Free Death Sentence by Brian Garfield Page B

it’s no good. I haven’t committed atrocities. I’m not guilty of the crimes I have to try in that courthouse. I’ve never mugged anyone. There’s a difference between me and them—we’re not all the same. And if we haven’t got the confidence and courage to make these moral judgments and act on them, then we deserve every dismal thing that happens.
    â€œThese kids from the Legal Aid hang around our office talking high-minded idealism. They keep talking about the causes of crime. What causes? I’ve heard ten thousand. Families have broken down. Unemployment. The evaporation of religion. Violence on television. Welfare. Corruption in high places. Racism. Poverty. Abnormal genetic chromosomes. That marvelous word ‘alienation.’ Permissive parents. The laws are too lax, or the laws are too severe—take your choice. Rootlessness, the breakdown of a sense of community, over-population, underachievement, drugs, too much money, too little money. Moral decay and disrespect. Pornography. What’s the cause of crime? Every crime has its own causes. Every defendent I try has a marvelous excuse of some kind. But when the Nazis mobilize and arm themselves and invade your country, you don’t ask why—you defend yourself and leave the causes to the historians.”
    â€œYes,” he murmured. He didn’t dare say more.
    â€œThat’s what I’ve believed for years,” she said. “It’s what I still believe. But I’ve begun to wonder whether it matters a whole lot what I believe.”
    â€œWhy? Because you can’t do much about things?”
    â€œNo. I do as much as I can. I suppose you could say I do more than most people do.”
    â€œThen what’s bothering you?”
    â€œIt’s so accidental, isn’t it. I could just as easily be one of those Legal Aids in the outer office. My best friend in law school took a job with the Civil Liberties Union.”
    â€œIt’s like that line in the Western movies,” he said, echoing the words he’d said to Spalter. “You play the cards you’ve been dealt.”
    â€œIt depresses me to think maybe that’s all it is. A chance turn of the cards. An accident, no more significant than a bet on a horse.” She put her glass down; she hadn’t drunk much of the second one. “I feel as if I’ve lost something important. Should we get menus and order something?”
    Later she said, “I’m sorry. I haven’t been much help to either of us, have I.”
    â€œI didn’t know we were expected to give each other therapy.” He smiled. “You’re good company, you know.”
    â€œActually I’m horrid today. I hope you’ll forgive me—I don’t usually behave so badly.”
    He shook his head, denying it. “Do you have children?”
    â€œNo. I’m not married any more. I was for a while, but as they say it didn’t work out. Maybe it was my fault. I’m not the homemaker sort.”
    â€œI wasn’t trying to pry.”
    She put her knife and fork on her plate. “Why do you and I keep apologizing to each other?”
    â€œNerves.” He tried to smile. “I don’t know about you. But I haven’t done much—dating.” Well there’d been one woman in Arizona, very briefly.
    He wanted to change the subject. “What are your plans for the evening?”
    Amusement narrowed her eyes. “It’s Christmas Eve,” she said, “and I thought you’d never ask.”

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    Â¶ CHICAGO, DEC. 26TH —In a bizarre Christmas Day tragedy, a man who tried to rob Santa Claus was shot to death yesterday outside a church on Lake Shore Drive.
    Witnesses leaving the First Methodist Church described the events. Claude Tunick, 54, dressed in a Santa Claus costume, was collecting donations on the sidewalk for a Methodist crippled children’s fund. At 12:45 p.m. the