“Why do you ask that?” he said. I replied that I regarded my case as very simple. He smiled. “Well, it may seem so to you. But we’ve got to abide by the law, and, if you don’t engage a lawyer, the court will have to appoint one for you.”
It struck me as an excellent arrangement that the authorities should see to details of this kind, and I told him so. He nodded, and agreed that the Code was all that could be desired.
At first I didn’t take him quite seriously. The room in which he interviewed me was much like an ordinary sitting room, with curtained windows, and a single lamp standing on the desk. Its light fell on the armchair in which he’d had me sit, while his own face stayed in shadow.
I had read descriptions of such scenes in books, and at first it all seemed like a game. After our conversation, however, I had a good look at him. He was a tall man with clean-cut features, deep-set blue eyes, a big gray mustache, and abundant, almost snow-white hair, and he gave me the impression of being highly intelligent and, on the whole, likable enough. There was only one thing that put one off: his mouth had now and then a rather ugly twist; but it seemed to be only a sort of nervous tic. When leaving, I very nearly held out my hand and said, “Good-by”; just in time I remembered that I’d killed a man.
Next day a lawyer came to my cell; a small, plump, youngish man with sleek black hair. In spite of the heat—I was in my shirt sleeves—he was wearing a dark suit, stiff collar, and a rather showy tie, with broad black and white stripes. After depositing his brief case on my bed, he introduced himself, and added that he’d perused the record of my case with the utmost care. His opinion was that it would need cautious handling, but there was every prospect of my getting off, provided I followed his advice. I thanked him, and he said: “Good. Now let’s get down to it.”
Sitting on the bed, he said that they’d been making investigations into my private life. They had learned that my mother died recently in a home. Inquiries had been conducted at Marengo and the police informed that I’d shown “great callousness” at my mother’s funeral.
“You must understand,” the lawyer said, “that I don’t relish having to question you about such a matter. But it has much importance, and, unless I find some way of answering the charge of ‘callousness,’ I shall be handicapped in conducting your defense. And that is where you, and only you, can help me.”
He went on to ask if I had felt grief on that “sad occasion.” The question struck me as an odd one; I’d have been much embarrassed if I’d had to ask anyone a thing like that.
I answered that, of recent years, I’d rather lost the habit of noting my feelings, and hardly knew what to answer. I could truthfully say I’d been quite fond of Mother—but really that didn’t mean much. All normal people, I added as on afterthought, had more or less desired the death of those they loved, at some time or another.
Here the lawyer interrupted me, looking greatly perturbed.
“You must promise me not to say anything of that sort at the trial, or to the examining magistrate.”
I promised, to satisfy him, but I explained that my physical condition at any given moment often influenced my feelings. For instance, on the day I attended Mother’s funeral, I was fagged out and only half awake. So, really, I hardly took stock of what was happening. Anyhow, I could assure him of one thing: that I’d rather Mother hadn’t died.
The lawyer, however, looked displeased. “That’s not enough,” he said curtly.
After considering for a bit he asked me if he could say that on that day I had kept my feelings under control.
“No,” I said. “That wouldn’t be true.”
He gave me a queer look, as if I slightly revolted him; then informed me, in an almost hostile tone, that in any case the head of the Home and some of the staff would be cited as witnesses.
“And that might do you a very nasty turn,” he concluded.
When I suggested that Mother’s death had no connection with the charge against me, he merely replied that this remark showed I’d never had any dealings with the law.
Soon after this he left, looking quite vexed. I wished he had stayed longer and I could have explained that I desired his sympathy, not for him to make a better job of my defense, but, if I might put it so, spontaneously. I could see that I got on his nerves; he couldn’t make me out, and, naturally enough, this irritated him. Once or twice I had a mind to assure him that I was just like everybody else; quite an ordinary person. But really that would have served no great purpose, and I let it go—out of laziness as much as anything else.
Later in the day I was taken again to the examining magistrate’s office. It was two in the afternoon and, this time, the room was flooded with light—there was only a thin curtain on the window—and extremely hot.
After inviting me to sit down, the magistrate informed me in a very polite tone that, “owing to unforeseen circumstances,” my lawyer was unable to be present. I should be quite entitled, he added, to reserve my answers to his questions until my lawyer could attend.
To this I replied that I could answer for myself. He pressed a bell push on his desk and a young clerk came in and seated himself just behind me. Then we—I and the magistrate—settled back in our chairs and the examination began. He led off by remarking that I had the reputation of being a taciturn, rather self-centered person, and he’d like to know what I had to say to that. I answered:
“Well, I rarely have anything much to say. So, naturally I keep my mouth shut.”
He smiled as on the previous occasion, and agreed that that was the best of reasons. “In any case,” he added, “it has little or no importance.”
After a short silence he suddenly leaned forward, looked me in the eyes, and said, raising his voice a little:
“What really interests me is—you!”
I wasn’t quite clear what he meant, so I made no comment.
“There are several things,” he continued, “that puzzle me about your crime. I feel sure that you will help me to understand them.”
When I replied that really it was quite simple, he asked me to give him an account of what I’d done that day. As a matter of fact, I had already told him at our first interview—in a summary sort of way, of course—about Raymond, the beach, our swim, the fight, then the beach again, and the five shots I’d fired. But I went over it all again, and after each phrase he nodded. “Quite so, quite so.” When I described the body lying on the sand, he nodded more emphatically, and said, “Good!” I was tired of repeating the same story; I felt as if I’d never talked so much in all my life before.
After another silence he stood up and said he’d like to help me; I interested him, and, with God’s help, he would do something for me in my trouble. But, first, he must put a few more questions.
He began by asking bluntly if I’d loved my mother.
“Yes,” I replied, “like everybody else.” The clerk behind me, who had been typing away at a steady pace, must just then have hit the wrong keys, as I heard him pushing the carrier back and crossing something out.
Next, without any apparent logical connection, the magistrate sprang another question.
“Why did you fire five consecutive shots?”