wonder just which answer the box was going to spit out.
Jaywalker had begun by assuming Darrenâs guilt. Three years of lawyering, and two before that with the DEA, had taught him to doubt everyone he encountered, whether it was on the street, across a desk or through the bars of a jail cell. They were all innocent, every last one of them. The junkie with heroin in his pocket had mistakenly put on his roommateâs pants. The shoplifter had simply been taking the leather bomber jacket to another department to see how it looked with a white scarf. The burglar was just trying to find his cousinâs apartment. The cocaine dealer had all that cash in his sock to buy a stroller for his babyâs mama. And the murderer hadnât meant to stab anyone;heâd simply been cleaning his knife when the victim had accidentally backed into itâthirty-three times.
Learning the morning of Darrenâs first court appearance that no less than five victims had identified him as their attacker, Jaywalker had drawn the obvious conclusion. They couldnât all be wrong. Darren had to be guilty.
Since then, however, things had begun to happen. Little things. Nothing dramatic, nothing earthshaking. Darrenâs unflagging insistence on his innocence; his eagerness to take a lie detector test, even after hearing it was guaranteed to reveal the truth; the claim by one of the victims that sheâd seen him again in her building when his whole family insisted he hadnât been there; the discrepancies between the victimsâ descriptions and Darren; and the fact that not one of them had reported that her attacker spoke with a stutter. Not that any one of those things, standing by itself, convinced Jaywalker of Darrenâs innocence. But combined, theyâd gradually begun to take on an undeniable weight. Each new revelation had forced Jaywalker to rethink his initial knee-jerk reaction that Darren had to be the rapist. As the time for the polygraph exam approached, the truth was, he didnât know what to think.
By far the most frequently asked question put to any criminal defense lawyer is âHow can you represent someone you know is guilty?â Three years into practice, Jaywalker had developed his response, which he dusted off and repeated whenever asked. Phrases like âEveryone deserves someone in his corner,â âI believe in the systemâ and âEven societyâs most despised members deserve representationâ were met with approving nods or bewildered stares. But what Jaywalker was rarely called on to expound upon was the darker half of the equation. The truth was,as heâd quickly learned, that representing a guilty client brings enormous comfort. The lawyerâs job is simple and straightforward: listen to the client patiently, explain the system to him and get him a decent plea offer. If the client accepts it, the case is over. If he doesnât, he takes his chances at trial. If that trial should somehow result in an acquittal, it would mean that Jaywalker had managed to defy the odds. If it should result in a conviction, as expected, it was because the defendant was guilty all along.
So it wasnât the notion of representing a guilty defendant that bothered Jaywalker. It didnât, not at all. What bothered him, what scared the life out of him, was the specter of representing an innocent defendant. Suddenly, none of the usual rules applied. To an innocent man, no plea bargain is acceptable. No amount of patient listening will placate him. No explanation of how the system works will suffice. A trial becomes inevitable, and the need to win at that trial becomes nothing less than essential. And whose responsibility is it to win? The defense lawyerâs, thatâs who.
For Jaywalker, that responsibility, that need to win, was as unwelcome as it was awesome. The trial suddenly changes from an exercise in due process to a horror show. Every utterance by the
Jaywalker had begun by assuming Darrenâs guilt. Three years of lawyering, and two before that with the DEA, had taught him to doubt everyone he encountered, whether it was on the street, across a desk or through the bars of a jail cell. They were all innocent, every last one of them. The junkie with heroin in his pocket had mistakenly put on his roommateâs pants. The shoplifter had simply been taking the leather bomber jacket to another department to see how it looked with a white scarf. The burglar was just trying to find his cousinâs apartment. The cocaine dealer had all that cash in his sock to buy a stroller for his babyâs mama. And the murderer hadnât meant to stab anyone;heâd simply been cleaning his knife when the victim had accidentally backed into itâthirty-three times.
Learning the morning of Darrenâs first court appearance that no less than five victims had identified him as their attacker, Jaywalker had drawn the obvious conclusion. They couldnât all be wrong. Darren had to be guilty.
Since then, however, things had begun to happen. Little things. Nothing dramatic, nothing earthshaking. Darrenâs unflagging insistence on his innocence; his eagerness to take a lie detector test, even after hearing it was guaranteed to reveal the truth; the claim by one of the victims that sheâd seen him again in her building when his whole family insisted he hadnât been there; the discrepancies between the victimsâ descriptions and Darren; and the fact that not one of them had reported that her attacker spoke with a stutter. Not that any one of those things, standing by itself, convinced Jaywalker of Darrenâs innocence. But combined, theyâd gradually begun to take on an undeniable weight. Each new revelation had forced Jaywalker to rethink his initial knee-jerk reaction that Darren had to be the rapist. As the time for the polygraph exam approached, the truth was, he didnât know what to think.
By far the most frequently asked question put to any criminal defense lawyer is âHow can you represent someone you know is guilty?â Three years into practice, Jaywalker had developed his response, which he dusted off and repeated whenever asked. Phrases like âEveryone deserves someone in his corner,â âI believe in the systemâ and âEven societyâs most despised members deserve representationâ were met with approving nods or bewildered stares. But what Jaywalker was rarely called on to expound upon was the darker half of the equation. The truth was,as heâd quickly learned, that representing a guilty client brings enormous comfort. The lawyerâs job is simple and straightforward: listen to the client patiently, explain the system to him and get him a decent plea offer. If the client accepts it, the case is over. If he doesnât, he takes his chances at trial. If that trial should somehow result in an acquittal, it would mean that Jaywalker had managed to defy the odds. If it should result in a conviction, as expected, it was because the defendant was guilty all along.
So it wasnât the notion of representing a guilty defendant that bothered Jaywalker. It didnât, not at all. What bothered him, what scared the life out of him, was the specter of representing an innocent defendant. Suddenly, none of the usual rules applied. To an innocent man, no plea bargain is acceptable. No amount of patient listening will placate him. No explanation of how the system works will suffice. A trial becomes inevitable, and the need to win at that trial becomes nothing less than essential. And whose responsibility is it to win? The defense lawyerâs, thatâs who.
For Jaywalker, that responsibility, that need to win, was as unwelcome as it was awesome. The trial suddenly changes from an exercise in due process to a horror show. Every utterance by the
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