The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [242]
“Yes, Your Honor,” Mr. Maxon replied, his nervousness growing under the ancient stare what showered down from the bench. “If you’ll only allow me to explain—”
Just then the gentle clap of the mahogany doors closing was heard, and Mr. Maxon turned along with the rest of us to get a look at the newcomer who’d produced the sound:
Even from a distance, I could tell that it had to be Clarence Darrow, being as he so completely matched Marcus’s description of the man. Unlike lawyer Maxon, Mr. Darrow’s clothes were of an ordinary variety—just a plain, light brown suit and white shirt, with a simple tie knotted carelessly at the neck—and they looked as if he’d slept in them on the train. Though not as thoroughly sloppy as it would one day become (Mr. Darrow had only begun to establish a disheveled appearance as one of his trademarks), this look was still very different from that of the other officers of the court, as was his way of walking: slow and stooped over, a kind of loping movement what was especially noticeable given his considerable size. His hair, as Marcus had told us, was uncombed, and a lock of it hung over his forehead. The face wasn’t as wrinkled, naturally, as it would become during his years of greater fame, but it was still weathered and rugged; and the eyes had the same light color and sad, searching expression that would also become so legendary in the future. The soft mouth was pursed in a way what matched a pair of big circles under the eyes: a way what seemed to speak about the high price of wisdom bought by too much exposure to man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. As he moved down the center aisle, Mr. Darrow took in the crowd with a steady, strong gaze what was different from Judge Brown’s, but produced just as much of an effect: by the time he’d reached the railing, every eye in the place was locked on him.
It was a performance, of course; but I’d been in a lot of courtrooms, and it was one of the best I’d ever seen—good enough to let me know right away that we were in more trouble than we’d figured on being.
Clutching an old, beaten-up briefcase, Mr. Darrow signaled to Mr. Maxon, who said, “If the court will excuse me for one moment,” and rushed over. Judge Brown didn’t look happy about that, but he sat back with another sigh and waited as Mr. Maxon opened the railing of the gate and let Mr. Darrow over into the business side of the room, where he quickly shook hands with Libby Hatch.
“If it please the court,” Mr. Maxon said, smiling now. “I—”
“It does not please the court, Counselor,” Judge Brown said, sitting forward again. “Just what are you about, sir?”
“Your Honor,” Mr. Maxon went on quickly, “I should like to introduce Mr. Clarence Darrow, attorney-at-law from the state of Illinois. It is the defense’s request that the court allow him to appear, pro hac vice, as the defendant’s primary counsel.”
“Darrow, eh?” Judge Brown said. “Yes, I’ve had some communications about you, Mr. Darrow. From downstate.”
Mr. Darrow smiled humbly and chuckled. “I hope,” he said, in a deep, soothing sort of voice, “that those communications haven’t prejudiced Your Honor against me.”
The people in the galleries liked that; and so, in his own way, did Judge Brown. “It certainly doesn’t help,” he said, producing some chuckles in the crowd that he let go. “If the defendant wishes to retain out-of-state counsel, that is her prerogative. But this court does not require advice from anyone in New York City on how to conduct its affairs.”
“I understand, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow answered, smiling in a way what I had to admit was charming. “We feel the same way about New York City in Chicago.”
The crowd laughed again, but got the gavel and a scowl for it. “If it is the defendant’s true request,” the judge said, turning to the defense table again, “then the court will be pleased to allow Mr. Darrow