Parnell Hall: The Underground Man

Thorngood looked at him in surprise. “Surely that’s your department.”

“Yeah, but I’d like your input. Suppose I took this case. What possible defense would I have?”

“Surely there are several. Accidental death is one. Self-defense is another. Also the body was nude. That brings up the possibility of rough sex.”

“As the defense tried in the Chambers case.”

“Exactly.”

“That didn’t work.”

“Yes and no. He pled guilty to a lesser charge.”

“Is that what you’re looking for here?”

“Of course not. I want my son freed. But if worst came to worst, you have to consider every possibility.”

Steve looked at him for a moment. Then he shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not taking the case.”

Thorngood looked at him in disbelief. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m offering you a hundred-thousand-dollar cash retainer.”

“I’m turning it down.”

“You can’t turn it down. Not an attorney in your position. It’s too big a case. My attorneys controlled publicity this morning, but that’s all they can do. By tonight it will be all over the media. By tomorrow it will be front-page news. You mentioned the Chambers case. You remember what the publicity was like? Well, this is the same thing. I’m a prominent person. The press will eat it up. It’s a chance for you to make a name for yourself. A young attorney in your position, you can’t turn it down.”

“I just did.”

Thorngood drew himself up. “Why?”

Steve looked him right in the eye. “Because I think your son’s guilty.”

Thorngood’s face hardened. “That’s not your decision to make. You’re not a judge and jury. You’re an attorney. My son is innocent until proven guilty, that’s the law. He has the right to a trial by jury. He has the right to an attorney.”

“Yes, he does,” Steve said. “He just doesn’t have the right to insist that that attorney be me.” Steve stood up. “I’m very sorry.”

Thorngood sat there, not quite believing it. Then he stood, shot Steve a look of contempt, and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Steve turned to Tracy Garvin.

She was staring at him. “Why did you do that?”

“I told you. He’s an important businessman and I didn’t want to waste his time.”

“No, I mean why did you turn him down?”

“You have to ask me that? A guy kills his girlfriend. Rough sex. Can you see me defending that?” Steve clapped his hands together. “All right, Tracy. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s give Mr. Walsh our full attention.”

Steve had a chance to size up Mr. Walsh while Tracy ushered him into the room and sat him in the clients’ chair. The description, he figured, had been accurate. Only it hadn’t gone far enough. Mr. Walsh was indeed unshaven and dressed in the clothes of a street person. But there are street people and street people. Some of them are sniveling and pitiful and helpless. Some of them are loud, truculent and obnoxious. Some of them are nauseatingly polite, thanking and god-blessing each and every person who ignores their entreaties.

Mr. Walsh didn’t fall into any category except the one regarding his appearance. He had a fright wig of snow-white hair framing his unshaven face. The hairs of his stubbly beard were considerably darker, perhaps naturally, or, Steve reflected, perhaps colored by dirt. The latter was certainly possible, as there were dirt smudges on the cheeks and nose.

He wore a flannel shirt, slightly askew and not tucked into his gabardine pants, a sweater-vest fastened by a single button, and a heavy tweed overcoat that had obviously seen better days. The coat looked as if someone had slept in it, which someone obviously had. The overall effect was to give Mr. Walsh the appearance of the most pitiful of street people-the lunatic, the mental incompetent.

Except for the eyes. The eyes belied the whole image. They were sharp and focused and clear.

They took in Steve Winslow at a glance. If Mr. Walsh was surprised by Steve’s appearance, he didn’t show it. If he was impressed, he didn’t show it either. His mouth was set in a straight line. His head was up and his jaw was out, quarrelsomely, as if expecting a fight.

“So,” he said. “You’re Winslow.”

Steve smiled. “That’s right. I’m Steve Winslow. This is my secretary, Tracy Garvin. And you’re Mr. Walsh?”

“That’s right. Jack Walsh.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Walsh?”

Walsh jerked his thumb. “You can tell her to leave.”

Steve smiled again. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Walsh. Miss Garvin is my secretary, takes notes on everything I do. If you don’t want to talk to her, you can’t talk to me. It’s as simple as that.”

Walsh looked at Steve. Then at Tracy. Then back at Steve. With a snort, he flopped himself down in the clients’ chair. “All right. She stays.”

“Fine,” Steve said. He shot Tracy a look, then settled himself behind his desk. “Go ahead, Mr. Walsh. What is it you want?”

“I want to see you about a will.”

Despite himself, Steve couldn’t keep the surprise off his face. He’d expected a personal injury, a grievance against the city, harassment by some police officer or other.

But not this.

“A will?” Steve said.

“Yes, a will,” Walsh said irritably. “What’s the matter? You’re a lawyer, you never heard of a will before?”

“I’ve heard of wills, Mr. Walsh. But I’ve never actually drawn one.”

“Who asked you?”

“No one asked me, but if that’s what you’re after, perhaps you’re in the wrong law office.”

“No, I’m in the right law office, all right.”

“How is that?”

“Because I’m talking to the lawyer. The other office I went, I didn’t get past the damn receptionist.”

“Is that so?” Steve said. “Tell me, how did you find me?”

“Saw your picture in the paper once. Looked like someone might be willing to talk to me.”

“Oh, really? And what paper was that?”

Walsh frowned. “What the hell difference does that make?”

“It doesn’t,” Steve said. “Just making conversation. All right. You want to see me about a will. Whose will?”

“Mine.”

“You want me to draw you a will?”

“I already told you I didn’t.”

“What do you want?”

“Information. Legal advice.”

“About a will?”

“Yes.”

Steve frowned. “That’s not my field of expertise. I do mostly criminal work.”

“You passed the bar, didn’t you? You went to law school?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know enough to answer my questions. At least you should. If you can’t, just say so.”

“All right, Mr. Walsh, why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

“Fine. Here’s the thing. A while back, I made a will. Quite a while back, actually.”

“Leaving what to whom?”

Walsh shook his head. “That’s not important.”

“You may think it’s not,” Steve said. “But I’m a lawyer. If you want advice on a certain document-”

Walsh waved his hands. “No, no, no. You’re getting way ahead of yourself. Just listen. I’ll tell you what the problem is. Then you’ll know if these things are important or not.”

“Fine,” Steve said. “Tell it your way.”

“I will, if you’ll stop interrupting.”

Steve shot Tracy an amused look. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“All right. I made this will. Drawn up by lawyers. Signed in their presence. Signed by witnesses. All nice and fancy and legal.”

“So?”

“Suppose I were to make a new will?”

“What about it?”