A Reasonable Doubt

kind of liked his box, he definitely liked his privacy, and he especially liked being able to come and go as he pleased, without having to answer to anyone.  And as long as no one hassled him, he saw no reason to change anything.  That was, until early one morning in the middle of February.
. . .
Lily entered the cell, knowing she could have requested an interview room, but deciding it wasn’t worth the bother for this initial meeting.
“Mr. Lightfoot,” she said pleasantly enough, “my name is Lily Burns.  I’m an attorney, and I’ll be representing you in the matter concerning the death of Detective Dale Scott, if that’s acceptable to you.”
Jason looked her up and down, from the edge of her high-necked jacket to the hem of her knee-length skirt.  “Don’t got much hope of nothin’ if they’re sendin’ a girl to do a man’s work,” he muttered irritably.
Lily looked him straight in the eye.  “I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” she said crisply, plunking her briefcase down on the metal bunk beside him.  “Another way is -- I may be the only hope you’ve got.”
“If you say so,” he said indifferently.
“You’ve been sitting here for four days,” she observed.  “Why didn’t you ask for an attorney?”
“What for?” he replied.
“Because it was your right,” she explained.  “Didn’t anyone tell you that?”
“Yeah, they told me,” he said.  “Didn’t figure it would make much difference.”
She had to admit he had a point.  Arraigned or not, this was where he would likely be staying until trial.  “Maybe not,” she said.  “But if you have another attorney you’d prefer to handle your case, now’s the time to say so.”
He scowled up at her.  “Lady, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.  I don’t got no other attorney.”
“Do I take that to mean you are prepared to accept me as your attorney, then?” she asked, realizing just how much she was hoping he would say no.
He shrugged again.  “Guess so,” he said.
“All right then, let’s get to work,” Lily said.
After
listening to the Indian’s account of what he remembered about the night of the murder, which wasn’t much, and the morning after, the first thing Lily did was to call a photographer friend of hers to come over to the jail and photograph every inch of him.
“And I mean every inch,” she instructed the man she had known for years, and then she stepped out of the cell so as not to embarrass her client any more than necessary.  “Every cut, every scratch, every mark on him.”
The second thing she did was to insist that a doctor be called in to see her client, and the two of them waited in the cell together, more or less silently, for him to arrive.  The examination confirmed that, in addition to a number of bruises and lacerations, the Indian had sustained several cracked ribs.
“What happened?” Lily asked, after the doctor had treated the lacerations and given him some pain medication for the ribs.
“I tried to run,” Jason admitted, although he couldn’t really remember what had happened all that clearly.
“He didn’t complain of nothin’ when they brought him in,” the floor guard for the west wing of the jail said with an indifferent shrug when Lily confronted him.
“How convenient for you,” she replied.  “And I have no doubt that the lighting around here is so bad that you just weren’t able to see the cuts and bruises all over him.”
“Look lady, the bastard Injun killed a cop,” she was told.  “If you ask me, he’s gettin’ a hell of a lot better than he deserves.”
“Can I quote you on that?” Lily snapped, hearing her very own sentiment coming back at her, and not particularly caring for the sound of it.  “I’m sure there are still some reporters outside.  They were there when I came in.  Not to mention the warden.  I‘m willing to bet he’s in his office, as we speak.”  She glanced at the guard’s nametag.  “So what do you say, Officer Crandall -- shall we have them come in?  And shall I explain how, if so much as a single hair on my client’s head is disturbed from this moment on, I’ll have your job?”
The guard backed off then, but not before giving her a singularly malevolent glare.
. . .
Jason Lightfoot was arraigned an hour later, but not until after Lily had suggested, when nobody else had apparently bothered to, that he could take a shower and change into a clean orange jumpsuit, courtesy of the county.
And then, on the advice of his attorney, he pleaded not guilty to a whole list of charges, from assault and battery to first-degree murder with special circumstances, whatever that meant.  After which, as Lily had told him to expect, he was denied bail and remanded back to the jail.  An October trial date was set.
“Why ain’t nothing’ gonna happen until October?” he asked uneasily.  “Why can’t we just get this whole thing over and done with?”
“I’m assuming it’s because the court docket is full until then,” Lily explained, thinking that eight months to trial on a capital murder charge was ridiculously fast.
“I don’t like that place they’re keepin’ me in,” the Indian said.  “It’s too small.  I can’t breathe.  I can’t see nothin’ out the window.”
“Well, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about that,” she told him, thinking he would be lucky if he got to spend the rest of his life in such a place.  “You’ll just have to make the best of it.”
“You don’t like me much, do you?” he asked.
Lily stopped for a moment to consider his words.  “I don’t know yet whether I like you or not, Mr. Lightfoot,” she replied after a moment.  “We’ll have to see how our relationship goes.”  And then she smiled, an ironic smile.  “But don’t worry.  I’m not being paid to like you.  I’m being paid to represent you.”
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Two
Carson Burns had been a dominating presence in his time.  Standing over six feet tall,