Burden looked at him. And looked at him. And looked at him.
Langley felt himself want to shrivel. He couldn't remember ever being so ill at ease. Not scared exactly. He was simply at a total loss what to do.
“How do you come to be here?”
It was Langley's turn to be silent. First, it took him a second to realize that Burden had spoken: his voice was soft, startlingly so for a man his size, the words stated with an almost painful slowness. And then Langley didn't know what he was being asked.
“I don't understand the question.”
A million years passed while Burden just looked at him. He was beginning to think he had imagined that Burden had spoken at all.
“Did Legal Aid send you?” Burden asked in the same small voice. Langley saw that he was missing several front teeth.
“No. Your brother hired me.”
Another eternity passed before Burden said, “My brother.”
On a hellishly hot day the previous summer, Langley had stopped by the RKO Prospect on his way home from work. Two Big Hits, the kind that open on Monday and close on Tuesday, were playing; but the theater was air-conditioned and that was mainly what he was interested in. One of the movies—called The Atomic Man, if he remembered correctly—was about a man who, as the result of some kind of industrial accident, had been catapulted seven and a half seconds into the future. One effect of his condition was that he tended to answer questions seven and a half seconds before they were asked. Burden, Langley thought, was The Atomic Man in reverse. He was seven and a half seconds behind everyone else. At least in the way he answered questions he was. It was as if, Langley thought, Burden was examining what had been said word by word, maybe even letter by letter, looking for snares, and only when he was sure it was safe venturing an answer.
“So you're from PrestonPierce,” he said now.
“PrestonPierce?” Langley said.
Burden looked at him suspiciously. “The family's law firm. At least it used to be.”
“I'm a private attorney.”
Stepping away from the door, Burden crossed to the table and sat down. Sitting, he looked bigger than most men standing.
“I want a lawyer of my own.”
“That's your prerogative, Mr. Burden. Do you have one picked out?” No answer. “It's not that I'm prying. But the arraignment's coming up soon. You should have somebody speak up for you.”
Burden said, “I can speak up for myself.”
Langley refrained from quoting the famous line: He who represents himself in court has a fool for a client. He said, “If you want, I'll represent you. As I said, it's just a formality. Then you can hire whoever you want for the rest of what will follow.”
“How much will it cost?”
The question knocked Langley for a loop. In this guy's shoes, the last thing he'd be concerned about was the cost. He said, “Your brother is paying for it.”
“No, he's not. If you represent me, I'll pay for it. How much?”
“Let's call it gratis.”
“Let's not. How much?”
The conversation was becoming surreal, not the least because it was taking place in slow motion. “Whatever you think it's worth,” Langley said.
“What do you normally charge? Are you an expensive lawyer?”
“Well, I'm not cheap,” Langley said.
Burden did not laugh, or even smile.
“Are you any good?” he asked.
All at once it hit Langley what was happening: he was being interviewed for the job. He almost laughed out loud. In a few minutes this son of a bitch was going to be arraigned for murder, and he was interviewing Langley as to how much it would cost to represent him. As if he had the money to pay.
“My last client was guilty of murder,” Langley said. He regretted it as soon as it was out. What a monstrously unethical thing to say (and perhaps not even true). “I got him off.”
“Well, then my case should be easy,” Burden said, “since I'm innocent.”
Langley didn't tell him that innocence was beside the point. “Do I take it that I've been retained?”
“On the understanding that I pay your bill, every penny of it. If you want to be my lawyer, you have to agree to that. I'm the one who pays you, no one else. You may have to wait a while for your money, but if it takes the rest of my life, I'll pay every cent I owe you. I want it also understood that you do not discuss my case with anyone. Especially my brother.”
“That goes without saying,” Langley told him.
And so he was hired.
He looked at his watch. It was time to get the show on the road. He stood up.
“By the way,” he said, “what do your friends call you?”
“What do you care?” Burden asked.
“I was wondering how to address you,” Langley said.
“You can call me Mr. Burden,” he was told. “You're working for me now.”
***
DeBrough listened implacably as Langley filled him in on the meeting he'd had with his brother.
“I'd like to be kept informed as to how the case is progressing,” he said then. Before Langley could object, he added, “Insofar as you can. I'm not asking you to break any confidences, Owen. But, surely, you can keep me up to date on how my brother is holding up, physically and mentally, without violating your ethical standards.”
“Okay. But don't ever press me on the matter.”
“And if you need money—”
Langley waved the offer away.
“My brother doesn't have to know.”
Langley shook his head. “I gave him my word.”
“He's a parky, I believe. He probably doesn't have enough money to pay a jaywalking fine.”
“In that case I guess I'll have a long wait before I am paid.”
DeBrough shook his head. “You always were a sucker, Owen.”
***
Fay was bursting to hear how his day had gone. He pleaded tiredness—and he was tired: the round trip to the city had exhausted him—but Fay would not be put off. Tomorrow was Saturday; they could sleep all day.
