Copyright © 2002 Herschel Cozine. All rights reserved. 

   My name is P.B. Grubman, Attorney At Law.  I specialize in criminal defense.  Some people would say I specialize in losing.  But they are the ones I defended in the past, and they’re not objective in their views.  They were guilty, all of them.  Even Perry Mason couldn’t have helped them.  

     Take, for example, my last client, a big burly guy by the name of Harold McDowell.  He was up for murder one for the job he did on his wife.  He claims to this day that he is innocent and that I botched his defense or he’d be a free man now.  But I’ll let you decide that for yourself. 

     It was late on a Friday afternoon, the end of a busy week of visiting the county jail in search of business.  I was about to leave the office when Rhoda, my secretary, called me on the intercom. 

     “There’s a Harold McDowell to see you, P.B.,” she said.  

     “What does he want?”  I asked.  

     “Why, he wants to see you, of course.” 

     “What about?”  

     “I didn’t ask,” Rhoda replied.  “But” she added,  “he needs a haircut.” 

     “I’m not a barber.  Must I remind you that I’m an attorney?”  

     “Tell it to the judge,” she replied.  “He’s the one who needs convincing.” 

     I made a mental note to replace her.  “Send him in.”

     In the thirty seconds it took for the man to enter, I finished my coffee, put away the girlie magazine, straightened my desk, and opened an impressive looking legal file.  I’m nothing, if not fast. 

     Rhoda was right about one thing.  McDowell indeed needed a haircut.  He also needed a new suit, shoes and tie.  I wondered if he could afford my services, but put the thought out of my mind.  My clients’ needs come first, my fee second.  Or is it the other way around?  I made a note to ask Rhoda about that. 

     McDowell looked around the room furtively.  I knew then that he was guilty.  Furtiveness is a sure sign of guilt.  I nodded to a chair and he sat down.

     “How can I help you?”  I asked.  

     “My wife is dead,” he said.  

     “That’s too bad,” I replied.  

     “Oh, no,” he said.  “She was bedridden and her life was a series of pain and suffering.  It’s just as well she is dead.” 

     “That’s good,” I said.  

     “No.  That’s bad.  You see, I have been charged with killing her.” 

     “That’s bad,” I said, not certain if he would agree.  He nodded and I relaxed. 

     He started to say something, but I held up my hand.  “The first thing I want you to do,” I said, “is go to the nearest store and steal something.  Make sure you get caught.” 

     “Huh?” he said, his mouth falling open. 

     “You see,” I explained.  “When you are brought up before the judge you can plead guilty to the lesser charge of shoplifting.  They’ll drop the murder charge, you pay a fine, and it will be all over.”  I sat back and smiled.  It was a brilliant strategy.  Let them mock me and call me “Plea Bargain Grubman”.  They’re all jealous. 

     McDowell eyed me with a look that can only be defined as incredulous.  It is a look that I have become all too familiar with from my clients.  They simply do not understand the finer points of the law. 

     “But I’m innocent,” he said.  “I didn’t kill her.” 

     “Of course,” I said.  “We will certainly enter a plea of not guilty.  But this will be our ace in the hole, so to speak.”  I winked.  “Not too many lawyers would think of this.  They have no imagination.” 

     “I won’t do it,” he said sullenly. 

     “Okay,” I said.  “But don’t blame me if you get the gas chamber.”  I leaned forward and looked him in the eye.  “How did you kill...er...how did she die?”  

     “She drank rat poison.”

     “And you bought the poison?”  

     “Yes.  Three years ago.”  

     “You were planning ahead, I see.” 

     “Of course not!” he yelled, growing red in the face.  That was another sign of guilt--the denial, the anger and the shouting.

     I sighed.  Just once I would like to defend an innocent man.  But I knew going into this business that it wouldn’t be easy.  

     “Why did you buy the rat poison?”  I asked. 

     “To kill rats,” he said.  

     “And did you?”  

     “Yes.”  

     “Where are they?” 

     He threw me another sour look.  “Where are what?”   

       "The rats," I replied.

     “I got rid of them,” he said.  I thought I detected a note of exasperation in his voice. 

     I made a note in my pad.  “Destroying evidence.  That’s a serious charge, Mr. McDowell.  But maybe we can use it to our advantage.  Forget about shoplifting.  You can plead guilty to this instead.”  

     “Evidence!  The rats have nothing to do with this.” 

     “That’s for the judge to decide.  For now, I want you to submit a sample of your DNA.” 

     “Why?” he replied.  The puzzled frown he had been wearing deepened. 

     “We may be asked to prove you are who you say you are,” I replied.  “Besides, that’s the latest thing in trials, you know.  It’s what you might consider ‘designer’ evidence.” 

