Ehrengraf for the Defense by Lawrence Block

slowly.
    “But?”
    “But he doesn’t believe I’m innocent. I mean
he seems to take it for granted I’m guilty and the best thing I can
do is plead guilty to manslaughter or something. He’s talking in
terms of making some kind of deal with the district attorney, like
it’s a foregone conclusion that I have to go to prison and the only
question is how long.”
    “Then you’ve answered my question,” Ehrengraf
said, a smile flickering on his thin lips. “You’re unsatisfied with
your lawyer. The court has appointed him. It remains for you to
disappoint him, as it were, and to engage me in his stead. You have
the right to do this, you know.”
    “But I don’t have the money. Trabner was
going to defend me for free, which is about as much as I can
afford. I don’t know what kind of fees you charge for something
like this but I’ll bet they’re substantial. That suit of yours
didn’t come from the Salvation Army.”
    Ehrengraf beamed. His suit, charcoal gray
flannel with a nipped-in waist, had been made for him by a most
exclusive tailor. His shirt was pink, with a button-down collar.
His vest was a Tattersall check, red and black on a cream
background, and his tie showed half-inch stripes of red and
charcoal gray. “My fees are on the high side,” he allowed. “To
undertake your defense I would ordinarily set a fee of eighty
thousand dollars.”
    “Eighty dollars would strain my budget,”
William Telliford said. “Eighty thousand, well, it might take me
ten years to earn that much.”
    “But I propose to defend free of charge,
sir.”
    William Telliford stared, not least because
he could not recall the last time anyone had thought to call him
sir. He was, it must be said, a rather unprepossessing young man,
much given to slouching and sprawling. His jeans needed patching at
the knees. His plaid flannel shirt needed washing and ironing. His
chukka boots needed soles and heels, and his socks needed
replacement altogether.
    “But—”
    “But why?”
    Telliford nodded.
    “Because you are a poet,” said Martin
Ehrengraf.
    “Poets,” said Ehrengraf, “are the
unacknowledged legislators of the universe.”
    * * *
    “That’s beautiful,” Robin Littlefield said.
She didn’t know just what to make of this little man but he was
certainly impressive. “Could you say that again? I want to remember
it.”
    “Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of
the universe. But don’t credit me with the observation. Shelley
said it first.”
    “Is she your wife?”
    The deeply set dark eyes narrowed
perceptibly. “Percy Bysshe Shelley,” he said gently. “Born 1792,
died 1822. The poet.”
    “Oh.”
    “So your young man is one of the world’s
unacknowledged legislators. Or you might prefer the lines Arthur
O’Shaughnessy wrote. ‘We are the music makers, And we are the
dreamers of dreams.’ You know the poem?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “I like the second stanza,” said Ehrengraf,
and tilted his head to one side and quoted it:
     
    “ With wonderful deathless ditties
    We build up the world’s greatest cities,
    And out of a fabulous story
    We fashion an empire’s glory:
    One man with a dream, at pleasure,
    Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
    And three with a new song’s measure
    Can trample an empire down.”
     
    “You have a wonderful way of speaking. But I,
uh, I don’t really know much about poetry.”
    “You reserve your enthusiasm for Mr.
Telliford’s poems, no doubt.”
    “Well, I like it when Bill reads them to me.
I like the way they sound, but I’ll be the first to admit I don’t
always know what he’s getting at.”
    Ehrengraf beamed, spread his hands. “But they
do sound good, don’t they? Miss Littlefield, dare we require more
of a poem than that it please our ears? I don’t read much modern
poetry, Miss Littlefield. I prefer the bards of an earlier and more
innocent age. Their verses are often simpler, but I don’t pretend
to understand any number of favorite poems.