So he told her. She started interrupting him right off. You were inside DeBrough's club! What was it like? He found her enthusiasm annoying, although he suspected that was only because her words echoed feelings he had had himself only hours earlier.
He decided the best way to shut her up was to stick a pin in her balloon. DeBrough, he told her, was out of the picture. He was now working for DeBrough's brother. Furthermore, he said, the brother was broke, so he could not expect to get paid any time soon (if Burden was convicted, maybe never). She deflated before his eyes.
But she perked right up again. It was still a wonderful opportunity for him, she said. There would be the exposure of the trial. If he won, he would have earned DeBrough's gratitude. Even if he lost, DeBrough had cause to feel obliged to him for having taken the case.
Nobody feels obliged to the lawyer that loses, Langley knew. But he didn't tell Fay so. Let her keep her little fantasy, for now.
CHAPTER 4
“Before we begin, Mr. Burden, I want something understood.”
Langley paused to be sure he had Burden's undivided attention. But it was unnecessary: the man never looked away, seemed scarcely to blink. He looked you in the eye and kept looking you in the eye until you felt like flinching.
“Don't ever lie to me,” Langley said. “If I catch you in a lie, just one lie, you can get yourself another lawyer.”
It was a spiel he gave all his clients, and it was an idle threat. He had never had a client who didn't lie to him at least once. His objection to being lied to rested not on moral but practical grounds. If—when his client lied, invariably the first person to pick up on it was the prosecutor. And now not only would the information his client had been trying to hide come out, but also the fact that he had tried to cover it up. If something was going to come out
anyway, Langley had learned, it was far better to bring it out himself, and sooner rather than later.
“Why should I lie to you?” Burden said.
The question caught Langley off guard. He had expected—he wasn't sure what he had expected. The usual, he guessed. Protestations that: Hell, I’d never lie to you. But not to be asked to justify himself. He was about to tell Burden that whys and wherefores were beside the point, which was, Don't Lie To Me, Period, when of his own accord Burden went on.
“I mean, you're my lawyer. I could tell you the foulest secret in the world and it's not supposed to make any difference: you're obliged to defend me anyway, and keep my secret.”
I'm “obliged” to defend no one, Langley thought, but didn't say so. “As long as we understand each other, Mr. Burden.”
He took out his notebook and set it down on the table. “I want to hear your side of the story. And I want you to tell it like a story. Assume I know nothing. Give me the who, what, where, when, how and why of it.”
“I don't know the why of it yet,” Burden said.
It seemed to Langley a strange thing to say, but he decided to let it pass. “I'll settle for the other five,” he said.
For the first time Burden's gaze softened: his eyes looked not into Langley's but through them. When a full minute had passed and he still had not spoken, Langley decided to prompt him.
“Why don't you start by telling me what you were doing an hour before you were arrested.”
“I was at work.”
“Where?”
“I work in a playground.”
“Where is the playground located?”
“Just inside Prospect Park off Ocean Avenue, near the Lincoln Road exit.”
“What do you do there?”
“My title is Assistant Gardener.”
“Meaning you plant flowers and trees?”
“I'm responsible for general maintenance, sweeping up.”
“Go on. Only don't make me have to drag every detail out of you. Set the scene for me now. It's last Wednesday, around four o'clock; you're in the playground. What happens next?”
“Nothing happens until around 4:15, when Cooney and Luray leave.”
“Luray?” Langley had read the arrest report. The name of the witness was Charles Luray. “Not the same Luray…”
“The man who killed my wife.”
“I didn't realize he worked with you.”
“You weren't kidding when you said you don't know anything.”
Langley said, “That's the reason I'm here: to find out.”
“Maybe I should get a lawyer who already knows something.”
“Anytime you want another lawyer, Mr. Burden, just say so. Now, do you want to tell me about Cooney and Luray, or not?”
Another of Burden's infinite pauses followed and Langley didn't know if it was the usual, or if in fact Burden was contemplating the idea of another lawyer. He had already learned the only thing to do was to wait Burden out.
“Cooney's in charge of the shithouse—houses: there are two of them,” Burden said finally, “one for men and one for women. Cooney's job is to clean them.”
For the first of many times in his talks with Burden, Langley felt like a character in an avant garde play, something by Beckett perhaps, one of those plays in which the characters talk in non sequiturs. Why was Burden telling him about the shithouse?
“What does Luray do?” he asked.
“He doesn't do anything.”
“What is he supposed to do?”
“His title is Recreation Leader. He's supposed to organize games and activities for the kids. All right, there are no kids in the playground this time of year. But in September, when I first came to the playground, there were. They didn't even know Luray was there. He never so much as handed out a basketball to them. He used to sit all day in the office and read; not for pleasure either, but something to do with his business. I believe he sells real estate part-time.”
“Cooney and Luray left the playground around 4:15,” Langley said, to bring him back to the point.
“We're supposed to work until five. I always stay until the last minute. Cooney and Luray never stay past 4:30—”
“Did you stay until five o'clock on Wednesday?”
