?’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘It’s not that, Herr Advokat.’

‘Werthen,’ the lawyer corrected. ‘Herr Werthen will do.’

‘It’s just … well, just that my aunt can’t afford them, you see, says they’re silly and not something a young man like me needs, birthday or no birthday.’

‘Perhaps we can slow down and take it point by point,’ Werthen said. ‘By birthday, I assume you mean it is your birthday?’

A sullen nod.

‘Well congratulations, Franzl. How old are you then?’

‘Eleven, Herr Ad- Herr Werthen.’

‘Wonderful age, eleven,’ Werthen said. Though recalling now his eleventh birthday at Hohelande, his family estate in Upper Austria, he could sympathize with the youth.

‘And what is it your aunt cannot afford?’

Franzl chewed his lower lip for a moment. ‘She’s right, I guess. It is silly. I mean, I’ll never be an artist.’

‘You would make a difficult witness to question in court, Franzl.’

‘Oh, right. Sorry. I just had my eye on a box of charcoals for sketching. Lovely to work with, they are.’

Werthen nodded at this admission. ‘Your aunt sounds like a practical sort of woman, Franzl.’

‘You’re right about that,’ the boy said sullenly.

Werthen caught himself from making further excuses for the boy’s guardian. No need for further explanation. He put himself into the shoes of this eleven-year-old and remembered his own disappointment at that same age when, in love with words and writing, he had desperately wanted the 1872 revised edition of the complete works of Shakespeare translated by Schlegel and Tieck; instead, he had gotten a Purdey twelve-gauge shotgun.

It’ll make a man of you, his father had said. Books are fine when you have a grand library to put them in. But a gun, now that will teach you about life, about the hard facts.

‘So how about taking a walk?’ Werthen said, catching Franzl off guard.

‘I’ve got the afternoon rounds coming up, sir.’

‘I’m sure we can put them off for an hour or so. After all, it’s not every day a chap turns eleven.’

Outside, the afternoon had turned chill – it was still several days until the first of spring. Franzl had almost to run in order to keep up with Werthen as the lawyer strode purposefully toward the Graben. Once there, they went to mid-block and Franzl followed him through the doors to Pichler’s, an art supply store that had been, as the engraving on its windows announced, in service to the crown for over a century. Werthen could not imagine any of the Habsburgs delighting in a fine set of charcoals or expertly mixed oils, but such products had been available at Pichler’s, one assumed, if anyone from the court should desire them.

Franzl’s face lit up like a Christmas tree as he surveyed the myriad of mahogany racks containing art supplies, from sketching pencils to canvases.

Werthen came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the shop. ‘So, birthday boy, what will it be?’

‘Sir?’ Franzl was confused.

‘It’s your day, so your choice. A set of charcoals if you please, or-’

‘Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t. It wouldn’t feel right. Like I was tricking you or something. Complaining just to make you feel sorry for me.’

Werthen was about to reply that as a lawyer, he was seldom tricked. Then he remembered how Vogelsang had bamboozled him this very day. Yet there was another realization: the tension from that trial was beginning to dissipate. He smiled at the boy.

‘Franzl, I do appreciate your sentiment, and even more so the depth of thought and self-reflection that prompts such a statement. However, I assure you I do not feel manipulated. So, no more arguments. I am your employer and as such I order you to find yourself a fine set of charcoals.’

‘Sir-’ Franzl began, but a mock-stern expression from Werthen stilled him.

Werthen pulled the pocket watch out from his vest pocket. ‘You have ten minutes, young man. Look lively.’