The Chinese Jars by William Gordon Page A

we do?” asked Melba.
    â€œHe needs a lawyer. He has a right to a defense,” said Blanche.
    â€œWho’ll pay for that?” asked Samuel.
    â€œWe’ll see. This thing has to be cleared up fast,” said Melba.
    â€œOn the assumption that he’s innocent,” pointed out Blanche.
    â€œYou don’t think Rafael’s a thief, child!” exclaimed Melba.
    * * *
    Days later Samuel watched the criminal court judge sitting on the dais in his black robe pounding the gavel. “The clerk will call the roll. Please give time estimates. We have a full calendar this morning.”
    The sleepy female clerk looked through the sheets of paper in front of her. “The People of the State of California versus Rafael Garcia, docket number 54321702.”
    Rafael—in handcuffs, with his ankles shackled, and wearing a San Francisco County Jail jumpsuit—was let out of the holding cell at the side of the courtroom by the bailiff. In the meantime, the well-dressed attorney sitting next to Samuel, in his expensive double-breasted Walter Fong suit, looked at his watch and pulled his Day-Timer out of his jacket pocket. He was heavyset with curly hair, a bulbous nose, and capped white teeth that matched the porcelain of a bathtub. He smiled all the time to show them off, as they had no doubt been expensive. He sauntered up to the podium inside the railing and the swinging door that separated the observers from the participants at the daily cattle call.
    â€œHiram Goldberg of the Law Offices of Hiram Goldberg representing defendant Rafael Garcia.” He was one of the best criminal lawyers in the city. He stood there waiting for the prisoner to make his way slowly to a place beside him, followed by the deputy closely guarding him.
    When Rafael arrived, he looked at the attorney suspiciously. He’d never seen him before. Then he quickly glanced around the courtroom, saw Samuel in the rear, and waved with a slight smile of recognition. He guessed that the fancy attorney standing next to him was Samuel’s doing, so he relaxed a little.
    The municipal court judge, who had a florid face and the reputation of being irascible, looked over his reading glasses at the defendant with a total lack of sympathy. He didn’t trust Mexicans or other immigrants of color; it was a matter of principal with him. “To the charge of violating section 496 of the California Penal Code, receiving stolen property, a felony, how do you plead?”
    â€œThe defendant pleads not guilty to the charge, Your Honor, waives time to a speedy trial and asks that bail be reduced from $5,000 to $1,500, which we’re prepared to post this morning.”
    â€œHe’s charged with a felony, Mr. Goldberg. The words have to come out of his mouth, not yours,” the judge chided. “Do you plead not guilty and waive time, Mr. Garcia?”
    Rafael had a whispering session with his attorney and remained silent for almost a minute. Samuel guessed from a distance that they were having an argument. It was too bad that Hiram couldn’t have talked to his client beforehand.
    â€œDo you speak English, young man?” asked the judge, impatiently. “I have a full calendar this morning, and if you need an interpreter, we’ll have to pass on this matter.”
    â€œI understand everything you said, Your Honor, except about the time thing. That’s what I was asking about. You wouldn’t want someone to agree to something he didn’t understand, would you?” Rafael asked, sarcastically.
    Hiram nudged Rafael to shut up, but he straightened his shoulders in defiance and gave a penetrating glance at the bench. He was scared because he’d never been in front of a judge before, and he knew he was in trouble. Nonetheless, he wanted the judge to know he was his own man.
    â€œWe’ll pass this matter,” said the judge. “You need to consult with your attorney.”
    As Hiram slammed his