his face
clouded with concern. “The poetry left you?”
“That’s what happened. It just wouldn’t come
to me. I’d sit there all day staring at a blank sheet of paper, and
finally I’d say the hell with it and fire up a joint or get into
the wine, and there’s another day down the old chute. And then
finally I found that bottle of bourbon and the next thing I knew—”
the poet managed a brave smile “—well, according to you, I’m
innocent.”
“Of course you are innocent, sir.”
“I wish I was convinced of that, Mr.
Ehrengraf. I don’t even see how you can be convinced.”
“Because you are a poet,” the diminutive
attorney said. “Because, further, you are a client of Martin H.
Ehrengraf. My clients are always innocent. That is the Ehrengraf
presumption. Indeed, my income depends upon the innocence of my
clients.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“It’s simple enough. My fees, as we’ve said,
are quite high. But I collect them only if my efforts are
successful. If a client of mine goes to prison, Mr. Telliford, he
pays me nothing. I’m not even reimbursed for my expenses.”
“That’s incredible,” Telliford said. “I never
heard of anything like that. Do many lawyers work that way?”
“I believe I’m the only one. It’s a pity more
don’t take up the custom. Other professionals as well, for that
matter. Consider how much higher the percentage of successful
operations might be if surgeons were paid on the basis of their
results.”
“Isn’t that the truth. Hey, you know what’s
ironic?”
“What?”
“Mr. Littlefield. Robin’s father. He could
pay you that eighty thousand out of petty cash and never miss it.
That’s the kind of money he’s got. But the way he feels about me,
he’d pay to send me to prison, not to keep me out of it. In
other words, if you worked for him you’d only get paid if you lost
your case. Don’t you think that’s ironic?”
“Yes,” said Ehrengraf. “I do indeed.”
* * *
When William Telliford stepped into
Ehrengraf’s office, the lawyer scarcely recognized him. The poet’s
beard was gone and his hair had received the attention of a
fashionable barber. His jacket was black velvet, his trousers a
cream-colored flannel. He was wearing a raw silk shirt and a bold
paisley ascot.
He smiled broadly at Ehrengraf’s reaction. “I
guess I look different,” he said.
“Different,” Ehrengraf agreed.
“Well, I don’t have to live like a slob now.”
The young man sat down in one of Ehrengraf’s chairs, shot his cuff,
and checked the time on an oversized gold watch. “Robin’ll be
coming by for me in half an hour,” he said, “but I wanted to take
the time to let you know how much I appreciated what you tried to
do for me. You believed in my innocence when I didn’t even have
that much faith in myself. And I’m sure you would have been
terrific in the courtroom if it had come to that.”
“Fortunately it didn’t.”
“Right, but whoever would have guessed how it
would turn out? Imagine old Jasper Littlefield killing Jan to frame
me and get me out of his daughter’s life. That’s really a tough one
to swallow. But he came over looking for Robin, and he found me
drunk, and then it was evidently just a matter of taking the fire
axe out of the case and taking me along with him to Jan’s place and
killing her and smearing her blood all over me. I must have been in
worse than a blackout when it happened. I must have been passed out
cold for him to be sure I wouldn’t remember any of it.”
“So it would seem.”
“The police never did find the fire axe, and
I wondered about that at the time. What I’d done with it, I mean,
because deep down inside I really figured I must have been guilty.
But what happened was Mr. Littlefield took the axe along with him,
and then when he went crazy it was there for him to use.”
“And use it he did.”
“He sure did,” Telliford said. “According to
some psychologist they interviewed
clouded with concern. “The poetry left you?”
“That’s what happened. It just wouldn’t come
to me. I’d sit there all day staring at a blank sheet of paper, and
finally I’d say the hell with it and fire up a joint or get into
the wine, and there’s another day down the old chute. And then
finally I found that bottle of bourbon and the next thing I knew—”
the poet managed a brave smile “—well, according to you, I’m
innocent.”
“Of course you are innocent, sir.”
“I wish I was convinced of that, Mr.
Ehrengraf. I don’t even see how you can be convinced.”
“Because you are a poet,” the diminutive
attorney said. “Because, further, you are a client of Martin H.
Ehrengraf. My clients are always innocent. That is the Ehrengraf
presumption. Indeed, my income depends upon the innocence of my
clients.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“It’s simple enough. My fees, as we’ve said,
are quite high. But I collect them only if my efforts are
successful. If a client of mine goes to prison, Mr. Telliford, he
pays me nothing. I’m not even reimbursed for my expenses.”
“That’s incredible,” Telliford said. “I never
heard of anything like that. Do many lawyers work that way?”
“I believe I’m the only one. It’s a pity more
don’t take up the custom. Other professionals as well, for that
matter. Consider how much higher the percentage of successful
operations might be if surgeons were paid on the basis of their
results.”
“Isn’t that the truth. Hey, you know what’s
ironic?”
“What?”
“Mr. Littlefield. Robin’s father. He could
pay you that eighty thousand out of petty cash and never miss it.
That’s the kind of money he’s got. But the way he feels about me,
he’d pay to send me to prison, not to keep me out of it. In
other words, if you worked for him you’d only get paid if you lost
your case. Don’t you think that’s ironic?”
“Yes,” said Ehrengraf. “I do indeed.”
* * *
When William Telliford stepped into
Ehrengraf’s office, the lawyer scarcely recognized him. The poet’s
beard was gone and his hair had received the attention of a
fashionable barber. His jacket was black velvet, his trousers a
cream-colored flannel. He was wearing a raw silk shirt and a bold
paisley ascot.
He smiled broadly at Ehrengraf’s reaction. “I
guess I look different,” he said.
“Different,” Ehrengraf agreed.
“Well, I don’t have to live like a slob now.”
The young man sat down in one of Ehrengraf’s chairs, shot his cuff,
and checked the time on an oversized gold watch. “Robin’ll be
coming by for me in half an hour,” he said, “but I wanted to take
the time to let you know how much I appreciated what you tried to
do for me. You believed in my innocence when I didn’t even have
that much faith in myself. And I’m sure you would have been
terrific in the courtroom if it had come to that.”
“Fortunately it didn’t.”
“Right, but whoever would have guessed how it
would turn out? Imagine old Jasper Littlefield killing Jan to frame
me and get me out of his daughter’s life. That’s really a tough one
to swallow. But he came over looking for Robin, and he found me
drunk, and then it was evidently just a matter of taking the fire
axe out of the case and taking me along with him to Jan’s place and
killing her and smearing her blood all over me. I must have been in
worse than a blackout when it happened. I must have been passed out
cold for him to be sure I wouldn’t remember any of it.”
“So it would seem.”
“The police never did find the fire axe, and
I wondered about that at the time. What I’d done with it, I mean,
because deep down inside I really figured I must have been guilty.
But what happened was Mr. Littlefield took the axe along with him,
and then when he went crazy it was there for him to use.”
“And use it he did.”
“He sure did,” Telliford said. “According to
some psychologist they interviewed
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