     McDowell stood up.  “Look,” he said.  “My wife killed herself.  She left a note.  I was out of town at the time.  I have an alibi.  She had strong reasons for doing what she did, and she told all her friends she was going to do it.  I simply need a lawyer to represent me in court.  It seems the DA has not had his quota of convictions this year and is trying to make a case here.”  He turned toward the door.  “I don’t think you’re the man I want to defend me.”

     “Just a minute, “ I said.  “I am simply looking at this as if I were the prosecutor.  Once I get into his head this way I am better able to defend you.  Sit down and let us work together.”  

     He paused, then shrugged and sat back down.  “Okay.  But so far I am not too happy with what I have seen or heard from you.” 

     “My clients never are,” I said.  “But I am the legal expert.  You simply must trust me.” 

     He shrugged again, put his hands in his pockets, and slouched in his chair as if he had already been convicted.  It was a bad attitude, but given the circumstances I would probably feel the same way.  I shook my head.  It would be touch and go, but with a little luck and some ingenuity on my part, I was fairly certain we could beat the charge. 

     “Now,” I said.  “Let’s start at the beginning.” 

     McDowell told the whole sordid story of his wife’s illness, a rare debilitating sickness without a cure.  He cried a little as he told of her decision to kill herself, his business trip that took him out of town, and his return to find the police waiting for him at his door. 

     Because of attorney-client privilege I cannot go into detail about his story.  I am nothing if not ethical.  All I can say is that I didn’t believe a word of it.  But my clients, especially the guilty ones, want desperately for their attorneys to believe them.  So I nodded sympathetically from time to time as I made notes. 

     The trial was scheduled for July, but I filed a request for delay so I could better prepare my defense.  Besides, my vacation was scheduled for August, and I already had made my reservations for rooms at Disneyland Hotel and Universal City. 

     The trial, in early September, was mercifully short.  I listened to the prosecution outline its case against my client, raising objections from time to time.  Most of them were overruled, but I’m accustomed to that.  However, one of my objections--when the prosecutor referred to me as incompetent--was sustained.  Actually, what the judge said was that if the prosecutor were to amend the statement from “incompetent” to “nincompoop”, he would overrule.  The prosecutor refused.  It was a victory for the defense, and I was satisfied.  I had the judge in my pocket. 

     The prosecutor wrapped up his summary with an urgent plea that the jury find my client guilty.  He had convinced me, but I had a job to do and couldn’t let this stand in my way. 

     When it came time for my opening statement, I stood up slowly and approached the bench. 

     “Your honor,” I said, “my client is not guilty.” 

     The judge leaned forward, his gavel poised over my head.  “That, Mr. Grubman, is for the jury to decide.  Why don’t you address your comments to them?” 

     I turned to the jury.  One of them was shaking his head sadly.  Another had his head in his hands.  A third had a glazed look in her eye.  One of them had fallen asleep.  I knew then that the jig was up.  In my years as an attorney I have seen many juries and have learned how to read them.  This was a hostile jury if I have ever seen one.  My client was a dead duck unless I could pull a rabbit out of my hat.  It was time for some legal aerobics.  I decided to resort to my earlier plan.  

     “Your honor,” I said, “if you will drop the murder charge, my client will plead ‘guilty’ to shoplifting.”  

     The judge riffled through the papers on his desk.  “I see no such charge,” he said.  “When did this happen?”  

     “It will happen during the noon recess, I promise,” I replied.

     The judge’s face reddened.  “Petition denied,” he yelled, waking up the sleeping juror.  “And while I’m at it I am changing my ruling on your objection to counsel’s ‘incompetent’ remark.  Objection overruled!”  He slammed the gavel on the desk and sat back in his seat. 

     I glanced over at McDowell.  He appeared to be crying.  The magnitude of his crime had finally hit him, I thought.  I felt a surge of sympathy for the man.  I would summon all of legal skills to help him.  

     “If you will not accept my generous plea bargain,” I told the judge, “Then I will throw my client on the mercy of the court.  We shall accept a manslaughter charge.” 

     McDowell jumped from his chair, but was restrained by a court guard.  The DA shook his head.  “No deal,” he said.  

     “Second degree murder?”  I asked.  

     The judge banged his gavel.  “I will see you both in my chambers,” he said.  “Court recessed.” 

     I am happy to say we settled on manslaughter after all.  My client objected in a manner I can only describe as apoplectic.  But he calmed down after being sedated.  To this day he refuses to talk to me, and I have never been paid for my services.  He will, (and I quote) “rot in Hell before paying that shyster a dime”.  Now I ask you, would an innocent man stiff his lawyer over a petty court decision?  I spent almost a whole day preparing his defense, and any fair-minded person would feel obligated to honor such a debt. 

     McDowell is guilty, no question about it.  But I deal with this sort of thing every day--ungrateful clients, angry judges, sneering prosecutors.  Sometimes I think I chose the wrong profession.  But I keep hoping that my next client will be innocent.  In the meantime I shall continue to fight for them as vigorously as I am fighting my disbarment.  Maybe I should get a good lawyer.  Do you know any?

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