Crime Spells

Which was actually what I was thinking about as I slipped into the bench two rows back from the defense table to repack my briefcase before heading down to the hot dog carts on California Avenue.

“John Lundgren.”

Hearing my name intoned by the judge after my case had already been gaveled closed was not a good sign. I looked up so fast my notes almost slipped off my lap. I caught them but lost the briefcase. It thudded against the gray tile floor.

“Yes, Judge,” I said, standing up, even though my entire day’s work was lying in a mess around me.

The judge was peering at me through her half-glasses. She looked tired and disgusted all at the same time. “You’ll represent Mr. Palmer.”

I glanced around, trying to figure out what I’d missed. The courtroom was filled with attorneys waiting for their cases to be called, a few witnesses and even fewer victims, and a couple of defendants who had probably made a previous case’s bail.

“Now,” the judge said.

The one place I hadn’t looked was the defense table. A scruffy man with long black hair stood behind it, his shoulders hunched forward. He wore a trench coat covered with soot, burn marks, and not a few holes.

I slid out of my bench, leaving my briefcase on the floor and grabbing only a yellow legal pad, knowing that no one else would pick up my mess. Unlike TV lawyers, real lawyers are so overwhelmed they don’t dig through each other’s briefcases, hoping for the one nugget of information that will make or break the trial of the century.

Not that I’d ever handled a client involved in the trial of the century. Or even one involved in the trial of the year.

“You must be Mr. Palmer,” I said as I dropped my legal pad on the defense table.

Palmer didn’t even look at me. His face was covered in soot and a three-day beard. He smelled like gasoline and smoke.

I didn’t even have to guess what he was charged with. It was as obvious as the stench of his clothes.

The prosecutor-some new twit who looked like he was wearing his father’s suit-rustled his papers together. “Mr. Richard Palmer is charged with arson in the first degree, attempted arson in the second degree, and sixteen counts of murder in the first degree.”

“Mr. Lundgren, how does your client plead?”

I looked at my client, but he didn’t look at me. The smell was so overwhelming, my eyes were watering.

“Mr. Lundgren?”

“Mr. Palmer?” I said softly. “What do you want to plead?”

Palmer kept his head down.

“Mr. Lundgren,” the judge said, “I asked you a question.”

Well, Palmer wasn’t talking. I wasn’t even sure he was present and accounted for. But if he was like 99.9% of my clients, his plea would be simple, no matter what the evidence against him.

“Not guilty, Your Honor,” I said.

“See?” she muttered. “That wasn’t hard, now was it? Bail, counselor?”

She was looking at the young prosecutor. His hands were shaking.

“Since Mr. Palmer is accused of burning down one of the largest mansions on the Gold Coast, your honor, and killing all sixteen people inside, we’re asking for remand.”

He made it sound like they’d ask for more if they could get it.

I opened my mouth, but the judge brought down her gavel so hard it sounded like a gunshot.

“Remand,” she said. “Next case.”

And with that, I became responsible for Richard Mark Harrison Palmer the Third.

Or at least, for his legal defense.

Every last bit of it.

It took hours before I could get to the Cook County Jail to see my brand-new client. By then, he was in prison blues. Someone had washed his face, and, surprisingly, there were no burns beneath all that soot.

I’d represented arsonists before, many of whom smelled just as Palmer had when he was brought to court, and they were always covered with burns or shiny puckered burn scars.

They were also bug-eyed crazy. Something about staring at fire made their eyes revolve in their skulls-rather like the eyes of someone who’d taken too much LSD over too long a period of time.

But this guy didn’t look crazy. He didn’t give off the crazy vibe either, the one that always made me stand near the door so that I could pound it for a guard and then get the hell out of the way if I needed to.

Palmer sat at the scratched table, his head down, his hands folded before him. His hair was wet and he smelled faintly of industrial soap.

“Mr. Palmer.” I sat down across from him, set my briefcase on the table, and snapped the top open so that it stood like a shield between us. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m John Lundgren, your court-appointed public defender.”

“I don’t need you.” His voice was deep, his accent so purely Chicago that the sentence sounded more like a mushy version of I doon need yoo.

“I’m afraid you do, Mr. Palmer. You charged with some serious capital crimes, and it was pretty clear that Judge Lewandowski doesn’t believe you can handle it on your own. So she assigned me-”

“And I’m unassigning you. Go away.” He looked up as he said that, and I was stu

I sighed. I always hated clients who argued with me, clients who believed they knew more about the legal system than I did.

Or worse, clients who somehow believed they could go up against Chicago ’s finest prosecutors all by themselves.

“I’m not charging you, Mr. Palmer,” I said. “The county pays my salary to represent people who can’t afford their own attorney.”

“I don’t want an attorney,” he said.

I sighed again. It was always a nightmare to go before the judge-any judge-and say that my indigent client wants me off the case in favor of his own counsel. Usually I’d have to sit in anyway, advise the stupid client on matters of the law (or, as I’d privately say, matters on which he was screwing up royally).

“It’s better to have one,” I said, “especially when you’re facing sixteen counts of premeditated murder. You want to tell me what happened?”

Usually that ploy worked. The client forgot his belligerence and wanted to brag. Or to defend himself. Or make excuses.

A lot of my colleagues never wanted to know what the client believed he did, but I always figured the more information I had, the better. That way, I wouldn’t get blindsided by my own client’s idiocy in the middle of trial.

“No, I don’t want to tell you what happened,” Palmer said. “I think it would be better if you leave.”

I closed my briefcase. “You’re not going to be rid of me that easily. I will remain your attorney until we can go to court to sever the relationship, and then the judge is going to want to know all kinds of things, like what kind of preparation you have to represent yourself. And frankly, Mr. Palmer, I’d be remiss if I didn’t-”

“Tell me how stupid I’m being for taking this on alone, I know.” He gave me half a smile. It was condescending. I’d never met an arsonist capable of being condescending before. “But you’re the one who pleaded me not guilty.”

“You weren’t exactly talking,” I said. “I even gave you a moment to give me some kind of response, and you didn’t say a word. So I gave my standard answer. Not guilty. We can always modify the plea later. Do you have medical records that would show mental health treatments-”

“I wasn’t going to plead out to a mental defect,” he said.

My hand froze on top of the briefcase. “You were going to plead guilty? Why in the hell would you do that, Mr. Palmer?”

He shrugged. “It seemed like the only thing to do.”

“Look, I don’t know the details of your case, Mr. Palmer. The file hasn’t come up to our offices yet. So I don’t know what they have on you. But let me tell you, I’ve seen some supposedly tight police cases unravel in court. It might look hopeless now, but I can assure you that with good counsel we should be able to fight this. So let me-”