“Are you going to let me tell the story, or not?”
“According to the arrest report, which”—Langley couldn't resist interjecting—“I have read, the police took you into custody at a quarter to five. So I ask you again: Did you stay until five o'clock on Wednesday?”
“I was going to get to that, if you'd give me a chance. No, I didn't stay. It was the first, and only, time I left early.”
“What time did you leave the playground last Wednesday?”
“Around 4:35.”
“How?”
“What do you mean, ‘how’?”
“Did you go on foot? By car? Fly?”
“I walked.”
“Where were you going?”
“Where do you think I was going?”
“I'm asking you, Mr. Burden. Were you going to the train station? To a bar for a drink?”
“I was going home.”
“Which is where?”
“On Dean Street.”
“Dean Street and where?”
“Fourth Avenue.”
The location was about a half mile from Langley's office, but something like two or three miles from Prospect Park.
“That's a hell of a long way to walk. Do you walk it every day?”
“Yes.”
“Even in the snow?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to walk it for me now,” Langley said, “the way you did last Wednesday. Start from the point where Cooney and Luray leave the playground.”
Burden was thoughtful for another interminable interval.
“It had been overcast all afternoon,” he said at last, “but around four o'clock it started getting really dark. It was going to snow any minute; you could smell it in the air. Just after four, Cooney and Luray started getting ready to leave. Like I said before, they always leave early. They tried a couple of times to get me to leave early too, but I wouldn't do it. The way I figure it: I get paid to work eight hours, I should work eight hours. To work less is stealing. Cooney and Luray thought I was a fool. Of course they never said so—neither of them had the balls to say anything—but I knew what they were thinking.
“Usually Cooney and Luray left without a word to me. Not even goodnight. But on Wednesday, first Luray and then Cooney began to rag me. ‘Now, Burden, you be sure to stay until five o'clock. Don't leave even one minute early. Not if the temperature drops to zero and it starts snowing like a bitch. We'll send a sled and a team of dogs to dig you out.’ Like that. And then they left.”
“Together?”
“No. Separately. Cooney left the park on foot, by the Lincoln Road exit, the way he always goes. Luray went to his car, which was parked in the carriage lot across from the playground.”
“And you stayed. But not until five o'clock. You say you always stay until five. Why not Wednesday?”
“After Cooney and Luray left, I began to feel foolish. Nobody was in the park. My work was done. And it was getting darker by the minute. There was no point in staying. Around 4:30 I said fuck it. I changed to my street clothes, locked the place up and left.”
Burden paused. It was nearly a minute before he went on.
“I went the way I always go: across East Drive, past the Oriental Pavilion and through the tunnel that leads to the Boathouse. It was pitch black in the tunnel—some fool had broken the lights—and when I came out into the open again it was almost as dark. I stopped to watch the clouds. They were black, as black as any clouds I've ever seen.
“I crossed the Lullwater Bridge. Just beyond it, there was this tree covered with birds. Black birds. Crows, I guess. Whatever, the tree w
as so thick with them they looked like leaves.”
Black tunnel. Black clouds. Black birds. “Did you regard all this as some kind of omen?”
“I don't believe in omens,” Burden said.
“So, what's the significance of the birds and the clouds?”
“There isn't any. They were there. You told me to tell the story. The who, what, where, when and how.”
“Go on, Mr. Burden.”
“I walked on to Center Drive. As the name implies, this is a road that cuts through the center of the park. The path I was walking crosses Center Drive just to the right of Three-Arches Bridge.”
“Which has three arches?”
“That's right. The bridge crosses a bridal path, a brook and a footpath. The way I usually go—the way I always go—I cross Center Drive and take a kind of service road that leads uphill into the woods. The road skirts the Ravine and leads past the Old Elephant House—”
“Where they keep the old elephants?”
Before the words were out of his mouth, Langley knew he had made one wise crack too many.
“Are you trying to be funny?” Burden said.
Langley had no defense. All right for him to be flippant, but he wasn't facing the possibility of the electric chair the way this guy was.
“Go on, Mr. Burden,” he said.
After a longer-than-usual pause, Burden continued. “What I'm going to tell you next is important,” he said. “As I was crossing Center Drive, I noticed there was a car parked on the bridge. That was Luray's car. Okay.”
Although it didn't sound like a question, Langley nodded.
“I'll tell you later why the car is important,” Burden said. “In the woods, under the trees, it was darker than ever, like looking at the world through a brown veil. About forty yards along the road, I heard a sound off to my right. I stopped to listen, to look. It took a while for my eyes to adjust, and then I saw two people rolling on the ground, a man and a boy—no, a man and a woman. For an absurd second I thought they were fucking. But just then the man hit the woman with his fist, in a sort of pounding motion, the way you might pound on a desk. He hit her again, and again. Then I noticed he was holding something in his hand. A knife. He wasn't hitting the woman, he was stabbing her. Even after the woman stopped moving, he continued to stab her.
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