Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 43, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1998

“Good morning, Wilson.”

“Good morning, Donald,” McGraw replied.

“Is Flynn still on the bench?”

“As far as I know.”

“What do you want to do with this one?” asked Morrison.

“I’m willing to listen to your offer.”

“Well, let’s see. Hayes is a multiple offender. He’s looking at the death penalty or life without parole if we indict and convict on first degree murder. I think he has to waive indictment and plead to a sentence of life without parole.”

“Life without parole is too heavy. He wouldn’t agree to that.”

“I thought that was a reasonable offer, given the evidence and the judge,” Morrison said. He paused briefly, staring into McGraw’s face. McGraw waited, not speaking, heart pounding. This offer was nowhere near twenty-five years. “But,” Morrison continued, “I’ll offer a plea to second degree murder and forty years just to save the taxpayers the expense of the trial and the cost of his room and board for the rest of his natural life.”

McGraw was shaking his head, smiling. “You know, Morrison, you’re getting too soft.”

Just then Judge Flynn’s law clerk opened the door. “The judge ordered me to find you; he’s in a hurry,” the clerk said nervously. He ducked back into chambers, and Morrison stepped in immediately after him.

McGraw stood in the hall momentarily. Why hadn’t Morrison offered twenty-five years? He had only offered forty.

That was what McGraw had wanted earlier this morning, but not what he expected now. He looked up and down the hall, crooked his finger inside his collar over the knot of his tie, and pulled it back and forth a couple of times. He sighed and walked into Judge Flynn’s chambers. It was never easy.

McGraw was waiting in his office at noon when Clark got there. The whisky bottle was far back in the bottom right-hand desk drawer, and he was chewing his third breath mint. He swallowed it. “What happened?” Clark asked, plopping down in the leather chair across from McGraw.

“Hayes pled to second degree murder, forty years, eligible for parole in twenty-six years and eight months,” McGraw said. He didn’t want to delay or sugarcoat the news, he wanted to get it out and over with.

“Forty years!” Clark’s mouth hung open. “Forty years! What happened? Did the judge... did Morrison... how come...” Clark took a breath. “Why did you take that deal? We could have gotten less time. Fifteen years less. Are you crazy? You sold him down the river!” Clark stopped. “Wait a minute, is this a joke?”

“No joke,” replied McGraw. “I got the feeling—”

“I don’t believe this!” Clark interrupted. He felt betrayed, hurt, untrusted. “Is that what good defense lawyers do? Waltz in and plead their client guilty to whatever the district attorney’s office wants? It sure takes a lot of skill to do that!” He began to rise.

“Shut up,” roared McGraw, “and sit down!” He had bolted to his feet and slammed his hands down on the desk as he yelled, and the sudden violence of his action literally pushed Clark back into his chair. “I did what I thought was best for my client!”

“Finished?” Clark asked belligerently.

“Morrison came down too fast from his first offer, something didn’t seem right. I haven’t figured out what yet. I decided I had to stick with the original plan.”

“Then you can find another gopher. I quit.”

The door slammed. McGraw looked down and saw that his hands were flat on the desk. He sat down, drawing them towards himself. When he was seated, they were fists. He pounded them on the desk three times. He took a deep breath and let it out. Then he sagged. He put his elbow on the desk and propped his forehead in his palm.

It had been a long time since he’d last lost his temper. No judge, attorney, or jury had ever seen it happen. True, he had acted angry when situations called for it, but he’d never lost control. Today he’d drunk the whisky too early.

He sat for the rest of the afternoon ruminating. He looked at the desktop, the door, the wall, and settled finally on staring out the window. The gusty March wind was tossing the bare tree branches around under gray, scudding clouds. He thought.

He often thought about conversations he’d had during the day. He sometimes wondered how much more accurate his perceptions would be if he gave an opposite interpretation to what he’d been told. He let his mind wander, going back to the Hayes case off and on. Had he lost his nerve? Had he pled Hayes guilty for too much time because the death penalty loomed too darkly in his own past?

Judge Flynn had been particularly short that day. When McGraw entered the room, Flynn had asked Morrison what the offer was, turned to McGraw, and asked if they had a deal or not. There was no preliminary chitchat. Morrison looked at McGraw and raised his eyebrows. The deal on the table was second degree murder and forty years. Morrison was saying nothing more. Was Morrison going to make another offer if McGraw turned down the forty years? If Morrison didn’t make another offer, Judge Flynn might send them packing right away, given the mood he was in.