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1. The Cell
A knock was heard on the door of the cell.
I stopped playing the violin and laid it on the dresser next to the
couch.
“Come in.”
The door opened without a sound and the guard appeared.
“You have a visitor,” he said, smiling at me.
I nodded and he moved aside to let the visitor in. I didn’t immediately
recognize the large figure in a dark suit that almost filled the
doorway. Gloom permeated the cell, while neon lighting brightly
illuminated the corridor in front of it. The contours of the man were
drawn like an eclipse of the sun edged by the corona, making it
impossible to see what they surrounded. It wasn’t until the visitor
spoke that I realized who it was.
“Good evening,” said my lawyer as he walked inside. The guard closed the
door after him. Once again the cell was lighted solely by the lamp with
a large green shade on the desk.
“Good evening,” I replied, stepping forward to greet him with
outstretched hand. We shook hands warmly and then I indicated one of the
two armchairs facing us.
“Please sit down. I hope you find this one more comfortable than the
other, which wobbles a bit.”
“Oh, it will be fine, don’t you worry,” said the lawyer, settling
himself in the armchair as it groaned under his weight. He placed the
large black briefcase he always carried with him in his lap and laid his
hands on top of it.
“Would you care for a drink?” I asked. “I’m afraid the choice is rather
limited. All I have is orange juice.”
“I’d prefer something a bit stronger, but it can’t be helped. Is it
chilled at least?”
“Yes, it is.” I opened the little refrigerator at the other end of the
cell, took out a container and poured thick orange liquid into one of
the four glasses. They were sitting on a tray on top of the
refrigerator, covered with coasters. I put a coaster on the coffee table
between the armchairs, and placed the glass on it.
“Thank you,” said the lawyer with a brief nod.
I went back to the couch and sat down.
“I’m sure you’re not aware, of course,” said the visitor after drinking
half the glass of orange juice. “You’re a young man, it’s ancient
history to you. But when I started my law practice, many years ago, the
conditions in jail weren’t anything like this pleasant. All right, I
agree, the choice of drinks might not be very discriminating, and the
furniture could be of better quality or at least better maintained, but
those are merely details that are easy to fix. You would be horrified if
I were to describe the first visits to my incarcerated clients. I myself
was shocked. It almost made me change my profession. But now I’m glad I
didn’t. I’m not fishing for compliments, but if it weren’t for people
like me we’d still be in that barbaric period.”
He stopped for a moment and took another sip of juice.
“It was particularly difficult,” he continued, “for inmates on death
row, such as yourself. It was tacitly understood that prisoners’
surroundings during their last hours were more or less unimportant.
Considering what they had in store for them, it allegedly made no
difference. The trauma caused by the inhuman conditions would not be of
long duration. Pure cynicism. Shouldn’t the same criteria be used for
those of us who, after carrying out your sentence, retire to the warmth
of our homes, convinced that we are lucky not to be in your shoes? But
who among us can be certain that they won’t be joining you shortly? No
one knows what the day may bring, or the night. And the statistics are
inexorable: there are far more casualties outside of prison than
inside.”
I nodded. “That’s true.”
The lawyer’s face expanded into a smile. “There, you see. I must admit,
though, just between you and me, there’s one thing I miss from the old
days. I know it’s a little selfish, but it can’t be helped. I’m no
saint, I have vices too. Can you guess what it is?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Smoking,” replied the lawyer diffidently, opening his arms with a
shrug. “Before, no one would hold it against you if you lighted a
cigarette in a cell. Actually, no one paid any attention. You’d offer
one to your client, of course. Now if I even flicked a lighter or struck
a match, the alarm would start wailing the very same instant. I’d be
debarred in no time flat. It’s not just visitors who are forbidden to
smoke, though, the condemned can’t either. Not even one last cigarette.
And that’s going too far, I think you’ll agree. Even hypocritical if you
ask me. All right, tobacco kills, that’s beyond all doubt, but in the
given circumstances that one cigarette couldn’t possibly do much harm.
The antismoking lobby, however, is completely deaf to the voice of
reason. They stick blindly to their principles and are powerful enough
to put them into effect. Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Smart man. If you did you’d be in a terrible fix right now. I don’t
know how I’d make it through such torture. Even this short time in here
with you without a cigarette is hard for me. But there’s a good and bad
side to every profession. Is there something else you miss?”
I thought it over briefly. ”The limited number of channels on the cable
television bothers me. It’s almost entirely sports, action films and
quiz shows. There are practically no programs on art or culture.”
“Why, that’s unacceptable!” The lawyer opened his briefcase, took out a
notepad and pencil and wrote something hurriedly. “This is a violation
of basic human rights. You have my word that we’ll put an end to such
mental tyranny. It won’t be easy, not in the least, the members of the
board who make the regulations in this place are as unbending and
conservative as the church fathers. But we know how to get around them.
We’ve been locking horns with them for decades. I promise you that the
very next man on death row will have complete freedom to choose whatever
cable TV channels he wants.”
“Thank you.”
We spent a few moments looking at each other in silence, both of us
smiling.
“You don’t hold it against me, I hope?” he said at length.
“What?”
“For losing the case.”
“Oh, no. Certainly not.”
“You are very kind. Such understanding is rare among people who share
your fate, unfortunately. They expect lawyers to be miracle workers, and
when there is no miracle they shift the entire blame onto us.”
“You did everything you could.”
“I really did. I’m glad you realize that. It’s critically important in
my line of work to part with my client as friends, regardless of the
outcome. Nothing distresses me more than a dissatisfied client. No
matter how unfounded his dissatisfaction may be, it’s always a heavy
burden on my conscience. And believe me, it isn’t at all easy to live
with a troubled conscience.”
“I believe you.”
The lawyer’s face lit up again. He nodded, then picked up the glass from
the coaster and finished the juice.
“A little more, perhaps?” I offered.
“No, thank you. I’m actually quite fond of orange juice, but I have to
watch it. Stomach acid, you know.”
“I have problems with it too.”
“Not much fun, is it. But it can’t be helped. You have to live in spite
of adversity. All right, then. Let’s get down to business. I’m sure you
wonder why I’ve come.”
“To say goodbye, I suppose.”
“Yes, of course. But not only for that reason. I’m here to tell you a
story.”
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