A Reasonable Doubt by Susan Sloan (free novels .txt) 📕

I’m trying to save your life.  So listen to me, carefully.  Their case is a good one -- you were there, you had a history with the victim, you had his gun in your possession -- which just happens to be the murder weapon, and which they can prove you fired, and you can’t say how you came to have it, or why you fired it.”

“But that’s the truth,” he argued.

“The police are theorizing that Scott may have been hassling you for some reason and there was a confrontation, during which you managed to get his gun away from him and shoot him.  Now it’s possible you were drunk -- so drunk you didn’t know what you were doing, and if that’s true, I can argue that.  But I can tell you right now, it isn’t going to make much difference to a jury -- not when a decorated police officer is dead.”

Jason shook his head slowly.  “Don’t you think I wanna remember?” he told her earnestly.  “Don’t you think I wanna know why I killed him, if that’s really what I did?  Especially if I killed him for no reason other than that my brain was bombed out on booze.”  He punched at his head with the heel of his hand.  “I just can’t remember.  It may not seem right to you, but it’s all just a blank to me.  I think I remember leavin’ the bar, I think I remember puttin’ the trash out, and I think I remember gettin’ into my box, but after that -- nothin’.  Not that it’s gonna make much difference.  I’m not stupid.  I know how this is gonna go down.  I’m gonna die anyway.”  He looked around him.  “And, while someone like you might not be able to understand this, as far as I’m concerned, I’d rather be dead than have to live the rest of my life in a place like this.”

Lily sighed.  “I take that to mean you want to go to trial?”

“Yeah,” Jason replied.  “Yeah, I guess so.”

“All right,” Lily said, getting up.  “Before I go, though, there’s one more thing.  I’ve asked a friend of mine to come see you.  I think he can help.  Try to be nice to him.”

“A friend of yours?” he said warily.  “Why would you wanna ask a friend of yours to come see me?”

  “He’s an alcoholic,” she said flatly.  “Well, he’s a recovering alcoholic, actually, who now works with other alcoholics.  He’ll to try to help you get over the hump.”

“The hump?”

“You’re going to be in here for a long time, for at least eight months anyway, until we get to trial.  That’s eight months without a drink.  Do you think you can handle that on your own?”

“How’d you know?” he asked.

“The shakes, the irritability, the problems with your memory,” she said.  “I’m afraid you aren’t my first client with a drinking problem, Mr. Lightfoot.”

He looked at her for a long moment.  “Jason,” he said at last.

“What?”

“I guess you can call me Jason.”

. . .

“I certainly appreciate your willingness to reconsider,” Lily told John Henry Morgan over the phone an hour later, “but as it turns out, my client has decided he wants his day in court.”

There was a noticeable silence at the other end of the line.  “Did you try to talk some sense into the man?” the prosecutor asked finally, his voice perhaps a trifle more strident than he intended.  “Did you tell him his chances of an acquittal are slim to none?”

“I did my best,” Lily confirmed.  “But apparently, he wasn’t listening.  So, I guess we’ll be going through the motions, and you’ll be able to put on a show for your constituents, after all.”

. . .

“I did my best,” she told her father that evening as they took their after-dinner coffee in the library, a reassuring fire again crackling in the hearth.  “I tried to get him to see that a plea was the only way I would be able to save his life.  But he didn’t care.”

“Know the person you’re representing,” Carson Burns told her.  “There are Native Americans who can’t be incarcerated for life.  It’s like trapping a wild animal.  They’re free spirits.  They need to come and go as they please, breathe fresh air, feel the sun on their faces, and the dirt between their toes.  Hanging is a quick death.  Life behind bars is a slow death.  For your client, there really may be no choice.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three

 

Jason Lightfoot was not Lily’s only client.  But, from the amount of mail that began arriving at the Broad Street Victorian within days of the Indian’s arraignment, and word getting around that she was defending him, one would think he was.  And there was nothing ambiguous about what the majority of it said.

Born and raised in this community, and having lived in it all of her life, except, of course, for her time away at school, the viciousness took Lily completely by surprise.

It was one thing to read the odd Letter to the Editor printed in the Port Hancock Herald, or to hear someone rant and rave on the local talk radio station.  But messages that were sent to her place of work, calling her every name in the book, threatening her with all manner of bodily harm, were different, and she couldn’t help but take them personally.

“I had no idea so many people in the community would feel this way,” she said.  “I didn’t think anyone could hate me so much just for doing my job.”

“You can’t let this go, you know,” Joe told her.  “You’re going to have to file a complaint.”

“With the police?” Lily countered.  “And what would I tell them?  That I’m being harassed because I’m defending a man for killing one of their own?  That ought to be good for a laugh or two.”

“Let them laugh,” Joe said.  “That’s not your concern.  Taking care of yourself is.”

“This is still a free country.  Everyone is entitled to his opinion.”

“That may be so,”