Death Penalty by William J. Coughlin Read Free Book Online Page B

all kinds of people, good and bad, and seemed, generally, to be tolerant of drunks. Which was a nice quality if you happened to be a drunk.
    I dialed the number. It rang several times and then I heard a blip and a recorded message. It was the same voice, but the prerecorded tone was untroubled and rather bouncy.
    The little bleep sounded and I spoke. “This is Charley Sloan, Ms. Harris. If you’re unable to get back to me tonight, I’ll be at my office tomorrow morning. You can reach me there. Thank you.”
    I hung up.
    I smiled. Just have your machine call my machine and set up an appointment. It was a wonderful age in which to be alive.
    I sipped my drink and pretended.

3
    Mrs. Fenton, my secretary, was at the office when I arrived. Every morning at nine o’clock precisely she appeared. I always got the impression when I arrived later that she felt I was late, even though I was the boss. She never said anything. The disapproval was in her expression.
    â€œI made an appointment for you. A Rebecca Harris. She’ll be here in a few minutes.”
    â€œDid she say what her trouble is?”
    Mrs. Fenton frowned. “I never ask. You know that.”
    â€œSometimes they volunteer things.”
    â€œShe didn’t.”
    Much to my annoyance, Mrs. Fenton had once again straightened up my desk. Everything was in perfect square piles. The problem was I didn’t know what was in which pile. I had spoken to her and politely asked her tocurb her neatness compulsion, at least as far as my desk was concerned, but it did no good.
    I fished out a yellow pad so I would have something to make notes on when Rebecca Harris arrived.
    Big corporations, when they have legal problems, seek out the big law firms that specialize in big firms and big bucks. People come to a lawyer like me when the old man has blackened their eye and they want out of marriage, or when the bills are choking them to death and they’re thinking about bankruptcy. Some have been injured in an accident, some fired by a boss they consider biased or unfair. Some want to make a will or attack one made by a dead relative. There are as many reasons as human beings. Many, if not most, of the people who come looking for me do so because some cop or prosecutor has voiced the suspicion they have done something the law considers bad, bad enough to spend some time in prison. Fear, anger, or greed, and sometimes a mix of all three, are the root reasons people come to a lawyer like me.
    I wondered what reason propelled Rebecca Harris. I didn’t have long to ponder.
    Mrs. Fenton ushered her into my office and then shut the door discreetly behind her.
    I did recognize her, although she looked very different dressed in something besides the black dress uniform all the waitresses at the inn wore. She had on well-cut slacks and a black sweater. A puffy silk scarf covered her throat. She carried a black raincoat. She was the one I thought she was, hair pulled back and all.
    Her hand was warm but her grip tentative as I directed her to a chair in front of my desk.
    â€œDo you remember me?” she asked.
    â€œYes. It’s good to see you again. May I call you Becky?”
    She nodded.
    â€œHow may I help you, Becky?”
    â€œI’m not sure that you can.”
    â€œTell me your problem and we’ll see.”
    â€œIt’s, well, embarrassing.”
    I tried to look reassuring. “Everything you tell me is confidential. Just relax and tell me the problem.”
    She studied me for a moment, as if trying to make a decision and then she finally spoke. “I’ve been raped,” she said without any evident emotion.
    â€œHave you been to the police?”
    â€œYes. The sheriffs office here.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThey said they’d do an investigation.”
    â€œBecky, you had better tell me what happened, from the very beginning.”
    â€œDo you mind if I smoke?”
    â€œNo.”
    She pulled