Apathy

“Okay, I admit it. I did it. What now?”

He says it so matter-of-factly. While I’m not supposed to react to anything my clients say, it unnerves me and I’m not sure I hide it well.

“We figure out how to spin it,” I say reassuringly. “Tell me what happened.”

He stares at me with dead eyes until I look away. This is a man beat down by life. And given the fading yellow-black bruises his long sleeves couldn’t hide, probably literally.

I have to admit, I am shocked by his story. Every time I think I’ve seen it all… He’s another one of Maggie’s lost causes. I should’ve known when I got the referral.

Here’s this strapping lad, whip thin but strong, who killed the teeny-weensy fairy that was his late wife. And there’s me, the idiot lawyer arguing self-defense and battered-person syndrome. If I’m not careful, I would get my ass laughed out of court. Lord knows I already have enough problems being taken seriously. This means I’m going to have to have a stern talk with Maggie. Impress upon that woman the next time I see her my displeasure at being sent me such a long-odds case.

She sent him to me because there was no doubt I was going to take it. Quota, for one. Mostly it’s because I’m a soft touch. I could never resist cases where I am all that stands between the defendant and a long stretch in federal prison. If anyone could win, it would be me. It’s not an empty boast. I’m damn near the best there is with impossible odds.

“We argue self-defense,” I tell him. “Our chances are not good but not terrible. Especially with a history of abuse. Do you understand what that entails?”

“No.” His affect is completely flat. I’m wondering how much of his story is true. But that’s not my job. I need to concentrate on the matter at hand.

“That means I have to turn you into the victim.” He tenses as though I’d hit him. In a way, I have. What man wants to think of himself as a victim? It also proves he isn’t completely immune to what was going on, his scary stillness notwithstanding.

To win this case, I will have to sift through every insult, every blow, every beating. Times like this I hate this job, I really do. There is no justice to be done in this situation – a crime would go unpunished either way.

“Do whatever you want. What the fuck do I care?” From anyone else, it would be a poor show of bravado. Him I believe, which is in itself another problem. There are few things worse than an apathetic client.

Having said his piece he leans back into the metal chair, eerily still. I feel better now that he’s not looking at me. Oh god, could I really do this? He gives me the creeps, plain and simple. I don’t think he’s sociopathic but I’m not keen to put it to the test. Still, I’m a professional. If I can do this I will, creepy feelings and all.

“You’ve got to be crazy if you think that,” I say, doing my best to infuse the statement with more hope than I actually feel. Pacing in these ridiculous heels is bad idea. I’m so wound I can’t sit still though. Not with him in the office following me with his eyes. “You’ve got to care.” How am I supposed to care, I want to add, if you won’t?

He swings those blank eyes back in my direction. Uncanny. There is nothing behind them. I’m fairly sure I could jump on the desk, take off my clothes, come at him with a hatchet and he would just sit there staring calmly at me. Goosebumps dot my arms. I reach for my suit jacket despite the fact that I’m pretty sure it’s not the temperature that has me cold.

“I wanted the bitch dead. I would do it again. You put me on the stand, that’s what I’m going to say.” He speaks so evenly it is hard to imagine him mustering the energy to swat a fly, much less for locking his wife in a basement full of water and hydrogen chloride. She was fast on her way to melting when the hazmat crew found her. And he was the one that called the cops.

I shudder. Normal people don’t come up with these kinds of things, much less act them out. He notices and bares his teeth in a horrifying parody of a smile. Now I can see a hint of the madness that rode him. I can’t help the flinch. “I don’t have to care for you to do your job.”

It’s a good point. I’m having none of it. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life in prison? Is she worth it?”

His eyes, which had been fathomless pools, flash fire. No, they screamed, she was not. I can channel that insanity into his defense. For the first time since he walked into my office, I feel good about our chances.

“Then let me help you. That’s the best revenge.”

For a moment, we balance on the keen edge of salvation. The fire sputters, dies, and he’s once again the walking dead. I pushed too hard. It was the ‘then’, I think. I spoke without thinking, as if he had actually answered me out loud. I had lost him.

“I killed her. That’s the best revenge. Doesn’t matter what happens now.”

I have to try, even knowing it will be useless. “We can beat this, or at least plead it down. You’re not a flight risk, I can get you out on bail or –”

He cuts me off. “No.” I want to scream my frustration. I think he enjoys my discomfiture though his expression doesn’t change. Then, drawing out every syllable, those dead eyes drilling into mine, he tells me, “We are done.”

“But why, when I can help you?” I can’t believe, considering the circumstances, that I want to save this man. Yet I do.

“She’s dead.”

His flat delivery doesn’t disguise the unspoken pain. I sneak a glance at his forearms, stripped with bruises. How he must have loved her, that killing her broke him. I realize that whether he goes to prison makes no difference. This is a man who wants to die. His next words confirm my suspicions.

“There is nothing more for me here.”

He stares at me until I nod my acceptance. I walk to the door, knocking to let the officers know we are through. I wait by the door for someone to let me out.

“Do you want to meet before the arraignment?” He smiles that frightening smile and shakes his head. “I will see you in a couple of weeks then.”

“No, you won’t.”

He’s right. Try as I might, I’m going to have to hand this case off to somebody else.

“But you should have heard the screaming, miss. It was a thing of beauty,” he says, the first note of excitement I’ve heard all day. "She said I couldn't do it you know. Goes to show." He laughs something ugly and rusted. Tense, I shudder but don’t turn around. I refuse to give him that satisfaction. His eyes feel like flaying knives on my back. I’ve never been so grateful to get away from someone in all my life.