The Good Thief

Richard Winston, State’s Attorney for the County of Cook, State of Illinois, was in particularly good mood. In a moment, the defense would finish its final argument to the jury in the trial of the State of Illinois versus John R. Freeman, on the charge of capital murder. Soon it would be his turn to sum up the case for the prosecution, a case that was, in his judgment, airtight. There was no doubt in his mind that the jury would return a verdict of guilty for the incorrigible felon in the dock. “Why, on the merits of this trial alone,” he thought, “I could run against, and beat, old man Dalton.” Timothy Michael Dalton was the powerful and popular mayor of Chicago. Ever since being elected State’s Attorney, Richard Winston had been busy making bigger plans. He was gunning to replace Dalton in the next election. The murder of a well-known community figure brought this case to prominence, and the voting public, aided and abetted by a rabid media, was crying for Freeman’s blood. This was exactly the opportunity that Richard Winston had been waiting for. Against the wishes of his staff, he insisted on trying this case himself. By winning a conviction, he would further cement his reputation as a no-nonsense crime fighter. He would paint Dalton as soft on crime while pushing himself as the true champion of the people, standing against the criminal elements that held a knife to the city’s throat. While Winston basked in his political daydream, Algernon P. Randall, Public Defender, pled for the life of his client. He had no dreams of political glory like his colleague at the bar. All Randall cared about was averting yet another bitter end to an all too common story. Al Randall, unlike most of his class of newly minted attorneys from Northwestern University Law School, had gone to work for the Public Defender’s office after graduating, to gain valuable trial experience. Over the years, while most of his classmates had gone on to successful careers in business or secured partnerships in prestigious law firms, Al Randall had stayed in the PD’s office. Twice, Richard Winston had tried to get him to come to work for him in the State’s Attorney’s office. Twice, Al Randall said no. “The genius of our judicial system,” Randall would say, when holding forth after a few drinks with friends, “lies in the notion that anyone, regardless of his background, wealth – or lack thereof – can count on fair treatment under the law. The man in the dock is judged by a jury of his peers, he is guaranteed representation by a competent practitioner of the law, an impartial prosecution, and judgment rendered unemotionally and fairly.” To Randall’s way of thinking, this was the pure practice of law. He had built his professional life on this foundation. This is what, in his heart-of-hearts, Al Randall believed. “That’s complete and utter bullshit and you know it!” a friend scolded him during one of these drinking sessions, “You’re wasting a first-class law degree on thugs, rapists and murderers...and for what? A pittance of a salary, ungrateful clients who, if you’re successful, are apt to stick you up in the parking lot after the trial. What, pray tell, can you possibly be thinking?” “I enjoy the courtroom experience,” Al Randall said lamely, suddenly deflated. “More bullshit! Wow, you ought to be a lawyer!” hooted his friend. “Seriously Al, you’ve got more trial experience than anyone in our class. Listen, do you remember, Blodgett? He barely made it through the bar exam and he took it four times! Do you know where he is right now?” “No. I lost track of him after graduation.” Randall replied taking another slug of warm beer. “Well, I’ll tell you: he’s junior partner of Bernstein, Wagner and Baum. He lives in a penthouse on Lakeshore Drive and has a yacht as big as your scruples in the marina.” “But that…,” Randall tried to interject. Undeterred, his friend carried on. “He works four-hour days, four days a week reviewing contracts, and I doubt he’s ever seen the inside of the courthouse. Hell, I doubt he even knows where the courthouse is!” “I’m happy for him,” Randall said peevishly, “but that’s not for me. I don’t care about all that stuff. I became a lawyer to practice law; to help people who need a good lawyer without demanding their first born.” Irritated by his friend’s argument, Randall enunciated each syllable of “practice” as if speaking to someone hard of hearing. “I can’t think of any better way to use my skills,” he resumed in a calmer tone, “than to keep some poor slob from doing time because he got beaten into a confession or can’t afford decent counsel. Hell, most of the guys in my office couldn’t defend Santa Claus against a charge of breaking and entering. As for those thugs, rapists and murderers you mentioned, sure, most of them are guilty as hell, but the law isn’t just there to punish them, it’s also there to see that they are treated fairly. Even thugs, rapists and murderers are entitled to that. “Anyway,” Randall said after a moment’s pause, “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t try to help them – they’ve got nobody else. Don’t you see?” The memory of those words washed over him as he ended his summation. Drained and exhausted, Al Randall turned toward the defense table and met the eyes of his client John Freeman. Freeman, sitting quietly at the defense table in the scruffy brown suit Randall had brought for him to wear during the trial, looked at his attorney with unsettling dark eyes. Randall grasped to the rail of the jury box for a moment. He clung to it like a man hanging from a window ledge, knowing that he hasn’t the strength to pull himself up to safety but is too afraid to let go. Reluctantly, resignedly, he let his hands slip from the wooden rail to his sides where they hung limply as he walked back to his seat. All the while, John Freeman held him in his gaze.