A Handy Death

“That’s not quite the way I heard the story,” Ross said mildly. “I heard that a capable lawyer was assigned to you by the court, and that you fired him. And accepted a far inferior lawyer from the court the next time. And then went to jail.”

Dupaul looked at him pityingly. “You call Gorman a good lawyer?”

“You’re apt to find out just how good in a very short time,” Ross said evenly. “He may or may not be in the courtroom, but he’ll be directing the prosecution every step of the way.”

“Some good lawyer! He thought I was guilty. He didn’t believe a single word I told him.”

Calmly, Ross replied, “A lawyer doesn’t automatically have to believe every word his client tells him in order to defend that client.”

“My lawyer does,” Dupaul said flatly. “Believe it! And even if a lawyer doesn’t have to believe every word his client tells him, he also doesn’t have to broadcast the fact that he thinks his client is a liar.” The deep-set blue eyes held those of Ross steadily. “Or do you consider that good legal practice also, Mr. Ross?”

“No,” Ross said, “I don’t.”

“Plus the fact that there’s one time my lawyer better damned well believe me, and that’s when I’m telling the truth! Or he gets fired — good, bad, or indifferent. Hell!” Dupaul said angrily. “Maybe Mr. Hogan wasn’t the best lawyer in the world, but at least he believed me. I wasn’t lying. In fact, if I’d paid attention to him the way I should have instead of being a meathead, I’d never have seen the inside of a jail! Mr. Hogan had this story cooked up for me to say—”

“That Neeley made a sexual advance?”

The hard, suspicious look returned to Billy Dupaul’s face.

“How’d you know?”

“I know about the case. It would have been a logical defense.”

“Well, I wouldn’t let him use it, but he doesn’t rate the blame on that score. It wasn’t his fault I was a hard-nose. But at that time, nineteen stupid years old, I figured everyone would think I was queer looking, like I looked like the kind of guy pansies pick out. I figured the hell with that argument.”

“And four years in Attica Prison was worth that attitude?”

Dupaul took a deep breath and leaned forward.

“Mister, let me tell you something. Nothing on this green earth is worth five seconds in Attica. But I didn’t know that then. And I was telling the truth. I never figured I’d have to lie to get off. I never rated that sentence. I saved that dame’s life as well as my own. Well, sure, I figured maybe I rated some small amount of grief for shacking up with another guy’s wife, because I knew she was married — or I thought so at the time — but when I pulled that trigger, I was just saving a couple of lives. So why should I have to pretend I was queer-bait?”

Dupaul considered Ross a moment as if waiting for the silent lawyer to comment, but when Ross remained quiet, Dupaul went on.

“Look, Mister — I came out of Attica the same way I walked in, but it took a few guys eating their teeth to convince them I wasn’t interested. God save the little guys up there! But I learned one thing: There isn’t any big sign over a guy’s head that reads ‘Pansy-bait.’ But I didn’t know it before then. And I wasn’t guilty — that’s what all you guys can’t get through your heads! I was innocent! So why should I go for some crocked-up story that Mr. Hogan came up with?” He shook his head. “Man, if I knew then what I know now, I’d have given them a story about Neeley to curl their hair!”

Ross chose to drop the subject.

“And what about the baseball game up at Attica last week? Last Friday. What was the true story of that?”

“What’s the ball game got to do with it?” Dupaul studied Ross a minute while his blue eyes got harder and harder. At last they widened with sure knowledge. “Why, you miserable bastard! I get it! You aren’t here to defend nobody! You’re part of that fink investigating team from Attica! Why, you miserable, lying—!”

He came to his feet with a lurch, towering over the seated attorney. The correction officer at the door came to his feet equally quickly, his fingers winding themselves tightly about his billy club. Ross paid no attention to the guard, looking up at the angry face of Billy Dupaul calmly instead.

“Sit down.”

“I’ll sit down in my cell, you screw!”

“I said, sit down. If you want to be believed, you have to extend a little belief to others. I’m not here as part of any investigation. I’m here as your attorney to defend you on a first-degree murder charge. Don’t be a fool. Sit down.”

Dupaul stared at him for several tense moments and then slowly, almost reluctantly, sank into his chair again. At the door the correction officer relaxed, his fingers uncurling from the heavy ash club.

“That’s better,” Ross said.

“If you’re my lawyer,” Dupaul said, “who’s paying you?”

“If you insist — Charley Quirt of the Mets.”

Dupaul snorted incredulously.

“Now I know you’re lying! Quirt would maybe pay to put me in here — he sure did everything except that the last time — but he sure as hell wouldn’t give a dime to get me out!”

Ross frowned at the young man curiously.