Benighted by Kit Whitfield Page B

it would work in a lyco—excuse me, in a mainstream court. But even so, the fact remains that all the…incidents…he wants to sue me for happened after he was arrested for the original crime, after I had already had one session advising him, and given him no cause to complain of my conduct. I don’t think he killed Johnny Marcos. I don’t think so. But he doesn’t deny he maimed him, and we have the victim’s statement, medical evidence, and the testimony of Marcos’s partner that night to back that up. That’s the case I’m representing him on. Not that that makes it any better from his point of view, but my behavior on the case of DORLA versus Ellaway for GBH and attempted murder has been perfectly adequate. So suing me for his interrogation on another charge might not stick.”
    “I think it would, Ms. Galley. In the normal world. But I believe we have to negotiate certain—prejudices is not too strong a word, I think—which make for a rather extraordinary way of handling this case.”
    “Mr. Franklin, you’re dead right. So—by your leave—are you going to sue me?”
    Franklin puts his hands together. “No. Purely on the grounds that this is an unaccountable judiciary, that must be handled as carefully as possible.”
    “Ohh.” I let out a breath that I didn’t know I was holding. I throw a quick, nervous look across the table, but either Franklin hasn’t noticed, or he has and he’s too well bred to let on.
    “Ms. Galley,” Franklin says. “I have to inform you, I find your legal ethics incomprehensible.”
    I should come up with a dignified response. I spend a little time searching, and find that I can’t think of one. In the end, I just shrug. “I don’t blame you.”
    “Your attitude is a little cavalier, for one who is responsible for a man’s freedom.”
    “Yes.” I uncross my legs and sit up. “Yes, I can see why you say that.”
    The expression on Franklin’s face is almost quizzical. “You’re a rather strange young woman.”
    “No, not really. Not if you look at it through my eyes.”
    Unbelievably, Franklin shrugs. I didn’t know that a chess-player’s body could make such a movement. “However, I suppose we shall have to work together as best we can. I have another appointment now. May we meet later on to discuss our client’s case?”
    And he reaches across the table to shake my hand.
    After he’s gone, I sit down and laugh in sheer relief. Somehow I’ve escaped. I’ve met Adnan Franklin and I’m still alive to tell the tale. How I escaped, I don’t understand.

FOUR
    T his moon night it’s my turn. Standing in a line for equipment, already suited up, I stretch myself as best I can in the protective clothing and try not to think. The collar stick weighs heavy in my right hand. I’m loaded up like a fisherman. Maybe if I concentrate on feeling ridiculous, I won’t get the fear.
    I spot my trainee across the room, leaning against the wall. Sean Martin, his name is, though everyone calls him Marty; I’ve been teaching him for a few months. His shoes are usually undone, but he remembers everything I say.
    I raise my hand to get his attention. He waves back, and I manage to get through the crowd that fills the room. As he straightens up, I am surprised, as I always am, at his height. He’s a slight boy, narrow across, with a way of stooping a little to one side so his cowlick falls into his eyes. You forget he’s tall, unless you’re right up next to him.
    “Do I get to drive?” he says. His hopeful smile upsets me. I don’t want to have to watch it disappear.
    “I don’t think so. Come on,” I say. We set out; it’s a lot easier to get through the crowd with Marty’s six foot one moving in front of me.
    We’ve been assigned van thirty-two, which is the one with the crack across the windshield. Marty jostles my shoulder as we head for it; his breath billows in the cold.
    “Ready to round up?” he says.
    “Fight any lune in the house.” I say this